There is so much to say about a series like Black Books. The first episode doesn’t start with anything big… but the brilliance of the show is in the progression, the way that the characters grow and develop. Bernard’s relationship with Manny transforms from pure contrast to a dependency beyond measure – there is no relationship on television that rings so strikingly true. They share something not dissimilar to lovers; the anger, the frustration and the longing. And Fran dilutes the show. Without her, Black Books would not last; Bernard and Manny would simply prove too much. As the audience follows, the lives of these three characters are exposed to the point where the deepest comedy can be found in vulnerability and helplessness. When Bernard dismisses Manny in a state of fury, he is left naked, and Fran is reminded, once again, that there is nothing she can do to help her friend. And when he comes back, Bernard’s life is forced to resume, fuelled by a general sense of boredom, futility and frustration. But Manny is just being Manny – as the show goes on, he becomes Bernard’s guide, his heartbeat and an angel masked in rags.

Bernard is suffocated by bitterness. He is hateful by default. He sits in his tattered bookstore all day, scorning his few customers and making his disgust for the world known. Fran is his only friend, and is good-hearted and gracious enough to put up with his egotistic lamenting. She is also — one suspects — madly in love with him. Fran craves a little positivity, an enthusiastic remark from Bernard. And when Manny shows up, she takes an instant liking to his energy and hapless optimism, forcing him upon Bernard before watching, unknowingly, as their dependency on one another continues to grow.

There is nothing enviable in the lives of these three people; they are endlessly pathetic… But for this reason, Black Books is perfectly sarcastic. Through Bernard, Manny and Fran, the audience become intrigued by three people that should, ordinarily, hold no appeal whatsoever. Using Bernard Black as his vehicle, Dylan Moran embodies martyrdom and exudes misery, and this is the very core of every episode. Combined with the very nature of Bill Bailey, the show merges the deepest and most distressing realism with the ultimate surrealism – Bailey’s Manny feels almost imaginary in the bleak world of Bernard. Sometimes, it is almost as if Manny is Bernard’s creation, a subconscious effort to escape a world he pretends to be comfortable detesting. At times, it comes as a shock that Fran is let in on the phenomenon that is Manny.

But the most remarkable thing about Black Books may be the warmth that it manages to let out over the duration of every episode, and despite the darkened nature that guides it onwards. Dylan Moran hasn’t created a distressing show. There is more optimism than pessimism present in each episode, more comedy than tragedy, and a great deal of humanity detectable within all three characters and the lines that escape their mouths. Bernard is miserable because he wants to be miserable. He surrounds himself by dusty books, sits in his own filth and drinks red wine all day long. Fran is lonely because she chooses to spend her time with Bernard. And Manny is absurdly happy, despite being treated like dirt, and having nothing to be happy about. There isn’t enough tragedy found in these three tragedies to make the characters truly worthy of inducing sorrow. Their futile efforts in life inspire more hilarity than anything else.

External links

Black Books at IMDb

Black Books at Wikipedia

Black Books (awards won and nominated for) at IMDb