When Candice Carty-Williams published her debut novel Queenie in 2019, its reception was nothing short of an author’s dream. Pulling off the rarest of feats in the literary world, it became both instantly popular – the people’s book of the moment – but also critically acclaimed: Carty-Williams went on to win Book of the Year at the British Book Awards in 2020 (the first book by a Black author ever to win the prize), propelling her to stardom and cementing her name in British publishing history.
So it came as a surprise to no one that, after selling more than a quarter of a million copies in the UK alone, Queenie was quickly snapped up by networks for a highly-anticipated TV adaptation. Carty-Williams herself has been heavily involved in the show’s production, writing some of the episodes along with authors including Natasha Brown (Assembly) and the eight-part series stays faithful to the book – at times even word-perfectly.
The Channel 4 drama sees Dionne Brown (Criminal Record, The Walk-In) starring as Carty-Williams’ now much-beloved heroine, 25-year-old Queenie Jenkins, a British-Jamaican south London journalist who we meet at crisis point in her relationship with long-term boyfriend Tom (Jon Pointing). This, coupled with some concerning news at the doctor’s office, sets Queenie off on a path of self-destruction which largely involves her using sex with strange – and almost exclusively white – men to anesthetise the pain.
There’s the quasi-sex addict she meets at a party who gives her internal bruising, the married fling who refers to her as “big batty”, and the colleague who abandons her on the floor with her knickers around her ankles after a scandalous tryst in the office toilet. As her personal and work life begin to crumble around her, she is also haunted by a troubling past manifesting in recurring nightmares – primarily involving a fraught relationship with her estranged mother.
It is not hard to see why the book was marketed by Carty-Williams herself as the “black Bridget Jones”. As well as the obvious surface-level parallels, the show leans into the tagline, anchored by a Renee Zelwegger-esque internal narration from Brown. In one episode Queenie even turns up to a party in Bridget’s infamous bunny costume, and Sally Phillips (who played the iconic Shazza in the 2001 film) is reprised as Queenie’s no-nonsense boss Gina – both a wink and a nod to familiar audiences.
The difference, of course, lies in much of the social commentary. While the issues Queenie addresses – gentrification in Brixton, the intricacies of interracial relationships, and misogynoir in the workplace – are salient, their execution can at times verge on the cartoonishly obvious.
It is a Barbie-movie-esque approach to social commentary, the mantra being “tell-not-show” – a two-second clip of a Caribbean food shop being replaced by an organic supermarket feels rather artificially shoe-horned in, as does an early scene which sees Tom’s grandmother referring to their potential mixed-race children as “half-caste”. The lack of subtlety, coupled with often frustrating over-explanation from Brown’s narration, leaves little trust in the intellectual capabilities of viewers.
Where the show really excels is in its moments of gentle intimacy. Queenie’s relationship with her high school best friend Kyazike (a debut from scene-stealer Bellah, who fizzes off the screen) and Kyazike’s cousin Frank (Samuel Adewunmi) feel authentic and warm, their chemistry a joy to watch. Their black London banter and slang never feel forced – if “feeling seen” is part of the aim, it is here that Queenie succeeds. The exploration of Queenie’s Jamaican grandparents’ attitudes to mental health is also moving in its sensitivity, a heart-warming subplot lending depth and nuance.
Despite its sometimes frustrating foibles, there is a reason Queenie has been so well-loved. The story possesses an undeniable magic, making it impossible to dislike even when you want to – much like the heroine herself.
