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Friday, August 1, 2014

The Leftovers and Staring into the Abyss

WordMaster

            The Leftovers is not feel-good television. Initial reviews described HBO’s new drama as “some of the most desolate, despairing television on air”, “like a French arthouse series, but sadder” and “a show that will make some of its viewers want to slit their wrists” – and those are the positive ones. Perhaps realizing that waxing poetic about a show’s potential to rouse thoughts of suicide isn’t the most effective strategy for convincing people to watch it, many of these critics go out of their way to point out that The Leftovers “isn’t for everyone,” a qualification that seems not only unnecessary (nothing is “for everyone”) but also counterintuitive. If you like a piece of art, why discourage others from giving it a shot? Since when were critics responsible for accommodating audience opinions rather than simply articulating and trusting their own?

            More to the point, though, framing the show’s sorrowful mood as a caveat is like saying, “Mad Men is good, but there’s so much talking”. You’re disowning something essential to the work in question, turning its greatest strength into a negative. Precisely what gives The Leftovers its power is its commitment to exploring human emotions in all their raw messiness, its refusal to settle for false uplift and easy answers. To be sure, some people may find it too unpleasant to watch, and that’s fair enough, but for me (and, judging by the reviews, many others), it’s not a ponderous, soul-crushing exercise in mental fortitude so much as a pitch-perfect falsetto, hitting that elusive sweet note with such exquisite precision it stings. In it, I found something I hadn’t known I was yearning for: a complex, heartfelt portrait of loss.

The moment I fell in love



Needless to say, in an era infatuated with antiheroes and violence, there’s no shortage of death on TV. During the past couple years, serial killers have become almost as commonplace as cops and lawyers, and you can barely go a week without hearing about yet another Red Wedding-style bloodbath (none of which, as far as I can tell, have even come close to replicating the devastating brutality of the original). For the most part, though, these shows are more interested in the dying than in death itself, keeping the tumultuous aftermath at an arm’s distance or ignoring it altogether. They dispatch characters matter-of-factly, with minimum emotion (see: Breaking Bad, Fargo, Hannibal, etc.), and when they do show the mourning, it’s brief, usually in the form of a funeral scene or a Special Episode, an obligatory interlude in the ongoing narrative. In The Leftovers, on the other hand, the mourning is the narrative. It has the space and time to savor the nuances of despair.

            If current “prestige” television seems overly dark and reliant on death for shock value, it still provides a welcome alternative to mainstream film, which refuses to acknowledge death as a viable, permanent occurrence. Just this year, at least three blockbusters have killed (or pretended to kill) major characters, only to promptly resurrect them – perhaps not coincidentally, a trend that’s overlapped with the increased popularity of superhero movies. Used sporadically, bringing characters back from the dead can be an effective plot twist, as in The Lord of the Rings, but after a while, it starts to come across as nothing more than cheap emotional manipulation, depriving death of its weight and the story of its suspense. Marvel’s Avengers franchise is especially guilty of this, having first revived fan favorite side character Phil Coulson in the TV spin-off Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. before doing the same with Pepper Potts in Iron Man 3, Loki in Thor: The Dark World and, most recently, Bucky Barnes and Nick Fury in Captain America: The Winter Soldier. We at least got whole movies to lament Coulson and Barnes, but you don’t buy for a second that Fury is really dead, just like you know Tony Stark only retires at the end of Iron Man 3 in the Soderberghian sense of the word, since they both have to show up in the Avengers sequel. When not even death can defeat your hero, it’s hard to take other threats or obstacles seriously, in which case, what’s the point? Without believable stakes, there’s no tension, and without tension, there’s no story.

So conflicted...

            That’s not to say all movies have to involve death. Given the post-Dark Knight onslaught of “gritty” reboots/remakes like Man of Steel and Robocop, which flaunt their portentousness and murky aesthetics as evidence of artistic importance, you can hardly blame people for craving a little levity. But Hollywood overall seems determined to avoid venturing into dark places beyond the most superficial level possible. Everything has to be “fun”, in all-caps, with an exclamation point tacked on, which mostly entails relentless rapid-fire banter and tongue-in-cheek, self-aware humor; even with the fate of civilization hanging in the balance, our heroes can’t resist the urge to rattle off a few snide quips. Even Man of Steel, widely criticized for being too somber and thus betraying its title character’s fundamental idealism, refuses to linger in the chaos it wreaks, skimping on relevant, thought-provoking questions about terrorism, faith and morality in favor of a lackluster mishmash of superhero tropes. It wants credit for tackling Big Ideas without actually having to do any work.

The more people call this “fun”, the less I want to see it.

At the end of the day, Man of Steel didn’t fail because it was too serious; it failed because it was boring. As Skyfall, the original Bourne movies and Christopher Nolan’s career, among others, have shown, it’s entirely possible to make a blockbuster that takes itself seriously and still manages to be entertaining. Lately, though, it seems like almost any big-budget or genre movie that attempts to say something meaningful or aspires to more than pure escapism gets dismissed as pretentious and self-important because apparently, ambition in art is a bad thing. But while there’s nothing inherently profound about gloom, neither is there anything inherently enjoyable about flippancy. So often, the lightness feels hollow and the “wit” smug and contrived (just think the worst parts of The Amazing Spider-Man). It’s exhausting, like being stuck in an elevator with an overly enthusiastic and insecure comedian. Frankly, if the best version of your movie is one that involves constantly making fun of its own stupidity or ridiculousness, you should probably take a step back and ask yourself why this movie needs to exist in the first place. It’s time to stop treating tone as a binary rather than shades in a spectrum; “dour”, for example, is different from “sad”, which is different from “dark”, “cynical” or “gritty”.

            Really, why shouldn’t The Leftovers be depressing? It is, after all, about the repercussions of a miniature apocalypse, no doubt deliberately evoking memories of 9/11, Sandy Hook and countless other mass tragedies and tapping into the sense of hopelessness, confusion and bottled-up anger that lingered in their wake. To “lighten the mood” and pretend that suffering is anything but enduring and all-consuming would be dishonest. Given the climate of contemporary society, The Leftovers’ unapologetic pathos feels not only refreshing, an alternative to sentimental, white-washed tear-jerkers like Pearl Harbor and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, but also cathartic, an open acknowledgement of how messed up the world is and how discontented we are with it. Comfort and distraction have their merits, but sometimes, to quote Leftovers protagonist Kevin Garvey, people don’t want to feel better; sometimes, they want to fucking explode.









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