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Monday, Nov 9, 2009
Ruth and George are another story. Nate's mother Ruth (Frances Conroy) has always been a symbol of stability and optimism, which is probably why she's landed in her own personal hell. Taking care of cr-cr-crazy George (James Cromwell) has proved to be more work than she bargained for, yet she's too fenced in by her own values to abandon him. Even though she blames him for tricking her into marrying her by not disclosing his mental illness, even though she looks more unhappy than she ever has, she remains determined to suffer by his side. George, though, is more pitiful than ever. "I am so lucky. I hate that I'm the lucky one," he tells Ruth in one heartbreaking scene, referring to his many ex-wives. "No one is ever lucky to have me."
But at least George is finally facing his demons. Ruth just keeps lashing out and smashing everything to little bits, then picking up the pieces and gluing them back together without rhyme or reason into an unrecognizable mess. One night after an outburst in front of George and his daughter, Ruth rises to go to bed, then whispers in her typical restrained fashion: "Does everyone have everything they need?" George and his daughter sigh heavily and look up at her, their eyes telling her that no, everyone does not have anything they need. "Yes," George finally answers dutifully.
This is the trap set by most literary versions of despair, whether laid out in stories by Lorrie Moore and Jhumpa Lahiri, or hiding in the lyrics of the latest downwardly spiraling Fiona Apple song. Just as everything seems to be going fine, the same neurotic or self-destructive thoughts push stubbornly into the characters' consciousness, and tell them that nothing adds up, that the comforts of love are an illusion, that no matter what transpires, they are and always will be completely and utterly alone. And when things do fall apart? A voice in their heads tells them it's their fault: "See? You'll never be able to live a normal, happy life. Who are you trying to kid?" On the surface, though, the crestfallen are reduced to uttering empty niceties.
We all know how that feels. But still, there's a point where we, as an audience, slide effortlessly from having empathy for such characters to having an indescribable urge to kick their asses. Instead of relating, or rifling through our own sad memories to look for points of comparison -- that time we broke down and screamed at our mother like a little kid, those years we committed ourselves to someone who was nearly impossible to live with -- our heads start swimming with old-fashioned recriminations like relics from the '50s: "Would it kill you to smile, Nate?" "Claire, if you can't say something nice, don't say it at all!" "Jesus, David, could you look on the bright side for once?" "Get off your pity potty, George!" "Billy, shut up and take your medicine!" "Rico! Sit up straight and stop mooning over that foolish girl!"
This is why some once-loyal fans of the show have grown frustrated with it, as documented in many "Six Feet Under" forums. Why can't Nate just relax and enjoy his life for once, instead of looking for what's not there? What in the world is Ruth doing, torturing herself by trying to take care of a guy who has never been able to take care of himself? Why can't Claire resist the allure of insanity and build a normal life outside the snare of pretentious, melodramatic egomaniacs?
Still, there are lighter moments -- David, Claire and Nate sneak outside to get high, but don't want their significant others to know; David and Keith drive around with some disturbingly precocious kids who grill them on their sex life. If these characters weren't so knowable and sharp and likable, we might not find their continued insistence on bottling it all up and relying on evasive maneuvers quite so aggravating.
Of course, the very traits that drive us nuts are also what make these characters a lot like the friends, family, and co-workers we deal with every day. No matter what happy sounds they make, their lives can be strange and unpredictable and often sad. The characters of "Six Feet Under" bring to light some deeply disturbing constants in life: that some people will always remain alienated and misguided, that others will always wrestle with addiction or mental illness, that events sometimes occur that we have no control over.
Like the bird that keeps flying back into the house, making all its inhabitants restless and uneasy, there are plenty of struggles that resist simple solutions. Everyone reacts to this bit of helplessness differently: Claire says something snide, David covers his eyes, and Nate swings his broom in a fit of rage. Meanwhile, we viewers at home cringe and will them to leave the damn bird alone already. But the queasy joy of "Six Feet Under" is that it shakes us from the safety of our most comforting beliefs and dearly held notions that everything happens exactly as it should.
