Six Feet Under -- of Poop

I dunno. The critics I really like seem to dig on the series finale. Even Heather Havrilesky liked it, and I usually agree with her (in fact, I still agree with her nugget about Sufjan Stevens and REM's "Reckoning"), but I simply must say: I thought it was poop.

Now, those who know and love me know that there is nothing I like more than a series finale. I have watched countless series finales throughout my life, including many finales to shows I never watched or about which I knew very little. Luckily, series finales are often accompanied by thoughtful reflections on their legacy (or lack thereof) in various entertainment-related publications, many of which I devour either whilst lying in bed (the yummy tasty actual-dead-trees print version of Entertainment Weekly,) or when I should be writing scripts for spots about Breaking Bonaduce (anything online). And so I have watched dozens of people say goodbye to their fictional families and friends, and I have seen numerous tearful embraces and nostalgic reflections, and lemme tell you: there's something oh-so-satisfying about finding closure in anything, even if it's just for a fake family I never even cared about.

But, I kinda cared about the Fishers. When Nate died, I was sad because I thought the actors did a fine job with the grieving -- I was empathically sad with them, not sad for them. Good job, actorpeople! Good job, Six Feet Under friends! But this whole final season has been such a slog ... slog, slog, slog, woe-is-me, boohoo, we're never happy. And I was kinda just waiting for it to be over, although now there's even less I want to watch on tv (except for all VH1 content, of course). And I kept hoping everyone was going to die -- I thought maybe Claire kicked it when her hearse crashed, and I thought maybe something totally dramatic would happen to the rest of 'em.

Like maybe they'd all be sitting around the kitchen table and a bomb would go off and they'd all evaporate (and then next year, we could watch the series that I'll develop out of the simply transcendently wonderful video for "We Will Become Silhouettes" -- goddamn, that dessicated peaches moment s-l-a-y-s me. Note to Jared Hess: call me!). Or maybe a giant shark would appear out of nowhere and gobble them down. Anything exciting.

But it was just all just kinda meh. Yay to Claire for setting out to big, scary, city, but all the hit-you-with-a-sledgehammer emotional resolution? David's hugging himself shiznit? And keeping the funeral home, but turning it into a big Queer Eye'd styly-pad? And all of a sudden Keith just wants to be a daddy? And Ruth's doggy daycare? And everything was just so fucking turgid. And, we get it, Nate's dead -- he's the guy who started the show as a shallow, insecure, can't-be-satisfied-with-anything bummer, and he ended the show the exact same way; a five-seasons journey from which he seemingly learned NOTHING -- and yet he's supposed to be this angelic source of peace and solace and serenity? And those insufferable future-flashforwards about everyone's death? Bleeech.

(but, oh look: obits! and episode deconstruction!)
I so would have preferred the giant shark.