The
persistent knock on The Leftovers is
that it is exhausting
and too dark. Indeed, the show is set in shades of bleakness. But that
bleakness rewards its viewing with some mighty moments of catharsis and, if not
quite hope, then allegorical uncertainty. Watching The Leftovers is to experience e.e. cumming's famous beach visit, that whatever we lose (like a you or a me) / it's always ourselves we find in the sea. I like what Emily
Nussbaum said about The Leftovers,
that it is, in essence, a show about “grief and terror… [that] captures the
disorientation of grief in a way that is provocative and rare for television.”
I would add that the show also gives a realistic sense of how people live with
loss, in that complicated range of choices that distinguish a middle ground of
simultaneously living with and after. My favorite characters on The Leftovers struggle to do it well. I can’t think of the word for it. Grace seems high-handed, vaguely sacred.
Withstanding, a little too
self-congratulatory. Perhaps what I admire is the honesty of watching
characters who live practically with grief, rolling the rock each time a little
further up the hill. Certainly, they are not models of past-purging
self-help, though in a clever twist, a whole cottage industry of counseling,
insurance, life-like replicas, and pseudoscience thrives in the three-years-later world of the
show.
Exhaustion is a key talking point among
friends these days. With the kids stuck up on the play structure, or a babysitter safely
installed at home, we wear our exhaustion with honor, alternately lamenting the
bad exhaustion—kid is sick (again!), second and third dinners of (what else?) noodles,
where can one possibly plant a succulent in the yard that it doesn’t get unearthed a few
hours later by tiny hands—and glorying in the good exhaustion. How many cute
photographs can one take of a Halloween pumpkin? Have we shown you the numbers chart? Did we tell you about the time
our son brought over the Kit-Kat to share with Mom because he had given me
his box of Dots to Dad and didn’t want her to feel left out? What empathy! Such sweet boys. Hard to believe he is the same boy who refuses to touch any part of the Chipotle brown rice
that has already touched the cilantro, or caterwauls to the heavens the predictable and shocking arrival of bedtime. How else should we account for the burst of color in our monotonous and delicious mounds of salted, whole grain
goodness? I suppose what strikes me in such moments is the boy's failsafe-seeming
action of living explicitly in two modes. One moment, humane exemplar. The
next, rice catastrophic. There seems little middle ground, which makes life
intense and vibrant, and prone to enormous inflections of emotion. All healthy,
normal, yes, of course. And so vivid!
I’ve
been listening to Surf
on a near constant loop the last couple of days. I know very little about Chance the Rapper, much less Donnie Trumpet or The
Social Experiment, any of whose name I suspect could be a giant put-on; that, as
soon as I publish this post I’ll get a few emails to the effect of, Oh, wow, you really fell for that one, eh?
I only found my way to Chance (another fear: his fans call him something
familiar, and writing “Chance” is the equivalent of that time in college I tried
to impress a stranger by insisting, oh yes, I was absolutely familiar with the
work of ANN-IE DI-FRAHNK-OH) because a few of my students recommended the album. Ask
an honest question. I love especially “Sunday Candy,” a song about familial
love, in particular a grandmother’s unwavering “president of my fan club”
affections, with lovely shades of the ecstatic and spiritual alongside the grand-paternal:
“Let
the Mystery Be” was the song that Amanda sang at Katie and I’s wedding. I’ve written
elsewhere about going to see John Prine and Iris DeMent at the Chicago
Symphony Orchestra in 2002. I think of that song still as particularly “Katie,” one she loved, whose worldview suited hers, and whose elegant guitar accompaniment she instantly recognized. It made her smile. "Let the Mystery Be" is a song I find myself
listening to around the time of her birthday, and again, in June. I don’t mean
to put a particularly dramatic marker in the ground for the song, by the way.
Much of my affection for it was diminished in those weeks and months after
Katie died, if only that listening to it became at least as much a memory of grieving
as it was of so many wonderful evenings. When I hear the song at the start of The Leftovers, I feel as though some
cosmic force in the universe has twinned the wonderful and awful in an
incredibly convenient and personal way: that I can hear the song, watch for all
the disappeared faces and bodies in the credits, and recognize that strange mix
of resignation and rawness that is sometimes thinking about one life while
living in the next. I mentioned to a friend recently that it was Katie’s
birthday, what would have been the start of her fortieth year (just to be
clear, she would have turned 39 this past October 27), and my friend asked
whether I thought about Katie still. Pretty much every day, I said. Was I
supposed to say something else, I wondered? This is my life. That was, too. She's right at
the heart of all of it.
I won’t admire particular moments from The Leftovers, if only to avoid spoilers for what turns out to be a
very nuanced and well-developed plot. I do hope that you’ll watch it, and then
tell everyone you know what great taste I have. Seriously, I really do thing its worth the
investment of time and frustration, even bleakness. When I think of shows that I absolutely love—Friday Night Lights,
The West Wing, Lost, The Office, Veronica Mars—I think of
some unspoken and satisfied expectation that each satisfies, to make me think and feel some excess
of what I think I know about the world, my life, the people I love, all of our regrets,
hopes, failures, ambitions, etc. Like Lost,
The Leftovers presents infinite
variations on an impossible proposition. We live with or we live after. We live with and we live after. There
is no moral or ethical aspect to the proposition, or even, consistency to when
or where it is well-applied or ignored. But the choice shapes us. Whenever I
watch The Leftovers, I’m left feeling
engaged and alive, if pretty exhausted. I suppose the exhaustion is a fair indication
of my own vitality. The life I return to from the week’s latest episode is
recognizable and beautiful, precious and fleeting, and marked fairly by the absurdity that is loving
anything, much less loving it well:
It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. Discovery. It happens as well that the feeling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men. (Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus)
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