Something about Submarine feels like opening a shoebox full of embarrassing teenage memories. It’s awkward as hell. It’s hilarious. It’s tragic, but not in a sad sort of way. It’s a romp through the socially underdeveloped life of Oliver Tate and a few other characters who you grow to hate so much you love.

It’s a coming-of-age story, but it’s not about the beautiful process of growing up. It’s about the adolescent soup of arrogance, shame, bravado, insecurity, anxiety, and romance. The characters are deeply flawed but hilariously relatable. Somehow, perhaps thanks to Dunthorne’s razor-sharp wit, you end up rooting for these horrible people.

What follows is my case for the worst people making the best characters, plus some arguing about the movie. It has a plot summary in the middle, because my mom is going to read this and I’m not explaining who Chips is twice.

The Plot

The plot of Submarine is a beautifully awkward mess, much like its protagonist. Oliver Tate is a 15-year-old with a hyperactive imagination and a penchant for melodrama. He’s convinced he’s the star of his own life movie, narrating every moment with a mix of self-importance and crippling insecurity. It’s apparent from the first page there’s something deeply wrong with Oliver, and everyone but Oliver knows it.

Oliver’s home life is quietly unraveling. His mother, Jill, seems distant, and his father, Lloyd, is a depressive marine biologist. When Jill’s old flame, the mystic and self-help guru Graham Purvis, moves in next door, Oliver’s paranoia goes into overdrive. He becomes convinced his parents are on the brink of divorce, and he launches a hilariously misguided campaign to save their marriage—complete with staged love notes and covert surveillance.

On top of this, Oliver stumbles through a relationship with his first girlfriend, Jordana Bevan. She’s blunt, unpredictable, and has a dark sense of humor that matches Oliver’s own. Their romance is a series of awkward firsts: first kiss, first date, first heartbreak. Jordana tests Oliver’s loyalty in ways he’s not prepared for, especially as she deals with her mother’s illness. Oliver, ever the self-absorbed narrator, struggles to be the boyfriend Jordana needs, often missing the mark in spectacular fashion.

As the story unfolds, Oliver’s attempts to control everything around him only make things worse. His schemes to keep his parents together backfire, and his inability to truly empathize with Jordana leads to a painful rift. The climax is a collision of all his failures—family, love, and self-image—forcing Oliver to confront the reality that life isn’t a movie, and he’s not always the hero.

In the end, Submarine doesn’t offer neat resolutions. Relationships remain messy, and Oliver is left with more questions than answers. But there’s a sense of growth in his acceptance of uncertainty—a small, honest victory in the chaos of adolescence.

The Writing

But first, the writing itself, because Dunthorne’s voice is half the book.

Joe Dunthorne’s Narrative Voice

Dunthorne’s writing in Submarine is defined by its sharp, ironic narrative voice. The novel is told entirely from Oliver’s perspective.

By filtering the entire narrative through Oliver’s perspective, Dunthorne crafts a voice that is both intimate and limited. Readers are privy to Oliver’s innermost thoughts—his insecurities, rationalizations, and wild leaps of logic—which creates a sense of closeness and empathy. Just as Oliver and his friends pick apart Zoe’s diary, we are left feeling like voyeurs in Oliver’s life—reading his diary, hearing his thoughts, and judging his character. This perspective is especially effective at highlighting Oliver’s blind spots. He often misreads the intentions of others, projects his fears onto benign situations, and constructs elaborate explanations to justify his actions. The result is a narrative that feels authentic to the adolescent experience: full of uncertainty, self-consciousness, and the constant struggle to make sense of a confusing world.

This narrative approach also serves as a subtle commentary on the nature of memory and self-perception. Oliver’s recollections are colored by his desire to be seen as clever, important, or misunderstood. He edits and embellishes his own story, sometimes intentionally, sometimes unconsciously, in an effort to maintain control over his identity. For the reader, this means that every scene is layered with ambiguity—what actually happened, and what does Oliver want us (and himself) to believe happened? This tension adds depth to the novel, encouraging readers to engage critically with the text and to empathize with the messy, imperfect process of growing up.

Humor as a Coping Mechanism

Dunthorne’s wit is dry and understated, often emerging in the form of awkward dialogue, absurd situations, or Oliver’s self-aware commentary. The jokes rarely feel forced; instead, they arise organically from the characters’ flaws and the everyday humiliations of adolescence. This humor serves as a buffer against the novel’s darker themes—depression, family dysfunction, cruelty—making the story’s emotional weight more bearable without diminishing its impact.

Importantly, the humor is never at the expense of empathy. Dunthorne uses comedy to expose vulnerability, not to mock it. Even when Oliver’s actions are cringe-worthy or misguided, the narrative invites readers to laugh with him rather than at him. This balance of comedy and compassion is what makes the novel’s tone so effective: it’s possible to find the characters ridiculous and lovable at the same time.

The humor works the way it does for any teenager I’ve been: it’s how Oliver keeps the scary stuff at arm’s length, and it’s why I recognize myself in him.

At the same time, Dunthorne is careful not to let humor become a means of avoidance. The jokes never fully obscure the pain underneath; they reveal how hard the characters are trying to pretend there isn’t any. The comedy is bittersweet, and it stays that way to the end.

Submarine’s humor is, in this way, a survival mechanism. Kids laugh at the worst days so they can talk about them. Between the funny lines, it quietly notices that everyone is afraid of exactly the same things.

Irony and Melancholy

Irony permeates the novel, shaping both its style and its worldview. Oliver’s attempts to control his life are often undercut by the reality that he understands very little, and Dunthorne’s prose highlights this gap with subtle, sometimes brutal, irony. The narrative frequently juxtaposes Oliver’s grandiose self-image with the mundane or disappointing truth, creating moments that are both funny and poignant.

Dunthorne’s use of irony is most apparent in Oliver’s narration. Oliver sees himself as the protagonist of a grand, cinematic coming-of-age story, but the reality is far less glamorous. His elaborate schemes to save his parents’ marriage or impress Jordana are often met with indifference or outright failure. The reader is constantly aware of the gulf between Oliver’s intentions and the actual outcomes, a gap that Dunthorne exploits for both humor and pathos.

Oliver’s earnestness is nearly always undercut by the absurdity of his methods. He approaches his parents’ intimacy issues with the seriousness of a detective, but his secret investigations and forged love notes only highlight his naivety and inability to grasp adult relationships. The irony is not cruel, but it exposes the limits of Oliver’s understanding and the futility of his efforts.

Irony also emerges in the way Oliver interprets the actions of others. He often projects his own anxieties and fantasies onto his parents, Jordana, and even minor characters like Zoe, missing the real motivations and emotions at play. This unreliable narration invites the reader to read between the lines, to see the truth that Oliver cannot.

