Luckily, in an age of TV overkill, the show doesn’t take long to get there: it is only eight episodes long each is twenty minutes. At once a joyful watch and a morally destabilizing one, it bears some relationship to “Fleabag,” another dark British comedy driven by the narration of a deeply screwed-up individual, plotted so that its more compassionate themes come as a pleasant shock. Instead, “The End of the F***ing World”-which is written by Charlie Covell, adapted from Charles Forsman’s graphic novel, and directed by Jonathan Entwistle and Lucy Tcherniak-evolves into something much rarer, a convincing teen-age romance. That intro seems to promise a familiar modern television genre: the comedy so cruel that it doubles as an endurance test. The cat “probably had a name,” James tells us. We watch him commit the latest in a series of murders of small animals, whose corpses are arrayed against a bare background, a queasy vision of his inner life. At fifteen, he brought his neighbor’s cat into the woods. At nine, James tells us in voice-over, he stuck his hand into a tub of boiling oil, just to feel something. The first person we meet on “The End of the F***ing World,” on Netflix, is James, a dour, pie-faced seventeen-year-old who is “pretty sure” he’s a psychopath. On “The End of the F***ing World,” intimacy doesn’t need to be healthy to be genuine.
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