ICYMI: Grief, Identity, and Healing Through Netflix’s Tore

In an attempt to cope, Tore visits a local gay bar, where he encounters Viggo, a harmful and abusive figure. Throughout the series, he is repeatedly drawn into interactions with Viggo, and these encounters reflect Tore’s unresolved trauma, manifesting as a means of avoiding the grief and emotional pain he cannot yet process. The series unflinchingly explores trauma, reminding audiences of the value of stories told by creatives working through their pain and truth. Michaela Coel’s I May Destroy You exemplifies this approach, offering a comprehensive study on how race and sexuality intersect with trauma, consent, and healing, examining how systemic and personal factors inform one’s experience of suffering. Though differently approached, the aforementioned Baby Reindeer by Richard Gadd unpacks Gad’s own experiences of grooming, stalking, and abuse, sparking necessary conversations and sharing resources for male victims of sexual violence.

These auteur-driven stories of trauma, rooted in the personal experiences of the writers, reject simplistic, clichéd portrayals of suffering. Mainstream depictions often reduce trauma to a mere plot device, overlooking the messy, fragmented nature of real-life suffering. In contrast, auteur-driven shows explore and highlight how healing from trauma is rarely linear. Rather, by portraying how trauma disrupts identity, relationships, and one’s sense of the world, these series often refuse to offer neat resolutions or a “happy ending,” acknowledging that trauma is not something to simply “fix” or overcome. Instead, it’s an ongoing, evolving process, shaped by past experiences and external factors.

Moreover, these shows often employ unconventional storytelling techniques—non-linear timelines (as seen in I May Destroy You), emotional detachment (in Tore), and fragmented narratives (such as in Barry Jenkins’s The Underground Railroad)—mirroring the disorienting and fragmented nature of trauma. This narrative style reflects how trauma can reshape reality, making it a persistent part of life, rather than something that individuals must simply “overcome.” In doing so, these series offer a more honest portrayal of recovery: one that focuses on endurance, self-compassion, and acceptance, rather than adhering to the traditional trope of a neat, cathartic resolution.

Trauma is never experienced in isolation; it is shaped by one’s social context and intersecting identities. In Tore, Spetz explores interpersonal harm within the queer community, emphasizing how Tore’s struggle with his trauma is compounded by the toxic elements of masculinity—represented by both Viggo (Victor Iván) and Erik (Hannes Fohlin) in different ways. Spetz highlights how Tore, caught between these societal expectations and his vulnerabilities, falls into cycles of harm, feeling compelled to conform to a harsh, often destructive version of Queerness. Through this, the show confronts the complexity of Queer life, portraying it as both beautiful and dark, and ultimately as flawed, messy, and deeply human.

Tore, though often humorous, rarely offers catharsis or comic relief for viewers. Instead, Tore repeatedly harms those he loves and actively avoids responsibility, causing pain to himself and others. In these grueling, realistic moments of grief—or, as Spetz describes it, non-grief, where Tore refuses to process his emotions—the show forces viewers to confront his behavior and its underlying motivations. For instance, when Tore recoils from the too-prolonged hugs of his colleagues—hugs that resemble a ‘condolence hug’ rather than a warm greeting—he faces the painful reality he’s trying to suppress. Similarly, when his dog continues to run to the room of the loved one he’s lost, Tore is once again reminded of the loss he’s unable to accept. Erika Calmeyer’s direction, which guides all six episodes, expertly amplifies these small yet powerful moments of Tore’s internal anguish and resistance to grief.

Spetz delivers a nuanced performance as the titular character, portraying a person whose grief is so overwhelming that he instinctively avoids confronting it. Through subtle, understated physical cues, Spetz reveals the depth of Tore’s unresolved grief, while his outward demeanor—a facade of feigned contentment—masks the turmoil brewing just beneath the surface. In Tore’s interactions with his best friend Lynn, played by Sanna Sundqvist, the show highlights its heart and showcases a touching portrayal of unrelenting love and community in the face of grief. Sundqvist’s performance as a witness to Tore’s descent into detachment and cruelty grounds the series, culminating in a surprisingly tender and heartfelt conclusion.

Rather than offering quick resolutions, Tore presents healing as an imperfect, often non-linear journey. Tore is deeply flawed and must face the consequences of his actions, yet he still finds moments of peace in small, incremental steps. This portrayal of recovery challenges the conventional narrative that trauma must always culminate in a redemptive or cathartic resolution. Though the series is often an uncomfortable and difficult watch, it is ultimately rewarding and distinct, championing a return to personal storytelling that is rooted in lived experience, identity, and the nuanced, human, and often messy process of healing, and growth.

Joshua Harris (he/him) is a lover of television, independent film, and his two dogs. His work has appeared in Awards Radar, mxdwnTELEVISION, and more. He is an African-American Film Critics Association (AAFCA) member.

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