Beneath the humor, however, is a persistent sense of melancholy. Dunthorne’s writing acknowledges the sadness and confusion of growing up, the ache of wanting to be understood, and the inevitability of disappointment. The tone is never wholly cynical; instead, it’s suffused with a kind of gentle resignation, an acceptance that life is messy and imperfect. This bittersweet quality lingers after the jokes fade, giving the novel its emotional resonance.

Oliver’s refusal to “believe in scenery” is a flimsy defense against sentimentality. This classic line, delivered with characteristic deadpan, is loaded with irony and sadness. The humor is undercut by a sense of loss and nostalgia, an understated nod to Oliver’s knowledge that his cynical life causes him to miss out on beautiful moments.

Dunthorne’s irony is double-edged: it protects both Oliver and the reader from the rawness of adolescent pain, but it also sharpens the sense of isolation and longing that runs through the novel. The jokes are a shield, but they cannot fully obscure the melancholy beneath. In this way, Submarine achieves a rare balance—its irony never slips into cruelty, and its melancholy never becomes maudlin. Instead, the two are inextricably linked, each deepening the impact of the other.

Dunthorne invites us to laugh at Oliver’s delusions and failures, but also to recognize the vulnerability and yearning that drive them. The result is a narrative voice that is as moving as it is mordant, capturing the awkward, painful, and occasionally beautiful process of growing up.

Dialogue and Detail

Dunthorne’s dialogue is another standout feature, capturing the rhythms and awkwardness of real conversation. Characters speak past each other, misunderstand, and fumble for words, mirroring the novel’s themes of miscommunication and emotional distance. The dialogue is rarely polished or theatrical; instead, it’s filled with hesitations, non-sequiturs, and the kind of half-formed thoughts that characterize real-life exchanges, especially among teenagers and emotionally stunted adults. This authenticity makes the characters feel alive and relatable, even when their actions are questionable or their intentions unclear.

For example, Oliver’s conversations with his parents are often stilted, marked by long silences or abrupt topic changes. These moments reveal the emotional gaps within the family, as well as the difficulty of expressing vulnerability. Similarly, Oliver and Jordana’s interactions are laced with sarcasm, inside jokes, and awkward pauses, reflecting both their attraction and their mutual discomfort with intimacy. The dialogue doesn’t just convey information; it exposes the characters’ defenses, insecurities, and desires, often saying more in what’s left unsaid than in the words themselves.

Dunthorne’s attention to detail extends beyond dialogue to the physical and emotional landscapes of the novel. The settings—from the damp, gray streets of Swansea to the cluttered Tate household—are rendered with a specificity that grounds the story in a tangible reality. Mundane objects and routines take on symbolic weight: a dimmer switch, a book of matches, an algae-filled pond. These details are not just background color; they serve as touchstones for the characters’ inner lives, reflecting their hopes, disappointments, and attempts to find meaning in the everyday.

The precision of Dunthorne’s descriptions also heightens the novel’s sense of irony and absurdity. A failed romantic gesture, a disastrous family dinner, or a botched attempt at reconciliation is described with such clarity that the humor and pathos are inseparable. The reader is invited to cringe, laugh, and empathize all at once. This layering of detail and emotion gives Submarine its distinctive texture: the world feels both painfully real and slightly off-kilter, a place where the ordinary is always on the verge of the ridiculous.

The awkward conversations and vivid settings reinforce the sense of isolation, longing, and confusion that define Oliver’s adolescence. They also invite the reader to look closer—to notice the small moments of connection and understanding that emerge amid the chaos. In Submarine, it’s often in the throwaway lines and overlooked details that the most profound truths are found.

The cumulative effect of Dunthorne’s style is a novel that feels both intimate and universal. The tone is at once caustic and compassionate, allowing readers to laugh at the characters’ foibles while also feeling the sting of their disappointments.

The Characters

Each one, from the most prominent to the seemingly peripheral, is drawn with a mix of humor, honesty, and uncomfortable realism. Their quirks, mistakes, and vulnerabilities drive the story forward and give it its emotional punch. I’ll start with the minor characters—those who might be overlooked but whose stories reveal the novel’s deeper themes—before moving on to the central figures who make Submarine such a compelling exploration of adolescence and imperfection.

Chips

Chips is Oliver’s friend and the purest example of the “worst people make the best characters” thesis: brash, crude, ringleader of most of the group’s worst ideas. He’s the friend who encourages Oliver to bully Zoe and to take everything one notch too far, and who is genuinely delighted about it.

Despite his rough edges, Chips is not a typical one-dimensional antagonist. His bravado masks his own insecurities and need for acceptance. He’s quick to mock or tease, but his loyalty to Oliver is genuine, if sometimes misguided. Chips’s outward humor and confidence seem to make him blind to the harm he causes. He rarely reflects on his actions, embodying the adolescent tendency to prioritize fitting in over empathy.

Chips’s tough exterior is shaped in part by his difficult upbringing. The novel hints at instability and neglect in his home life, suggesting that his bravado and insensitivity are, at least in part, coping mechanisms. Chips rarely talks about his family, but when he does, it’s with a mix of bravado and deflection, using humor to mask vulnerability. His quickness to mock others and push boundaries often reflects the chaos and lack of support he experiences outside of school. This background doesn’t excuse his behavior, but it adds depth to his character, showing how cycles of insecurity and aggression can be perpetuated by circumstance. Through Chips, Dunthorne subtly illustrates how the harshness of adolescence is often rooted in pain that goes unseen.

By the end of the novel, Chips remains largely unchanged, because the novel doesn’t pretend everyone does. He’s comic relief with a conscience-shaped hole, and the awkward thing about him is how easy it is to excuse him. I kept liking him anyway. That’s Dunthorne’s quiet trap: friendship makes you an accomplice.

Zoe Preece

Early in the story, Oliver and his friends join in calling Zoe “Fat,” a nickname that follows her through school and marks her as an outsider. This casual cruelty is depicted with unsettling normalcy—no one questions it, not even Oliver, who is eager to fit in and impress Jordana. He isn’t the ringleader, but he’s complicit, laughing along and failing to stand up for Zoe. The ordinariness of this bullying makes it all the more uncomfortable, highlighting how easy it is to become a bystander or participant in someone else’s pain. One of the only upbeat songs in the movie’s score is “Bullying”.

When Jordana orchestrates a particularly cruel prank on Zoe, Oliver faces a test of character. Instead of intervening, he goes along with the group, prioritizing acceptance over kindness. This moment is revealing: it shows how the desire to belong can override empathy, and how even well-meaning people can make harmful choices.

Wracked with guilt, Oliver later tries to make amends by writing Zoe a pamphlet filled with advice, pseudo-psychological insights, and lists of “famous people who were bullied.” The gesture is awkward and self-serving—more about easing Oliver’s conscience than truly helping Zoe. Her muted reaction underscores the limits of such attempts at redemption; words alone can’t undo the harm or bridge the gap in understanding.

