“The most miserable person in the world must save the world from happiness.”
That’s the logline of the television show of the hour: Vince Gilligan’s new offering, “Pluribus.”
This “happiness” is, of course, not innocently come by or the fruit of human flourishing.
No, it’s aliens!
More specifically, this “happiness” — an external cheerfulness and desire to please — has entered humanity via a virus with a biological imperative to infect us and absorb us into a hive mind with access to every memory and a shared consciousness.
The “most miserable person in the world” is Carol Sturka, played by Rhea Seahorn, the Kim Wexler of Gilligan’s “Better Call Saul.” We enter this world at the very beginning of the infection, witness its gradual, then sudden spread and meet Carol, a misanthropic, rather unpleasant romantic fantasy writer who despises her fans, has contempt for the work that has garnered them, and is convinced she is called to higher things (Gilligan is telling on all of us creative types here).
Carol and a few others have escaped infection, a mystery which the hive mind is determined to solve. In the first few episodes — those that have aired as of this writing — we’re with Carol as she recovers from the loss of her manager and partner, Helen, who dies in the mass-infection event, takes in what is happening and then resolves to resist the so-called “Joining.”
Let’s backtrack a bit.
Even casual observers of the television scene might be puzzled that this high-concept science fiction show that is reminiscent of “The Twilight Zone” and “The X-Files” comes from Gilligan, known and revered for “Breaking Bad” and “Better Call Saul” — dark and comedic shows about anti-heroes, criminals, and shysters.
The truth is, though, that Gilligan’s career began in this space. His first serious job in television was on “The X-Files,” for which, from 1995 to 2002, he wrote 30 episodes. He said in a recent interview: “And if you had told me 25 years ago, I’d be known mostly for writing hard-bitten crime dramas and stories about drug dealing, which I literally know nothing about … I would have said, ‘You’re crazy. I’m going to be a science fiction guy or I’m going to be a light comedy guy.’ ”
So while the content is certainly a switch up from Walter White’s prideful descent and Jimmy McGill’s uneven journey to self-discovery and acceptance, the tone, expertly weaving dramatic tension, character growth and comedy — as well as breathtaking cinematography and long scenes that lovingly detail process and work — mark “Pluribus” as a Gilligan show.
So what is “Pluribus” about? What do the think pieces and Reddit threads say?
The quick and dirty answer is, of course, AI. The “Joined’s” anodyne expressions of support for Carol, its willingness to give her anything she asks for, including, if she really wanted it, an atom bomb, as well as its insensibility to nuance, certainly bring this world of quick, enveloping support to mind. However, although Gilligan is vociferous in his hatred of AI, he also says that he conceived of the concept a decade ago, before the potential and dangers of LLM and AI emerged.
Well then, is it about happiness? About superficial notions of happiness in contrast to authentic peace with oneself? Perhaps, although I’m coming to doubt that.
Despite the show’s logline, I suspect that there’s a lot more to this virus and the mass consciousness it creates. The “happiness” and desire to give Carol all she wants might even express, not the hive mind’s nature, but a defensive act. After all, her rage sends destructive energy on a global level. Keeping Carol happy might be a simple survival mechanism, for, as we see at the end of episode four, titled, “Please, Carol,” the Joined are definitely not smiling any more.
But survival of what? “Pluribus” means “out of many one,” which hints at an endgame that is far less about happiness than about the obliteration of the individual. And that, at least, gives us something to think about, even only halfway through the show’s first season (it’s already been renewed for a second).
Consider the dominant themes of dystopia, or even, honestly, utopian fiction. What is the primary feature of those worlds? Sameness. At times that sameness is enforced by totalitarian entities, sometimes it is chosen, and often it’s a product of both, an entity’s intention and power, and our willingness to pay a price for peace, pleasure, or security.
But it never turns out well, does it? Whether we’re talking about “1984,” “Fahrenheit 451,” “Brave New World,” or the countless other works on the theme, the drama and the appeal of the situation always emerges from resistance. It’s in that one person who rebels against the hive, the World State or Big Brother that we find more than hope: we see the spark of what it means to be human.
We’re drawn into those works because we recognize the battle. We see it every day: What we believe to be our free choices guided by algorithm, but none of those choices with any impact on the behemoths that determine the structures of our lives, purportedly free expression constrained by fear of the mob — whether it be on X or even Nextdoor or the Facebook mom’s group, walking through it all, our eyes fixed on screens.
And so we meet that which seeks to absorb the many into the one, again in “Pluribus.” We side with Carol, for how can we not? We imagine we’re her, but are we? Or are we one of the other few uninfected who respond to her frantic call to “save the world” with the contented response: “Why does the world need saving? At present, the situation seems very nice.”
