28 Days Later

"28 Days Later" might be one of my favorite films. It's definitely my favorite zombie
movie, or maybe I should say "zombie by proxy" movie, since the threatening hordes
are infected by a rage virus, not dead. It's not as politically or satirically ambitious as
George Romero's zombie pictures, but as a visionary piece of pure cinemaa film that,
to paraphrase Roger, is more about how it's about things than what it's aboutI think
it's unbeatable. A classic.
I have no particular reason to sing the movie's praises right now, besides that I watched
it tonight for maybe the twentieth timewith my kids, who'd never seen itand adored
every second. Also, "World War Z" is in theaters right now and in my opinion has maybe
a fiftieth of the aesthetic and emotional impact of "28 Days Later," despite having been
made on a hundred-times bigger budget. The latter is director Danny Boyle's best,
purest, most controlled, economical, and powerful film, dark and violent but ultimately
inspiring in its affirmation of the basic values that keep humankind chugging along even
in the worst of circumstances.
Advertisement
The kidsHannah, almost 16, and James, 9loved the movie, too. I realize I'm not
supposed to show movies like "28 Days Later" to a nine year old, but James is a tough
little guy who's been through a lot in real life, and has never once been scared by a film
that I know of. Movies simply do not scare him, period. Never, ever. They're just pictures
on a screen to him, no more upsetting than the gory paintings he sees in the
Renaissance sections of museums. He just likes to watch movies. Like his sister, and
like me, he admires filmmaking in the way others admire athleticism or musicianship. I
let James see all kinds of things I wasn't allowed to see until I was in middle school, just
as I let Hannah watch things that my own parents would not have let me see at her age,
because my kids know that even though movies can be thrilling and moving, they aren't
real in the way that life is.
We watch movies together attentively and with humorparticularly action films, silly
comedies and horror pictures/thrillers. It's nourishing. This viewing was a lot of fun.
The scene in the tunnel made the kids laugh with excitement. James hoped the rats that
stampeded past Brendan Gleeson's car were zombie rats, and was mildly disappointed
that they weren't. He was sad when the dad got infected by the rage virus, but thought
he was stupid to bang that fence with that bloody corpse at the top of it. The boy's
response to the father's death was heartening for me. I found the scene so upsetting,
despite having seen it many times before, that it nearly moved me to tears. The
prospect of losing one's humanity before one's child in a heartbeatto use the film's
key phraseis to terrible to contemplate.
At one point James said, "This doesn't feel like a zombie movie." That's a big part of the
reason I like it, actually, even though I love zombie movies. About midway through,
James said, "I like that it's a disease and the people aren't dead. It's more interesting."
When that smeary shot of the multicolored flower fields came up, Hannah said, "Van
Gogh."
It's a deeply romantic film, I think, weird as that might sound. The main love story is as
unsentimental as a love story can be, but powerful because it evolves out of
circumstances. It underlines that there is more to survival than survival itself. You have
to want to survive so that you can keep experiencing things like love, friendship, family,
food, drink, the sun on your face. You have to love the world to want to survive. You
have to be positive to wish to live as long as you can. You have to will yourself to
imagine the future, even if you think there won't be one.
Advertisement
The climax of the filmthat five-minute action sequence in the military-controlled
mansion, with the pouring rain and the red-eyed infected screaming and howling and
tearing people up, scored to "In a Heartbeat"is a flat-out amazing piece of precision
filmmaking, with every shot and cut counting for something. It reminds me quite a bit of
the mountaintop battle that concludes Michael Mann's "The Last of the Mohicans," and I
would not be hugely surprised to learn that director Danny Boyle modeled it on that
sequence. The hero's kicker line ("that was longer than a heartbeat") is one of the most
romantic lines in any movie.
I told them the kids that our mutual friend Dean, to whom I showed the film about three
years ago, and who is deeply religious, said he felt the presence of God in the movie,
and that God was sad. He said he'd never felt that way about a horror film before, and
he'd seen quite a few. James had no idea what to make of that story, but Hannah said,
"That's a strange thing to say, but I think I know what he means."
At the very end of the film, I told James, "Did you recognize that main guy? He was
Scarecrow in "Batman Begins."" James said, "I didn't recognize him. He must be a good
actor."