The story doesn’t end with Zoe as a passive victim. Near the conclusion of the novel, she reappears in a way that quietly but powerfully reframes Oliver’s journey. After much of the chaos has settled, Oliver encounters Zoe again, and the moment is striking for its understated honesty. She is no longer just the bullied classmate or the object of Oliver’s guilt—she’s regaining her agency, healing, and moving forward in her life.

Their interaction is awkward and significant. Oliver, still wrestling with his own failures, is confronted by Zoe’s resilience. She doesn’t offer him forgiveness or closure; instead, her presence is a reminder that life goes on for everyone, not just the main character. Zoe’s ability to exist outside of Oliver’s narrative highlights the limits of his perspective and the reality that other people’s stories continue, often in ways he can’t control or fully understand.

The reunion is quietly devastating for Oliver. It’s a moment of humility and humiliation at once: his actions had effects that outlived the joke, and he was never the main character in anyone else’s story. Zoe grew up. She moved. She didn’t owe him an apology-coefficient.

Zoe’s return isn’t a redemption arc or a confrontation. Healing doesn’t narrate itself, mostly. Her mere presence on the page is the aftermath of cruelty, rendered as an ordinary evening.

Though Zoe appears only briefly, her role is crucial in revealing Oliver’s growth. By keeping her mostly in the background, Dunthorne emphasizes how the people who most influence our development are often overlooked, their rich stories filtered through our own narrow perspective to limit their existence to their impact on us. Zoe’s presence in Submarine is a reminder that the story’s humor and awkwardness are grounded in real consequences. Her experiences highlight the messiness of growing up and the importance of empathy, even when it’s uncomfortable.

Graham Purvis

Graham is one of the most distinctive and memorable characters in Submarine, serving as a source of comic absurdity and a catalyst for the novel’s central conflicts. As Oliver’s mother’s ex-boyfriend and the Tates’ new neighbor, Graham’s arrival upends the already fragile equilibrium of the Tate household.

Graham is a caricature of new-age eccentricity: he sports a mullet, drives a van, and hosts self-help seminars. His interests range from mysticism to motivational speaking, and he exudes a self-assuredness that borders on delusion. Graham’s personality is a blend of self-importance and obliviousness—he’s convinced of his own profundity, yet seems unaware of how ridiculous he appears to others.

For Oliver, Graham represents everything threatening and unknowable about adulthood. Graham’s close relationship with Jill, Oliver’s mother, becomes a focal point for Oliver’s anxieties about his parents’ marriage. Oliver’s paranoia is fueled by Graham’s constant presence and his mother’s lingering feelings. Graham’s attempts to ingratiate himself with the family—offering unsolicited advice, performing odd rituals, and generally inserting himself into their lives—are comical and unsettling.

Armed with a flashlight and a head full of suspicion and jealousy, Oliver sneaks into Graham’s home while he’s away. The break-in is both tense and absurd: Oliver rifles through Graham’s belongings, searching for incriminating evidence. He finds self-help books, spiritual paraphernalia, and personal items that only deepen his confusion and paranoia. The scene is laced with Oliver’s trademark melodrama, as he imagines himself as a secret agent uncovering a villain’s plot.

Oliver’s intrusion yields little of substance, but it’s a turning point in the story. His actions cross a line from passive anxiety to active interference, highlighting his desperation and lack of boundaries. The break-in is a perfect example of how Oliver’s attempts to control his world often spiral into chaos, causing more harm than good.

Despite his absurdity, Graham is not a villain in the traditional sense. He is more clueless than malicious, genuinely believing in his own ability to help others. His self-help persona is a mask for his own insecurities and need for validation. This makes him a more nuanced character than he first appears: while he is the butt of many jokes, he is also a product of his own longing for meaning and connection.

Through Graham, Dunthorne satirizes the ways people seek easy answers to complex problems. Graham’s earnest but misguided interventions highlight the absurdity of these approaches, especially when dealing with real emotional pain. Graham’s presence forces Oliver to confront uncomfortable truths about his parents and himself. In the end, Graham is less an antagonist than a mirror—reflecting the absurdities, vulnerabilities, and desires of those around him.

Lloyd Tate

Lloyd Tate, Oliver’s father, is a quietly tragic and deeply sympathetic figure in Submarine. A marine biologist by profession, Lloyd is gentle, introverted, and emotionally withdrawn, often lost in his own world of scientific minutiae and melancholy. His subdued presence stands in stark contrast to the emotional turbulence swirling around him.

Lloyd’s struggle with depression is a defining aspect of his character. He spends much of his time in a state of inertia, retreating into silence or immersing himself in his work. This emotional distance frustrates both Jill and Oliver, who long for more connection but are unsure how to reach him. Lloyd’s inability to express his feelings or assert himself leaves him adrift, both in his marriage and as a father.

Despite his passivity, Lloyd is not without warmth or humor. He cares deeply for his family, even if he struggles to show it. His attempts at fatherly advice are awkward but sincere, often delivered with a dry wit that hints at a richer inner life. Lloyd’s moments of vulnerability—such as when he tries to comfort Oliver or confront the possibility of losing Jill—reveal a man who is painfully aware of his shortcomings but unsure how to overcome them.

Lloyd’s relationship with Oliver is marked by a quiet, understated affection. While he is not the most demonstrative parent, his presence is a source of stability for Oliver, even when their communication falters. Lloyd’s struggles with his own sense of failure and inadequacy mirror Oliver’s adolescent insecurities, creating a subtle but powerful parallel between father and son.

In the end, Lloyd’s whole arc is made of tiny moves toward openness: a held pause, an offered joke, a single honest sentence. He never becomes the expressive father Oliver wants. He stays a man who loves his kid in installments, and it still counts.

One of the most revealing aspects of Oliver’s character is his conviction that it’s his responsibility to “fix” his parents’ marriage. From the earliest signs of trouble between Jill and Lloyd, Oliver casts himself as the family’s secret savior, convinced that only he can prevent disaster. This sense of duty is both touching and delusional: Oliver is desperate to maintain the illusion of control in a world that feels increasingly unstable.

Oliver’s efforts to repair his parents’ relationship are elaborate and often misguided. He surveils their interactions, interprets every gesture as a clue, and concocts schemes ranging from anonymous love notes to orchestrated romantic gestures. These interventions are fueled by a mix of anxiety, imagination, and a childlike belief in his own agency. Rather than confronting his own feelings of helplessness, Oliver channels his energy into these projects, convinced that he can engineer a happy ending.

This dynamic is at the heart of Oliver’s coming-of-age journey. His attempts to “fix” his parents are ultimately futile, and the more he tries to control the situation, the more it slips away from him. The novel treats these efforts with both humor and empathy, highlighting the universal adolescent desire to make sense of adult problems. In the end, Oliver is forced to accept that some things are beyond his influence—a painful but necessary step toward maturity.

Jill Tate

Jill Tate is one of the most quietly complex characters in Submarine, embodying the subtle tensions and disappointments of adulthood that ripple through the novel. As Oliver’s mother, she is both a stabilizing force and a source of deep anxiety for her son. Jill is pragmatic, intelligent, and emotionally reserved, often masking her own vulnerabilities behind a veneer of dry wit and practicality.

