Lockdown: Day Eight
I remember the night well. I was home in my flat in East Melbourne, it was late, like in past ten. It was 2001 - before September. They'd been spruiking this show for a while. Six Feet Under. A show about a family of morticians in Los Angeles.
The show came on.
I was standing up. And I remained transfixed to the television, standing, for the next half an hour, absolutely entranced by this quirky, edgy, completely wonderful show.
From Nate (Peter Krauss) the prodigal slacker son who returned from running an organic food shop, the David, the closeted second son who ran the family company, but really wanted to be a laywer, the Claire, the lost soul, arty, hippy sister who drove around in an old hearse, to Ruth, the mother who was wound up like a two bob watch, to Brenda, the woman Nate picked up at the airport who hung around, to Rico, the happy-go-lucky mortician's assistance...
Six Feet Under provided the early naughties with some of the best writing and acting that's ever graced our televions.
I used to love seeing the deaths at the start of each episode, where you were graced with the knowedge of how that week's body had died. Some were sad, some were blackly funny, some scary.
Yes, Alan Ball, producer, writer and director of the series is amazing. He was responsible for American Beauty and True Blood - is also responsible for this. Stunning stuff.
There was so much good in this show (okay, with the exception of the episode in Season Four entitled "That's my dog?", which is horribly violent and it gave me nightmares. I loaned my DVD set to a colleague. He was hooked - but I warned him about that episode. He thanked me. I'm not sure I could watch it again.
Still, it was 20 years ago since Six Feet Under came out. It feels like yesterday. It's a pity it's not played for reruns (Though it's currently available on the Binge streaming service in Australia).
Today's Song:
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