Vince Gilligan is no stranger to creating classic television series. From the addictingly entrancing sci-fi/mystery that is X-Files to the sprawling crime drama/love story Better Call Saul to arguably the most beloved show of all time in Breaking Bad, it seems as though everything he touches turns into gold. Pluribus is an entirely different beast to Gilligan’s previous work, as he takes the goodwill he has acquired over the years and puts it to work here. He trusts the audience to be patient and inquisitive in this slow burn about a surly woman trying to fight for humanity’s individuality who discovers the limits of solitude. Considering some of the reactions this season has garnered, perhaps this trust was misplaced! However, viewers with critical thinking are all the better off with the methodical pace of this show, as we are blessed every week with a 40-minute-long character study masquerading as a grand, concept-heavy science fiction. This is not a show about a hivemind taking over the world, or even an allegory about how AI has seeped its way into our everyday lives. This is a show about what human connection truly means, and it is explored through a character who echoes our inner loneliness. 

Pluribus follows a woman named Carol Sturka (Rhea Seehorn) who is repressed in every sense of the word: she is struggling to find joy in the fantasy series that she launched career off of, bottling up irritation from everyday issues that explodes at all the wrong times, and of course, hiding the fact that she is a married lesbian from the public eye. While these attributes should make her relatable, it is curious how much viewers seem to resent Carol compared to far more morally dubious characters like Walter White and Saul Goodman. I chalk it up to how realistic her flaws are; though you would be hard-pressed to find an egomaniac so desperate to prove his greatness that he becomes a drug kingpin, you almost certainly know someone who uses bitterness as a crutch instead of dealing with their own shortcomings and insecurities. If you somehow don’t know a Carol, you might be her. And if you went through everything she does throughout this series, being a tad difficult to be around would be more than understandable. But empathy aside, it is a testament to how well-crafted of a character she is that regardless of your own personal feelings towards her, the way other characters treat her makes perfect sense. For instance, the divide between Carol and the other survivors leads to some of the show’s most gutting scenes, but it is no wonder that they find the loud-mouthed American who insists on her point of view without ever truly considering another distasteful. However, that same stubbornness can be seen as inspiring determination from the perspective of a character like Manousos Oviedo (Carlos Manuel Vesga), who is perhaps the only person in Pluribus more relentlessly committed to his ideals than Carol. The beauty of this series is that by being a character study of “the most miserable woman in the world”, the relationships she has with every character become reflective and revealing of human nature.

And to that end, no relationship is as crucial as the one Carol shares with the hivemind, who is embodied by Carol’s chaperone and woman of her dreams in Zosia (Karolina Wydra). As standoffish—and reasonably resistant to the idea of the entire population becoming one “happy” consciousness—as Carol is, it is difficult for her to not be charmed by constant attention and validation, especially when the spokesperson for those kind words is the genderswapped version of the fantasy dreamboat she wrote for her bestselling series. Is never-ending praise mind-numbing and ultimately meaningless the more it goes on? Certainly. But despite your better judgment, does it feel nice regardless to be told over and over how valuable and appreciated you are? Of course it does. The way this cognitive dissonance is portrayed in Carol is gripping, especially since she cannot wrap her head around behavior that is an aggregate of the entirety of humanity but displayed by one person that she cannot help but grow attached to as an individual. Carol and the hivemind both seek to change one another, but their fondness of one another is a direct result of the other’s definition of individuality that they are working so hard to dismantle. The hivemind loves Carol for her ability to create new art, a skill that has become lost to them as a result of their amalgamation, while Carol loves the hivemind for their uniform kindness that could never be shown by one standalone person. But tragically, these endearing qualities stem from the one problem they each have with the other’s existence, and the lack of middle ground results in a necessarily mutual manipulation, a tenuous relationship that is destined to crumble. Yet while the honeymoon phase lasts, it makes for compelling television.

My definition of compelling television may differ from that of Pluribus’s core audience, considering my favorite episode of the season, “The Gap”, is the lowest-rated one on IMDb. The common complaint people have with this series is its pacing, as they find the plot’s momentum too gradual. Ironically, I find Pluribus to be a masterclass in intentional pacing. Even the slowest episodes are imbued with purpose; after all, if we found certain events completely enthralling, it would be dishonest to Carol’s own emotional state. The show immerses the audience so deeply into her mentality that when the writing takes a heart-breaking, it is as though a knife has been twisted into your gut. The extreme empathy it has for Carol—and for its more immediately likable but no less flawed deuteragonist Manousos —takes a story that could have been a fascinating hypothetical and transforms it into an honest commentary on what it means to be human.

I have sung the praises of this show’s writing to no end, but equally critical to its success are its performances. Rhea Seehorn delivers one of the best performances of the year as Carol Sturka, coloring this woman’s misery with layers of unspoken hardship. As aforementioned, Carol is a deeply repressed character, but Seehorn ensures her true desires are always visible and threatening to break free, as if the container this woman bottles her emotions tightly up in is made of glass. Seehorn’s eyes convey pain like no other, and while she may do her best to seem outwardly unfazed, the emotional toll the show’s events take on her are reflected in her gestures. And when Seehorn does get to showcase the full extent to what Carol is feeling, she is nothing short of a force of nature. Gilligan has mentioned multiple times that he refused to make Pluribus without Seehorn, and her performance here demonstrates why that insistence was no personal favor: the bulk of the show’s emotional resonance rests on her shoulders, and Seehorn more than rises to the occasion. She is hilariously sharp, devastatingly restrained, and undeniably born to play Carol Sturka. 

While Seehorn is such a strong presence that any scene partner may feel daunted, Wydra is just as much of a revelation as Zosia. Portraying a cheerful composite of the human race is a thankless task; she must be personable considering her personality results from billions of people, but she cannot be individual. She is no longer a human being with her own goals and aspirations, but a representative of the goals and aspirations of the collective. But with her genuine smile, unflappable positivity, and unnerving reminders that she is not one person, Zosia is imbued with an off-putting charm that captivates both Carol and the audience. Wydra’s dynamic with Seehorn is electric, and when she is off-screen, she is sorely missed.

The final key component to Pluribus’s greatness is none other than Carlos Manuel Vesga. Manousos has little dialogue compared to his actual screen-time, but we know just as much about who this man is because of both the nuanced writing and Vesga’s subtle portrayal. Out of any actor here, Vesga’s physicality is the most essential to the characterization of his role. We go through hell and back alongside Manousos, and thanks to his performance, we are endeared to just how committed he is to his “wish to save the world”. The ways his ideals parallel those of Carol and of the hivemind allow the show to pose thoughtful questions about what strength of will looks like and to what extent that steadfastness is justified. Though his narrative relevance may not have been apparent from his introduction, Manousos is essential to the success of Pluribus. 

Ultimately, you will not find a more breathtakingly original or more stubbornly focused show on television than Pluribus. There is naturally an abundance of quality series if you know where to look, and I optimistically maintain that the medium of television remains exciting. However, in an age of entertainment where the mindless regurgitation of the same handful of concepts is rampant, Gilligan, Seehorn, and everyone involved in the making of Pluribus have granted us the immense privilege of watching the genesis of one of the next great television series. There is so much to love about this show, from its striking visual style—no shows capture landscapes quite like Gilligan shows—to its entrancing score to its ambitious scope. It is not always an easy watch, but if you are willing to sit with its characters rather than see it as some kind of mystery to be solved, Pluribus will be one of the most worthwhile shows you will see in recent memory. Like much of Gilligan’s resumé, it is nothing short of an instant classic. 

10/10