The recurring allure of a period-novel heroine often lies in her renegade, "impertinent" charm—picture Jo March, Lizzy Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, or countless other ladies confined by corsets. In contemporary romantic comedies, however, an impertinent woman often embarks on a quest for transformation. Consider Bridget Jones, a modern-day parallel to Lizzy Bennet and a foil to Too Much's Jessica: She undertakes a journey of self-renewal, vowing to quit smoking, shed weight, and pull her life together, driven by the desire to prove Mark Darcy wrong. This path ultimately leads her to discover her authentic self, among other revelations. Yet, a genuine, heartfelt romance transcends such superficial metamorphoses, resting firmly on the lovers' true selves rather than the personas they believe they ought to project.
"Pity Girl" embodies this journey of self-determination. Upon arriving at her new job in London, Jessica is immediately confronted with the dilemma of whether to dig in her heels and embrace her true self or adapt to better blend in. Felix too finds himself at a crossroads: His penchant for falling headlong and swiftly into relationships has hindered his ability to forge enduring bonds. His instinct is to flee when things become "too real," when the fantasies of being a folk singer, a corset designer, or a Ukrainian-refugee influencer dissipate into thin air. If he genuinely believes that things are different with Jessica, he must summon the courage to endure the challenging, uncomfortable task of truly knowing her and allowing her to know him in return.
These reflections unfold after Jess and Felix share a tender night together. After soothing her burn with cold water, paramedics transport Jess to the hospital, where the nurse refuses to administer any "real" pain medication. Felix arrives with Astrid to spirit her away from the hospital, driving her home in his car. It's only been two episodes, yet these uninterrupted, playful exchanges between Felix and Jess have already emerged as my favorites—their characters leap off the screen. Megan Stalter seizes every opportunity to transcend Lena Dunham's voice in her delivery, as evidenced by her line, "You want a scone, guv'nor?" and her genuine laughter when, upon asking Felix if he's charmed by her, he replies, "That's a really needy question." Overall, Stalter's performance thus far has wrestled with the urge to overact, and these extended scenes—rarer in Netflix productions than they once were on television—provide a welcome platform for her to hone the nuances of her unique voice.
Felix and Jess finally consummate their relationship after she allows him to see her in her "pioneer dress" and confesses that if she had a superpower, it would be "eroding boundaries." Felix is amusing, respectful, and sufficiently concerned about Jess's injuries that even she has to prompt him to tone down his chatter. The next morning, they agree to see each other again, and she leaves him in her bed. When she arrives at her London office, however, she finds none of Felix's unreserved embrace of her quirkiness.
Unfortunately, Jess doesn't get a chance to deliver her carefully prepared opening statement before her new supervisor, the extraordinary Richard E. Grant, presides over a meeting aimed at capturing the essence of a "populist yet pure" Christmas commercial, featuring Rita Ora donning a Santa bikini designed by Stella McCartney—a sentence so absurdly referential that Dunham's prowess in crafting such phrases remains unmatched. And the company's American art director, Kim, played by filmmaker Janicza Bravo, has no memory of her partner, Jessica, who worked alongside her on Avril Lavigne's Converse campaign a few years ago. Kim's assistant is a pink-haired Gen Z youth named Boss, and there's another employee in the office named Josie who doesn't care about the changes in the office.
Perhaps due to her openness, which invites scrutiny, Kim and Boss eventually warm up to Jess. She confides in them about her new romance with a "cool indie musician" she met in a bar—a guy far cooler than her ex, Zev, who used to sneer at her music choices. In a fleeting flashback, we witness Zev's condescending demeanor as Jess belts out a Miley Cyrus tune. He mocks her for her supposedly low-brow taste, brushing her off when she defends Miley's music as a "commentary on the manufactured pop star" since her Disney days. Such undermining erodes one's self-esteem, precisely what happens to Jess when Kim and Boss caution her against pinning all her hopes on Felix, whom she's known for merely two days. "Stay vigilant," Boss advises, before inviting her to join them for International Outfit of the Day Day.