Roger Ebert
Activists set lab animals free from their cages--only to learn, too late, that they're
infected with a "rage" virus that turns them into frothing, savage killers. The virus quickly
spreads to human beings, and when a man named Jim (Cillian Murphy) awakens in an
empty hospital and walks outside, he finds a deserted London. In a series of astonishing
shots, he wanders Piccadilly Circus and crosses Westminster Bridge with not another
person in sight, learning from old wind-blown newspapers of a virus that turned
humanity against itself.
Advertisement
So opens "28 Days Later," which begins as a great science fiction film and continues as
an intriguing study of human nature. The ending is disappointing--an action shoot-out,
with characters chasing one another through the headquarters of a rogue Army unit--but
for most of the way, it's a great ride. I suppose movies like this have to end with the
good and evil characters in a final struggle. The audience wouldn't stand for everybody
being dead at the end, even though that's the story's logical outcome.
Director Danny Boyle ("Train-spotting") shoots on video to give his film an immediate,
documentary feel, and also no doubt to make it affordable; a more expensive film would
have had more standard action heroes, and less time to develop the quirky characters.
Spend enough money on this story, and it would have the depth of "Armageddon." Alex
Garland's screenplay develops characters who seem to have a reality apart from their
role in the plot--whose personalities help decide what they do, and why.
Jim is the everyman, a bicycle messenger whose nearly fatal traffic accident probably
saves his life. Wandering London, shouting (unwisely) for anyone else, he eventually
encounters Selena (Naomie Harris) and Mark (Noah Huntley), who have avoided
infection and explain the situation. (Mark: "OK, Jim, I've got some bad news.") Selena, a
tough-minded black woman who is a realist, says the virus had spread to France and
America before the news broadcasts ended; if someone is infected, she explains, you
have 20 seconds to kill them before they turn into a berserk, devouring zombie.
Advertisement
That 20-second limit serves three valuable story purposes: (a) It has us counting "12 ...
11 ... 10" in our minds at one crucial moment; (b) it eliminates the standard story device
where a character can keep his infection secret; and (c) it requires the quick elimination
of characters we like, dramatizing the merciless nature of the plague.
Darwinians will observe that a virus that acts within 20 seconds will not be an efficient
survivor; the host population will soon be dead--and along with it, the virus. I think the
movie's answer to this objection is that the "rage virus" did not evolve in the usual way,
but was created through genetic manipulation in the Cambridge laboratory where the
story begins.
Not that we are thinking much about evolution during the movie's engrossing central
passages. Selena becomes the dominant member of the group, the toughest and least
sentimental, enforcing a hard-boiled survivalist line. Good-hearted Jim would probably
have died if he hadn't met her. Eventually they encounter two other survivors: A big,
genial man named Frank (Brendan Gleeson) and his teenage daughter Hannah (Megan
Burns). They're barricaded in a high-rise apartment, and use their hand-cranked radio to
pick up a radio broadcast from an Army unit near Manchester. Should they trust the
broadcast and travel to what is described as a safe zone? The broadcast reminded me
of that forlorn radio signal from the Northern Hemisphere that was picked up in post-A-
bomb Australia in "On the Beach." After some discussion, the group decides to take the
risk, and they use Frank's taxi to drive to Manchester. This involves an extremely
improbable sequence in which the taxi seems abler to climb over gridlocked cars in a
tunnel, and another scene in which a wave of countless rats flees from zombies.
Those surviving zombies raise the question: How long can you live once you have the
virus? Since London seems empty at the beginning, presumably the zombies we see
were survivors until fairly recently. Another question: Since they run in packs, why don't
they attack one another? That one, the movie doesn't have an answer for.
The Manchester roadblock, which is indeed maintained by an uninfected Army unit, sets
up the third act, which doesn't live up to the promise of the first two. The officer in
charge. Maj. Henry West (Christopher Eccleston) invites them to join his men at one of
those creepy movie dinners where the hosts are so genial that the guests get
suspicious. And then... see for yourself.