Throughout the story, Jill’s restlessness is palpable. She is caught in a marriage that has grown stagnant, with a husband who is gentle but emotionally withdrawn. Her interactions with Lloyd are marked by a kind of weary affection, but also by a longing for something more—connection, excitement, or simply a sense of being seen. This longing is what makes her susceptible to the attention of Graham Purvis, whose eccentricity and enthusiasm stand in stark contrast to Lloyd’s passivity.

Jill’s relationship with Graham is never depicted as purely romantic or villainous. Instead, it’s a nuanced exploration of midlife dissatisfaction and the search for meaning. Jill is not portrayed as reckless or selfish; rather, her choices reflect the quiet desperation of someone who feels invisible in her own life. Her flirtation with Graham is less about infidelity and more about reclaiming a sense of agency and possibility.

For Oliver, Jill is both a mystery and an anchor. He idolizes her but also fears losing her, projecting his anxieties onto her every action. Jill’s emotional distance frustrates Oliver, yet it is clear that she is struggling with her own sense of identity and fulfillment. Her attempts to balance her roles as mother, wife, and individual are rendered with empathy and realism.

One of Jill’s most defining traits is her resilience. Despite the upheavals in her marriage and the pressures of motherhood, she remains composed and resourceful. She is not immune to pain or regret, but she faces her challenges with a quiet strength that often goes unrecognized by those around her—especially Oliver, who is too absorbed in his own drama to fully appreciate her sacrifices.

Jill’s character is a reminder that the adults in coming-of-age stories aren’t set dressing. Dunthorne lets her be genuinely sympathetic and genuinely at fault in the same paragraph. Her fling with Graham is never framed as a grand romance; she’s drawn to being seen, which her marriage had quietly stopped doing. When Oliver discovers it, it both shocks him and accelerates his meddling. Jill stays a person with her own mistakes, not a plot device, which is the least obvious and most honest choice in the book.

Jill ends the book carrying what most adults carry: a shelf of compromises, a GPS of yearnings, and a few small acts of courage nobody clapped for.

Jordana Bevan

Jordana Bevan is one of the most compelling and enigmatic characters in Submarine, serving as both a catalyst for Oliver’s self-discovery and a fully realized figure in her own right. She is Oliver’s classmate and eventual girlfriend, and she quickly subverts the typical “manic pixie dream girl” trope. Instead, Jordana is sharp, guarded, and refreshingly unsentimental.

From the outset, Jordana stands apart from her peers. She is blunt, sardonic, and unafraid to challenge Oliver’s self-importance. Her sense of humor is dark, bordering on cruel, and she often tests Oliver’s boundaries with pranks and provocations. This edge is not just for show; it’s a defense mechanism, control in a world that feels unpredictable and threatening.

Jordana’s home life is marked by instability and pain. Her mother is seriously ill, a fact that Jordana keeps hidden from most people, including Oliver at first. This secrecy is emblematic of her character: she reveals herself only in fragments, fiercely protecting her vulnerabilities. When she does let Oliver in, it’s on her own terms, and even then, she remains emotionally cautious.

Their relationship is a study in awkwardness and miscommunication. Jordana initiates their romance with blackmail and a kiss, but quickly makes it clear that she is not interested in grand gestures or declarations of love. She mocks sentimentality and insists on keeping things casual, yet her actions reveal a longing for connection and understanding. Jordana’s tests—from orchestrating pranks to demanding Oliver’s loyalty—are ways of probing his character and gauging whether he can be trusted with her true self.

One of the most significant turning points in their relationship comes when Jordana’s mother’s illness worsens. She needs Oliver’s support, but he is too wrapped up in his own dramas to fully comprehend or respond to her pain. Jordana’s disappointment is palpable; she withdraws, recognizing that Oliver is not yet capable of the empathy and maturity she needs. This rift is not just a romantic setback, but a moment of growth for both characters: Jordana learns the limits of what others can provide, while Oliver is forced to confront his own shortcomings.

Jordana’s complexity is enhanced by her refusal to be reduced to a love interest or a plot device, even in a book about a main character with a major case of Main Character Syndrome. She is witty, independent, and deeply human, shaped by her experiences and traumas. Her relationship with Oliver is important, but it does not define her. Even as she challenges and frustrates him, she remains her own person, with desires and fears that exist outside of his narrative.

Jordana’s character arc is marked by subtle but significant growth. At first, she uses sarcasm and emotional distance as armor, keeping Oliver and others at bay. Her tough exterior is a way to maintain control in a life that often feels unpredictable, especially with her mother’s illness looming in the background. However, as her relationship with Oliver deepens, Jordana gradually allows herself to be more vulnerable. She lets Oliver see glimpses of her fears and hopes, even if she never fully abandons her defenses.

The turning point in Jordana’s growth comes when she faces the reality of her mother’s declining health. Instead of hiding behind jokes or pushing people away, she begins to seek genuine support, even if Oliver isn’t always able to provide it. This willingness to reach out, to admit she needs others, marks a shift from self-protection to self-acceptance. Jordana learns that strength isn’t just about keeping emotions hidden; it’s also about allowing herself to feel and to be seen.

Jordana’s growing vulnerability and openness are alluring and terrifying to Oliver. He’s drawn to her honesty, but it exposes emotional depths he’s not prepared to handle. As Jordana lets down her guard, Oliver finds himself confronted with real intimacy and the messy realities of someone else’s pain—especially as Jordana’s mother’s illness becomes more central to her life. This scares Oliver, who is still emotionally immature and more comfortable with fantasy and control than with genuine connection. He struggles to respond to Jordana’s needs, often retreating into awkward jokes or avoidance rather than offering true support. The prospect of being needed in a real, adult way unsettles him, highlighting his fear of vulnerability and his uncertainty about how to navigate emotions that can’t be fixed with cleverness or detachment. This tension becomes a key part of Oliver’s journey: realizing that caring for someone means facing discomfort, uncertainty, and the limits of his own understanding.

By the end of the story, Jordana is still guarded, but she’s more open to connection and less afraid of her own vulnerability. Her journey is not about becoming perfect or entirely healed, but about embracing the messy, complicated process of growing up. Through her struggles and small acts of courage, Jordana emerges as a character who is both resilient and deeply human, showing that real growth often happens in quiet, incremental steps.

In the film adaptation, Yasmin Paige’s portrayal of Jordana captures this balance of toughness and vulnerability. The visual language of the film—her red coat, her deadpan expressions, her moments of quiet reflection—adds further depth to her character, making her both iconic and relatable.

Jordana personifies the messy, contradictory nature of adolescence. She is both strong and fragile, cynical and hopeful, distant and yearning for connection. Through Jordana, Dunthorne explores the ways young people navigate love, loss, and identity, refusing easy answers or tidy resolutions. Her presence in Submarine is a reminder that the most interesting characters are those who resist simple categorization, challenging both the protagonist and the reader to look deeper.

