what 'law & order: svu' got right about rollins and carisi

watched svu. had a breakdown over rollins and carisi. bon appetit.

I’ve finally caught up with all 24 seasons with Law & Order: SVU. Elliot Stabler (Christopher Meloni) said the three fearful words to Olivia Benson (Mariska Hargitay) in front of his kids but somehow those two hags have not fucked yet. Their unhinged pining is single-handedly keeping romance on television alive. I’m tuning into a show that my parents have religiously watched even before I said my first word. It’s my turn to join the whirlwind insanity of it all, but my attention is directed to the characters who were added after Meloni’s exit: Amanda Rollins (Kelli Giddish) and Sonny Carisi (Peter Scanavino). You may ask: “Why is a lesbian interested in the straightest of ships? Does she not love herself?”

I contain multitudes. Moving on.

I’m also a hopeless romantic. I love watching love stories and part of me believes that all media texts should be love stories. Rollins and Carisi captured me because their relationship — a grand and sweeping romance — stands out in a procedural that’s defined by the most horrific cases possible. The merits of the network procedural and long-form television are as such: you get to spend time with your favourite characters and watch them as they become better versions of themselves. This is something that most streaming television nowadays aren’t interested in replicating.

Over the course of seven seasons, Rollins and Carisi’s partnership was characterized by a surprising sincerity which only grew deeper with each passing year. For the most part of EO, Stabler was married. He left Benson without so much as a word of apology in the span of ten years. It’s a sweeping romance of the tortured and angsty and mature kind … which I totally love. But the complications of EO only makes Rollins and Carisi feel like a belated birthday gift from the writers: you can’t have Benson and Stabler, but here’s another healthy relationship as a little treat.

And what a huge treat it was. When we were first introduced to Rollins, she was a brash and combative woman who kept her heart close to her sleeve. As someone who grew up in an abusive and dysfunctional household, Rollins is filled with endless rage and sadness, unable to commit to men whom she deems are “too nice” to her. Like her alcoholic father, Rollins is also a gambling addict, throwing in good money after bad, hoping for a fix that would assuage the pain. For all the problems I have had with the writing of her character, Giddish’s portrayal of Rollins is both nuanced and momentous; she was neither patient like Benson nor violent like Stabler, but rather, a bit of both and something else altogether in the L&O universe. Rollins silently cared for her teammates, took the brunt of their anger, and never told them that she went far and beyond to solve their problems. If the Emmy awards cared for network television post-2011 — The Good Wife and This is Us were the last dramas in this genre to be nominated — Giddish would have received her flowers.

My mother spent her life chasing dirtbags. That’s all she thought she was worth, and I hated her for it. But I’m just like her. I’m terrified that my girls are gonna grow up the same way — feeling like they don’t deserve to be happy.

But Carisi unconditionally embraced who Rollins truly was; he took her anger, misplaced shame, and abrasiveness in stride. Knowing that Rollins’ kids were born to deadbeat fathers, he took care of them without any questions asked. For the longest time, these two lovebirds played happy family without actually committing to the bit. Like Jane and Lisbon in The Mentalist, Rollins and Carisi’s relationship blossomed through small, intimate gestures: offering to make dinner, always buying an extra cup of coffee, then huddling up together during New Year’s Eve. Carisi never expected anything in return. It’s uncharacteristically good storytelling from a show that is so laughably bad that I sometimes have to turn it off in the name of self-care.

More importantly, their friendship was refreshingly straightforward and simple. Both characters have had relationships with others, but none of them are written as actual obstacles or milked for melodramatic purposes. Rollins and Carisi deeply cared for one another as much as Benson and Stabler did. And Rollins, who is usually reserved with her emotions, reciprocated Carisi’s kindness by opening up to him and constantly inviting him to see her daughters. It’s an astonishing display of trust, given that every single man in her life have abandoned her since time immemorial.

In a particularly tender scene, Rollins confesses to Carisi that being a single mother is unbearably lonely and difficult. The tacit message: I’m not sure that I’m a good parent. In response, Carisi offers to cook dinner for her and her daughter. It’s sweet and genuine — two words I’ve never thought to say about anything in SVU. Their relationship is proof that writing a romance doesn’t devalue female characters; if done correctly, love always enriches.

Gradually, Rollins and Carisi became best friends and confidantes. “A partnership is a lot like a marriage,” Carisi reads from the vows that he wrote for Fin and Phoebe, “you fight and then you make up. And a bond like that, it never goes away.” Upon hearing that, Rollins struggles to hold back her tears. Giddish’s acting in this scene is extraordinary; it’s a moment where Rollins realizes that Carisi is the only person who stood by her side without question. In a sea of deadbeat fathers and abusive men, she’s finally understood what it means to love and be loved in return. It is Rollins who initiates their first kiss — a move that is euphoric to watch, especially for a character who once took immense pride in her invulnerability and loneliness. What a gloriously earned finale.