Advertisement
Naomie Harris, a newcomer, is convincing as Selena, the rock at the center of the
storm. We come to realize she was not born tough, but has made the necessary
adjustments to the situation. In a lesser movie, there would be a love scene between
Selena and Jim, but here the movie finds the right tone in a moment where she pecks
him on the cheek, and he blushes. There is also a touching scene where she offers
Valium to young Hannah. They are facing a cruel situation. "To kill myself?" Hannah
asks. "No. So you won't care as much." The conclusion is pretty standard. I can
understand why Boyle avoided having everyone dead at the end, but I wish he'd had the
nerve that John Sayles showed in "Limbo" with his open ending. My imagination is just
diabolical enough that when that jet fighter appears toward the end, I wish it had
appeared, circled back--and opened fire.
But then I'm never satisfied. "28 Days Later" is a tough, smart, ingenious movie that
leads its characters into situations where everything depends on their (and our)
understanding of human nature.

The Crown
At the beginning of The Crown, I wrote about my frustration that the series often places
Elizabeth inside a narrative framed by men. In the episodes since, weve seen Elizabeth
working within, being influenced by, and generally stuck in a hypermasculine world. Of
course, thats just history: Elizabeth has been operating within a male sphere her entire
life.
But there are other ways to tell this story, which is something The Crown has failed to
do on a number of fronts. A story can be about a masculine world without necessarily
re-creating the power dynamics of that world. A scene that depicts Princess Margarets
terribly uninformed speech about British imperialism in Africa doesnt also have to
suggest the same basic orientation in the series as a whole. For the most part, though,
The Crown has avoided many of those missteps. The more of Elizabeth we see the
more she grapples with the issues shes inherited, the media, and her family the
better this story gets. The series is especially strong when it depicts Elizabeths self-
abnegation as a choice, as a point of agency. Its hard to make someones inaction look
like a willful act, and The Crown has done so remarkably well.
But then we get an episode like Assassins, which knits together a lot of appealing stuff
in a way that I still wish it wouldnt. Lithgows performance of Churchill is pretty much
everything you could want. He bounces nimbly from nostalgia to fury, alternately raging
against the unavoidable ravages of age and sinking into them with resignation. His
portrait sittings are themselves a fascinating portrait, and you can watch his face shift
from politeness to reluctance, then into sorrow and anger. The whole business with
Churchills obsession with painting the goldfish pond and his grief for his daughter is
done well, too. The most important aspect comes through clearly: Churchill couldnt
understand his own preoccupation with the pond, a reminder that others see us much
better than we do. Its a pretty nice sequence.
It would have been an excellent sequence for a series about the life of Winston
Churchill, or Churchills latter days, or the prime-ministership, or maybe even Parliament
after World War II. It is not particularly effective as a portrait of the monarchy, or
Elizabeth, or even a broader portrait of leadership. And it takes up a huge chunk of this
episode, occupying a great deal more space than Churchills relationship with Elizabeth.
The thematic relationships are there, I suppose. The Crown is all about the transition
from one outdated paradigm into something more modern, and much of this season has
focused on Elizabeths struggle to take up the mantle of an ancient tradition that doesnt
fit a modern context. Churchill is a dinosaur. We already had an entire episode about
him realizing hes well past his prime, although The Crown needed to literally kill a bright
young woman to bring him to this revelation. (R.I.P., Venetia Scott, by the way. Weve
heard nothing at all about her since, even in this episode designed almost entirely
around Churchills self-reflection.)
You could say that this is just padding. The Crown is a lengthy series about a monarch
whose primary action is choosing to do very little, so yeah. Theyve got to find
something to fill the time.
Except the problem also lies in how The Crown chooses to spend its time. While
Churchill sits there in an easy chair, ruminating on saving the free world and grief and
how the future belongs to the young, Elizabeths story is about her friendship with
Porchey, who runs her stables and always had a crush on her. She has a successful
racehorse, Aureole, and now she needs to decide whether to continue his racing career
or put him out to stud. Shes close to Porchey; she clearly likes that they meet on equal
grounds intellectually, and that he treats her as a human. Philip, ever threatened by
Elizabeths status as the more powerful one in the marriage, frets that she and Porchey
are more than friends.
