It's a Sin

The ensemble of It's a Sin represents Russell T Davies at his most emotionally generous. Each character emerges fully formed from their first moments on screen, yet undergoes profound transformation across five episodes.

Ritchie Tozer (Olly Alexander) anchors the series as an aspiring actor from the Isle of Wight who crafts elaborate lies about his background to reinvent himself. His journey from entitled golden boy to desperate patient is rendered with remarkable nuance—Alexander captures Ritchie's initial shallowness and growing complexity, his refusal to accept his diagnosis feeling both frustrating and tragically understandable. The character's theatricality masks deep insecurity, his performative confidence crumbling as the physical reality of AIDS advances.

Roscoe Babatunde (Omari Douglas) arrives as the most defiantly political character, fleeing his Nigerian family's expectations with spectacular style. Douglas brings fire and wit to every scene, making Roscoe's anger at systemic homophobia feel earned rather than didactic. His arc—from bar boy to activist to survivor—traces the evolution of queer political consciousness during the era.

Colin Morris-Jones (Callum Scott Howells) serves as the series' emotional center, his gentle innocence making his fate particularly devastating. Howells' performance captures a specific type of queer experience: the late bloomer, the one who moved cautiously while others embraced liberation. Colin's relationship with his mentor Henry (Neil Patrick Harris) provides some of the series' most tender moments.

Asha Patel (Nathaniel Curtis) and Jill Baxter (Lydia West) round out the ensemble with distinct voices. Ash's guarded warmth gradually reveals layers of trauma from growing up Black and gay in 1980s Britain. Meanwhile, Jill—based on Davies' real-life friend—embodies allyship without saviorism, her straight female gaze offering the audience entry point while her nursing and advocacy demonstrate authentic solidarity.

The supporting cast—including Stephen Fry as a closeted Tory MP and Keeley Hawes as Ritchie's conflicted mother—populate the world with specificity. Even characters appearing briefly feel like complete people with histories extending beyond the frame. Davies' gift for dialogue ensures each character speaks with distinctive cadence and vocabulary—you could identify speakers with your eyes closed.

The 1980s London of It's a Sin feels lived-in and authentic, achieved through meticulous production design and Davies' personal memory. The Pink Palace, with its mismatched furniture, posters, and constant stream of visitors, becomes a character itself—a sanctuary representing the found families queer people created when biological families rejected them.

The series excels at capturing period-specific textures: the cramped flats, the payphones, the pre-internet gay scene where connections happened in bars and public toilets, personals in Time Out, flyers for clubs. Costume design distinguishes each character through fashion—Ritchie's emerging actor wardrobe, Roscoe's deliberately provocative outfits, Colin's sensible jumpers signaling his Welsh modesty.

The wider social world receives careful attention too. The series depicts section 28's devastating impact on education, the criminalization of homosexuality that persisted in Scotland until 1980, and the NHS's overwhelmed response to the emerging crisis. Medical institutions appear both heroic and inadequate—devoted nurses working with insufficient resources, hospitals creating AIDS wards, the government dragging its feet on public health messaging.

What keeps this dimension from higher scores is occasional historical compression—the timeline condenses somewhat for dramatic effect, and certain political developments move faster than they did historically. Additionally, the upper-class milieu of some characters (the drama school world, certain clubs) may not fully represent the diversity of 1980s queer London. Still, the world built here feels immersive and emotionally true to the era it depicts.

Director Peter Hoar and cinematographer David Katznelson craft a visual language that evolves meaningfully across the series. The early episodes burst with saturated color and kinetic energy—handheld camera work following characters through packed clubs, warm golden lighting suggesting perpetual magic hour, close-ups capturing the flush of youth and possibility.

As the AIDS crisis intensifies, the visual approach shifts toward starker contrast and clinical whites. Hospital sequences employ cool fluorescent lighting and static compositions that imprison characters in antiseptic spaces. The transition feels organic rather than heavy-handed, matching the narrative's emotional trajectory.

The series makes effective use of period-specific visual references—music video aesthetics, early MTV energy, the grain of VHS footage. Fantasy sequences (Ritchie's imagined acting career) provide visual variety while commenting on dreams deferred by disease. The Pink Palace is shot with genuine affection, making its eventual emptiness feel like a physical wound.

The score reflects budget constraints typical of British television—while never less than competent, the cinematography lacks the ambitious visual flourishes of premium American cable productions. Certain scenes feel more functional than artistic, serving story adequately without exceptional visual invention. The decision prioritizes character over visual pyrotechnics, which suits the material but prevents this dimension from achieving true greatness.

It's a Sin operates on a deliberately intimate scale, and visual spectacle takes a backseat to emotional authenticity. The "spectacle" here manifests not in CGI or elaborate action sequences but in human moments rendered with devastating clarity—Colin's final lucid recognition of his friends, Jill's lonely vigil by multiple hospital beds, the packed funeral where an entire community grieves together.

The series does achieve memorable visual moments: the vibrant club scenes with period-authentic styling and choreography; the stark contrast of hospital wards against domestic warmth; symbolic imagery of empty spaces (bedrooms, stages, churches) that speak to absence. The opening credits sequence—set to the Pet Shop Boys' "Opportunities"—creates propulsive energy through archival footage montage.

