Content warning: this article contains spoilers for season one of Apple TV’s “Pluribus.”
5/5
We are often told that the ultimate goal of humanity is peace. We spend generations striving for a world without war, hunger and the petty interpersonal conflicts that drain our energy. But what if we actually got what we wanted? And what if that price tag was the very thing that makes us human?
This is the terrifying, hilarious, yet deeply philosophical question posed by Pluribus, the latest masterwork from Vince Gilligan — the author of other popular series such as Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul — which premiered late last year on Apple TV. In a television landscape currently obsessed with post-apocalyptic wastelands and zombie survivalists, Pluribus dares to present us with the opposite: a post-apocalyptic paradise. And it makes a compelling, beautiful argument for why we should want to burn that paradise to the ground.
The storyline is a masterclass in high-concept irony. In the near future, Earth is not struck by a meteor or a nuclear winter, but by an airborne alien neurovirus. This virus is unique: it doesn’t kill, but instead it connects. Within weeks, 99.9 per cent of the human population is linked into a serene, conflict-free hive mind. The “Others” — the collective name for the assimilated — are incapable of violence. They share resources without a second thought. They move with the synchronized grace of a flock of birds. They are unequivocally happy.
And then there is Carol Sturka.
Played by the phenomenal Rhea Seehorn, who finally takes centre stage in a role worthy of her immense talents, Carol is a mid-list novelist in Albuquerque who thrives on cynicism. Through a genetic quirk, she is immune to the virus. While her neighbours hold hands and stare blissfully at sunsets in total silence, Carol is left alone with her anxiety, messy home and writer’s block.
The brilliance of the show’s premise, and why it demands that the audience root against this utopia, is how it reframes happiness as horror. Gilligan uses his signature visual style to paint the “utopia” in terrifyingly bright, saturated colours. The “connected” people aren’t zombies: they are unnervingly polite. They smile too much. They anticipate each other’s needs before they are spoken. It is toxic positivity on a planetary scale.
As viewers, we are conditioned to want characters to find peace. Yet, watching Pluribus, we find ourselves cheering for Carol’s misery. We want her to remain angry, jagged and isolated because her misery is the only authentic thing left on the planet.
The depth of the series comes from its exploration of “friction.” The central thesis of Pluribus is that humanity requires friction like disagreement, sadness, jealousy and ambition, to create traction. Without it, we are just sliding effortlessly toward entropy. In one of the season’s most poignant scenes, Carol attempts to read a new novel written by the hive mind. It is technically perfect, grammatically flawless and utterly devoid of soul. It has no conflict, because the author (the collective humanity) has no conflict. It is boring.
This is why we root against the utopia. We realize that a world without pain is a world without art. If everyone agrees, there is nothing to say. If everyone is content, there is no reason to innovate, to build or to change. The “Others” have achieved the end of history, and it looks a lot like a waiting room where the magazines never change.
Seehorn’s performance anchors these lofty philosophical ideas in dirt and grit. She plays Carol not as a noble resistance leader, but as a difficult person who simply refuses to be smoothed over. She protects her right to be unhappy with the ferocity of a mother bear protecting a cub. There is a profound catharsis in watching her scream at the smiling, assimilated barista because she got her order perfect without her having to ask. She wants the mistake. She wants the human error.
Pluribus challenges the viewer to look at their own desire for a “perfect life.” In an era dominated by algorithms designed to smooth out our edges and feed us only what we want to hear, Pluribus serves as a grim warning. It suggests that our imperfections and our struggles are not bugs in the human operating system — they are features.
By the time the season finale arrives, the stakes feel impossibly high. Carol is not fighting to save the world from destruction; she is fighting to save the world from stagnation. She is fighting for the right to be heartbroken, the right to be wrong and the right to be alone.
Pluribus is essential viewing not just because it is well shot or well-acted, though it is certainly both. It is essential because it is a brave defence of the messy, painful, chaotic experience of being an individual. It forces us to admit that if we had to choose between a perfect world and a human one, we should choose the human one every time — pain, misery and all.