Oliver Tate

Oliver Tate is the neurotic, self-absorbed, and darkly funny protagonist and narrator of Submarine. He’s a 15-year-old with a vivid imagination and a penchant for melodrama, convinced that he’s the star of his own cinematic coming-of-age story. Oliver’s voice is unmistakable: arch, anxious, and often unreliable, he narrates his life with a mix of grandiosity and crippling insecurity. This blend of self-importance and vulnerability is at the heart of what makes him both insufferable and deeply relatable.

From the outset, Oliver is obsessed with perception—how others see him, how he sees himself, and how he might control the narrative of his own life. He meticulously monitors his parents’ relationship, his social standing at school, and his budding romance with Jordana, always searching for signs, patterns, and hidden meanings. This hyper-awareness is both his superpower and his downfall: it gives him insight, but also traps him in cycles of anxiety and overthinking.

Oliver’s flaws are front and center. He is often selfish, insensitive, and oblivious to the needs of those around him. His attempts to help—whether it’s “fixing” his parents’ marriage or supporting Jordana—are frequently misguided and self-serving. He wants to be the hero, but his actions are shaped by immaturity and a lack of true empathy. This is painfully evident in his treatment of Zoe, where his desire to fit in overrides his moral compass, and especially in his inability to be present for Jordana during her mother’s illness.

Yet, Oliver’s shortcomings are rendered with such honesty and humor that it’s hard not to root for him. Dunthorne never lets him off the hook, but he also never reduces him to a caricature. Oliver’s cringe-worthy moments—his awkward attempts at romance, his elaborate schemes, his desperate need for validation—are painfully familiar to anyone who has survived adolescence. His internal monologue is a riot of contradictions: he’s both self-aware and delusional, clever and clueless, brave and cowardly.

The events of the novel force him to confront the limits of his control and the consequences of his actions. He learns, painfully, that life is not a movie and that other people are not supporting characters in his story. His journey is not one of dramatic transformation, but of small, hard-won realizations: that empathy matters, that vulnerability is not weakness, and that growing up means accepting uncertainty.

Oliver’s relationship with his parents is a microcosm of his larger struggles. He idolizes his mother and fears losing her, while his father’s emotional distance both frustrates and comforts him. His efforts to “save” their marriage are touching in their sincerity but ultimately futile, underscoring the adolescent fantasy of omnipotence. Through these dynamics, Dunthorne explores the messy, often unspoken ways families communicate love, disappointment, and hope.

In his romance with Jordana, Oliver is both endearing and exasperating. He is drawn to her toughness and wit, but struggles to meet her emotional needs. His inability to fully understand or support her during her mother’s illness is a turning point, exposing the gap between his intentions and his capacity for real intimacy. This failure is not the end of his story, but a necessary step in his maturation.

Oliver’s appeal lies in his contradictions. He is both the worst and best kind of protagonist: deeply flawed, darkly funny, and painfully authentic. His story isn’t about achieving perfection, but about coming to terms with imperfection—his own and everyone else’s. He’s witty and observant, but also naive and insensitive. His humor is often a shield for his insecurities, and his bravado masks a deep fear of rejection and irrelevance. He’s prone to melodrama, narrating his life as if it’s a film, but this tendency also highlights his struggle to process genuine emotion.

Oliver’s development is a gradual, often painful process marked by small realizations rather than sweeping changes. At the start, he’s almost entirely self-absorbed, viewing the world through a lens of cinematic fantasy and believing he can orchestrate the lives of those around him. His elaborate schemes—whether to rekindle his parents’ romance or to impress Jordana—are driven by a desperate need for control and validation.

What makes Oliver’s arc compelling is how his failures force him to confront uncomfortable truths. His inability to truly help Jordana during her mother’s illness, and his misguided attempts to “fix” his parents’ marriage, reveal the limits of his understanding and empathy. These moments of failure are not just setbacks; they’re catalysts for growth. Oliver begins to recognize that other people have inner lives as complex as his own, and that his actions have real consequences.

By the end of the story, Oliver hasn’t become a perfect person—he’s still awkward, still prone to self-delusion—but he’s more self-aware. He learns to accept uncertainty and to see others as more than just supporting characters in his narrative. This incremental growth is what makes his journey feel authentic: Oliver’s coming-of-age is messy, incomplete, and deeply human.

Oliver Tate is the strongest argument I know for flawed characters. The most compelling stories aren’t about heroes who always do the right thing; they’re about people who stumble, regret it, and—if they’re lucky—grow a little by the last chapter.

The Message

What is this story really about beneath all the awkward humor and adolescent melodrama? At its core, Submarine is a meditation on the messiness of growing up, the pain and comedy of self-discovery, and the ways our worst impulses can sometimes reveal our most human qualities. The novel doesn’t offer easy answers or tidy resolutions; instead, it invites us to sit with discomfort, laugh at our own flaws, and recognize the beauty in imperfection. So, the themes. I promise this is the last list.

Cruelty, Complicity, and Redemption

Cruelty, both casual and calculated, is a thread that runs through Submarine. The novel doesn’t shy away from the uncomfortable reality that adolescence is often marked by acts of unkindness—sometimes as a means of self-preservation, sometimes out of ignorance, and sometimes simply to fit in. Oliver’s complicity in the bullying of Zoe Preece is a prime example: he isn’t the instigator, but he laughs along, participates, and later tries to rationalize his actions. This dynamic exposes how easy it is to become a bystander or even a perpetrator, especially when social acceptance is at stake.

Dunthorne is unsparing in his depiction of how cruelty is normalized and excused. The adults in the story, too, are complicit—using phrases like “kids can be cruel” to absolve themselves of responsibility. The novel suggests that cruelty is not just an aberration of youth, but a learned behavior, perpetuated by the silence and rationalizations of those who should know better.

Redemption in Submarine is neither simple nor complete. Oliver’s attempts to make amends—like the awkward pamphlet he writes for Zoe—are about easing his own guilt, not helping her. The story refuses easy forgiveness and dramatic reconciliations. Some wounds just get to stay. Growth here means learning to live with what you did, and noticing that other people had whole lives while you were busy narrating yourself.

Zoe’s late reappearance lands exactly because she doesn’t grant Oliver absolution, closure, or even much attention. After his guilt-soaked fantasy of being forgiven, the reality is both better and worse: Zoe is a whole person, and his redemption is simply not her problem.

One of the most striking things about Zoe’s reappearance is how thoroughly it deranges Oliver’s script. He imagines she has been waiting her whole diminished life for this moment—maybe even a cathartic forgiveness, or a brief, confusing sexual encounter, an idea that flatters his ego perfectly. Instead, Zoe is running the scene: sharp, funny, and in control the entire time, while Oliver follows along like a lost dog. Her ruse works precisely because he cannot imagine her having a sense of humor about her own life.