However, the show's limited budget and focused scope mean there are no show-stopping visual sequences in the traditional sense. No battle scenes, no elaborate practical effects, no breathtaking landscapes. The spectacle is emotional rather than visual—watching talented actors deliver heartbreaking material. For a series about human connection and loss, this prioritization makes sense, but it limits the score in this particular dimension.

What spectacle exists serves character and theme rather than existing for its own sake. The Pink Palace parties feel immersive because they prioritize authentic period detail over stylization. When the series reaches for larger visual statements (the final episode's empty flat), they land because earned through five hours of intimate investment.

Here It's a Sin achieves transcendent excellence. Russell T Davies layers so many interconnected themes across five episodes that subsequent viewings reveal new resonances. The series functions simultaneously as: historical document, political indictment, coming-of-age story, romance, tragedy, and celebration.

The central concept—the AIDS crisis as experienced by a specific group of young gay men—supports exploration of found family versus biological family, shame versus pride, medical establishment versus patient autonomy, government responsibility versus individual blame. Davies interrogates how disease becomes moral judgment, how "patient zero" narratives scapegoat the marginalized, how silence equals death.

The series explores temporality and memory uniquely—episodes span years, yet moments of crisis feel suspended in time. The opening of episode one, with Ritchie's future self narrating, creates layers of temporal awareness that pay off in devastating ways. Questions of who tells stories, who gets remembered, who is written out of history permeate every scene.

Class dynamics receive sharp examination—Ritchie's middle-class comfort versus Roscoe's precarious existence, the ways privilege protects some while exposing others. Religious hypocrisy (the Catholic parents, the Christian landlords), racial politics within the gay community, and gender dynamics (the role of straight women as caretakers) all receive thoughtful treatment.

Most impressively, Davies balances ideological clarity with human complexity. Characters make politically problematic statements, hold contradictory beliefs, disappoint each other. The series never reduces its ideas to slogans—they emerge organically from character interaction. The conversation about what "causes" AIDS (behavioral versus structural explanations) plays out across multiple scenes without didacticism. Every frame contains multitudes.

It's a Sin employs a braided narrative structure that juggles multiple timelines and perspectives across five episodes, each representing roughly a year from 1981 to 1991. This temporal compression creates inherent propulsion—we understand from the opening that time is limited, that the carefree party cannot last forever.

The pacing strategy deserves particular praise. Davies frontloads joy, spending two full episodes establishing friendship and freedom before tragedy intrudes. This isn't merely delaying the inevitable—it's establishing emotional stakes so the losses carry appropriate weight. When Colin falls ill, the shift from comedy to medical drama feels organic rather than jarring.

The series maintains momentum through multiple narrative threads: Ritchie's acting career, Roscoe's political awakening, Jill's nursing training, Ash's guarded relationship with his family. Each episode advances these threads while introducing new characters and complications. The mysteries (Who has AIDS? Who will survive?) create suspense even when outcomes feel predetermined by history.

The narrative voice—sometimes directly addressing the audience, sometimes withholding information for dramatic effect—keeps viewers engaged intellectually as well as emotionally. The structural decision to occasionally jump forward in time ("three years later") risks disorientation but more often generates productive tension.

What prevents a higher score is occasional narrative convenience—characters happening to be in the right place at the right time, certain plot developments feeling slightly forced for dramatic effect. Additionally, the compressed timeline means some emotional beats land faster than they might with more breathing room. Still, the storytelling here demonstrates sophisticated command of long-form structure, knowing precisely when to accelerate and when to linger.

The conclusion of It's a Sin honors the complexity of its subject matter—there can be no simple "happy ending" when depicting the AIDS crisis, yet Davies refuses to end on pure nihilism. The fifth episode finds the surviving characters five years on, attending an ACT UP demonstration, suggesting political awakening and continued resistance.

Jill's final monologue, delivered directly to camera, serves as both elegy and call to action. She names the dead—Colin, Ritchie, Henry, others—refusing to let them become statistics. This breaking of the fourth wall feels earned by the series' emotional intensity, transforming grief into witness. The device acknowledges the audience as inheritors of this history, demanding we remember.

Individual character arcs receive satisfying if bittersweet closure. Roscoe's survival and political commitment, Ash's emergence into authentic adulthood, and Jill's continued caregiving all suggest life continuing despite loss. The final image of the Pink Palace—empty but not destroyed—symbolizes both absence and endurance. The space where joy occurred remains, even when the joyful have departed.

The series resolves thematic threads with precision: the theme of found family finds full expression in the funeral sequence where biological families are replaced by chosen community; the theme of shame versus pride concludes with ACT UP's defiant visibility; the theme of memory consolidates in Jill's naming of names.

The resolution loses slight points for some unanswered questions—certain supporting characters disappear without conclusion, and the compression of the final timeline leaves some relationships underdeveloped. Additionally, the political messaging can feel slightly heavy-handed in the final minutes after five hours of subtlety. Still, the conclusion honors the series' achievement: a story about devastating loss that somehow leaves viewers with hope rather than despair, the possibility of change rather than resignation to fate.