Plur1bus episode 7 review: People are meaning, meaning is people

The episode is split between Carol and Manousos Oviedo (played by Carlos-Manuel Vesga), and it’s visually sumptuous, with plenty of wide, beautifully composed shots of our protagonists on golf courses (Carol) and South American jungle (Manousos). 

Some people are saying that nothing happened this episode, but I believe they're missing the point.

In episode 6, the hive has the James Bond playboy (who's been busy marinating in his superficial extrinsic values) tell Carol it wants to reestablish contact with her. 

She's missed. 

Her response? 

“Fuck’em.” 

Carol don't need nobody, has no vulnerabilities, and doesn't care about anyone's feelings. She's contemptuous of towards... well, pretty much everyone. She's an invulnerable rock! 

Or so she tells herself.

This episode shows Carol’s defiance in socially isolated revelry: she goes golfing, practices her swing on office building windows, heads out solo for a fancy dinner, and even purloins a Georgia O’Keefe original. 

What if we had the zombie apocalypse, but instead of eating brains, they were all really nice, but kept their distance? 

Carol indulges in all the trappings of material wealth, but right from the get-go it’s obvious where this will end, because it’s all so transparently hollow and empty. If your idea of meaning is the accumulation of wealth and possessions, you are in a trap: to maintain equilibrium, you have to keep accumulating more and more and more. It never stops, because material wealth cannot fill the black hole at the centre of a human soul. That’s why billionaires, and our new trillionaire Elon Musk, are never satisfied. The means they use to self-regulate is flawed and insatiable, and ends in despair.

By the end of the episode, Carol’s run into this inevitable conclusion. She has rejected entirely her need for others until now. But total isolation, even for an independent minded misanthrope like Carol, is too much. 

Why? 

Because the universe is meaningless. 

Without people, for example, material wealth doesn’t exist. Wealth is a result of the competition for resources, but if there’s no one else, there’s no competition. There’s no one to envy, no one to lord over, no status to be gained, nothing to share with that special someone.

We give the universe meaning.

People. 

With no one else around, Carol (relatively) quickly realizes her avoidant and anti-social disposition leads to a dead end. 

And she starts to destabilize and fall into despair.

She looks into the void, and it stares right back. 

By the end of the episode, she’s reconnected with the hive, and has an emotional reunion with Zosia (Karolina Wydra). She runs up to her and hugs her tight, bursting into tears. 

She’s realized the truth she's tried so hard and so long to deny: she needs people. She has vulnerabilities.

She's not a rock.

What gives life meaning is human connection and interaction, especially that magical connection we oh so rarely feel, and only with very specific individuals.

That, right there, is meaning.

This is the most revelatory moment for her character in 7 episodes. It's fundamental. Primal.

The more surprising journey is Oviedo’s: he’s travelling north in a spiffy sports car, at least until he reaches the narrow isthmus between North and South America. 

Then he has to proceed by foot. 

The hive pops out of the bushes to warn him, to dissuade him from this dangerous trek, which will surely kill him. 

This leads to one of the most powerful exchanges in the entire show: Oviedo rejects the hive’s offer to fly him to Carol. Instead, he says that nothing on earth belongs to the hive, that they do not belong here, that they have stolen everything. 

Then he tosses a match on his sports car, which he’s doused in petrol, like a badass.

At first, I thought Gilligan might be setting up Oviedo as the Nietzschean Uberman, the rugged individualist, who conquers the world through sheer force of Will. The totally independent human, who relies on no one. 

It’s a childish and egotistical conceit befitting a sophomore that denies the fundamentally social nature of human beings. 

Gilligan, to his credit, doesn’t take the ideological route here, just as he didn’t with Carol. Oviedo’s an impressive, self-reliant guy, to be sure. And he’s got dollops of willpower. He marches through 100 miles of jungle practicing what he's going to say to Carol, while hacking dense foliage with a machete. When he’s poisoned by plant barbs (or the cuts gets infected, whatever), he heats up his machete in a fire and presses it on the wound. 

A second badass moment for Oviedo. In one episode!

