*This article contains major spoilers for the series “Severance.”
It’s the start to a typical workday inside a corporate elevator. It’s not hard to spot the “Severance” fan: They’re the one instinctively recoiling when the elevator comes to a stop with a ding. In the outstanding Apple TV+ series, workers become their “innie,” or working self, as soon as they step foot in the basement level of their employer’s headquarters—an identity entirely separated from their “outie,” who now exists only outside the office. And this isn’t just a metaphor for the mental switch employees flip every morning—they’ve literally undergone a surgical procedure called severance, where their mind has been split in two and share one body. Take the protagonist, Mark (Adam Scott), for instance. He chooses severance to try and reduce the time he spends grieving his late wife, Gemma (Dichen Lachman). He now lives his life in shifts, with Mark the grieving widower staying home, and Mark the Macrodata Refinement (MDR) department chief always working at Lumon Industries. Crucially, neither is aware of the other, and only remembers what they’ve done themselves. (This makes for some interesting water cooler talk: What happened to you? / Guess my outie got hurt.) It’s a perfect on-and-off switch between work and personal life. This bizarre but inventive premise, which taps directly into our craving for work–life balance, is exactly what’s drawing viewers to “Severance.” If the show simply stopped at being high concept, the level of loyalty seen from audiences and critics alike never would’ve sustained itself in the three-year wait for season two. With the direction, writing, design, music, and performances all coming together perfectly, “Severance” makes good on its promise as a great mystery box show.
Dreaming of connection in a severed world
What is the central question “Severance” is posing, exactly? Let’s start with this one: Would it actually be a good thing to completely separate your work self and personal self? At first glance, the perfect split promised by the procedure seems like a revolutionary lifestyle choice—one that enhances both productivity and quality of life. A working environment free from worries at home, and a home life that work emails can’t penetrate? It sounds like paradise. And yet, none of the severed employees in the world of the show appear to be happy. Their innies are entirely focused on data refinement in their underground workspace, and their outies get to enjoy their free time without bringing any baggage home, but there’s a disquieting discomfort across the board for all of them. If you look at their faces close enough, you can see what’s missing in the uncanny valley that makes up the gap between these two extremes: connection. Those who underwent surgery to leave behind memories and pain seen as wholly unnecessary aren’t left with inner peace or outer efficiency but a swirling void of numbness. So, as the story slowly unravels, its message becomes louder and louder: People aren’t designed for severance. Deep down, they desperately crave connection.
Every character in “Severance” shares this longing for connection in common. Mark tells himself he has to move on from Gemma’s death, but in his heart, he can’t let her go. When the MDR gang teams up to briefly break their innies out into the outside world and innie Mark sees the world beyond Lumon, and when he finds out Ms. Casey, the wellness counselor at work, is actually Gemma, he’s shaken to his very core. Helly, meanwhile, sends out escape signals from the moment she first joins the company, driven increasingly desperate by the strangely rigid atmosphere and the mystery of her own identity—signals so strong that she’s even driven to attempt suicide. (And Mark and Helly are drawn towards each other—which remains the case even after Mark finds out his wife is still alive and it turns out Helly is actually the CEO’s daughter.) Then there’s Irving (John Turturro) and the deep feelings he develops for Burt (Christopher Walken), another man working for Lumon though in a different department. The way Irving continuously searches for Burt, even after work, highlights the innately human impulse to reach out to someone else. Finally, for Dylan (Zach Cherry), there’s no one more important in his life than his son. After waking up as his innie at his outie’s home and accidentally seeing his child, Dylan becomes consumed with the need to reunite with him. Even with zero memories involving his son, he instinctively acts like a dad.
Mark, Helly, Irving, Dylan—even though these MDR employees are intentionally isolated, they still bear unmistakable marks of affection and solidarity. Mark unconsciously feels the weight of his duties as department head, while Irving, as the oldest, does what he can to protect the group. Dylan risks everything to ensure the other innies have a chance to learn about the world outside, and Helly makes crucial decisions for the good of them all. Even the company managers aren’t exempt. Harmony (Patricia Arquette), who oversees the severed floor, harbors a fundamental desire to belong. Estranged from her family, she worships Lumon’s founder, Kier Eagan, and remains fiercely loyal to the company. “Severance” makes examples of these characters who choose incomplete connections over complete severance to serve as a warning to any viewers who still think there’s paradise to be found in isolation. Even if connections are a sure path to pain, they’re absolutely necessary for us as people. It’s when we can remember and hold onto one another that we are truly ourselves.
A workplace drama that’s too close to home to be funny
All this philosophical and emotional weight of “Severance” alone makes it a memorable show, but what makes the series so uniquely compelling is its masterfully sharp satire. “Severance” weaves twisted dark humor throughout its episodes, lowering the barrier to entry for what’s otherwise a profound narrative. Lumon Industries itself is already a massive satire machine. Operating almost like a religion, Lumon indoctrinates employees with its founder’s commandments and philosophy— an all too familiar parody of real-world corporate culture being positioned as something too sacred question. The staff in the MDR department, meanwhile, don’t even really know what it is they do at work. They’re just doing what they were told: sorting numbers on a screen based on which ones feel “scary,” perfectly capturing the futility of pointless, repetitive work in the interest of blinding following the manual. The way the company tries to incentivize performance with snacks, toys, and small parties, and boost morale with its Outdoor Retreat and Team Building Occurrence (ORTBO), is equally absurd. Although they’re dressed up as special perks, they’re really just additional ways for Lumon to monitor and control their workers. ORTBO in particular reveals how corporations manufacture the illusion of autonomy, where employees can’t escape the company’s regulations or their watchful eye even out in the fresh air. The workplace drama of “Severance” shines brighter still thanks to the elaborate visual language of the show. Lumon HQ is painfully minimalistic, and production designer Jeremy Hindle’s architectural choices, which carefully symbolize control and isolation, emphasize an excessively immaculate color scheme and rigid structures, and add to the uncanny sense of humor. The four modest desks sitting in a wide room otherwise left empty symbolizes the existential helplessness of the innies. The shots in “Severance” have a specific way of framing the characters from a distant vantage point or in harsh symmetry, visually reinforcing the innies as mere cogs in a machine, their self-awareness and individuality erased. The effect leaves the viewer sharing in the discomfort and stifled emotions. Theodore Shapiro’s understated soundtrack is the cherry on top, adding to the slowly building anxiety and tension. And it must be mentioned that Ben Stiller serves as executive producer and director. After decades of making audiences laugh with his onscreen antics, he’s now working masterfully from behind the camera instead, eliciting a chillier kind of laughter.
It’s love in the end
The world of “Severance” is brutally bleak and colorless, but I’m tempted to call it a love story all the same. The burning desire to reach out your coworker, a special someone, even your own fractured self—that longing boils beneath the surface of “Severance.” The yearning for connection goes beyond simply restoring personal relationships—it touches on a profound existential truth that we’re not meant to be severed. Remembering one another and reaching out is, at its core, love. But love like this is anything but easy. To connect, you inevitably have to accept pain—including unthinkable sorrow and unbearable wounds. “Severance” doesn’t shy away from this truth but instead underscores the inextricable link between love and suffering. And yet, through doubt and through loss, the characters in this story never stop moving toward one another. Their pain only makes them stronger, teaching them new ways to reach out to each other, one way or another. On the grueling path from severance to connection, slowly but surely, they become capable of love. And this transformation might just be the most human truth at the heart of “Severance.”