The result is a depressingly one-dimensional character, despite a balanced performance from Keough, who does her best to enliven the mostly monotone material. The writers would rather focus on the confused aftermath of this trauma, which manifests in gratuitous scenes of Daisy drinking, snorting cocaine, and chasing pills with bottles of champagne. More distressingly, the show casually slots a sexual assault into Daisy’s past the scene is tossed at the audience and then never again discussed. “No one wants to hear your voice,” her mother tells her, when she’s young-a line so blatantly expository that it barely counts as dialogue. The series takes a careless stab at giving its heroine a backstory, constructing a poor-little-rich-girl narrative: Daisy grew up with money, but she was unloved. Daisy, having just poured herself a drink, says, “You’re looking at it.” Soon, there’s a splash, and Daisy is gliding through the pool, sylphlike, in a sheer white tank and underwear, a common enough fantasy. Once inside the house, Billy asks about her songwriting process. Viewers know, instinctually, that Daisy will end up in the water, likely naked or barely clothed, a preordained choice meant to demonstrate her character’s spontaneity, her freedom. The camera pans lovingly over a large pool in the back yard-the show’s Chekhov’s gun. “That’s not very rock and roll, Billy,” she teases. “Why do I get the feeling that we’re breaking the law?” Billy says warily. Before her first writing session with Billy Dunne, The Six’s front man, she brings her unwitting collaborator to their producer’s home, then scrounges around in the garden, looking for a key. (Keough has spoken about the extensive thought that went into Daisy’s look: “We were discussing the color of her hair, if she’d have bangs or if she wouldn’t, her gold earrings, her hoops,” she recalled in a TikTok earlier this month.) In her actions, Daisy is almost comically uninhibited. She wears crochet tops with no bra and has long, wavy red tresses. Right off the bat, Daisy’s bohemian aesthetics signal her priorities. Rather than composing a complex vision of a female artist, “Daisy Jones” lazily acquiesces to an established archetype of feminine desirability: the free spirit. But, as the series progresses, it becomes clear that despite her central position within the band and the show, Daisy’s character is disappointingly, and irritatingly, impotent. Daisy’s lyrical gifts are discovered by a producer, who pairs her with a floundering band, The Six, and the group is buoyed by her songwriting prowess and stage presence, becoming an overnight sensation. In its trailers and promos, “Daisy Jones,” based on the best-selling novel by Taylor Jenkins Reid, sold its female lead as a formidable creative force: a boundary-pushing, driven woman with undeniable talent. “I’m not the muse, O.K.? I’m the somebody.” Not yours, not anybody’s,” she shouts at a male companion. “I’m not interested in being anybody’s muse!. At the end of the first episode of “Daisy Jones & the Six,” a series on Prime Video about the crescendo and subsequent dissolution of a fictional nineteen-seventies rock band, the titular character, Daisy (Riley Keough), fumes at the idea of being someone’s inspiration.
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