And he marches indomitably onward, making Ayn Rand proud, until… he finally becomes delirious and collapses flat on his face. 

Above him, we hear the thrum of helicopter rotors, and see a hive member repelling down a rope to rescue him. 

Gilligan, then, is not interested in simplistic ideological agendas. Rather than didactic simplicity, we get nuanced complexity. 

Personally, I think that better represents the universe as it really is. And it makes the show, and the struggle of the characters, more resonant and meaningful. 

Because Giligan is wrestling with fundamental questions of human existence: the push pull between individual and collective, the poisonousness of extremism, and the nature of meaning. 

Personally, I think this has been done superbly. 

It’s a thinking person’s show, no question, and it has something to say. 

How will things progress from here? 

We’ve seen the thesis, the antithesis, and await the synthesis. 

Carol and Oviedo will meet next episode. Together they’ll discover a way to unlink the hive. What Giligan has planned after that I have no idea. Perhaps the aliens will arrive. Perhaps the hive will open up about its true purpose. 

It knows, how could it not? 

It’s just not been directly asked. 

Yet.

Poggy has an interesting but different take: 

Plur1bus episode 6 review: What's the point?

Episode 6 of Plur1bus revealed more about the limitations of our perfectly moral and altruistic collective: they cannot do any farming, period. They can only collect apples when they drop from trees of their own accord, for example. They can milk animals, but that’s it. So they’re eating the dead (all one billion of them), which is a finite supply and won’t last 7 billion people for long.  

The collective projects they’ll be facing mass starvation within 12 years. 

So there we have it: the collective is doomed, and what’s more, they know it. But their moral imperative takes precedence over survival: they’d rather die than step on a bug or cut down wheat. 

Which raises a question: what’s the point, both meta and in-universe? 

If Vince Gilligan is indeed a Libertarian, I can see him setting up a sci-fi scenario as a vehicle to explore and contrast selfishness vs. altruistic collectivism. 

Is the underlying point here to show the bankruptcy of suicidally moral purism? 

If so, I get it. I don’t think he’s shown the furthest extreme of the opposite (psychopathy and malignant narcissism), however disagreeable Carol can be. I definitely see ideas percolating under the surface. 

But what about the in-show explanation for this pathologically moral collective? 

Why would aliens devise a virus like this? 

If the aliens want to wipe out humanity, why not just send a virus that sterilizes people? Or kills them outright? Why this long game? Why create a perfectly harmonious population of willing psychic slaves, unless an invasion is coming down the line? 

And if an invasion is indeed coming, and the humans are to be a willing slave race for the occupiers, why let humans starve? Would it not make sense for the future slaves to be able to harvest plants, so that they can last long enough for the invaders to make use of them? 

If humanity dies out in 12 years, aliens will have to arrive prior to that.

Otherwise, I don’t see the sense in making a harmonious world prior to occupation. Just introduce a lethal virus. Wipe everyone out. Wouldn't that be easier than this hive mind thing? 

Perhaps the idea is to get infected worlds to build a transmitter first, before they all die out, and spread the virus further. A species somewhere out there must want to exterminate competitors, as I don’t see a virus like this evolving on its own.

And yet, to design a virus tailored for another species, you’d have to know a great deal about it. The virus would have to be programmed for the specific genetics of a single species, one planet at a time, or all planets would have to be populated by very similar species, which seems astonishingly unlikely. But hey, Star Trek did it, and this is TV sci-fi, so...

Gilligan has been very thorough in plotting things out, in realizing the logical consequences of his setup, so I can't imagine he hasn’t thought this out far enough ahead to consider these issues. 

The radio signal the anti-social South American discovered could be a frequency on which the aliens communicate with each other. I had thought this was some form of telepathy, and still do, which means the radio signal is likely something else: the alien signal coming in, sending out orders, or… a new signal being generated on earth, sent out to alien worlds.

Is the hive engaged in building some kind of massive transmitter? Is it already built?

That, at least, would give the show somewhere to go while we wait for 7 billion people to slowly starve to death, and smile while doing it. It’ll be the holly-jolly version of the Holdomor. Billions contentedly dying.