In this way Zoe carries one of the novel’s sharpest messages: growth doesn’t arrive as forgiveness or redemption. It arrives when you finally see the other person as real—with their own jokes, their own past, and their own story that continues without you in it.

The Limits of Control

A recurring motif in Submarine is the illusion of control. Oliver, like many teenagers (and adults), clings to the belief that if he just tries hard enough, he can shape the world to his will. He meticulously plans ways to rekindle his parents’ romance, scripts his interactions with Jordana, and even attempts to manage his own image at school. These efforts are often elaborate, bordering on the absurd, and always tinged with desperation.

Yet, time and again, Oliver’s schemes unravel. His parents’ marriage resists his interventions, Jordana’s needs elude his understanding, and his social standing is as fragile as ever. The more he tries to orchestrate outcomes, the more chaos he inadvertently creates. This pattern is not unique to Oliver; it’s a universal aspect of growing up, and of being human. We all want to believe we can control our relationships, our families, and our futures, but reality is messier and less accommodating.

Dunthorne uses Oliver’s failures to highlight the unpredictability of life. The novel is filled with moments where plans go awry, intentions are misunderstood, and outcomes are shaped by forces beyond anyone’s control. Rather than offering comfort, Submarine leans into this uncertainty, suggesting that true maturity comes not from mastering every situation, but from learning to live with ambiguity and imperfection.

This theme is especially poignant in the context of adolescence, a time when the desire for control is at its peak but the ability to achieve it is at its lowest. Oliver’s journey is a gradual reckoning with his own limitations. He learns, often painfully, that he cannot fix his parents’ marriage, cannot shield Jordana from pain, and cannot script his own coming-of-age. The acceptance of this truth is not a defeat, but a quiet victory—a step toward empathy, humility, and self-awareness.

In the end, Submarine suggests that growth is found not in the fantasy of control, but in the willingness to embrace uncertainty. It’s about letting go of the need to orchestrate every outcome and finding meaning in the unpredictable, imperfect reality of life. Which is a long way of saying: nobody in this book gets the answer. They just keep showing up, which is the answer.

Adolescence and Coming-of-Age

At its core, Submarine is an anti-nostalgic coming-of-age story that refuses to romanticize adolescence. Instead of focusing on triumphant milestones and heartwarming moments, the novel dwells in the awkward, messy, and painful process of growing up. Oliver’s journey is defined by confusion, insecurity, and a desperate need for control, capturing the universal discomfort of being 15. The story highlights how adolescence is less about clear transformation and more about stumbling through mistakes, learning (slowly) from failure, and realizing that life is more complicated than it sometimes seems.

Dunthorne’s portrayal of adolescence is refreshingly honest. Rather than presenting Oliver’s teenage years as a time of self-discovery and blossoming confidence, the novel immerses the reader in the chaos of uncertainty. Oliver is constantly second-guessing himself, misreading social cues, and making decisions that are as misguided as they are sincere. His attempts to assert control—over his parents’ marriage, his relationship with Jordana, and his own reputation—are relatable and embarassing as hell. These efforts rarely succeed, and when they do, the victories are fleeting or bittersweet.

The novel also explores the emotional volatility of adolescence. Oliver’s moods swing from grandiosity to despair, often within the span of a single page. He is prone to melodrama, narrating his life as if it were a film, but this tendency is less about self-importance and more about a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that feels overwhelming. The narrative voice captures the intensity of teenage emotions—the sense that every setback is catastrophic, every triumph world-changing, and every relationship a matter of life and death.

Importantly, Submarine resists the temptation to offer neat resolutions or clear moral lessons. Oliver’s growth is incremental and often ambiguous. He does not emerge from his experiences as a fully formed adult, but rather as someone who has begun to recognize his own limitations and the complexity of those around him. The novel suggests that coming of age is not a single transformative event, but an ongoing process of reckoning with failure, disappointment, and the slow accumulation of self-awareness.

By centering the story on Oliver’s flaws and failures, Dunthorne invites readers to empathize with the messiness of adolescence. The novel’s humor and honesty make it clear that growing is not about achieving perfection, but about learning to live with imperfection—both in ourselves and in others. In this way, Submarine offers a more authentic and resonant depiction of coming of age, one that acknowledges the pain, confusion, and occasional beauty of stumbling toward adulthood.

Family Dynamics and Dysfunction

Family in Submarine is a load-bearing wall on one side and a brick-throwing range on the other. For Oliver, his parents are both the center of his world and the source of his deepest anxieties. Dunthorne’s depiction of the Tate household is marked by subtle fractures: Jill’s quiet yearning for excitement and meaning, Lloyd’s emotional paralysis and retreat into depression, and Oliver’s desperate, misguided attempts to hold everything together.

The novel resists easy caricature. Jill is not simply a dissatisfied wife, nor is Lloyd just a distant father. Instead, their marriage is rendered with nuance: moments of tenderness are undercut by disappointment, and attempts at connection are often stymied by miscommunication or inertia. Jill’s flirtation with Graham Purvis is less about betrayal and more about her search for validation and agency in a life that feels stagnant. Lloyd’s passivity is both a symptom of his depression and a coping mechanism, leaving him unable to bridge the emotional gap with his wife or son.

Oliver’s response to this dysfunction is both touching and delusional. He casts himself as the family’s secret savior, convinced that with enough effort, he can repair his parents’ marriage and restore harmony. His elaborate schemes—surveillance, anonymous notes, orchestrated romantic gestures—are fueled by anxiety and a childlike belief in his own agency. Yet, these interventions only highlight his powerlessness and the limits of adolescent understanding.

Communication, or the lack thereof, is a recurring motif. The Tates rarely articulate their fears or desires directly; instead, emotions simmer beneath the surface, erupting in small acts of passive aggression or awkward attempts at intimacy. This inability to speak openly leads to misunderstandings and emotional distance, mirroring the real-life complexities of family relationships. Dunthorne’s humor softens the edges of this dysfunction, but never obscures its pain.

Submarine suggests that family is defined as much by its failures as its comforts. The Tate marriage doesn’t get fixed by the novel’s end—there is no grand reconciliation scene, just dimmer switches and shopping. What’s left is hard-won acceptance: love and disappointment coexisting in the same house, which is either bleak or the truest thing in the book. I haven’t decided, which I suspect is the point.

Self-Awareness, Delusion, and Empathy

The funniest thing about Oliver is how much self-awareness he drills into the wrong shaft. He narrates his life like a film: every action analyzed, every imagined audience anticipated, obsessive rigor applied strictly to his own image. The obsession never turns outward, though. His elaborate plans to “help” his parents or support Jordana are mostly about control, validation, or feeling important. Everyone else is in a supporting role, so he keeps misreading people as plot points.

