Set in an apocalyptic world, Pluribus, an American post-apocalyptic science fiction television series, offers a welcome take on Darwinian evolution, imagining not just the collapse of society but the radical transformation that follows it. Rather than leaning on familiar post-apocalyptic tropes of scarcity, violence, and survivalism, the series dares to ask a more unsettling question: what happens when humanity doesn’t conflict? The series explores the extremes of utopia, and somehow, the most miserable disdained woman is the only one immune to it. We see what she sees.
In this world, everyone knows everything about everyone. One mind. One faulty genotype can alter the course of the human race. This conceit becomes the show’s philosophical backbone. Privacy, individuality, secrecy — all the things that once defined human complexity — dissolve into a collective consciousness that promises harmony but quietly courts catastrophe. The hive mind isn’t presented as inherently evil; instead, it’s disturbingly efficient, smooth, and eerily peaceful. Conflict no longer erupts outwardly, but it mutates inward, into questions of consent, autonomy, and genetic essentials.
In Pluribus, happiness isn’t the free, blissful paradise one would hope. Instead, it is subservience to a cleverly positioned force. An extreme abundance of happiness becomes a form of tyranny, flattening emotional nuance and erasing dissent. The series smartly challenges the idea that happiness, when engineered and enforced, is necessarily virtuous. What does it mean to suffer in a world that no longer allows sadness? And what happens to empathy when pain is treated as a defect to be corrected?
Rhea Seehorn is a treat to watch as the best-selling author Carol Surka, anchoring the show with a performance that is both razor-sharp and deeply human. Seehorn excels at portraying contradiction: Carol is cynical yet compassionate, withdrawn yet piercingly observant. In a world where emotions have been streamlined into collective contentment, Carol’s misery becomes a form of rebellion. Her grief, anger, and dissatisfaction - emotions once deemed as weaknesses - emerge as vital signals that something has gone terribly wrong. It is an incredibly refreshing angle to take where the makers explore the full spectrum of the human instinct and make a case for why and how even our supposed flaws are our biggest strengths. Like anger, for instance. Often marketed as a setback, it is actually a defense mechanism - the part of us that protects us. But without anger and only happiness, no one wins.
Visually, Pluribus mirrors its themes. The world is clean, softly lit, and deceptively serene - an aesthetic that reinforces the unease. The absence of chaos becomes its own undoing. The direction favors lingering shots and deliberate pacing, encouraging the viewer to sit with discomfort rather than escape it. While some episodes move slowly, the patience feels intentional, reflecting a society that has sacrificed urgency in favor of equilibrium.
Where Pluribus truly succeeds is in its refusal to offer easy answers. The hive mind is not simply a villain, nor is individualism presented as a cure-all. Instead, the show operates in moral gray zones, interrogating the cost of evolution itself. Is suffering an evolutionary flaw - or is it the very thing that propels growth, creativity, and moral choice?
In an era oversaturated with apocalyptic narratives, Pluribus stands out by making its apocalypse quiet, consensual, and eerily benevolent. It’s a show less concerned with the end of the world than with what humanity might willingly become after it. Thought-provoking, unsettling, and anchored by a formidable central performance, Pluribus doesn’t just imagine the future - it questions whether we’re already drifting towards it.
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