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Black Doves | TV Series | 2024– | TV-MA

What Black Doves and Dying Birds Teaches Us About Identity and Lovability

“Dying Birds by Trine Søndergaard and Nicolai Howalt is a photographic study of the forms of hunted birds. Thematically this work is an expansion of their previous project How To Hunt. In this series of images the artists have captured birds in their struggle to live whilst being hunted, and ultimately in their final earthbound moments.”

This blog post is long overdue considering I binge-watched Black Doves when it first released at the beginning of December 2024. I’m returning to it now to banish the unfinished draft looming over my head–and because recent conversations have prompted me to reflect again on the story. Fair warning: this is not a review or essay. Brace for a stream of consciousness (with light spoilers).

The series evoked sentiments I have pondered for years, discussed with friends, and parsed through with clients during counselling sessions. Let me say, it is strangely affirming–and incredibly uncomfortable–when clients mirror my own internal conflicts. Many have questioned whether they are real people, known by anyone, even themselves. They mourn a perceived loss of self following years of self-proclaimed “people pleasing,” whereby their self-construction is repeatedly demolished and rebuilt for whoever has their attention. Ooft.

I selected the Dying Birds photogravure pamphlet to represent this thematic tension. The birds flail for life in the way that I think sometimes we grasp for who we are or once knew ourselves to be. It represents a painful, disconnected state of being in which we don’t feel real, known, or true–and yet, are not dead. I’m not an antagonistic person, but feel a surprising degree of guilt and deceitfulness if I choose to find interpersonal touchstones while carefully sidestepping topics of contention in conversations. I feel fraudulent and dishonest if someone says their perception of me has changed, especially when I’m not sure which version is more authentic. There are likely elements I love and hate in both. When my tastes, beliefs, or opinions evolve or oscillate, I feel like an inconsistent person who lacks integrity. I feel like a flailing bird–not embodied or known to herself. It makes me want to pause life and only press play when I have the answers.

In relation to Black Doves, Dying Birds depicts a fight for life (or existence), representative of the show in more ways than one. In this series, Keira Knightley stars as Helen Webb: mother, wife of politician Wallace Webb, and Black Doves spy. The action begins with the assassination of three seemingly random people, including Helen’s secret lover and supposed civil servant, Jason Davies. Ben Wishaw, as assassin Sam Young, is brought in to protect Helen, as the murders set the dominoes falling on a slew of political and criminal chaos. What follows is six totally bingeable episodes of intrigue, action, suspense, comedy, and drama.

Although the narrative put forward a range of interesting questions and themes, I was obviously compelled by the concepts relevant to my existential dilemma. Given the nature of the characters’ undercover work, there is inherent tension and conflict as it pertains to truth, identity, and relationships. Who is Helen? Who is Sam? Who was Jason? They’re real, tangible people, yet their every name and action is crafted for a purpose. It begs the question: if someone is a lie and fabrication, do they really even exist?

Like the dying birds, Helen and Sam must fight for their lives as they become embroiled in the action. Danger lurks around every corner – their near deaths and injuries countless. Also like the birds, they inhabit a place between existence and non-existence–fractured, fabricated people who do not wholly belong to themselves, or to any other person or place. Their lovers know only fragments of who they are. When Sam’s lover, Michael, is finally exposed to Sam’s assassin identity, it’s again a bit like the Dying Birds. Michael is caught between life and death, love and grief, struggling to exist in a moment where he must reconcile a devastating truth. Michael is conflicted by the stranger before him, someone he once knew so intimately. I imagine it would be much the same for Wallace, were he to find out that Helen had been stealing and selling his state secrets. Helen dared to entrust her lover, Jason, with a measure of truth–an act he did not return in kind, as Helen later discovers he too was a spy. How real does that make their affair? How real are these connections cast in shadow? How real is Helen and Wallace’s? How real were Sam and Michael’s? How real is ours with anyone?

This line of questioning tugs at a deeply rooted longing of wanting to be seen and known completely. And on the other side of that coin, an equally pervasive fear that you cannot be truly loved if people don’t see or know the whole of you. It’s a sentiment many of my clients share. Perhaps you’ve pondered it too. Are we to be like the birds, flailing before death? Disconnected from truth as we don a face others wish to see–or frozen, trying to recall who we are as life passess us by?

There are obvious and blatant lies perpetuated by Helen and Sam that no one would recommend as the foundation of a healthy relationship. But even so, I thought there might be something to learn from them. My thoughts on the matter seem too dire, too binary. Even for those of us living relatively mundane and honest lives, my questioning implies that the truth of who we are is categorical and absolute. It suggests that there is one true version of ourselves, and that, to aspire to authenticity, we somehow owe that singular version to the world.

So, to my question: can we ever be truly loved if people don’t see or know the whole of us? I think, perhaps, yes.

The children I used to nanny know a fraction of who I am. Or rather, saw a variation of me. I was caretaker and playmate. I was structure and boundaries, open arms and safety. That’s not who I am for my parents. My mother reminds me that despite my age, I will always be their little girl. They worry about my health, my heart, my soul. They provide stable footing when the world around me feels like it’s spinning. I hope to be an imitation of this for my sister. She is my equal as much as she is someone precious to me–someone I want to protect, even when it means shielding her from my burdens. Even among my peers, I present differently. To some, I may appear friendly and composed. Others may know a more carefree and spirited side. Some receive personal disclosures, but not raw truth. Those closest to me see more parts–but perhaps not all. And yet, do these groups still love me? I think they’d say they do. In their own way. Is one truth any less real than the truth perceived from a different angle?

Even in Helen Webb’s world of deceit, there is truth simply in love and presence. Michael and Sam were heartbroken because the love and shared lives were real. Helen never knew Jason’s full truth before he died, but their connection was inexplicably real to them too. So much so that in his final moments, Jason chose to save Helen and preserve her secrets – taking her truths and lies to his grave. Helen’s relationship with Wallace was strategic, a partnership for leveraging intelligence. It is a lie, and yet they have shared their home, their bodies, years of life, countless memories, personal anecdotes, and children.

Reflecting on these extremes, I think there’s something valuable and encouraging in Black Doves. If love and connection can be found by those living its antithesis, then surely we laymen can breathe a sigh of relief? Rather than fighting each moment in life, we can surrender. It’s a futile battle, grasping for one singular truth of ourselves. Choosing when and with whom to preserve or highlight parts of yourself is not inherently dishonest. It’s your right to safeguard and entrust precious parts of you until you’re ready, and with those who earn it. Not everyone is entitled to the vulnerable or intimate parts of you and there are times where social, cultural, professional, and political norms dictate which “version” of ourselves is appropriate in given contexts. It’s alright to make mistakes and change, and the discomfort of this shouldn’t dissuade us from evolving.

I love something the artist AURORA said on The Eras Podcast:

“I never wonder who I am. I don’t think it’s my business to know. I don’t care who I am. I just am… I can change everyday. I can change my mind. I can say something and then regret and be much better the day after. I can change everyday and figure out who I am…”

Esther Perel also famously talks about having been in three marriages with the same man. I think I’m getting more comfortable with the idea that some people come and go with our seasons and cycles. Others may accompany the multiple versions of ourselves throughout our life. Neither invalidates our existence–or the love we shared with those people.

I’m surprisingly encouraged and relieved, (and apparently have bird shooters and Keira Knightly to thank for it). I could delve deeper, but that feels like fighting for one right answer. So I’ll release these thoughts into the wild – tell me what you think.