Melancholy and Firefly

Melancholy. It’s not the first word that springs to mind for most people when you mention science fiction. Yet, it’s the first thing that springs to mind for me when the subject of Joss Whedon’s Firefly comes up. You see, it’s the melancholy of the show that sets it apart for me from Whedon’s other shows, Buffy, Angel, and Dollhouse. 

Buffy was often grim, but hope was the driving core of the show. Angel was primarily a show about redemption. Dollhouse was a bit of a hodgepodge, but an argument can be made that it was about identity and autonomy. The one thing these shows had in common was that they took place largely before and during the fight. Buffy actually won her fight in the finale of the show. Angel’s journey ended on a more ambiguous note, but we could imagine a future where he eventually claims redemption. Even in Dollhouse’s somewhat nihilistic future episodes, the fight was ongoing. 

Things aren’t so cheery in the world of Firefly. We’re presented with a captain who, by all appearances, was fighting the good fight with the rebellion. And they lost. In itself, that’s a fairly unique starting point. If this was Star Wars, you’d have to imagine Luke Skywalker succumbing to the Dark Sike, while Han Solo, Leia, Chewbacca, Lando Calrissian, and the entire command elite of the Resistance die at the end of Return of the Jedi. Then, a handful of years later, you pick up with Wedge Antilles trying to survive on the outermost fringes of the Empire. Considering what we got in Episodes 7, 8, and 9, I honestly think I’d have preferred that film. 

While we don’t spend a lot of time with Wedge in the films, he’s obviously committed to the cause 100%. He’s a true believer. So, imagine the psychological and emotional toll it would take to watch everything he fought for collapse beneath the boot of an oppressive regime. This is Malcolm Reynolds at the beginning of Firefly. He’s abandoned faith, doesn’t trust hope, and believes that the universe is inherently against him. What’s more, he’s seemingly proven right more often than not. His reaction is to build this ragtag family from the strays he runs across and form a micro-society on a moving nation called Serenity. 

Mal takes on the role of patriarch. Jayne is the weird uncle nobody really likes or trusts. Zoe is the trusted sister. Wash is the buddy who basically lives at your house. Inara is the den mother. Book is the retired grandpa. Simon, Kaylee, and River are the kids. Go back and watch a few episodes. You’ll see that virtually every interaction between Mal and Simon reads like a conflict between a world-weary father and his more idealistic son. Kaylee is everyone’s favorite. River is the troubled kid. But, underpinning this family is the melancholy. Malcolm Reynolds doesn’t trust that the universe will let him hang on to even this tiny shred of pseudo-happiness. That may explain why he fights so desperately to preserve it while simultaneously undermining it. 

That melancholy, that fear of loss, grounds Firefly in reality in a way that Whedon’s other shows could never achieve. Mal’s fears are both primal and universal. We all fear loss and the threat of that kind of existential crisis can lead anyone into a brief melancholy. Since Mal’s fears were so fully realized when the Browncoats lost, his melancholy is more or less permanent. This could never fly on Buffy, where hope was rarely more than a stake stab away. Angel brooded, but there was always that glimmering of redemption on the horizon. Even Dollhouse escaped true melancholy because Echo’s identity survived to fight another day. It was the melancholy that let me connect with Firefly so fiercely because I recognized the inherent humanity in Mal’s emotional state.