Currently experiencing the same kind of deep sensations about Atlanta‘s phenomenal second season I felt about Twin Peaks: The Return, meaning I wander through each week thinking about the most recent episode, baffled something so substantial and so surprising exists on my TV screen.
“Teddy Perkins” is masterfully packaged as a short horror film. Like the best art, you can read it dozens of ways. Maybe the egg is just an egg! Maybe the piano is just a piano! Maybe Emilio Estevez’s dad in The Breakfast Club is just Emilio Estevez’s dad in The Breakfast Club!
But maybe all those things are also other things, and what’s coursing beneath all the terror is the transformative idea that we could actually free ourselves of suffering, and heal wounds that bound us up and trap us in our weird bodies, creepy elevators, and dark basements. Maybe we can stop ourselves from becoming Marvin Gaye Sr.s and Joe Jacksons, who recognize the cruelty of the world and find that only by matching it can we hope to withstand it. Like Stevie Wonder making great art from love instead of hurt or Darius blotting out letters on a Confederate ballcap to render a slogan of white supremacy his own personal punchline, maybe we can acknowledge each other’s pain and let it connect us instead of driving us apart.
Or maybe the egg is just a super disgusting egg?