‘Sweetpea’ Review: Ella Purnell’s Revenge Drama Is a Sloppy, Shallow Fantasy
Have you ever been so annoyed with someone you thought, “Man, I wish they were dead”? Have you ever acted on that impulse? The sizable gap between the group who says yes to the first question and the group who says yes to both questions is wide enough that calling both “groups” presents a form of false equivalency. One “group” includes pretty much everyone on Earth, while the other consists of the rare breed of people who inspire Ryan Murphy shows. But here we are, once again, with a new series trying to bridge the gap between identifiable frustrations and sociopathic actions, this time using misplaced tension, so-so humor, and unconvincing empowerment narratives to liven up its rote story.
As far as revenge fantasies go, “Sweetpea” is fine. Ella Purnell’s aspiring serial killer is given ample motivation and quickly acts on it. (There’s a dead body by the end of the first 45-minute episode.) But Kirstie Swain’s six-part first season, adapted from the book by C.J. Skuse, can’t find its footing once Rhiannon (Purnell) indulges in her daydream only to find herself torn between the satisfaction that comes from dispatching Bad Men? and the nagging feeling that killing people to make yourself feel better is wrong. “Sweetpea” doesn’t do Rhiannon any favors. Plot twists are too convenient, character motivations are too muddled, and the showy transformation at the center of it all — where Purnell evolves Rhiannon from wallflower to social butterfly — feels all too obvious, like a flip that gets switched instead of a genuine evolution, or an acting exercise instead of an honest portrait.
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When we first meet Rhiannon, her inner monologue is fixated on all the people she’d like to kill. There’s the rude strangers she encounters on the commute. There’s her boss, Norman (Jeremy Swift), who treats her like an all-in-one coat rack, coffee-maker, and office clerk. (Though, technically, that last one is her job.) There’s her ex-boyfriend, who’s not even an ex-boyfriend but just an ex-guy-she-slept-with-once, and her former bully, whose vicious attacks from their high school days still feel fresh to the subject of her torment.
Rhiannon talks about killing without any specificity or conviction. She’s angry and exhausted, of course, having been surrounded by exasperating individuals for far too long. But instead of confronting them about their various vexations, she keeps a running mental tally of grievances. As a Midwesterner, I can relate, and really, everyone can. Even if you’re not as timid as Rhiannon — who can’t order a drink at a bar, let alone stand up to anyone who’s actively mean to her — you’ve been in situations where annoying people irrepressibly resurface, and there’s nothing to be done about it. On bad days, I’m sure you’ve even thought about different ways they might die. Less often, I hope, have you stabbed them 14 times with your dad’s old pocket knife.
But hey, that’s what revenge fantasies like “Sweetpea” are for: allowing audiences to play out secret scenarios they’ll never otherwise get to experience. If only this one was realized with greater plausibility or sharper insight. You see, one of the reasons we’re meant to sympathize with Rhiannon (instead of adding her to our own list of irritations for being so damn docile all the time) is because she’s pretty thoroughly traumatized. When she was a kid, she was bullied so ruthlessly that she started pulling out her own hair. Although her brown locks grew back, she still keeps the wig in her closet, just in case she needs it again — a symbol of her lingering trauma, and a reminder why she still hides from life, rather than standing up to live it.
Then, when “Sweetpea” starts, she loses the one person who was always in her corner: her dad. And the hits keep coming: She misses out on a “promotion” at work (more on that in a minute). Her old bully resurfaces at her father’s funeral. Her sister wants to sell their dad’s home, which also happens to be Rhiannon’s home. Her breaking point finally arrives when her tiny little dog runs into traffic and dies.
Woof. If that seems like a lot for anyone to handle, let alone an already fragile soul like Rhiannon, you’d be right. Soon enough, she’s speaking up, stabbing dudes, and roaring with power. (Literally roaring, but also singing Katy Perry’s “Roar,” because of course she does.) In getting there, the premiere sets up a number of intriguing contradictions. Rhiannon is desperate to be heard, to be seen, to be acknowledged, and yet she has to hide the very thing (killing people) that fuels her rise from obscurity. Framing murder as a path to self-empowerment also asks audiences to consider if something morally wrong can still lead to something, if not right, then healthy.
Rhiannon works well enough as a symbol: an oppressed, overlooked woman who deserves better from a society that too often rewards the loudest, pushiest people (mostly men, of course). Striking back, especially by targeting prime examples of a problematic patriarchy, is a relatable response. It’s wish fulfillment, and the wish is a common one, so it’s easy enough to root for her (or at least hope she finds her way to a better life).
But “Sweetpea” quickly loses its own thread, making it impossible to see Rhiannon’s actions as anything but unhinged. Her first victim is a complete stranger. He may have been kind of rude, but her split-second decision to kill him is more about her than him, so in the aftermath, Rhiannon becomes obsessed with substantiating that he “deserved to die.” She needs to justify her vigilantism, thus proving she’s still a good person, despite her horrible crime. OK, fine. That tracks. But then she lures her second victim to his doom by asking the pushy, sexist, self-interested pig to help her find a (fictional) lost dog, and… he does? Um, why? There isn’t a good answer, because this type of guy wouldn’t go out of his way for his own family, let alone a stranger’s missing pet. But there he is, doing something good, just as we’re meant to believe he’s inherently bad — so bad, he might as well be killed.
Similar leaps in logic (both emotional and basic) continue, whether it’s how Rhiannon gets away with these murders or why she thinks jumping from receptionist to Junior Reporter is a traditional career path. (Everything involving her work at the paper is preposterous.) Supporting characters are transparently that: There to support the plot by doing whatever is needed to raise or lower suspense, no matter how much sense it makes. One of the few fresh dynamics arrives in the season’s second half, between Rhiannon and her bully, Julia (Nic?le Lecky), but the series moves through it too quickly, forcing rapid personality shifts and unearned forgiveness that feel required to reach the finale’s faux resolution more than to examine authentic feelings. (A final twist hints at unearthing some of those layers, but it’s too little, too late.)
The same can be said for Purnell’s central performance. The “Yellowjackets” breakout and “Fallout” star (not to mention voice roles on “Invincible,” “Star Trek: Prodigy,” and “Arcane”) adds an executive producer credit to her rapidly growing resume, but that’s the only side of her we haven’t seen put to better use elsewhere. Rhiannon is a mess, and while her charismatic, committed performer can make each scene watchable, Purnell can’t sort so many contradictions into anything substantial.
If “Sweetpea” introduced its disparities with any designated purpose — like, say, putting its own twist on the revenge fantasy by showing how misplaced and unfulfilling such fantasies can be — perhaps the six episodes would be worth watching. But we’re too often expected to side with Rhiannon, to want our girlboss version of Dexter Morgan to purge her demons however she sees fit, all the dead bodies be damned. For that to be satisfying, you need a clear rooting interest in your killer, and “Sweetpea” can’t decide who or what it wants you to be rooting for.
Grade: C-
“Sweetpea” premieres Thursday, October 10 on the Starz app and Friday, October 11 at 8 p.m. ET on the Starz linear channels.
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