Since starting the unabashedly wild, uncensored, sordid, and deplorable journey down the rabbithole into Paul Abbott’s Shameless, I’ve begun to embrace my shameless side. The show foments this resentment, comfort and nostalgia in me, an odd playing field of emotions. It exposes the draconian realities of addiction, narcissism, and absentee parents, without reducing such an upbringing. A spark of hope and family emerges from the scrappy dysfunction. In one of the only productions emboldened to reveal the underbelly of societal norms, the truth behind the struggling middle-class, Shameless champions for recognition of the lower-income bracket. Sure, sex, violence, and drugs sell in the entertainment industry, but there’s an element of truth in it that’s relatable. Life isn’t censored, so neither is Shameless.
Simultaneous bluster and toxicity runs in the veins of the show. High energy electrifies the dormant rebellious teen that we’ve suppressed for so long. There’s something romantic and arousing about living on the verge of life, doing what you can to get by, to those who haven’t experienced it. They see Shameless as this portrait of family bonded together by circumstance—not perfect, but comforting. But then there are those of us who understand it because we live in it, or have lived in some version of it. We are forced to confront our pasts and come to terms with our realities. For us, it imbues sentimentality, grief, frustration, and nostalgia. In my personal journey, this show has given me a renewed shamelessness. I shouldn’t erase or omit parts of my life for the sheltered people I come across. I shouldn’t avoid the grimier, dirtier parts of myself or my family. I’m not contrite for participating in the morally promiscuous activities life offers. I am no less.
And another part of me, the quieter, privileged production of a less depraved middle-class childhood, yearns to warrant the need to justify my “shameless” behaviors. I want to hold a title that should garner shame. But I don’t. And this show, more in the way of the upper crust, has awakened my craving for unrest and rebellion, my desire to flirt with superimposed boundaries. It cultivates a lust for a lifestyle both provocative and unyielding. And the people that emerge and exist within this sphere are, by far, more compelling and nuanced than the majority of the social elite.
In the film and television industry, the Gallaghers are one of the only cultural alternatives to the families illustrated in cushy family sitcoms and excessive soap operas. They’re indisputably real—not Hollywood real. The writers, actors, and directors craft a serious and somber satire, in which the comedy only arises out of the drama. Tragedy and strife births humor. It starts a conversation about what it means to be on the fringes of society, hitting hard and unexpectedly. Some glimpse a side of the streets they only heard stories about, and others, reflect or face a side of the streets they know, or once knew intimately. We all learn to be a bit more shameless. Because life is f*cking hard. And if it’s not hard, you’re not doing it right.
