Left: Zooey Deschanel (Screenshot: New Girl); Center: Bob Morley in The 100 (Photo: Cate Cameron/The CW); Right: Jared Harris in Mad Men (Photo: Everett Collection)
This week’s question comes from TV Editor Tim Lowery, who may or may not have had someone from Industry on his mind: What fictional character broke your heart?
Walter White, Breaking Bad
I never expected much out of Walter White. But for the first two seasons, anyway, I did think there was a human being in there. That fell away during season two’s penultimate episode when Walter watches Jesse’s girlfriend Jane overdose and die. The scene remains one of the most heart-wrenching I’ve ever seen on television, occurring casually, almost incidentally, in the show’s clockwork plotting. Walter barges into Jesse’s apartment, finds him asleep, and stifles his tears as he allows Jane to die, allowing her death to descend into his subconscious and away from active thought. It is the saddest scene in a series full of them, one that I couldn’t get off my mind for a week. Of course, in the very next episode, Walter would kill an entire plane of people, which also felt plenty awful. More like heartbreaking bad. [Matt Schimkowitz]
Scotty J., Boogie Nights
Everything starts to fall apart in Boogie Nights at the New Year’s Eve party at Jack’s (Burt Reynolds) house: the good-time ’70s are about to turn into the ’80s, the adult-film industry is about to be upended by videotape, coke is about to become less of a party favor and more of a daily addiction, and Little Bill (William H. Macy) is about to kill his wife and himself. But the most heartbreaking moment as guests gather to toast the incoming new decade happens when Scotty J. (an incredible Philip Seymour Hoffman) makes his move on his crush Dirk (Mark Wahlberg), taking him out to see his new car (which, in another twist of the knife, he modeled after Dirk’s) and then blinsiding him with a kiss and getting rejected, leaving our poor, closeted boom operator alone and crying in the driver’s seat and repeating, “I’m a fucking idiot.” [Tim Lowery]
When Lane Pryce (Jared Harris) arrived at Sterling Cooper, most of Mad Men’s audience was probably as skeptical of him as its staff was. Arriving from Great Britain to trim the agency, Lane quickly fell in love with New York and proved himself an ally of the existing staff. But becoming attached to Lane also meant he could break our hearts, which he did in Mad Men’s fifth season. Lane ends up on the hook for a lot more cash than he has. Instead of returning home when he’s caught for embezzlement, he hangs himself in the office. The circumstances are as tragic as the effects on the rest of the office; Joan (Christina Hendricks), who grew close with Lane over the years, is particularly devastated. Don (Jon Hamm), meanwhile, thought that everyone could just start over from a bad situation as he did; even when his error stares him in the face, he can’t learn. [Drew Gillis]
Jess Day, New Girl
I will always be heartbroken that Jess Day (Zooey Deschanel) gave up on being a teacher on New Girl. Teaching was her passion! Certainly people can find other passions and start on new career paths at any point in their lives—in fact, the show portrayed that quite well through Winston, Cece, and Nick! But every time Jess experienced career setbacks and considered other options throughout the series, her explorations always reinforced that teaching was her vocation. How disappointing and disorienting it was to see that final season time jump and realize that she had abandoned that passion! I do blame the writing (which, for the majority of New Girl, was stellar), because they never gave me a satisfying explanation for it and it seemed like a random way to throw Russell (Dermot Mulroney) back in the mix. But ultimately we’re left with Jess’ decision, and it still makes me sad to this day. [Mary Kate Carr]
When I think of the downward spiral of The 100’s Bellamy Blake, the only phrase that comes to mind is “Go float yourself!” Whoever made the narrative decision here seemed to not give a damn about how one of the show’s most complex heroes ended his journey. The CW’s dystopian teen drama did an incredible disservice to Bellamy in the final season. He had various low moments throughout the show, followed by a believable redemption arc. If his sibling, Octavia, and best friend, Clarke, can always believe in him, we can too. That’s not the case in season seven, in which Bellamy turns into a zealous worshiper and betrays all his loved ones. In the end, Clarke is forced to shoot him to stop the madness. As much as I hated how it happened, I was glad to see Bellamy die solely because the torture of witnessing his disappointing, excessive heel turn was over. [Saloni Gajjar]
Carrie White, Carrie
Stephen King would probably think I’m missing the point of Carrie by still feeling overwhelming pity for its eponymous character after all these years. His ever-powerful novel about alienation is a litmus test for the polite, ultimately useless tolerance that popular, WASP-y girls like Sue Snell are taught to feel for less-fortunate individuals like Carrie White. Just as Carrie works to control her powers, Sue struggles to turn her inner revulsion into outward benevolence. But when I first read the book—as a tween and part of a family of nine—I was mostly struck by how lonely Carrie must have been, raised by a mother who saw her as an abomination and surrounded by people who didn’t think much more highly of her. Obviously, this doesn’t excuse her leveling a whole town, but I’ll always wonder what would have happened to Carrie if she’d been treated with genuine kindness. [Danette Chavez]
Newland Archer, The Age of Innocence
Making an honest woman of May Welland (Winona Ryder) while harboring the passionate love of a lifetime for her cousin, Ellen Olenska (Michelle Pfeiffer), Newland Archer (Daniel Day-Lewis) broke my heart by being a decent guy rather than being a 19th-century scumbag. In Martin Scorsese’s lush and romantic The Age Of Innocence, decency is hard to come by in decent society. Newland snuffing the embers of his own fiery flirtations in order to more fully respect his betrothed is framed as a heroic, tragic act. But, as the story leaps forward, Newland’s commitment to his family, to his commitment, makes his choice less tragic. He loved May, and his children, and they in turn loved and understood him—and what he gave up to choose them, unasked. The final moments of the film are some of Scorsese’s most moving, knotted in the touching complexities of sacrifice and reward. [Jacob Oller]