This prompts a blowup, which hilariously comes to a head in a scene where Aureole
gets it on with his very first lady-friend horse. (Its a weirdly popular year for horse sex
on TV.) We learn about Philip and Elizabeths big argument inside their car after the
fact, as a silent montage, while Churchill burns the Sutherland painting he hates so
much. What we do get is Elizabeth, in full formal get-up all ready to go to Churchills
retirement dinner at Downing Street, stalking regally over to Philip and stating her
position. Porchey is a friend, and although marriage to him might have been easier, and
although no one actually wanted her to marry Philip, she has only ever loved him. When
she asks if he can say the same about her, he has no answer.
Allow me to summarize: While Churchills story is about his dignity, his futile fury with
the irreversible destruction of time, his increasing irrelevance in a changing world, and
the selfs inability to see itself Elizabeths story is about her love life. Again. Its not
even a story about the more interesting gender dynamics and power imbalances that
the era would indicate, although that is all embedded in Philips incredibly unattractive
insecurity. Its about whether Elizabeth regrets marrying Philip, and whether he cheats,
and whether she does. Forgive me if I am uninspired.
In any event, the painting is revealed. Churchill hates it. Even after he stares at it and
comes to see the truth, he cannot stand to accept the vision of himself it represents, and
he burns it outside his house at Chartwell. This is a slight departure from the probable
history of the painting Churchill did hate it, and it was destroyed. Its unlikely that he
burned it himself; either Clementine Churchill did it or her secretary did it at her
suggestion. Its not clear if it was destroyed before or after his death, but the painting is
certainly gone.
So thats episode nine, and the season only has one more chance to make me feel like
Philip is a figure who deserves any goodwill at all. On a broader note: It feels a little odd
to be recapping a costume drama about the English royal family at a time when the real
world can feel like its falling to pieces. Of course, television can be a comfort or an
escape, something that helps you feel good when its otherwise hard to do. I hope this
relatively stakes-free Netflix show can do that for you.
But if youre looking for something else, its worth noting that The Crown is not entirely
divorced from some incredibly pertinent issues. Most significantly, the series grapples
with how media changes what we look for in leadership. Its about how a leader looks
chilly and distant when we see her on TV. Watch The Crown for the escapism and the
visual pleasure, if youd like. But also watch for what it tells us about individuality,
representation, and the things we find entertaining versus the things we actually need in
a leader.
And horse sex, I guess. You can also watch it for the horse sex.

In this episode of The Crown, there are a number of wincingly tetchy scenes of the
Queen (Claire Foy)and the Duke of Edinburgh (Matt Smith) arguing. One of these
depicts the pair sitting in scowling silence in a Land Rover and takes on the quality of a
still-life painting. Otherwise, and perhaps its for the better, the Queen makes only
fleeting appearances in a penultimate episode that is unusual in being a kind of play
within a play.
John Lithgow as Churchill, with Clair Foy as the Queen Credit: Alex Bailey/Netflix
The focus of this episode is squarely on the ageing Winston Churchill (John Lithgow).
His rage against the dying of his vitality, and the inevitable end of a world-bestriding
career, is perfectly encapsulated by writer Peter Morgan in the story of how the Prime
Minister took bitter umbrage at his 80th birthday portrait by the British modernist
Graham Sutherland (One wonders whether it was inspired by a similarly spellbinding
account in Simon Schamas series on portraiture The Face of Britain).
Morgan paints a delicious portrait of both men, but especially of Churchill as a political
giant who was always as capable of pettiness as magnificence, and whose finer
feelings were perhaps buried behind the mask of his own greatness. One scene in
particular in which Sutherland (Stephen Dillane) breaks through Churchills defences
and forces him to acknowledge a vulnerability of which even he is not aware while
doubtless fictional is a superb piece of writing and a magnificent act of portraiture in
itself, even if the soundtracks layering on of an extract from Purcells King Arthur is a
little bit too portentous.
Stephen Dillane as Sutherland, with John Lithgow as Churchill Credit: Alex Bailey/Netflix
If this is an indication of how the series will continue another ten episodes have been
commissioned, which at this rate take us forward only to the mid-Sixties then hurrah
for that. Because if The Crown confirms anything about the Queens life especially as
seen through the frustrated eyes of our fictionalised Phillip it is that while monarchy
has undoubted fascinations and periods of turmoil, for the most part it is a fairly
undramatic round of flag and hand waving. The historic events in which The Queen is
involved and to which she is witness, as well as the powerful people she encounters,
are what, hopefully, will continue to guarantee the series dramatic force..

