Television seems to be an endless buffet of greatness if you know where to look for the good stuff and, crucially, if you can afford to shell out for the streaming subscriptions over which it is scattered. Aside from the expense, the downside of this glut of quality is that shows that should stand out for their originality and wit – such as Extraordinary – often get lost in the quagmire. But it is back for a second season and, hopefully, about to get all the attention it deserves because it is confident, creative, crude and, above all, irresistibly fun.
Jen (an excellent Máiréad Tyers) lives in a world where superpowers are normal, but this is no heroic Marvel-esque caper: the superpowers range from splitting yourself into multiples, which is handy for work, to “booping” people down to miniature size, to having a bum that doubles as a 3D printer. While most people come into their powers as they approach adulthood, Jen is in her early 20s and yet to find out what she can do and, therefore, what it is that makes her special. Superpowers have always been a metaphor’s best friend, but part of the cleverness of Extraordinary is that it doesn’t try to mask the mundanity of what it is really about. Jen doesn’t know who she is yet and feels left behind. That is largely it. In a strange equation, however, the sillier the powers and the dafter the events that transpire as a result of (almost) everyone being slightly magical, the more profound its emotional core turns out to be.
I say profound, but with caveats. The first season saw Jen flailing around, largely without a plan, eventually finding love with a man-cat called Jizzlord (Luke Rollason, who I hope finds delight in looking at this on his CV for the rest of time). That should give you an idea of what is on offer here. This time, she has scraped together enough money to attend the Power Discovery Programme, where a therapist played by Julian Barrett wanders into her mind and tries to locate any psychological blockages that may be holding her back from her power. Jen’s mind is a hectic secondhand bookshop, “a shithole”, filled with volumes and volumes of books about her life, such as Worst Things You’ve Thought About While Masturbating. Again, I say “profound”, but one of its best qualities is that it really does spring its depth on you when you least expect it. Jen’s relationship with her family, including her dead father and living mother (Derry Girls’ Siobhán McSweeney) is complicated, to say the least, but with her mother, it is particularly fractious. Watching a silver-clad McSweeney perform an impromptu exorcism in a fancy dress shop is a far cry from The Great Pottery Throw Down, but the scenes between her and Tyers are wonderful.
While Jen looks for her calling, and tries to make her fledgling relationship with Jizzlord work, her friends and flatmates find themselves flailing this time; even though they have already come into their powers, they still don’t quite know how to use them. Kash (Bilal Hasna) and Carrie (Sofia Oxenham) are no longer a couple, after Kash used his ability to rewind time to try to stop Carrie breaking up with him, but still live together and are trying to be friends. Kash’s time-controlling power starts to act up, just as he begins to question his own identity, and Carrie’s ability to commune with the dead leads to a particularly vivid Halloween episode, when an old Mae West-esque star of the silver screen decides she quite likes the young body she finds herself inhabiting.
It’s full of smart conceits like this. The typical wariness of a new partner’s ex, for example, becomes palpable when that ex’s power allows her to communicate telepathically with everyone around her. When the gang try to hide their secrets, they throw them into the Void – a tip-like swirling hole in the atmosphere that costs £5 a visit (no bodies allowed). Even the overwhelming pressure of Jen and Jizzlord’s first real date is a treat, as they contemplate sharing a plate of spaghetti as big as a weightlifter’s thigh (they have been “booped” to miniature). This is sparky, raucous comedy that tears through each of its 30-minute episodes with such energy that it never outstays its welcome. Perhaps that is its own superpower. It won’t be for everyone – and fair play to those viewers who would rather not have a lead character affectionately known as Jizz – but it is inventive, smart and too easily gobbled up in one surreal sitting.
• Extraordinary is on Disney+.
