Being shattered, in a way, is not dissimilar to being invincible. The pain of losing a loved one is the mortal equivalent of a superpower. Grief, the most evolved manifestation of this sadness, numbs the mind. It renders weaknesses redundant. Suddenly, you have nothing to lose. Fear becomes futile. Emotions — otherwise the kryptonite of human nature — temporarily disappear. Braveness is the byproduct of despair. In such cases, there are two paths to choose from. The first is nihilism, where you turn “unfeeling” into a demonic shield and subject the world to your own pain. You break, and cut others with your pieces. The second is faith, where you turn numbness into an impenetrable shield and make the world feel the happiness that you cannot. You break, and cut baddies with your pieces.
Nnihilism and faith
The movies exaggerate this philosophy by projecting it onto a giant canvas – this is, after all, how supervillains and superheroes are born.
It’s why there is invariably a tragic backstory behind every reckless superhuman: Dead parents, murdered uncle, slain partner, broken family. Ricky Gervais’ Netflix show, After Life , demonstrates how this narrative stereotype might be rooted in real-world psychology. Its protagonist, Tony (Gervais), is barely a protagonist.
A journalist with a small-town British newspaper, Tony is depressed and suicidal after the death of his wife of 25 years. He is immune to feelings. He is sardonic and rude to anyone and everyone. We think we know the path he has chosen.
The conflict between nihilism and faith may form the foundation of mythological, large-scale storytelling. But it’s the inextricable connection between the two — as contrasting extremes of a single personality — that defines the core of everyman anguish. Tony wears no cape or mask.
He is his own biggest enemy. He himself goes from self-destructive villain (black comedy) to healing hero (coming-of-age drama) in six affecting episodes. The same person represents both ends of the intellectual spectrum.
At first, we see the prince of darkness. Tony hopes to destroy everyone with his acidic wit and academic superiority – he scoffs at his mild-mannered brother-in-law who is also his editor, insults his co-workers, mocks the postman, sighs at potential stories, humours his dog, defies waiters and tolerates his Alzeihmer’s-afflicted father. His trademark jacket covers dark grey and black t-shirts. Even in old home-videos of his wife, he is the one handling the camera so that we can never see his happy face. He is so much of a villain that his presence humanises the societal rejects he gravitates towards — a sex worker, drug addict, office loser, sociopathic hoarder. Twice he is confronted by petty thieves. Both times, the real-life antagonists are shocked by the strong aura of Tony’s own antagonism. He reacts dismissively, almost as if they were out to belittle his own meanness.
Metacommentary
Tony thrives on being offensive here — a trait that can be viewed as meta commentary on the professional reputation of the actor playing him. Much like the recent Judgementall Hai Kya , After Life is deliberately informed by the fusion between art and artist.
Whereas Kangana Ranaut’s role as a girl with mental illness is designed to redeem her off-screen personality (her paranoia is validated in the end), Gervais’ role is one that is loaded with vulnerability and self-reflection. Tony’s bitter phase, where he lashes out under the guise of circumstance, embodies the essence of Gervais as a salty stage performer.
But in the final episode, Tony recognises the worth of his well-wishers. He thanks them, he decides to reward them for their patience. He strives to be an openly grateful person. This transformation is essentially Gervais admitting that his brand of comedy — built to derive pleasure out of others’ pain — is a commercial front for deeper insecurities buried inside him. This is him hinting at a method behind the madness. When he asks his father’s nurse out for a date, his T-shirt is a lighter shade of grey. He isn’t exactly the white knight here, not yet the saviour of the town either. He is just not as sad, and at times that feels better than the emptiness of being bad.
Tony Johnson’s journey isn’t superhuman; it’s from super to human . It suggests that the choice for bereaved people (as opposed to “characters”) isn’t about different paths, it’s about successive stages. By scaling down the ‘cinema’ of grief, and by personalising the dichotomy of sadness, After Life touches upon the unfilmed ordinariness of heartache. It assures us that even though art demands a black-or-white weaponisation of this condition, the heart can handle a grey kind of fulfilment. You don’t have to be a hero to be healed. You don’t have to be a villain to be free. Sometimes, being — just being — is more than enough.