By Caroline Siede @carolinesiede

What I like best about The Crown is that I never have any idea what to expect when I
click the play next button. The show hasnt settled into any kind of pattern in terms of
scope, subject matter, or tone; episodes can vary from opulent historical recreations to
intimate romances. I clicked on Assassins half-expecting a dramatic retelling of an
assassination attempt Id never heard about. Instead the episode offers a poignant
character study. Binge-watching can sometimes feel like a slog, especially as you get
towards the end of a series. But The Crowns mini-movie structure keeps the binge-
watching experience fresh throughout.
Which isnt to say that The Crown is entirely episodic. Assassins brings to a head two
storylines that have been percolating since the shows premiere: the decline of Winston
Churchills career and the unhappiness of Elizabeths marriage. Both work well, the
Churchill stuff especially so, although they feel more like two stories running in parallel
than two halves of one whole. Though both plots touch on themes of restlessness,
regret, and accusations, they just dont quite hang together as much as I mightve liked.
But, hey, we get to watch Elizabeth host a weird version of The Bachelor: Horse Edition,
which is fun. The success of her champion thoroughbred Aureole and her decision to
turn him into a stud horse brings her into contact with Porchey (Joseph Kloska), a family
friend and the man many expected her to marry. Given how close they appear to be
here, its a little odd that Porchey hasnt been a presence on this show before. But
Kloska is instantly likable in a sheepish sort of way and he offers a glimpse into the life
Elizabeth might have led.
Porchey and Elizabeth are incredibly well matched. Theyre both a little introverted, a
little awkward, and deeply obsessed with horses. To put it in Jane Austen terms, they
wouldve been a Jane and Bingley couple: slightly boring but always happy. But
Elizabeth wanted a dashing Darcy, not a bland Bingley. So she wound up in a marriage
thats passionate but complicated.
In the first few episodes, the show balanced out Philips arrogance with a dose of charm
(like making Elizabeth smile during their wedding vows). But lately hes just become an
unrepentant asshole. He whines about every royal duty, spends all his time boozing it
up with his friends, andas Margaret noteshas other passions in his life too (the
show takes a vague stance on what exactly that entails). And worst of all, despite his
own unscrupulous behavior, he cant stand even an ounce of perceived impropriety from
Elizabeth. He lashes out like a petulant, cruel teenager at the warm friendship between
Porchey and his wife. And it continues to be infuriating to watch Elizabeth have to put up
with such a terrible partner.
But while many of the beats of Philips bad behavior feel slightly repetitive, the episode
clarifies one particular point: Elizabeth doesnt stay in her rocky marriage just for
proprietys sake, she stays because shes genuinely in love with Philip. We dont hear
their screaming match in the car, but we do see Elizabeths response later in the
evening. Mustering all of her stately composure, she tells Philip that hes the only man
shes ever loved. He can only stay silent when she asks if he can say the same.
Like most things on The Crown, the Porchey/Elizabeth/Philip story is beautifully acted,
with a gorgeous attention to period details and fascinating insights into the world of
horses Elizabeth loves so much. But it also feels more like a plateau than a rise in the
action. Thankfully, thats not the case with Churchills half of the episode, which is
maybe my favorite thing this show has done yet. While Elizabeths story mostly
emphasizes things we already know, the Churchill storyline is a revelation.
As a gift for his 80th birthday, Parliament commissions a new portrait of Churchill. And
that brings the Prime Minister in contact with Graham Sutherland (Stephen Dillane), a
modern artist whos far more interested in capturing Churchills true self than he is in
flattering the British icon. What unfolds is essentially a tightly scripted play in which the
two men engage in a complicated verbal dance as Churchill sits for Sutherlands
sketches. So far The Crown has asked us to consider Churchill as a larger-than-life
statesman and a bullheaded politician, but this is the first time weve really been asked
to consider him as a human being too.