Jess reluctantly agrees, despite the advice making her feel wretched. "When I trust my instincts, chaos inevitably ensues... Everyone seems to know better than I do," she ponders in her narration, addressing an imaginary Wendy she envisions as profoundly self-assured. Sandwiched between the flashback and this internal monologue, Jess's insecurity, though somewhat overt, gains depth through Felix's parallel struggles with self-doubt. While Jess attempts to steer clear of chaos by refraining from acting on her instincts for once, Felix embraces risk by doing just that.
Thus far, Felix has enchanted me, yet I foresee a potentially fatal manifestation of Nice Guy Syndrome afflicting him—a malady that plagues men who erroneously consider themselves superior solely for their decency. We find Felix nestled in his apartment, perched on his bed with headphones clamped over his ears, immersed in melodies. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, his elder roommate, who harbors a motley crew of aspiring environmental activists-cum-potheads in hopes of winning the affections of a twenty-year-old named Belinda, bemoans Felix's relentless optimism about meeting "the one," convincing himself that this time, things will be different. Later, amidst a soccer match, Felix vows that should this relationship indeed prove与众不同, he knows his next course of action.
Determined to heed his heart's call, Felix ventures to Linnea's abode to end things with her—the stunning, moody dame who stormed out of a pub in the pilot episode. Elsewhere, Jess permits her colleagues to tweak her attire, seating her across from Pawel, a "footballer" with a penchant for intellectually inclined women. When Pawel initiates a conversation about his "passion project," a denim line, Jess retaliates with sarcasm, prompting Boss to gauge her demeanor. Though Pawel may possess a jock's demeanor, he is far from foolish. An uncomfortable silence ensues, compelling Jess to retreat to the bathroom to create more videos in riposte to Wendy's pornographic-tinged Instagram Stories.
Upon overhearing this, Kim reveals that Jess conceals these videos on a private account, akin to a diary that both draws her closer to and establishes distance from Wendy. In literature, rarely does a diary remain undisclosed indefinitely; hence, I shall now keep a vigilant eye out for Chekhov's private Instagram. Wendy serves as an obsession, more an abstraction against which Jess defines herself than a flesh-and-blood person. Nonetheless, it is challenging to dislike Wendy the individual, Jess confesses to Kim, not only because she "rose from foster care unassisted" but also because she embodies authenticity, a beautiful woman with a "truly unique and awesome style." Acknowledging Jess's public composure amidst her private endeavors, Kim assures her, "You're not a mess. You're a work in progress. It's straightforward. Simply listen to yourself, yeah?"
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It's the kind of advice that strikes like a painful truth, one with the power to transform lives, rivaling even the time-honored phrase, "Don't worry about it." Kim's unwavering support emboldens Jess to assert herself when Pawel, over dinner, labels her messy. With earnest conviction, and in a manner true to the spirit of the 2000s, she rails against the double standard that brands women as disorganized while men like Pawel, who has a wife and family waiting at home, are seen as mere players. "Honestly, I'm a work in progress because I've embraced my true self, I know what I desire, and I'm listening to my own heart, right, Kim?" she declares, half-convincing herself in the process.
Elsewhere, Felix finds himself trussed up, blindfolded, and facing the spiteful glares of Linnea in her apartment. She pulls him in before he can utter the purpose of his visit, but eventually, he manages to squeeze in the words that he no longer wishes to see her. Linnea acknowledges his niceness but urges him that next time he's in a relationship and realizes it's not meant to be, he should sever ties gracefully instead of lingering. This "Nice Guy" syndrome, where a man believes a woman might commit suicide if he, the epitome of perfection, exits her life, and thus strings her along thinking he's doing her a favor, truly irritates me. Despite this, Felix apologizes, and Linnea drifts off to sleep, sucking her thumb while resting on his shoulder.
Jess texts Felix to meet her at the estate, and upon his arrival, he hands her a "mix" he's crafted especially for her, meant to be played on a Walkman. This is what he was up to when he was lying in bed at the episode's onset. Just as she did with her colleagues, Jessica tells Felix that her music taste leaves much to be desired, but he insists she lean back and just listen. As the camera captures the tender moment between Jess and Felix, a Cate Le Bon song begins to play. She soaks in the melody all by herself, while he lies silently beside her, the music binding their moments together in a serene embrace.
