Netflix’s Adolescence stands apart from the usual crime dramas by shifting its focus from the question of who committed the crime to the more unsettling and complex why. The story revolves around a 13-year-old boy, Jamie, who has been accused of murdering a 15-year-old. While the case is technically solved, the deeper psychological layers of the incident — the motive, the emotional aftermath, and the uncomfortable reality of a child as the perpetrator — are what drive the narrative forward. It’s not just about justice or punishment, but about understanding a broken child who did something unthinkable.
Co-created by Graham, who also co-wrote the series and plays Jamie’s father, the show takes a daring approach to storytelling. Each of the four episodes is filmed in a continuous single take — an ambitious creative choice that pays off brilliantly. This technique pulls the viewer in, creating an unrelenting, immersive experience that eliminates the safety net of editing. There are no cuts to break the tension or provide distance from the raw, unfiltered emotions of the characters. You’re trapped in the room with them, feeling every second unfold in real time. It’s intimate, intense, and at times deeply uncomfortable — exactly what a story like this demands.
By the time we reach the third episode, the series takes a profound turn. Jamie, now held in a youth detention facility, meets Briony Ariston, a child psychologist played by Erin Doherty. She’s been tasked with evaluating Jamie and preparing a mental health report. This is where the show stops feeling like a crime drama and transforms into a psychological chess match — one that neither participant seems entirely prepared for.
Doherty’s Briony is portrayed as a calm, compassionate professional — someone who has likely encountered troubled kids before. But Jamie is different. He’s volatile, unpredictable, and heartbreakingly lost. There’s a chilling moment when, seemingly without warning, he throws his hot chocolate aside and erupts in a furious outburst, screaming at Briony. It’s jarring, and the camera lingers on Doherty’s face, capturing her fleeting moment of shock. The audience feels it too — a sudden punch to the gut. The tension hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.
What makes the moment even more disturbing is what happens next. Jamie, seeing her visible discomfort, mocks her. He points out her flushed face, amused by his ability to unsettle an adult. It’s cruel, calculated, and yet it feels less like malice and more like a child grasping for control in a world where he’s powerless. Jamie’s aggression seems to stem from a warped sense of masculinity — one shaped by his peers, societal expectations, and his own insecurities. He’s trying to assert dominance the only way he knows how: through intimidation. It’s tragic because you realize, in that moment, that Jamie is a child desperately pretending to be a man.
Owen Cooper, who plays Jamie, is a revelation — all the more impressive considering this is his first acting role. He brings a raw, unfiltered honesty to the character. There’s no polish, no studied performance. He embodies Jamie’s vulnerability and rage so instinctively that it’s hard to believe he’s never acted before. Cooper doesn’t try to make Jamie likable or sympathetic, but he does make him human — and that’s far more important.
On the other side of this emotional battle is Doherty’s Briony, who gives a masterclass in subtlety. She’s the picture of professional restraint, even when Jamie pushes her to the edge. But beneath her controlled exterior, you can feel her frustration and heartbreak simmering. She’s not just a psychologist — she’s a human being who can’t help but be affected by Jamie’s pain and cruelty. When she finally breaks — sitting alone, unable to eat the sandwich she brought for Jamie — it’s a quiet, devastating moment. She doesn’t cry or rage. She just… stops. It’s as though the weight of everything Jamie has said has stolen her appetite, her energy, and maybe even her hope. It’s a small moment, but it hits hard because it feels so painfully real.
The emotional depth of this episode is so powerful that UK Prime Minister Keir Starmer publicly endorsed the series, stating that Adolescence should be shown in schools. He believes it’s essential viewing — not just as a cautionary tale about violence and its consequences, but as a tool for understanding empathy, emotional repression, and the way society molds children — sometimes into monsters.
The supporting cast, including Faye Marsay, Christine Tremarco, Mark Stanley, Jo Hartley, and Ashley Walters, each bring their own weight to the story, helping to build a world that feels heartbreakingly authentic. But the heart of Adolescence belongs to Cooper and Doherty, whose dynamic is nothing short of electric.
More than just a crime drama, Adolescence is an unflinching exploration of broken childhoods, systemic failures, and the blurry line between victim and perpetrator. It forces you to confront the uncomfortable truth: sometimes, the people who commit the worst acts are still just kids — scared, confused, and shaped by a world that failed them long before they failed themselves.
It’s streaming now on Netflix, and it’s not just a show — it’s an experience that lingers with you long after the credits roll.