On paper, theres a lot about the story that shouldnt work because its so on-the-nose.
Yet in practice theres an ineffable combination of performance and visuals that allow it
to rise above trite tropes into remarkably effective storytelling. (That much of it unfolds
without underscoring helps too.) The big emotional set piece is Churchills realization
that he keeps painting the goldfish pond on his property not because its a technical
challenge, but because it reminds him of his daughter Marigold, who died when she was
only two years old. The revelation speaks to the power of art to convey things we cant
put into words. And while having The Crown put that into words shouldnt work, it
somehow does.
It helps that both actors are at the top of their games. Dillane (probably best known as
Stannis from Game Of Thrones) gives an incredibly reserved performance that
nevertheless conveys how invested Sutherland is in both his art and in Churchill. Dillane
resists the urge to match Lithgow at his larger-than-life level and turns in a performance
thats memorable precisely for how un-showy it is.
Lithgow, meanwhile, offers his most layered performance to date on this show. Ive
always appreciated his willingness to embrace the grotesque, comical sides of Churchill
without turning him into a full on caricature (although hes edged close to it at times).
But here he finally allows Churchills vulnerability to come to the forefront. And as with
the Queen Mother, its remarkably effective to hold off on revealing that depth until so
late in the series; it forces us to recontextualize everything thats come before.
The other on-the-nose idea that works far better than it has any right to is the fact that
Sutherlands portrait finally forces Churchill to grapple with his own frailty. He expects to
see himself depicted as a steadfast war hero, which is the self-image Churchill so
desperately clings to in his mind. Instead he gets a portrait of an aging old man. Its
incredibly literal, but theres also an air of truth in it: Who among us hasnt been jolted to
see an unflattering photo of ourselves someone unkindly posted on Facebook? Our
mental self-images are rarely as honest as a camera or a paintbrush. And being forced
to confront that is enough to make Churchill finally agree to step down from his position,
even if he cant forgive Sutherland for what he perceives as a vicious character
assassination.
Both Churchill and Elizabeth do some serious self-reflection in Assassins and neither
of them are particularly pleased with what they see. Churchill leaves his position on his
own terms, but it still feels like a defeat. Elizabeth stays in her marriage for love, but that
feels like a defeat too. Yet in true British fashion, they both compartmentalize their
sorrow behind a (mostly) stiff upper lip. Art may lay bare the truth for all to see, but
people seldom do.

Stray observations

I initially read the final scene as Clementine watching her

husband have the painting burned, but Wikipedia has informed me that in
real-life it was Clementine (or one of her assistants) who actually destroyed
the portrait. Im not sure if I misread the last scene or if theres supposed to
be some ambiguity in it.
Speaking of Clementine, Harriet Walter continues to give one of
my favorite supporting performances on this show. Despite her limited screen
time, Clementine really feels like a vibrant, three-dimensional character.
 I didnt think I was particularly invested in the Churchill/Elizabeth
friendship, but their final meeting and her toast at the dinner party both made
me tear up.
As in Act Of God, The Crown again does a remarkable job of
demonstrating the way Churchill is able to wipe away all of his flaws with a
charismatic speech.
Between The Crown and Silicon Valley, I really didnt expect to
watch so much horse sex on TV this year.
I want a reaction gif of Elizabeth involuntarily shaking her head at
the TV as Churchill lightly mocks his portrait.
I still maintain that Eden and Churchill are in love.
I figured out why I liked Elizabeths last dress so much:

Girls
In the final episode of HBOs Girls, Hannah Horvath and her mother, Loreen, get into an
argument. Its not the same argument they had in the very first episode of this now
concluded series, when Loreen said she would no longer provide Hannah with financial
support. But in a way, it is. Several years later, Loreen is still trying to make her
daughter realize that she needs to take responsibility for herself, and, now that shes a
mother, for the obligations that come with raising her newborn son.
I dont understand why youre yelling at me while Im in emotional pain, Hannah says,
not quite whining but definitely steering toward it as her mother tears into her.
You know who else is in emotional pain? Loreen asks.
Hannah: Who?
Loreen: Fucking everyone! For their whole lives!
