In the relentless world of high finance, the line between ambition and self-destruction is perilously thin, at least according to HBO Max's Industry. The show dives headfirst into this cutthroat environment, offering a visceral portrayal of young bankers navigating the treacherous waters of London's financial sector.
Created by Mickey Down and Konrad Kay, Industry is a true-blue workplace drama, in that all of the characters orbit the cacophonous trading floor of Pierpoint & Co., and whatever they’re having outside of it—sex, drugs, alcohol, an emotional crisis—inextricably ties to work. At the center of this whirlwind is Harper Stern (played to perfection by Myha'la Herrold), a character whose journey encapsulates the complex realities of walking tall, head high into an industry that would much prefer you sit tf down.
It’s Only Addiction If You Can’t Afford It.
Harper embodies the quintessential ambitious professional. She's a sharp intellect with an unyielding drive, a prodigious talent with a dubious academic record, and an outsider with the audacity to step into one of the most exclusive circles. Harper’s brilliance is undeniable, but so are her vulnerabilities, which are amplified by the intense pressure to prove herself in a world where failure is not an option.
Finance, like many other sectors of power, has long been an arena where Black women must contend with both the expectations of competence and the weight of representation. Harper isn't just fighting to be seen as capable, she's battling the invisible, yet palpable, biases that question her right to be there at all. The world Harper navigates is one where any mistake can be fatal, not just to her career but to her sense of self. The stakes are incredibly high, and Harper’s relentless pursuit of success often leads her to compromise even when it's against her own well-being.
But Industry isn't just the story of a young woman trying to make it in finance. In fact, her ambition, at first, feels incredibly reasonable, propelling her forward—a pawn angling to become a queen—in a competitive arena where every move counts. It’s easy to admire her tenacity. After all, we live in a world that prizes achievement. So, Harper’s relentless pursuit of excellence seems almost heroic. Yet, as we delve deeper into her character, it becomes clear that ambition, when left unchecked, can morph into a destructive force.
As they say, every action force has it's equal and opposite reaction force. And Harper finds her equal and her opposite in Eric Tao (deliciously played by Ken Leung).
*MILD SPOILERS FOR "INDUSTRY" SEASONS 1-3 FROM THIS POINT*
Hunger is Not a Birthright.
As with Mad Men’s Don and Peggy, or The Bear’s Syd and Carmy, Harper and Eric’s relationship—part mentor/mentee, part filial, part mutual self-interest—is the dramatic engine of the series, pushing each other to new heights of ambition and deceit. They are a type of soulmate in the best and most toxic ways. They have a mutual understanding of each other’s best and worst potential, a tacit acceptance that they’re stronger together, yet constantly at odds with their own dogged selfishness.
Both are drawn to Pierpoint for its cult of individualism; as Harper tells Eric in the show's first episode "it’s as close to a true meritocracy as one can get". To Eric, an Asian American man, and Harper, a Black American woman, it's also an escape hatch—from poverty, from racism, from doubt. Their chances of breaking into the top economic percentile from the bottom is, as Eric tells Harper in one of his season one pep talks, only about 3%. “We intimidate people,” he says, “because hunger is not a birthright.”
It's because of this hunger, this gut chewing starvation, our flawed protagonist doesn't always make the best choices for herself. Harper is painfully, frustratingly human. Should she take Eric’s advice and talk to the people on the third floor who help with mental health services? Yes. Should she should stop isolating herself and living in a hotel? Also, yes. But when you’re a Black woman from a low-income background in an environment like corporate finance, people are always trying to undermine you. Harper doesn’t go to the third floor out of fear that she’ll be seen as unable to handle the pressure of her job or that people will think she can’t succeed without help. For Black women in the workplace, asking for help isn’t seen as a necessity. Instead, it can appear as a sign of incompetence, and Harper can't handle anyone doubting her abilities. Being undermined is something she can’t control, so it’s no surprise that she would try to control everything she can. Until she cracks.
By season two, Harper is anxious and prone to breakdowns, all the while balancing imposter syndrome with Machiavellian tendencies. This need to succeed reaches its boiling point: self-sabotage. And the crux of the show becomes why? Is it solely for financial gain? And if it is, why is she so willing to burn every bridge to get there? It's a nagging thing that makes her kind of hard character to identify with, but, I think, for a certain type of person watching the show, very easy to empathize with. Harper, like many, has a very clean—almost beautifully so—capitalist take on what a successful life looks like.
I see myself in Harper’s anxiety. I relate to worrying that people will dismiss my talents because of preconceived notions about my work ethic simply because I’m a Black woman. I understand the worry that in a predominantly white space, it’ll be harder for my efforts to be recognized. I wonder what would my life look like if I were willing to bend ethical boundaries in pursuit of a goal. I've counted the number of times I've prioritized my career over a personal life, alienating friends and romantic pursuits in the process. And I've realized how surprisingly easy it can be to sacrifice connections for the sake of success. And, like Harper, I've allowed the pressure to perform and the fear of failure overshadow an ability to form meaningful bonds. It's lonely at the top. Or in my case, lonely at the middle management.
The Choice is Between the Invisible Man and the Visible Woman.
By season three, our girl Harper's worked her way up from glorified assistant to co-owner of a hedge fund in record time (Unlike me. Lol). In the process, she publicly humiliates Eric at an international conference and manipulates her former mentor into allowing her new fund to be managed by Pierpoint. Beyond cowing Eric and punishing him for firing her at the finale of Season 2, she’s now turned her gaze towards Pierpoint itself, attempting to burn the 150-year-old institution to the ground.
Her ambition, by this point, is not only unchecked but completely unhinged.
But Industry's showrunners offer no easy answers or neat resolutions. Harper's story is hella messy, super complicated, and often uncomfortable to watch. Harper is still so young and thus unwilling to do the work on herself to see her own capacity for self-destruction.
There are no "good guys" in Industry. Stress and turmoil define these characters’ lives in a show that's ultimately about a group of horny, foolish, (mostly) young adults who desperately need to go to therapy—Harper more than anyone. But she's too busy embracing her self-serving "villain era" to make time for self reflection. For me, she's also solidified herself as one of the most fascinating, chaotic, and beautifully messy characters on tv.
As we watch Harper’s journey unfold, we are reminded of the importance of balance in our own lives. The glorification of relentless ambition in this narrative serves as a wake-up call—a reminder that the pursuit of success should not come at the expense of our mental health, our values, and don't have to come at the expense of those around us. A fast rise within a profession, doesn't have to mean a far plummet as a person. Unless, of course, you're Harper Stern.
Comentários