THERE'S been a lot of palaver in the press lately about naughty teenagers, particularly irksome gimps in ladies' sunglasses who could use a firm smack on the bottom and a few weeks scrubbing out old people's toilets with a toothbrush. The daily rags are, as ever, asking po-faced and probing questions. Who's looking after the youth of today? Who's responsible for their wellbeing? What on earth do they get up to when we're not looking?
If the tabloid press and A Current Affair's Leila McKinnon are seeking answers (although let's be honest - they've most likely moved on to trying to hunt down someone who once served Heath Ledger a sandwich), they'll need to look no further than SBS' mind-jarringly brilliant new series Skins, which is languidly throwing its weight all over Monday-night viewing with its dirty, damp wantonness. Sitting through an hour of it is like being trapped in a 14-year-old girl's gym bag with a fork stuck in your ribs, and it's utterly stupendous.
This week's episode announced itself from the get-go, opening with a close-up of a rather aggressively taut teenage boner, straining against a pair of tight underpants. Following not far behind this vaguely confronting shot was an ecstasy-fuelled party, a young man urinating in his own face, a drug-dealing eight-year-old, an infant being dropped on its head, and an erection that had to be sellotaped to a poor gentleman's leg "for safety reasons".
I don't know how the producers get away with it. I once wrote an episode of television in which the characters weren't allowed to have a sip of wine when they were depressed lest they came across as desperate and haggard soaks numbing their woes with demon liquor.
How wonderfully far we've come.
Each episode of Skins - and there are sadly too few - is driven by a different cast member in the ensemble.
Monday was the abandoned wild-child Chris, who staggered through the episode with pupils like saucers and did some things with goldfish and Viagra that don't bear further discussion. Nicholas Hoult, once seen knocking about with Hugh Grant in About a Boy, plays Tony, who started the series with a cheery episode about pot dealing and crashing posh parties. Back in his anklebiter days he sported a bowl haircut and a diastema you could park a semi between. These days the only words appropriate for his cut-glass cocky cheekbones and rampant spreading of seed seem to be "my, how he's grown". I don't know whether to march him to the principal's office for a firm talking to or smother him in Nutella and instruct him to dance to Dr John.
Skins has heart, though. Look past the mildly startling moments and it's beautiful and sad and poignant and perfectly hurtful. One moment you're awash with tears over poor Chris being abandoned by his mad mother, the next you're hearing in lurid detail about the not uninteresting phenomenon of camel-toes while a roomful of surly adolescents in oversized denim pants knock back shots of tequila. It's drama that's edgy, funny and rude, and there should be a lot more of it made, particularly here in Australia. Do we really need another sea-police-in-space shouty commercial series involving furrow-browed Lisa McCunes striding about in jumpsuits?
For all that, I don't know if teenagers in real life watch Skins. I don't know if they should watch it. They're better off sitting on the couch eating Burger Rings and masturbating sullenly, or whatever it is young folk get up to when they're not downloading Grinspoon songs off iTunes. At best, they'd realise through the word-perfect portrayal of their lives and dealings that someone was on to them; at worst they'd find all sorts of Rather Inappropriate behaviour to emulate. It's a series for adults, particularly those who might have somewhat of a chequered moral past themselves.
Harmony Korine briefly explored the seamier side of adolescence when he wrote the film Kids (aged 19, the talented bastard). Now it's Britain's turn. Skins is bleak and rub-raw and so openly sexual you can practically hear the saliva being transferred from mouth to mouth by the zesty bucketload every time someone scores a pash. These teenagers are getting laid, and throwing outrageously irresponsible shindigs, and employing the sort of language that would get one asked rather firmly to leave a reputable dining establishment, and thusly I can't wait to watch next week.
It's either that or hang around the local high school trying to ingratiate myself with the kidlettes, and I fear the law enforcement officers have already warned me off that particular pastime with a series of increasing fines and one or two court appearances.
Look, Skins is simply the best thing I've seen on television in a very long time.
I can't say anything more than that. Watch it or go comb MySpace looking for reasons as to why your wayward teen invited 3000 of his closest pals over to drink your cabernet and wee in your golf bag.
http://www.theage.com.au/news/tv--radio/marieke-hardy/2008/01/29/1201369132138.html
