There is a truism that one person‘s heaven is another person‘s hell. I’ve been thinking lately about this claim, and the nature of utopias and dystopias more generally. I’m not the only one. For perhaps obvious reasons, given the current state of the world, there have been a fair number of dystopian stories circulating lately (though, in truth, it seems like these stories are always popular). The most compelling one is Vince Gilligan‘s “Pluribus,” airing on Apple+, in part because, depending on one’s perspective, it could be a utopian or a dystopian story.
Gilligan, who is best known as the creator of both “Breaking Bad” and “Better Call Saul,” two of the best dramas of the 21st century, was brought up Catholic, and although he is no longer practicing, he is still clearly deeply interested in the nature of evil and questions of morality. Religious practice is not really a key part in his fictional worlds (indeed, the complete absence of talk about God by any of the characters in “Pluribus,” given what they all are going through, is distinctly noticeable), but nothing I have watched recently has had me thinking more deeply about spiritual questions.
Actor Rhea Seehorn plays the the main character, Carol Sturka, in “Pluribus.” (Gage Skidmore)
I was initially hesitant to write about the show since going into the first episode knowing nothing about it, and watching it all unfold, was one of the more satisfying hours of television I’ve seen in years, so if any potential readers want to go and watch it without being spoiled, by all means please do so! But I think that knowing what the show is about won’t in any way diminish the experience of watching it; it is incredibly well-made, from the scripts, to the direction and cinematography, to the acting. Rhea Seehorn, who plays the main character, Carol Sturka, is incredible, and she really needs to be, since she carries so much of the show literally on her own. Spoilers ahead!
“Pluribus” is about an alien virus that makes its way to Earth and somehow connects almost every single person on the planet into a hivemind. This process, called “The Joining,” kills close to a billion people while it’s unfolding, but the people who survive and join the hivemind (the Others) profess to be entirely happy to be part of it. They retain, and share, their memories, but have no individuality anymore; they are simply bodies that are part of the collective. But there is now total peace across the world; the survivors cannot lie, cannot harm anyone or anything, and their main desire seems to be to bring pleasure to the handful of people who are immune to the virus.
The first episode, which traces out how this infection arrives and spreads, is the best depiction of an apocalypse since the opening chapters of Stephen King‘s “The Stand.” Once it has spread, there are only 13 people left on the planet who are immune. The show mostly follows Seehorn‘s character Carol, depicting how she responds to being alone and coming to grips with what has happened to the rest of the planet, but it also touches on the few other individuals who remain (and one gets the sense they’ll play larger roles as the show progresses).
Gilligan’s vision of the end of humanity, at least as we know it, looks remarkably like world of John Lennon’s “Imagine”:
Imagine there’s no countries / It isn’t hard to do / Nothing to kill or die for / And no religion, too / Imagine all the people / Livin’ life in peace
You may say I’m a dreamer / But I’m not the only one / I hope someday you’ll join us / And the world will be as one.
But what, for Lennon, is meant as a utopia is, in this reality, sinister (or at least this is how it initially appears to both Carol and to the viewer; this perspective gets complicated as the series progresses). After The Joining, the peace and harmony on offer looks, to me, a lot like the kind of tranquility offered by IT in Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time,”[1] where the evil brain IT uses mind control to enforce conformity throughout the planet of Camazotz. IT tells the heroes of the story, “On Camazotz we are all happy because we are all alike. Differences create problems.” And “Why do you think we have wars at home? Why do you think people get confused and unhappy? Because they all live their own, separate, individual lives. … on Camazotz individuals have been done away with. Camazotz is ONE mind. It’s IT. And that’s why everybody’s so happy and efficient.”
In L’Engle’s novel, no one takes these claims seriously; it is apparent to characters and readers alike that IT is evil. But in “Pluribus” things aren’t so clear-cut; the majority of the survivors think the world is better off now and hope to join the hivemind. One character, Koumba Diabaté (Samba Schutte), is ambivalent about the Others’ claims, but is happy to use their desire to serve and bring pleasure as a way to create his own personal utopia (he assembles a harem of beautiful women and flies around on Air Force One). Carol, who has lost her wife — the only person she seems to have cared about — is not content to seek out personal pleasure or surrender herself to the hivemind. She wants to reverse what has happened. The show continually asks us if she is right to want to do so, and we get less sure week by week (only six of the nine episodes have been released, as of this writing).
After nearly every episode of “Pluribus,” I find myself thinking of Ignatius’ Meditation on the Two Standards, where he asks us to imagine two armies, one for Christ and one for the devil, arrayed against each other. The choice — do we stand with Christ’s values or the world’s — seems obvious, but Gilligan’s apocalypse asks us to reflect on what we truly value. Many of us would say we desire a world of peace, without crime, violence, racism, judgment, division, injustice of any sort. But this is the world of The Joining, which is also a word devoid of personality, individuality, and (perhaps) love and true happiness.
Toward the climax of “A Wrinkle in Time,” IT tells the protagonists, “Nobody suffers here … Nobody is ever unhappy.” To which our heroine Meg replies, “But nobody’s ever happy, either … Maybe if you aren’t unhappy sometimes you don’t know how to be happy.” This seems right to me. It’s a classic Catholic response to the problem of evil — free will in a fallen world entails suffering. But is this truly adequate?
After nearly every episode of “Pluribus,” I find myself thinking of Ignatius’ Meditation on the Two Standards, where he asks us to imagine two armies, one for Christ and one for the devil, arrayed against each other.
Before “Pluribus” was released, the promotional tagline for the show was “the most miserable person on Earth must save the world from happiness.” The show is a wonder because each episode leaves me pondering the nature of happiness (can the Others actually be happy?) and of love (can someone truly love if they are not free to dislike, even loathe, another person?), and wondering if our broken, divided, unjust world is preferable to one that is whole, if the cost for that unity is the erasure of self? And if I say that our fallen world is preferable, is this actually just a selfish choice?
It feels unusual to write a reflection like this before a show finishes airing, since we don’t yet see Gilligan’s full vision; it’s a bit like publishing a book review after reading just the first two-thirds. But I feel pretty evangelical about the show — I find myself recommending it at every opportunity — and I wanted to weigh in on it before we get any real resolutions this season. I like this feeling of being in the middle, having all the questions, and there not being clear answers. I think Gilligan is a smart enough creator to not wrap things up too neatly — the best stories always leave us asking questions long after we’ve finished them — but there is something delightful about finding oneself deep into a story and having no idea where it is going or even who is in the right. True ambiguity can be a gift, so as we move into the Christmas break, I invite you to find the time to share in this one.
[1] I must admit it is likely that this reference came so readily to my mind because the new season of “Stranger Things” is using “A Wrinkle in Time” as a prominent intertextual source; one of the characters is reading the book, another gets his nickname from it, and a future episode of the season is named “Escape from Camazotz,” after the Dark Planet in the book.
Michael O’Connell is a writer, editor and educator who lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Since earning his Ph.D. in American literature from Loyola University Chicago, he has spent over a decade teaching literature and humanities courses at the university level, both online and in person. He is currently the inaugural fellow at the Jesuit Media Lab. You can find more of his reflections on literature, sports, spirituality, and the fleeting nature of beauty at Nothing Gold.