Dunthorne uses Oliver’s insatiable self-commentary to show the limits of self-awareness. Real self-knowledge isn’t a mirror, it’s a window. Oliver discovers this in installments: the marriage isn’t his to fix, Jordana’s pain is not a subplot, and his kindnesses can misfire. The novel refuses a tidy transformation; progress arrives in doses—humility, regret, one awkward genuine connection at a time.

Empathy, in Submarine, is a skill Oliver acquires only when he stops rehearsing and starts listening. He never gets to control the people he loves; he gets to accompany them. If the book has a moral, it lives there.

Dunthorne’s depiction of this theme is both honest and compassionate. He acknowledges how difficult it is to break free from the solipsism of adolescence—and, by extension, adulthood. The novel invites readers to reflect on their own blind spots, the ways in which they center themselves in their own stories, and the challenge of truly empathizing with others.

In the end, Submarine offers no easy answers. Oliver’s journey toward empathy is ongoing, marked by setbacks and small victories. But it is in these moments of uncomfortable self-recognition—when he glimpses the reality of those around him—that the possibility of real connection emerges. The novel’s exploration of self-awareness, delusion, and empathy is a reminder that growing up is less about perfecting ourselves and more about learning to see, and care for, others as they truly are.

Humor and Melancholy

Humor and melancholy are inextricably linked in Submarine, forming the emotional backbone of both the novel and its film adaptation. Dunthorne’s writing is laced with a dry, self-deprecating wit that makes even the bleakest moments feel oddly buoyant. The humor is rarely broad or slapstick; instead, it emerges from the awkwardness of everyday life, the absurdity of adolescent logic, and the painful honesty of Oliver’s narration. This comedic sensibility is not just a stylistic flourish—it’s a coping mechanism for characters who are otherwise adrift in uncertainty and disappointment.

Oliver’s internal monologue is a constant source of dark comedy. He narrates his parents’ marital struggles, his own romantic misadventures, and the petty cruelties of school life with a blend of irony and earnestness. The jokes often land precisely because they’re so close to the bone: Oliver’s attempts to be clever are frequently undercut by his own vulnerability and confusion. The humor is a shield, but it’s also a way of making sense of a world that feels overwhelming and out of control.

Yet, beneath the laughter, there’s a persistent undercurrent of melancholy. The novel is suffused with a sense of longing—for connection, for understanding, for a life that makes sense. The characters’ flaws and failures are played for laughs, but they’re also deeply affecting. Dunthorne never lets the humor obscure the pain at the heart of the story: the ache of growing up, the fear of being alone, the realization that some wounds don’t heal neatly.

This balance between humor and sadness is what gives Submarine its distinctive tone. The funniest moments are often the saddest, and vice versa. When Oliver tries to rekindle his parents’ romance with anonymous love notes, the scene is both hilarious and heartbreaking—a child’s desperate attempt to fix something he barely understands. When Jordana mocks Oliver’s grand gestures, her sarcasm is a mask for her own vulnerability. Even the novel’s most absurd set pieces—like Oliver’s break-in at Graham’s house—are tinged with a sense of futility and loss.

The film adaptation, directed by Richard Ayoade, amplifies this bittersweet quality through its visual style and soundtrack. The deadpan performances, muted color palette, and Alex Turner’s wistful songs all reinforce the story’s emotional duality. The result is a coming-of-age tale that is as funny as it is sad, as sharp as it is tender.

The interplay of humor and melancholy in Submarine is a reflection of real life. The novel suggests that laughter and sadness are not opposites, but companions—each making the other more bearable. The humor invites us in, but it’s the melancholy that lingers, reminding us of the beauty and pain of being young, flawed, and alive.

The Film

Richard Ayoade’s 2010 film takes the same story and hangs it somewhere slightly to the left of reality. While Joe Dunthorne’s novel is defined by Oliver’s unreliable narration, Ayoade finds cinematic equivalents for this interiority, blending deadpan humor, stylized visuals, and a perfect soundtrack to evoke the same bittersweet tone.

Visual Style and Cinematic Language

Ayoade’s direction appears to be heavily influenced by European auteurs like Wes Anderson and François Truffaut, evident in the film’s symmetrical compositions, color blocking, and playful use of intertitles. The muted, washed-out palette of Swansea’s landscapes mirrors Oliver’s emotional detachment, while bursts of color—most notably Jordana’s iconic red coat—signal moments of intensity or vulnerability. The camera often lingers on mundane details or awkward silences, emphasizing the discomfort and absurdity of adolescence.

One of the film’s most memorable sequences is the montage that marks the beginning of Oliver and Jordana’s relationship: “Two Weeks of Lovemaking”. This section unfolds almost like a music video, set to Alex Turner’s wistful “Glass in the Park”. The visuals are playful and stylized: Oliver and Jordana ride bikes, set off fireworks, take Polaroids, and share awkward, tender moments in the gray Welsh landscape. The editing is brisk, with quick cuts and slow-motion shots that capture the giddy, surreal feeling of first love.

Ayoade uses this montage to externalize Oliver’s sense of being in a movie. The scenes are carefully composed, with symmetrical framing and saturated pops of color (especially Jordana’s red coat), evoking the heightened reality of adolescent romance. There’s little dialogue; instead, the music and visuals do the emotional heavy lifting, conveying both the excitement and the fragility of their connection.

This sequence stands out because it distills the essence of young love: fleeting, awkward, and cinematic in the mind of the protagonist. It’s a perfect example of how the film uses style and soundtrack to mirror Oliver’s inner world, blurring the line between reality and fantasy while inviting the audience to feel the rush of possibility that comes with a new relationship.

The film’s editing and pacing are deliberately off-kilter, with abrupt cuts, slow-motion sequences, and fourth-wall-breaking narration. These choices reinforce Oliver’s sense of himself as the protagonist in a movie, blurring the line between reality and fantasy. Ayoade uses visual gags and recurring motifs (like the recurring shots of the sea or Oliver’s imagined funeral) to externalize Oliver’s melodramatic inner life.

Ayoade’s decisions are a perfect match for Dunthorne’s writing style: witty, emotionally layered, and tinged with irony. Ayoade’s approach mirrors the novel’s blend of deadpan humor and melancholy, using cinematic language to capture the awkwardness and intensity of Oliver’s inner world. The stylized visuals and understated performances adapt the novel’s sharp prose into a film that feels both faithful and fresh.

Tone and Humor

Ayoade keeps the novel’s dry, sardonic humor, but he also adds a subtle warmth and empathy that keep the characters from turning into mere caricatures. The comedic tone is never one-note; instead, it oscillates between deadpan absurdity and moments of genuine vulnerability, mirroring the emotional complexity of adolescence itself.

The performances are central to this tonal balancing act. Craig Roberts, as Oliver, delivers a portrayal that is both understated and deeply expressive. His awkward silences, furtive glances, and clipped delivery capture the internal chaos of a teenager who is desperate to appear in control while constantly teetering on the edge of embarrassment. Roberts resists the temptation to play Oliver as a quirky outsider or a self-pitying antihero; instead, he grounds the character in a kind of earnest confusion, making his flaws both exasperating and endearing.

