SIX FEET UNDER is about to conclude its series run, and none too soon.
Its first season was new and fresh in its preoccupation with death and mortality and one of the more dysfunctional families on television. The acting was first-rate and the writing sharp.
With the second season I began to lose interest, and I barely watched seasons three and four. I watched this season mainly because it started during a time when I was limited to about 20 channels, one of them being HBO, and the episodes repeat several times during the week.
Increasingly, though, the show has gotten on my nerves. Just at the point when it appeared that the characters might actually have a shot at happiness, *the* main character was killed off and now everything in everyone’s lives is (are?) going to hell.
I perfectly understand that many people in the world are unhappy and that, perhaps, many of them spend much of their time screaming at family members. Why on earth do I need to see this played out if there is no emotional catharsis, or if no genuinely interesting insights are offered?
Instead, we’re swamped with an increasing number of dream sequences and said dead main character spouting tired cynical homilies. It’s all too depressing. It feels like the result of a group of writers sitting in a room cackling to themselves as they dream up ever more nasty repercussions for the characters who’ve made the mistake of living in their imagination for the past few years.
At this point I find myself wishing that all of the characters would die, simply to end their collective misery.
On the other hand, I fervently hope to see all these actors again in other work. Their performances are what entice me to sit through this unhappy-a-thon week after week.