Death Becomes Them
by Shelton Hull
In a year defined by vapid, escapist “reality” shows and other slick,
cynical excursions into formula-driven TV, “Six Feet Under” has
distinguished itself by being both very good and very original.
Each show begins with death. A pyramid-schemer smashes his head at the
bottom of a pool; a gangster gets capped for using the wrong payphone; a
porno star is unwittingly electrocuted by her pussy (cat). These abrupt
finishes help establish the arbitrary nature of death, and the universality
of a fate we’re all destined to share. From this point, our focus turns from
the dead to the living, as the deceased’s journey from earth to sub-earth
becomes the backdrop for much deliciously dysfunctional comedy.
The show’s primary location is the Fisher and Sons funeral home, now
controlled by the family’s third generation: sons Nate (Peter Krause) and
David (Michael C. Hall) inherited the business from father Nathaniel
(Richard Jenkins), who died on Christmas Eve. As might be expected, the
brothers are different: Nate is outgoing, laid-back, hyper-erotic, whereas
David is restrained, uptight and still coming to terms with his
homosexuality. David has learned the business at his father’s hand since
childhood, whereas Nate bolted early for some idyllic Seattle
splendor–which leads to early tension when father bequeaths the business in
equal proportion, and neither son can decide who’s supposed to be getting
punished by that arrangement. The kick, of course, is that being forced to
live and work together presents opportunities for bonding previously
unavailable.
The show has five primary characters whose concerns connect, in eerily
seamless fashion, in the scripts written by Oscar-winner Alan Ball
(“American Beauty”). The family matriarch (Frances Conroy) is a moving
picture of life after death: her near-obsessive household ministrations are
laced with moments of “weird” behavior that hint at the psychic turmoil
lurking beneath. But “psychic turmoil” is a phrase easily applicable to any
of these characters. Take daughter Claire (Lauren Ambrose), who is almost
necessarily sardonic, all the time. She always leaves the room when she
becomes the subject, which suggests some discomfort with her basic
reality–although discomfort in funeral homes is probably normal–however
much she obscures her pain with sarcasm. (Watching her try to seduce a
hispanic gangster at his boy’s service is like having straight-pins pressed
into your trapezius muscles.)
Rachel Griffiths (who better have an Emmy by this time next year) plays
Nate’s girlfriend Brenda, a one-night-stand that is quickly evolving into
the country’s most interesting on-screen couple. (Other than Steve Austin
and Vince McMahon, that is!) She’s “scarily brilliant,” sez her beau, with
an IQ of 186 and lines to match. This show thrives on its dialogue. Ball
balances so many disparate elements at once that one wonders how he keeps up
with himself. Maybe it’s reefer, if the steady, nonchalant consumption of
pot is any indication.
Wisdom wafts through the episodes like exhalation in fluorescent light.
David converses with the dead as he embalms them, and Nate talks with the
father he never got to know; these transmissions from the other side (which
are never explained away as merely hallucinatory or dreamlike, leaving open
the door to genuine supernaturality) help the brothers make sense of their
own problems and gets them over as empathetic, not desensitized. Their one
employee is “reconstruction artist” Federico (Freddy Rodriguez), whose pride
in his work seems weird at first, given its morbid nature, but often
validates itself through restoring dignity to those who’ve expired in
particularly gruesome fashion. David’s boyfriend–an LAPD beat cop–bucks
traditional notions of gayness in modern America; affixing a supposed
weakness to such an overtly powerful figure helps underscore how superficial
our delusions of “great perception” really are. And Brenda’s bon mots,
emanating as they do from a woman born to dual-psychiatrist parents, always
seems to fit.
In the end, “Six Feet Under” has much less to do with death than with life,
with the need to find happiness now, because each day that passes without a
firm devotion to yourself and your needs is a day you’ll wish you had–if
you even have time to wish at all–when the End comes.