Until this penultimate episode Escape At Dannemora has profiled itself as a character-driven drama, more notable for its subtleties and for its way of using its larger ones more striking moments – such as titular escape – to illuminate certain truths about his characters (especially the truths they would not acknowledge to themselves). Seeing through these intricacies and the connection between the detailed facts of these people's personalities and their wider actions have made the show a pleasure – even if their central trio are profoundly unpleasant people. "Chapter Six" is not a subtle episode. Not in the execution or in the central message, which only works if the episode is displayed in parallel to the whole plot. Without context there is no message, just a disgusting display of cruelty.
Of course, the creative architects of the show have withheld the stories of how our terrible triad at Clinton Correctional ended, because if we knew what each of them did, we would feel too indignant to really give a damn thing Let's see if they broke out and made it to this beach in Mexico. The decision to reveal this information, and now that we have dealt with these characters, to reveal them, but at least to invest in them, makes our understanding of the narrative difficult. The show jams its thumb square in the eye of one of the most troubling tropes surrounding our contemporary craving for true crime stories – the impetus to portray the killer as a poor, misunderstood soul or a captivating cunning mastermind worthy of obsession and study. The real blessing for crime, filled with titles such as "My Favorite Murder," "Making a Murderer," "The Last Podcast on the Left," and "White Wine, True Crime," often refers to the real violence that real people associate with one abominable people have done glibness – reducing the worst moments or the agonizing ends of a human life as popcorn food. This voyeuristic approach brings us in harmony with the grinning murderers.
"Chapter Six" is a direct rejection of this approach: it opens the deputy victim of David Sweat and follows him through a typical change. until he fatefully falsely goes down the wrong path. Deputy Kevin Tarsia, played by Jim Parrack with a casual complacency, is a good cop and a decent man: we see him unleash a novice with a warning and a nerve-racking admonition to learn the "lost art" of parallel parking; Clean rubbish off the road; and most of all, when he comes home to deliver the ketchup and mustard for a decoction, he will not be there and gently wake his sleeping wife with a kiss (and a good hope for a shift-quickie, with a kiss ends.) "Raincheck", which will never be due.
His sympathy is like a rare and pleasant breeze over the stumbling desert of pettiness and brutality that the other characters we follow are likely to have lived. This sympathy makes him here a tragic figure. Sweat first appears as a sleek silhouette that loads loaded goods into the trunk of a car; As this silhouette approaches and repeatedly presses the gun's trigger, director Ben Stiller directs his camera at the bullet-ridden body of Deputy Tarsia as it falls on the concrete. Then sweat gets into his car and drives down the officer. We do not see any sweat behind the wheel – in fact, he just reappears and silently stares at the carnage he's made and mumbles, "Sorry." Stiller's camera hangs on the broken man's legs flapping under the front bumper.
 This is a brutal consideration. We no longer return to Sweat's perspective to see something like repentance – the fact that he bothers to complain when he's taken to a warmer jail suggests he does not. We switch directly to Richard Matt, who is not the charismatic fool of the last five episodes, but an emaciated fool kidnapping and torturing his older former employer for finding some (and supposedly misappropriated) funds. In this sequence, Matt and his buddy rode around with the man in the trunk; Carousel with women and alcohol and drugs; Break the man's fingers to determine the position of this hidden money. and when they realize that there is no money, wrap a roll of duct tape around their entire head and let it suffocate in the narrow darkness. Matt will further humiliate his victim – and his nickname for the prison – by cutting the man's half-frozen body with a hacksaw and throwing body parts into the river. There is nothing to like about these men. They belong in prison.
Perhaps the show polls the ever-popular Prestige TV® trope, which supports the Very Bad Man ™ as a vehicle for our collective, oppressed Id, which puts the crimes of our condemnation protagonists in the roughest and harshest possible terms Antihero of a man is a downright evil villain of a man. History doubles to tell us no matter what these people want and how much they want it, they do not deserve it. It also sets the stage for the probable hunt that takes place in the final chapter: Sweat and Matt are able to perform truly vicious, truly violent acts, even if they have enjoyed relative freedom – and now they are struggling outside of the Prison to remain prison walls.
It's a risky decision because it makes it either a prelude to violence or simply saturates the screen with horror. It's a cruelty overload. I can not help but wonder if these details would have been more effective with truncated flashbacks (which admittedly would have had the detrimental effect of diluting that wonderful subtlety in storytelling) or raised in dialogue – which would allow us to have a more sophisticated one Understanding who these men really are as we watch them pounding and wailing for freedom.
The way the episode treats Tilly's story makes the case against the dull, thundering take on sweat and Matt: It's not afraid. To show Tilly in her worst case scenario, she manipulates and induces Lyle, her then-partner her first husband to beat him. Her goal is to label the first Mr. Tilly "an inappropriate husband and father" with "violent rage" so that she can take her son with him and live with his "new father" as he goes deeper into Tilly's story and more Contextualization enables Lyle's current actions. Although it was easy to label his passionate need to appease a woman who hates him openly as an initial betrayal, we can now see where he views Tilly's affairs with Sweat and Matt as a kind of long-delayed karmic backhand He left all his first wife and helped alienate a child from his father.
Maybe he knew it was always a matter of time before Tilly did as she did with the first poor juice in front of him. Tilly is an Ouroboros of narcissistic hardship and wild claim. We learn here that the despair and crippling we've seen in her throughout the show is nothing new – she always had her cock in her mouth. This squeezed truth best expresses the nihilistic inclination of the episode without getting into unnecessary extremities. Some people have clotted souls, and they are not fresh and whole again.