‘Pluribus’ Review: Vince Gilligan’s Dark Take on the Pursuit of Happiness

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
Declaration of Independence of the United States (1776)

Most people who follow the world of television know Vince Gilligan as the creator of two of the most important shows in the history of the medium: Breaking Bad and its spin-off Better Call Saul. What fewer may know—or remember—is that Gilligan began his TV career as a writer on The X-Files, for which he penned some thirty episodes. That early experience is essential to understanding the universe in which Pluribus operates. On the surface, this new series seems closer in spirit to Gilligan’s X-Files years than to the shows that later made him a household name. Yet, look a little deeper and its themes, tone, and even setting reveal strong echoes of the two series that made him famous.

There’s little that can be said in detail about Pluribus, mostly because of the long list of spoilers Apple TV asked critics to avoid after sharing seven episodes in advance. What can be mentioned is that it takes place largely in Albuquerque, New Mexico—the same setting as Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul—and that its undeniable lead is Rhea Seehorn, the unforgettable Kim Wexler and the soul of that now-mythical show. Seehorn plays Carol Sturka, a science fiction novelist on a tour promoting the fourth book of a wildly successful series. She has adoring fans and a close relationship with her manager (Miriam Shor), yet she feels far from fulfilled by her work or the phenomenon surrounding it. Carol longs to publish a serious novel—already written—and to leave behind, once and for all, the universe of stories she herself sometimes dismisses as “bad episodes of Star Trek.”

What she doesn’t imagine—and from here on there’s little more I can reveal—is that she’s about to experience something that feels lifted straight from one of those speculative sci-fi tales. Due to a series of events best left to discovery, she finds herself caught in a bizarre situation when she realizes—after a moment both dramatic and violent—that the world has changed in unrecognizable ways, and that she’s among the few people left untouched by that transformation. As the show’s trailers and marketing make clear, nearly everyone around her now seems cheerful, kind, and content—while Carol grows even angrier than usual.

From that point on, she becomes obsessed with remaining miserable and discontented—in other words, true to herself, only now with even more defiance—in a world that appears to have turned into a sort of cult of happiness, politeness, and generosity. Worse still, she decides to make it her personal mission to return the world to how it once was, with all its pain, flaws, and unhappiness intact. In its own way, Pluribus revolves around that peculiar crusade: Carol’s struggle for the right to be herself, with all her flaws and contradictions. And it’s clearly a lonely fight—no one seems willing to join her on that path.

Much like the great science fiction films of the 1950s—The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Day the Earth Stood Still, or Village of the Damned—Pluribus lends itself naturally to metaphorical readings. In those classic American films, the idea of a world in which people seem to have been “taken over” by some kind of sect, virus, or alien force invited multiple political interpretations. They were seen by some as reflections of the fear of communism (a real and pressing anxiety at the time) and by others as critiques of conformity and the loss of individuality embedded in the supposedly prosperous “American Dream.”

For various reasons, Pluribus opens itself up to a similar discussion. Its very title, along with several story elements, evokes the origins of revolutionary America in the late 18th century, practically begging for a political reading. Yet Gilligan leaves that interpretation up to the audience. The show’s allegorical layer is intentionally ambiguous—especially when one considers that, today, “angry people” seem to be the majority, and rage often feels like a more unifying force than kindness. Given the political shifts of recent years, however, it’s hard not to read the series—at least that’s my take—as a sharp, caustic reflection on an era in which it seems nearly impossible to remain outside any ideological tribe without being treated as a social outcast. In her own way—and despite her fury and discontent—Carol is fighting to remain who she’s always been.

That leads to another possible way of reading Pluribus, one that allows Seehorn to fully explore the emotional contradictions of a character who spends much of the series alone, or communicating with others only by phone. Carol, as we quickly learn, is not a particularly pleasant or satisfied person, nor is she especially capable—except with her manager, Helen—of connecting with others. She subtly mocks her fans (and privately, clearly despises them), complains about almost everything, drinks too much, and seems to use emotional detachment as a shield against the world. For that reason, her reaction to the “change in atmosphere” can be seen as a desperate attempt to cling to the parts of herself that may not be her best. With subtlety, the series ultimately wonders whether Carol might be the one who’s wrong.

In strictly visual and narrative terms, Pluribus continues the meticulous, almost obsessive storytelling style Gilligan and his team perfected over the years. From Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul, it retains not only the geography—the Albuquerque suburbs, with their blinding sun, ochre tones, and flat modernist architecture—but also the mysterious cold opens that take time to connect with the central plot, the minute-by-minute storytelling, and the mechanical repetition of small, precise actions that build the protagonist’s anger, boredom, and frustration. The story could easily have been told on an epic scale, yet Gilligan mostly chooses to keep it grounded in Carol’s surreal personal experience. In that sense, it sometimes recalls the minimalist, high-concept storytelling of M. Night Shyamalan, who often uses intimate narratives to frame large-scale phenomena. Some episodes feel almost like a one-woman show for Seehorn—and she makes the most of every moment.

At its core, though, what most directly connects Pluribus to Gilligan’s previous series is the emotional journey of its protagonist. Although it’s too early to tell how long the show will run—the concept seems more contained than his previous works, and it’s hard to imagine it stretching for five or six years—Carol’s arc appears closely aligned with that of Jimmy “Saul Goodman” McGill in Better Call Saul: the story of someone deeply frustrated with the world who, when faced with an extraordinary situation, finds a chance to reinvent herself. Yet here, the pursuit of happiness feels more like a trap than a solution. Even if that pursuit is enshrined in the Declaration of Independence as a fundamental right, Pluribus quietly suggests that freedom and happiness may not always go hand in hand—and that may be the uneasy lesson we’re left to wrestle with.