This is one of those Girls moments that people may be inclined to cite as an example of
how the show skewered millennials, those allegedly fragile creatures who, like Hannah,
disintegrate when every ball in life fails to land right in their strike zones. But its also a
scene in which a parent is just trying to knock some sense into a child who is inclined to
throw punches and blame right back. (When Loreen asks if the last few years of being a
mother have looked easy to Hannah, Hannah coldly responds, Maybe they would if
youd chosen a husband who wasnt gay and who actually loved you. Then I would
know what an actual functional family looked like and I wouldnt be up here with Marnie
acting like that was normal. Good lord, Hannah.)
As atypical of Girls as last nights finale may have felt we were not only well outside
of Brooklyn in this one, but also stripped down to just three familiar faces, with a baby
named Grover and extensive talk of breast feeding added to the mix that scene and
the themes the episode addressed were very much in keeping with the shows narrative
approach.
Girls may always be remembered for capturing the 20-something experience or at
least, the 20-something experience for a very specific slice of that demographics
population during the 2010s. And honestly, it should be remembered for that. This
was a show about women in their immediate post-college years trying to get by in the
very specific New York of the Obama era: one where a lot of young people had migrated
to Brooklyn; a creakily recovering economy made unpaid internships and reliance on
financial support from parents the norm; and reputations as well as careers were built
using digital tools, like Twitter and e-books.
What tends to get lost when we talk about Girls is the notion that the series was also a
simple coming-of-age story about one womans long, still incomplete journey toward
realizing that the world is bigger than she is, which is unlike other coming-of-age stories.
While it may not have captured the complete breadth and diversity of its generation or of
New York, it dealt with a variety of classic issues relationship problems, career
uncertainty, friendships that become fragile even though they once appeared to have
been built out of bedrock for a group of people that, over time, extended beyond
Hannah. The concerns of characters like Elijah, Ray, or Loreen and Tad, Hannahs
parents, were explored more closely as the seasons progressed in a way that reflects
how ones world view widens slowly very slowly if youre Hannah or Marnie when
a young adult transitions into an actual adult.

Theres a scene in the series finale of Girls where Hannah sits in a bathtub, entirely
nude. Shes talking to her mother, Loreen, who sits next to her on the toilet while
Hannah washes herself; they talk about how hard breastfeeding is, and the physical
recovery from childbirth, and all of Hannahs fears about becoming a mother. She wants
to breastfeed her son so that he can be successful in life, and shes immensely worried
that shes going to transmit all of her flaws to her son Im mentally ill, Im overweight,
I isolate people, Im a quitter. Breastfeeding feels like the best, most important thing
she can do for him, and shes failing at it.
All the while, as Hannah enumerates her many fears and frustrations about new
parenthood and the pain of postpartum recovery, Hannahs mother performs physical
acts of parenting. Loreen hands her a towel as Hannah gets out of the tub, and then
takes the towel and gives Hannah a bathrobe. No one understands! Hannah spits, as
Loreen follows her into the bedroom, helping Hannah fasten her bra. Mom, I buckle my
bra every day, Hannah tells her, before continuing, but just do it. For a second.
Loreen does, and then helps Hannah with her pants.
As season six has followed Hannahs pregnancy, the show has been oddly silent about
one of Girls most beloved thematic preoccupations there was ample discussion of
what Hannah wants in her life, whether to tell the father of her child, what kind of career
decisions she should make, what friendships have ended up being real and which are
destined to end. There was almost no discussion of the physicality of pregnancy. It was
a weird absence, especially given Hannahs regular attention to her own body and the
series reliance on that body as a storytelling tool. This is the person we watched crouch
next to a train station and wince in pain while urinating with a UTI, and yet her
experience of pregnancy passed with barely a mention.
With the series finale, and with this scene between Hannah and her mother more
specifically, the body comes back into focus. Pregnancy may have been weirdly
incorporeal on Girls, but the finale gives us postpartum bodily concerns full force.
Hannah stands on her front porch, hooked up to a breast pump backpack, with milk
spilling regularly into the tiny bottles. Shes looking forward to the time when her butt
and her vagina go back to feeling like separate entities, Hannah tells her mother. Shes
still bleeding. Her nipples feel like iguana skin.
