And then it all ended. The series-ending montage—a six-minute sequence that tied all the show's loose ends into permanent knots—basically turned me into a hysterical Victorian woman: I collapsed on the couch in a near-swoon, sobbing and imagining my own death and the deaths of everyone I have ever known. (I watched it later with the commentary track and had pretty much the same reaction; then I heard a 30-second clip of the montage's background music, Sia's "Breathe Me," and my cheeks almost inverted from the pressure of trying not to cry.) This intensity seemed medium-dependent: Six Feet is less like TV than serialized film, and it benefits more than most shows from feverish immersion. I doubt my reaction would have been quite so strong if I had diluted the drama with a week of real life between every episode. This was my reward for the wait.
(no fair clicking on this link and reading the rest of the article before you've guessed)
1 comment:
I guessed male. The tipoff for me was "...basically turned me into a hysterical Victorian woman."
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