Yasmin Paige’s Jordana is equally nuanced. She brings a sharp intelligence and emotional guardedness to the role, using sarcasm as both shield and invitation. Paige’s performance is never sentimental, but she allows glimpses of vulnerability to break through Jordana’s tough exterior, especially in scenes where her mother’s illness comes to the fore. The chemistry between Roberts and Paige is awkward in the most authentic way, full of missed signals, tentative gestures, and the kind of hesitant intimacy that defines young love.

Ayoade’s comedic timing is the kind you can set a watch to: long, uncomfortable pauses, visual gags, and the strategic use of silence. The humor often arises from the mundane—a lingering shot of an awkward family dinner, a poorly timed romantic gesture, or Oliver’s elaborate but doomed schemes. These moments echo the novel’s wit, but the film’s visual language adds another layer: the framing, editing, and use of color all contribute to a sense of heightened reality, where every humiliation and triumph feels both painfully specific and universally relatable.

Yet, beneath the comedy is the persistent undercurrent of melancholy that makes the story iconic. The film never lets the audience forget the stakes of Oliver’s emotional world: the fear of losing his family, the ache of unrequited love, the confusion of growing up. This bittersweet tone is amplified by the soundtrack, composed by Alex Turner and Andrew Hewitt. Turner’s gentle, acoustic songs—wistful, introspective, and tinged with longing—underscore the film’s emotional beats, providing a counterpoint to Oliver’s ironic narration. The music acts as an emotional anchor, grounding the story in genuine feeling and reminding the viewer that, for all its stylized humor, Submarine is ultimately about a messy, beautiful struggle to connect.

Ayoade’s approach to tone and humor is both faithful to Dunthorne’s novel and uniquely cinematic. He invites the audience to laugh at the absurdities of adolescence, but also to recognize the pain and hope that lie beneath the surface. The result is a film that’s both cringe and catharsis, often in the same shot.

Key Differences from the Book

While the film is remarkably faithful to the spirit of Dunthorne’s novel, Ayoade makes several notable changes that shape the adaptation’s tone, focus, and emotional impact.

The film trims the book’s sprawl to two threads: Oliver and Jordana, and Oliver’s campaign to save his parents’ marriage. The school-dynamics subplots, the inner lives of Chips and Zoe—several minor characters’ orbits are condensed or cut. I miss some of that; Zoe is barely there. But the trade is a movie that moves, and staying inside Oliver’s head pays for it. What the novel spreads through footnotes, the film compresses into glances, and the moral fog gets thinner for it.

The novel runs on Oliver’s acerbic unreliable narration. Film has the harder problem: how do you show a paranoid inner voice? Ayoade’s answer is to make the character’s fantasy world literal—montages, fantasy sequences, an imagined funeral, the sea recurring through the frame. The joke is that Oliver would score his own death. A lot of what the voiceover carried becomes camera moves, and the film is richer for not trusting only the dialogue.

Ayoade also sands down some of Oliver’s sharper edges. The Zoe bullying is present but quieter; Craig Roberts plays him wounded instead of wounding, and it is easier to forgive him before learning a full accounting of his sins. Whether that’s mercy or evasion depends on how much you trust “relatable” as a value. I mostly do, then re-read the Chips epigraphs in the book and revise my opinion again.

The ending diverges most. The novel stops in ambiguity—a few things mend, nothing resolves, and the mess persists on schedule. The film prefers one image: Oliver and Jordana at the water’s edge, tiny silhouettes against a very large sea. It is sweeter, prettier, and a little more hopeful. Both endings feel earned, which is more than most coming-of-age stories manage.

Interpretation and Impact

Ayoade’s Submarine is not a bookbinding exercise; it’s a reinterpretation built from cinema’s own toolset. Foregrounding the unreliable perspective and outsourcing interiority to visual stylization, it captures what adolescence actually feels like from the inside: over-scored, badly framed, occasionally in a funeral montage. The satire never punches down into the pain; even when the film is mocking teenage self-importance, the loneliness stays in focus.

Personal Reflections

Reading Submarine felt like holding up a mirror to my own adolescence. I recognized the cringe-worthy self-importance, the desperate attempts to control the uncontrollable, and the awkwardness of trying to connect with people who were just as lost as I was. Oliver’s blend of insecurity and bravado, his tendency to narrate his life as if it were a film, and his inability to see beyond his own perspective all rang uncomfortably true.

What strikes me most is how the story refuses to let anyone off the hook. There are no pure heroes or villains—just people muddling through, making mistakes, and sometimes hurting each other without meaning to. The book’s humor made the pain bearable, but it never let me forget that the pain was real. I laughed at Oliver’s melodrama, but I also winced at his failures and the harm he caused, especially to Zoe and Jordana.

Submarine is so affecting because it refuses to let us hide behind the safety of simply identifying with the protagonist. Sure, we’ve all been Oliver at some point. But the book won’t let me stop at that flattering confession. We’ve also all been Zoe—on the receiving end of casual cruelty, underestimated, made the punchline by people who would call themselves our friends. Jordana, too: guarded, testing people before granting them trust, wearing sarcasm as armor. And the parents: Jill aching for a life that didn’t arrive, Lloyd and his gentle depressive inertia, both instantly familiar from a hundred kitchen tables. Even Chips caught me—bravado and cruelty as house style for an insecure kid.

That’s the trick the novel pulls: you walk in as the audience for Oliver, and by the end you’ve been every character in the room. We take turns being the protagonist, the wounded, and the letdown. That constant switching is why the story has stayed with me long after closing the book or watching the credits.

Why We Love the Worst People

Submarine endures because it refuses easy answers or redeemable-enough characters. It keeps faith with the awkward, contradictory mess we actually are: growth happens sideways, empathy has to be earned, and humor keeps the pain from winning. The blend of sharp wit and gentle melancholy is its endurance hack—even our worst moments can connect us, if someone honest enough is holding the pen.

Whether you come for Dunthorne’s unflinching honesty or Ayoade’s stylized tenderness, Submarine makes imperfection feel like company rather than evidence. The powerful stories aren’t about flawless heroes; they’re about ordinary, uncertain, occasionally awful people who stumble, hurt people, and keep trying to open up anyway. If you’ve ever winced at your own mistakes, this story will keep you company.

Anyway. I’ve been Oliver, I’ve been Zoe, and once in 2009 I was even briefly Graham. That’s the whole trick of this book, and the reason it’s still on my shelf.

Read and Watch

Go read it. It’s short, it’s funny, and you’ll cringe in a productive way. Bookshop.org has all the best places to grab a copy (and help fund my next book report in the process). Go on, treat yourself to some cringe!

Buy Submarine on Bookshop.org (affiliate link)

Maybe you’re the kind of person who likes to watch the movie first. Find out where to watch Submarine or listen to the soundtrack or the other soundtrack, or the Spotify playlist someone made so it would actually all be there in order.