7 episodes, Netflix

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

This unflinching, compelling story rises above a simple stalker thriller to become a complex character study.

Put simply, Baby Reindeer is one of the most compelling, gripping, profoundly affecting pieces of original story-telling I’ve seen in some time. But a fair warning as caveat to the five-star rating: it’s not for the fainthearted. Its creation at the hand of an Edinburgh Comedy Award-winner has seen it tagged with a ‘black comedy’ label; though it certainly features some excellent jokes, this description is pretty far from the mark. Baby Reindeer is a scathing character study, a self-portrait of pain, co-dependence, insecurity and shame.

The set-up is simple: Donny Dunn (the slightly fictionalised alter-ego of series creator Richard Gadd) is a fledgling stand-up who finds himself the new obsession of disturbed stalker Martha Scott (Jessica Gunning). At this most basic level, the show is highly effective as a thriller, as we watch Martha’s initially bemusing but harmless crush descend to something violent and frightening. But what makes Baby Reindeer really extraordinary is that around this core narrative it presents a deep and probing exploration of Donny’s character – made all the more affecting given his resemblance to his creator.

Baby Reindeer is based on a true story. Gadd was indeed the victim of a stalker who dubbed him ‘Baby Reindeer’ and harassed him and his family for six years (the show compresses it to two). Over this time he received 41,000 emails and 350 hours of voicemail messages. Though we have no way of knowing how much of the story is really true to life (Gadd shares scant detail in interviews about the real-life Martha), the show certainly has more of the ring of truth to it than most biopics. This is to its strength. We are drawn closely into Donny’s most intimate moments and thoughts, exploring not just his fears of Martha but his insecurities and shame about other elements of his life, such as his uncertain sexuality and the shocking trauma in his past. Narrative choices that I might have found cloying or mawkish in another story – such as the inconsistent narration or Donny’s tearful monologue at a comedy gig – are powerful here because they have an autobiographical feel. There’s a sense that it’s not just Donny talking to us, but the real and all-too-human Richard. 

What results is a far more complex take on the stalker genre than what has come before it. Rather than having a naive victim and an irredeemable villain, the show manages to elicit our sympathy for Martha’s lonely and warped existence, not least because Donny feels this sympathy himself. In fact, one of the show’s most interesting themes is questioning how much Donny himself contributes to Martha’s ongoing obsession. There is no doubt he is the victim, but at crucial points he seems unable, when presented with a clear opportunity, to firmly and irreversibly eject Martha from his life. (As a viewer, I was sometimes reminded of those frustrating horror films in which the silly teenagers seem incapable of taking any of the sensible and obvious actions that would lead them away from the killer.) Gadd is brutal in his own self-assessment through the proxy of Donny, as the show spares us none of his more unsavoury attributes and failings, such as his dependence on Martha’s flattery or his struggle to overcome his internalised homophobia when he dates a trans woman. And yet by the same token, we are never spared a glance at Donny’s deepest vulnerabilities, ensuring we never lose our sympathy for him, nor our hope that he will triumph over his struggles. What we get is a profoundly real and resonant portrayal of a complex, troubled character.

With the show’s appeal lying in its creation of such multifaceted characters, its success is obviously dependent on a stellar cast. Everyone here is pulling their weight and then some. Gadd is seamless (and unfailingly watchable) in his performance of Donny, even in his darkest moments – though perhaps that’s only to be expected given he’s largely reaching into his own past. Jessica Gunning is similarly brilliant, showing in equal turns Martha’s frightening edge, her seemingly bottomless vulnerability and her unlikely comic chops. A shout-out too must go to Nava Mau, the American playing Donny’s sometime girlfriend Teri. As Teri is trans, her relationship with Donny helps the show further explore his confusion and inner turmoil about his sexuality. Crucially, though, Teri is never defined by her transness nor her relationship to Donny. She is, like all the characters in the show, fully formed, thanks in no small part to Mau’s performance and input behind the scenes. 

I did have cause to wonder at times if this project might be somewhat traumatic for Gadd, as he relives not just the stalking but depression, confusion, heartbreak, shame, and sexual abuse. Perhaps though that simply plays into the show’s refusal to draw simple conclusions, or to clearly demarcate a point where Donny (Richard?) moves out of the darkness and into the light. Certainly – and I tread lightly here for fear of spoilers – the show avoids, right to the final scene, letting us have a definitive ending. Far from being unsatisfying, this only adds to the brilliance of Baby Reindeer in conveying the chaos and murkiness of how we define ourselves and how we face those darker moments in our lives.