The Body
Reviewed by Sanguine
But I don't understand. I don't understand how all this happens . . . how we go through this. I mean I knew her, and then there's just . . . a body. And I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore. It's stupid. It's mortal and stupid. And Xander's crying and not talking and I was having fruit punch and I thought, well Joyce will never have anymore fruit punch, ever, and she'll never have eggs or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.
We don't know how it works. Why.
This dialogue between Anya and Willow illustrates the central theme of Joss Whedon's The Body. Ironically, it is Anya, new to the human condition, who so clearly articulates the questions that many of us have. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Why do we die? Do our lives have any meaning?
I could do my usual Sanguinesque dissection of this episode, deconstructing the brilliant use of camera angles, innovative flashbacks (the Christmas dinner scene) and distorted reality (Joyce miraculously recovering, Buffy believing the doctor is lying to make her feel better), the lack of a musical soundtrack, the utter silence and "negative [aural] space" of this episode . . . but I think to do so would trivialise Whedon's accomplishment. Exposing the techniques, manipulations, and machinations that made this episode work would negate some of its power.
This episode affected me profoundly on a personal level as very few television episodes or movies ever have. It was cathartic. I experienced Joyce's death. Our clumsy human attempt to make sense of our own mortality was portrayed with unremitting and unflinching realism. When Xander put his hand through the wall and withdrew it cut and bleeding, the look of anxiety on Anya's face said it all. When we experience the death of a loved one, we are reminded of our own mortality. We grieve not only for the person who is gone, but also for ourselves, as we remember our own impending death. Whedon never let us distance ourselves from the experience. There were no swelling, overemotional musical cues, no trite dialogue that might have allowed us to unconsciously remember, "Oh, this is only a TV show." Instead there was absolute naturalism. Awkward silences. Uncomfortable friends. Drawn faces. Guilt. Empty phrases of comfort that mean very little, but we feel we must say. The shell of a person that stares into the world with eyes that no longer see.
But life goes on. After she has been ill on the carpet, Buffy opens her backdoor and is embraced by sunlight, which illuminates her sweating face. She hears wind chimes, children playing in a pool, someone practising music. These people don't know what just happened. They are happy. Their lives go on, even as hers is devastated.
Xander gets a ticket for being double-parked. He has no reprieve from the mundane because he lost a friend.
Buffy must fight a newly-risen vampire. Her duty as a Slayer continues. She cannot deny her calling because of personal tragedy.
But I must wonder where the storyline can go after this episode? The tragedy of Joyce's death was portrayed with such realism and sensitivity. How can the show maintain its balance of camp, horror, and drama in the face of such a devastating event? In the next episode how can they reintegrate the plot threads? Will we see Ben in a dress again? Spike with his Buffybot? And then cut to Buffy dealing with her grief over the death of her mother? I hope not.
Is she cold?
It's not her. It's not her. She's gone.
Where'd she go?
Dawn's final
question is left unanswered. "Where'd she go?" Buffy responds with silence.
Like all great writers, Whedon does not force feed us answers. He does
not tell us what to think about difficult questions. Instead he gives us
silence. We must find answers in the silence for ourselves.