This bathroom/dressing scene between Hannah and Loreen, and the sequence that
follows as Loreen storms after Hannah through the house, gives us a frame for all the
tension thats been swirling around the finale thus far. Hannah and Marnies
codependent relationship, and Hannahs not particularly passive-aggression, come into
focus against the two-pronged force of Loreen as a parent. She chides Hannah, she
scolds, she yells, shes furious and patronizing and harsh; at the same time, she bathes
and clothes Hannah like a mother caring for her very young child.
The shape of that scolding is a mirror for its content; Loreen tries to parent Hannah
physically and emotionally, while delivering a discourse on the physical and
psychological elements of parenthood. She tells Hannah about her own struggle with
breastfeeding, and that it wont matter whether Grover drinks nice, postwar formula.
She rails at Hannah for behaving as though her son is a temp job she can quit, or a
phone number she can delete. The finale stretches here a little Loreens
admonishments come off as perhaps overly harsh, and more rooted in the Hannah of
the previous seasons than in the evidence we see of her as a parent within the episode.
It doesnt much matter, though. The pinnacle of the argument, and the point of it, is
Hannah screaming at her mother that no one can possibly understand. Its Hannah
Horvath distilled, presented with direct evidence of her own mothers mothering but
incapable of seeing those exact same circumstances as the ones driving her own life,
hilariously and infuriatingly myopic.
Except before, Girls has always presented this element of Hannah as funny and also
somewhat ambiguous shes self-centered, sure, but on the other hand, maybe no
one really does quite understand what shes going through. Here, in the finale, the self-
absorbed Hannah we see through the frame of Loreens parenting is no longer
someone who can keep floating through the series, unmoored and perpetually starting
over. Shes stuck, Loreen reminds her. She chose this, and shes stuck with it. And so
the finale becomes a final boss battle of egotism versus selflessness, a rumble in
upstate New York that will either end in Hannah accepting her responsibility and identity
as parent, or being branded as that most horrible thing inside fiction and without: a Bad
Mom.
The finality of this the sense that were watching Hannah jump through what will be
the last, most important fiery hoop of self-actualization is maybe the element of the
finale that most betrays itself. The shows sixth season has been remarkable, but its
weakness has been the necessity of leapfrogging Hannah through several massive life
events without allowing her much time for the best, most interesting parts of Girls: The
moments where she backslides. The finale is that problem encapsulated. In a series
about how we are never fully grown, about how all achievements and paradigm shifts
come with some regression, the finale is stuck with the burden of finality, something that
feels intrinsically un-Girls-like. It mitigates that sense a little by retaining Hannahs
petulance even after she seems to make the turn into accepting herself as parent. It
does not attempt to persuade us that life will now be sunshine and roses for her. Still,
the sense of conclusiveness looms, tying everything into a bow that feels a little too neat
(or maybe its a lactating nipple folded into a suddenly too-perfect envelope).
But the shape of how this final boss battle takes form the way it loops selfhood and
parenting and ideas of success and failure through the frame of the body feels
completely in keeping with what Girls has been from the start. That scene between
Hannah and her mother, with Hannahs breasts dangling while she yells irritably that
shes still bleeding, with Loreen simultaneously clothing her and trying to dismantle her,
is all of the complexity and frustration of being a person and a parent all mixed up
together. Its being reduced to the physical while also trying to confront the way
physicality is mysteriously and variably linked to how we think about ourselves as
people. Its the universal and the individual all rubbing up against one another. No one
understands! shouts Hannah, and shes perfectly wrong and absolutely right. Its her
body, and her son. And its also her mother, chasing after her, trying to care for her
daughter, with her body.
The Girls finale is sometimes frustrating. Its too aware of its own symmetry, and in its
haste to leap forward with Hannah into the future, its gestures toward conclusion feel
precisely that a bit hasty. Its strength, though, is in the specificity and messy
universality of the sequence with Hannah and Loreen. Its human and vulnerable and
angry and wry and defiantly naked. And the promise it makes for Hannahs future is the
one that feels truest, and most like what Girls is about. Try not to worry too much about
whats happening at this precise moment, Loreen tells her daughter, because things
will get so much harder that you wont even remember this part. I hope so, Hannah
replies.