Somehow, I don’t see that being Gilligan’s end game. 

A big tell is that Carol is still cut off from the collective: they greatly fear her ability to suss out how to undo the joining. And if they’re that scared, it's going to happen.

I expect a few other things to come up in future episodes: the hive building a transmitter, more information on the cause of the virus, further escalation between Carol’s newly disconnected group of liberated souls and the collective (what can a pacifist collective do to stop her?), and the impending arrival of alien colonists. 

The last one is probably the least likely to happen, as it’d require further leaps of disbelief and a large budget to realize convincingly.

But I don’t see the logical point of the virus, as designed, without this element. 

As an exploration of ideological extremes, the show makes sense. Will that be matched by an in-universe explanation? Time will tell. 

Either way, this is one of the most thoughtful sci-fi shows I've seen in a long time.

Done with Gunn: Franchise fatigue and the diminishing returns of transgressive content

The Guardians of the Galaxies movies were a superhero genre revelation. They were fun, punchy romps with lots of heart. Centred on a gang of dysfunctional misfits, the characters were well realized, and the actors had great chemistry.

The Guardians trilogy are, and remain, my favourite Marvel Cinematic Universe films. 

I’ve enjoyed some of the others (Lookin' at you, Ironman in a cave!), but none blended humour, action and heart so perfectly.

Gunn has since switched over to Marvel’s archrival, DC, and is revamping that entire universe, like some kind of quirky Creator Celestial.

I greatly enjoyed the first season of Peacemaker. Idiosyncratic fun with a likeable, earnest (yet homicidal) anti-hero.

Gunn’s Suicide Squad also landed solidly with yet another collection of dysfunctional, lovable yet homicidal goofballs out to (reluctantly) save the world.

I’ve never felt that Gunn was a good fit for the boy scout in blue tights. 

Gunn is superb with quirky, flawed characters. He loves pushing boundaries with humour (Super). He likes to dip into the gross (Dawn of the Dead, Slither). But… he’s never, it seemed to me, to be the go-to-guy for mainstream DC heroes.

My take on DC heroes is admittedly dated. In my era, they were squeaky clean paragons of virtue, earnest fighters for justice, true heroes to their core. 

They weren't people so much as ideals to live up to and emulate.

Having watched the first few episodes of Peacemaker Season 2, I’m not keen on what Gunn’s doing with them. The ‘Justice Gang’ makes an appearance, and… they’re awful. Repellant, obnoxious, arrogant, and misogynistic frankly. Green Lantern is an ass, Hawkgirl isn’t much better, and that third guy, the less said the better. 

I gather this iteration of GL is well known as such, but it was still deeply off putting.

Not, mind you, because they weren’t funny. 

Or that there aren’t people like that.

Or that it didn’t make sense. 

It was, there are, and it did. 

If it was a different universe, a satirical universe that subverts superhero expectations, like, say, where heroes are hollow shills for corporate powers, I’d love it, just as I love The Boys. 

And that is the problem: Gunn’s DC Universe is almost indistinguishable from Amazon Prime’s The Boys: ribald, corrupt, cruel, hyper-violent, gross and self-absorbed. 

If I want to see how power corrupts, and watch people trying to survive in an awful, horrible, corrupt world, well, that’s what I watch The Boys for. 

It’s not what I’d like for Justice League characters.

It's not, in my view, the brand. 

It takes the brand promise, rips out the heart, takes a dump on it, and then drops it on top of a sundae and calls it delicious.   

True, the DC heroes of yore were totally unrealistic in their moral purity, but that doesn’t mean I want them deconstructed in their own brand. 

Satire's great, I love satire, but I don't want LOTR to be a self-satirical parody. I don't want my Star Wars self-satirizing, I don't want Indiana Jones meta, and I don't want Star Trek to be a post-modern satirical critique scripted by Foucault. 

That's what parodies and satires and Galaxy Quest are for. Different, if subordinate, brands where the meta can live without tarnishing the original.

I can name another real-world institution that’s lost a lot of its former majesty of late, and absolutely all of its moral authority; that damages the office, smears the brand, annihilates the ideals and leaves us ashamed. 

