Here’s a bold statement: Rhea Seehorn is a force of nature, and Vince Gilligan’s latest creation, Pluribus, is her most dazzling showcase yet. But here’s where it gets controversial—is this Apple TV multi-genre original a masterpiece of subtlety or a frustrating enigma? Let’s dive in.
For years, TV critics have waged an annual campaign for Rhea Seehorn’s Emmy recognition, particularly for her role in Better Call Saul. The cycle went something like this: ‘Why Emmy Voters Would Be Dumb To Ignore Rhea Seehorn!’ followed by ‘Why Emmy Voters Were Dumb to Ignore Rhea Seehorn!’ It was a rollercoaster of hope and disappointment. Yet, one person who never needed convincing was Vince Gilligan, the mastermind behind Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul, who has long celebrated Seehorn’s wry, romantic, and tormented brilliance.
Enter Pluribus, Gilligan’s first major project outside the Breaking Bad universe since 2001’s The Lone Gunman. When it was announced that Seehorn would star in this secretive Apple TV series, fans rejoiced. If anyone could craft a vehicle worthy of her talent, it was Gilligan. And they were right—Pluribus is a Rhea Seehorn tour de force, blending emotional drama, broad comedy, and unsettling horror in a way only she could pull off.
But here’s the twist: Pluribus is deliberately evasive. Premiering on November 7 with a nine-episode first season, the show thrives on mystery. It’s a series that benefits from audiences knowing as little as possible going in, yet it risks falling under the weight of Gilligan-sized expectations. So, let’s tread carefully.
What’s it about? In broad strokes, Seehorn plays Carol Sturka, a successful author of ‘speculative historical romance literature’ (think Diana Gabaldon) who’s grown weary of her own success. She’s tired of her fans’ questions, tired of hiding her relationship with her manager and life partner Helen (Miriam Shor), and tired of blowing into a breathalyzer just to start her car. Carol dreams of writing something ‘serious,’ but her publisher isn’t keen on her branching out from her popular Wycaro franchise.
But here’s where it gets weird—and this is the part most people miss. The show begins with a countdown and a mysterious message from deep space, leading to a global shift that leaves Carol as one of the few people unchanged. The irony? Before all this, Carol wasn’t exactly comfortable with her own identity. Now, she’s forced to navigate a world where everyone else has… well, let’s just say they’ve changed. And this is where Pluribus shines—or frustrates, depending on your patience. The show doles out information at Carol’s pace, not the audience’s, which can be infuriating but is also intentional. Her journey from disinterest to curiosity is the heart of the series.
What’s the theme? Pluribus is a commentary on modern isolation—the kind that comes from algorithms, virtual assistants, and surveillance masquerading as connection. It’s about feeling seen while being watched, quantified, and ultimately, more alone than ever. Or is it? The show resists easy interpretations, which makes it both fun and frustrating to analyze.
What does it remind you of? Think 3 Body Problem meets The Last Man on Earth, with Carol herself referencing movies that mirror the show’s tone. And yes, if you’re a Breaking Bad or Better Call Saul fan, you’ll spot familiar faces in the credits—writer-producers Gordon Smith and Alison Tatlock, cinematographer Marshall Adams, and composer Dave Porter, among others. As the plot thickens, Pluribus becomes a ‘process’ show, with cheeky montages of convoluted plans that echo Gilligan’s earlier work.
Is it a drama or a comedy? Here’s where it gets tricky. Episodes range from 40 minutes to an hour, so Apple will likely submit it as a drama. But Pluribus functions best as a comedy—a dark, absurdist one where nightmarish things happen or are implied. Gilligan’s direction in the first two episodes is masterful, using every corner of the frame to build suspense or highlight the banal absurdities of life. Later episodes channel Jacques Tati’s droll humor, with throwaway sight gags and elaborate set pieces that are deceptively simple.
And Seehorn? She’s the heart and soul of the show. One moment she’s stern and sour, the next she’s radiating light, delivering a full character arc with barely a word. If you’ve ever wondered why critics rave about her, watch the first half of Episode 7. It’s a masterclass.
So, is Pluribus worth the hype? Mostly, yes. While it’s undeniably a Rhea Seehorn vehicle, it’s also a Gilligan-Albuquerque-plot concoction that kept me hooked despite its genre familiarity and tricky tone. Will it be one of the year’s best shows? I’ll reserve judgment until I see the final two episodes. But the potential is there.
Now, the controversial question: Does Pluribus rely too heavily on Seehorn’s talent, or is it a perfect marriage of actor and material? And does its evasiveness enhance the mystery or just frustrate viewers? Let me know in the comments—I’m eager to hear your take.
