HBO changed everything in 2001. Honestly, it’s hard to explain to someone who wasn't there how radical it felt to watch a family of undertakers deal with a corpse every single week. It wasn't just a gimmick. Alan Ball, fresh off his American Beauty success, took the concept of a funeral home and turned it into a mirror. We’re talking about life and loss: the impact of Six Feet Under on the cultural psyche, and how it fundamentally shifted the way we talk about grief in the modern age.
Death is usually the end of a story. In this show, it's the opening credits. Literally.
Every episode starts with a death. Some are tragic, some are darkly hilarious, and others are just plain random. A falling block of blue ice from an airplane. A woman thinking she sees angels when they're actually just purple balloons. It stripped away the "event" status of dying and made it a mundane, inevitable reality. This show forced us to look at the body. Not as a crime scene, but as a vessel that is simply finished.
The Fisher Family and the Business of Dying
The Fishers—Ruth, Nate, David, and Claire—weren't your typical TV family. They lived in a house where a dead body was almost always in the basement. That proximity does something to a person's head. It makes you hyper-aware of your own clock.
Nate Fisher, played by Peter Krause, was the audience surrogate. He was the guy who ran away from the family business only to be dragged back by his father’s sudden death in the pilot. His struggle with his own mortality, specifically his diagnosis of AVM (Arteriovenous Malformation), provided a serialized look at health anxiety that few shows have ever matched. He wasn't just afraid of dying; he was afraid of not having lived. That's a distinction that hits hard when you're binge-watching this in a dark room.
David Fisher’s arc was equally massive. Michael C. Hall gave us one of the first truly nuanced portrayals of a gay man on television who wasn't just a sidekick or a punchline. His struggle to balance his faith, his role in a traditional business, and his identity was revolutionary. When we talk about life and loss: the impact of Six Feet Under, we have to talk about how the show treated the loss of "the closet" and the birth of a self-actualized man. It was messy. It was painful. It was real.
Why the "Death of the Week" Worked
You might think a procedural element would make the show feel formulaic. It didn't.
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Each death acted as a thematic anchor for the episode's emotional arc. If the deceased was a young person, the Fishers grappled with the unfairness of life. If it was an elderly person who lived a full life, they questioned their own stagnant routines. It was a brilliant narrative device. It allowed the writers to explore a 360-degree view of the human experience without ever feeling like they were preaching.
The show basically told us: "Hey, this is happening to everyone. What are you doing with your Tuesday?"
The Final Ten Minutes That Broke the Internet
We have to talk about it. The finale. "Everyone's Waiting."
Many critics, including those at Rolling Stone and Variety, still cite the final sequence of Six Feet Under as the greatest series finale in television history. There’s no competition, really. Sia’s "Breathe Me" starts playing, and we see Claire driving away toward her future. Then, we see everyone’s future. We see how every single main character dies.
It was a bold move. Most shows end with a "life goes on" vibe. This show said, "Life goes on until it doesn't."
Seeing David see a vision of a young Keith before he passes away, or Ruth seeing Nathaniel Sr. and Nate in the room as she takes her last breath—it provided a sense of closure that was both devastating and weirdly comforting. It reminded us that the impact we leave on others is the only thing that outlasts us. That sequence alone cemented the show's legacy. It wasn't just about the Fishers; it was about the universal timeline we’re all on.
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Challenging the American Way of Death
Before this show, the funeral industry was mostly a mystery to the average person. We saw the "beautification" of death. The makeup, the heavy caskets, the expensive linings. Six Feet Under pulled back the curtain on the commercialization of grief.
It showed the tension between the "Corpo-Funeral" giants like Kroehner and the small, family-owned independent homes. This was a commentary on capitalism. How do you put a price tag on a grieving widow’s peace of mind? The show didn't shy away from the grosser aspects, either. Embalming scenes were frequent. Not for shock value, but to show the labor of care. It demystified the corpse.
Existentialism in the Living Room
The show was deeply philosophical. It drew heavily from existentialist thought—the idea that because death is certain, we are responsible for creating our own meaning.
Brenda Chenowith, played by Rachel Griffiths, was the ultimate vessel for this. She was brilliant, self-destructive, and hyper-analytical. Her relationship with Nate was a toxic, beautiful exploration of two people trying to feel something in a world that felt increasingly hollow. They were "seeking." Everyone in the show was seeking.
- Ruth Fisher: Seeking autonomy after a lifetime of being a wife and mother.
- Claire Fisher: Seeking an artistic voice in a world that demands conformity.
- Federico Diaz: Seeking the American Dream and respect in a profession that treats him as "the help."
They failed constantly. They cheated. They lied. They were incredibly selfish. That's why they felt like real people.
The Legacy of Emotional Honesty
The life and loss: the impact of Six Feet Under is felt in every prestige drama that followed. Without the Fishers, would we have The Leftovers? Would we have Succession? Probably not in the same way. It gave creators permission to be quiet. To let a scene breathe. To let characters be unlikeable for long stretches of time because that's how grief actually works.
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Grief isn't a straight line. It’s a jagged, ugly circle. The show understood that. It showed that you can be sad about a death and also be annoyed that you have to pick up the dry cleaning. It captured the "and" of existence.
Actionable Insights for Processing Personal Loss
Watching a show like Six Feet Under can be cathartic, but it also triggers a lot of personal reflection. If you're revisiting the series or experiencing your own period of mourning, here are a few ways to channel that energy:
Acknowledge the "Mundane" Grief
Don't wait for a major anniversary to feel your feelings. Like the show, recognize that loss colors the small moments—the way you drink coffee or the songs on the radio. Validating the small pangs makes the big ones easier to carry.
Document the "Living" History
Claire used her photography to process her environment. You don't have to be an artist, but keeping a record of your life—the messy, unedited parts—creates a legacy that isn't just a tombstone. Start a journal or a digital photo dump that captures your "now."
Audit Your Relationships
The Fishers wasted so much time not saying what they meant. If the show teaches us anything, it’s that the "last time" you see someone usually doesn't feel like the last time. Say the things. Make the calls.
Redefine Your Relationship with Death
Death isn't a failure of medicine or a taboo. It's a biological certainty. Reading books like Caitlin Doughty’s Smoke Gets in Your Eyes (Doughty is a real-life mortician who advocates for death positivity) can help you move toward a Fisher-like understanding of the end—one that is less about fear and more about preparation and acceptance.
The Fishers are gone now, according to the show's timeline. But the questions they asked remain. We are all just "walking each other home," as Ram Dass famously said. Six Feet Under just happened to show us exactly what that walk looks like, mud and all.