Sometimes, it’s nice to have an aspirational moral paragon to look up to, who really is what they appear to be, rather than actually being a malignant narcissist presenting a hollow, idealized façade.

I may get back into Peacemaker, he’s a fringe anti-hero, after all. Superman? Maybe when it's on TV for 'free' (with cable or a base subscription).

Funny enough, I've tried watching the latest season of Gen V, and... it hasn't really caught me. I couldn't remember the characters or what happened in season one. It's funny, topical, and well crafted, but the gross out elements now feel less transgressive and shocking than tired and obligatory. 

Shock value is inversely proportional to the amount you use it. 

There are two kinds of realism in art. One grows from love — the kind that looks at ideals and says, “Let’s see what they cost, let’s see how they survive.” That kind of realism deepens myth; it doesn’t sneer at it. It accepts that goodness is hard but worth striving for. 

The other kind grows from exhaustion, or pride, and rolls its eyes and says, “Only fools believe in heroes.” That doesn’t reveal truth; it corrodes it, mistaking cruelty for depth and mockery for insight. 

The first kind makes us ache for the light; the second leaves us dimly proud of thinking there is none.

And that, perhaps, is where I find myself weary. I don’t mind seeing my heroes struggle, bleed, or even fail. I mind when the storyteller enjoys humiliating them, when sincerity becomes the only writer sin.

The longer a franchise goes on, and even more frequently after the original creative voice has long departed, the more extreme it becomes. People love novelty, and over time, the initial story engine starts to squeak and churn out stale material. So characters become more bad ass (actors are always pushing for memorable moments for their character, and these have to become more and more extreme), they become more inter-related, prequels expand on popular story arcs, undermining the original show and changing its meaning, making everything smaller and smaller and more and more interrelated until it becomes a black hole and sucks in all meaning. All that is left is the churn.

Steven Spielberg once said that the stunts in Indiana Jones movies had to get more and more extreme, with each movie out doing the last, until it practically became a bugs bunny cartoon. 

George Lucas started out with a big galaxy: Luke wasn't related to Vader, Leia wasn't his sister,  Anakin didn't build C3P0, and so on. 

James Bond ultimately became the brother of Blofeld. 

Over time, writers want to imbue everything with meaning. Han's last name is Solo? We can explain that! Yet this is a universe with names like Screed, Skywalker, Sidious, Grievous, etc. Did everyone have a silly, narratively appropriate moniker applied to them as a grown up? Do they know what the word Screed means? Because apparently Solo means solo. Do people titter and snicker at all these on-the-nose names? 

Talk about sucking the fun and the mystery out of it. 

Ambitious writers want to make their mark, to change the original franchise to suit their own sensibilities. Making changes to Franchise DNA is the ultimate victory, for them! And this makes sense, to a degree: a franchise must evolve with the times or lose viewership. 

But it also erodes the dramatic integrity of the show(s). 

The Rules for programs set in the real world are stable: physics don't change over time for police procedurals or daytime soaps (are any of those left?). But they do in sci-fi and fantasy, where magic and technology are toffee, warping and changing to fit the desires of the latest writer's room. 

Why nix a great story just because the show's Rules Bible says it can't happen? 

And that makes sense, to a degree, but if you do it often enough, you wind up with no rules to speak of at all, anything goes, and then it's just blatant fan service. 

Which... is also fine, if that's what you want. Fan service can be fun, it's designed to be. 

It's also the dramatic equivalent of a sugar rush junk food. 

When Ned Stark got decapitated (oh, sorry, spoiler), it was truly shocking, even expectation subverting. The Red Wedding massacre (oh, whoops, another spoiler) was well executed, but not shocking. The destruction of the sept (oh, who cares) was staged in an epic fashion, well directed, well acted and scored, but... I found it hard to care. It was more 'here we go again' than 'holy crap'.

Is slaughtering characters all you've got? 

Who's left to care about?

Perhaps, if you've seen forty superhero movies and TV shows (and many a reboot), you've seen them all.

Franchise fatigue is an inevitable sign of aging... Soone or later, you stop caring.