Generally my available time is so limited that I don’t stick with a television series unless there’s something very special to keep my attention.
The Killing is such a show. For one, I like that the actors aren’t glossed-up models. Linden is frumpy, grumpy, and stoic. Holder looks like death warmed over.
I like it; that’s exactly what I imagine hard working homicide detectives would look like.
There are so many subtle undertones in this show–about love, relationships, loss, parenting, grief.
The one that slipped in like a thorn in my thumb was the episode where Linden and her fiance face facts. He says to her something to the effect that he can’t watch her fall apart after working a case to the bitter end of exhaustion.
That he won’t.
That word struck me hard, a revelation with one syllable.
A relationship between a man and a woman that is strong enough for a marriage proposal, reliable enough to plan a future together, to give up a career, to pick up and leave one state for another…
…isn’t strong enough to survive that one little word.
“I can’t watch you do that to yourself, again…
I understand the deep obsession that goes with living a job you love. Today I joked with a co-worker, who was admiring the precise organization of my office, that this is where I actually live, so of course it’s much better put together than my house.
Which is perhaps half-true. OK, three-quarters truth.
So I can understand the motivation driving a homicide detective to wrap a case, to find a killer, to put away a dead girl’s crime scene photos in a plain manila file folder knowing that the mystery was solved.
I can’t, however, understand “Won’t.”
I don’t understand how there can be limits on love, how it can be a finite amount that runs out when squeezed too hard, how it can be used up by crisis or stress or worry.
Love can’t be measured only in “yes” and “of course” and “whatever you want”, in exclusively good days and golden sunshine and smiles.
Therefore, I am left to consider that whatever it was, it never was love at all.