This is Fresh Air.
I'm Terry Gross.
Existential dread.
That's what my guest Annabel Gurwitch says her new memoir is really about.
It's the kind of dread she experienced after getting her diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer.
She got the news in 2020, in the early days of the COVID lockdown.
To make matters worse...
She was separated from her husband, and they were divorcing.
Odds are she would have been dead by now, but she has a form of cancer that's responsive to a new form of targeted therapy that turns off the gene that has gone rogue.
But the cancer eventually outsmarts the drug, often in as little as a year and a half.
And then it's on to radiation and chemo and a ticking clock.
Though the drug is still working for Gurwitch after five years, the future remains uncertain.
Over those five years, she's become a patient advocate, become a mentor to other cancer patients through a program in which she was mentored, and she's involved with helping medical researchers gather evidence of patient reactions to new therapies.
Her new memoir is called The End of My Life is Killing Me, The Unexpected Joys of a Cancer Slacker.
She comes up with some great titles.
Her previous books include Wherever You Go There, They Are Stories About My Family You Might Relate To.
You Say Tomato.
I Say Shut Up A Love Story Fired a book inspired by her experience of being fired by Woody Allen.
The New York Times bestseller.
I See You Made an Effort.
Compliments, indignities and survival stories from the edge of 50.
And You're Leaving When?
Adventures in Downward Mobility.
Annabelle Gorich, welcome to Fresh Air.
I'm glad you're alive.
Thanks, Terri.
So one of your doctors made an interesting analogy.
That's the opposite of the warrior analogy where like, the cells are declaring war against you and you're declaring war against them.
He said these are cells who've lost their identity.
They don't know who they are anymore.
And that's something you can really relate to, especially when you probably when you have a terminal disease, you don't know who you are anymore, because there's the before the disease you and the after the disease you.
So I thought like that's a really nice analogy that these cells don't know who they are anymore.
You know, this is actually – that was come up by Ibrahim Sisse, who is a researcher who has won a MacArthur Genius Award, who happens to be my neighbor and actually not my doctor.
And it's interesting because when he said that to me not long after I was diagnosed –
It was so poetic and so kind.
And relatable.
And relatable.
So I was a C-minus science student.
I never felt like I could understand science until people started telling me, after I was diagnosed, that the story of what was happening in my body as a story,
And when Ibrahim said this though, these cells have forgotten who they are.
I was flooded with this sense of compassion for my selves, who were mistaking and lost their identity.
And I felt like it was a story I could understand.
And it was a way I could feel kind towards myself.
The language of battling and fighting made me also feel at war with my own body, which I don't find helpful.
And this is also, I think, related to the idea that people get where we are told.
We have to think positively, we have to it's attitude.
I have been told by many doctors and nurses that my attitude is everything.
And I just want to state for the record, I have a really bad attitude.
You know, one of the things that I feel like cancer has not taken from me is, like my split-second judgmentalness.
Cancer hasn't made me a nicer person, hasn't made me a more positive person.
So you're asymptomatic, and that's hard for me to comprehend because it's stage four.
Your life is constantly at risk.
Yeah.
So, did a doctor explain to you how you can be asymptomatic with stage 4 lung cancer?
Yeah.
You know you can be asymptomatic with stage four lung cancer, because lung cancer is a really stealthy disease.
And this is why it's such a big killer.
It's still the number one cause of cancer deaths, because some lung cancers, like the one I have, are not recognized by the immune system.
So my body didn't know that anything was happening, which is, I mean, I was going to regular doctor's appointments.
And this is why it's often diagnosed at late stage and such a big killer because it's not diagnosed at an earlier stage.
You write that the diagnosis of stage four lung cancer left your mental health in ruins and you describe yourself as having existential dread.
So describe what existential dread means to you in your life.
I think what I experienced as existential dread.
It started out as maybe something you could say was akin to like a brain trauma.
It was so shocking at first, this knowledge that was suddenly told to me about myself that...
I couldn't form sentences.
I was speaking at the wrong speed.
I was getting lost when I would leave my house.
I was so disoriented and, you know, I lost track of my finances and my car was repossessed.
It was like I just could not function.
And it was also that so much of my brain was being taken up by this anxiety of this sense of impending doom or existential dread.
I started to be able to manage that in a way that wasn't so physically manifesting, in terms of like being able to barely function as a human.
I had to stop driving because I couldn't do all the things you do naturally, driving at the same time.
My brain stopped. just wasn't working right.
And then it turned into this more conceptual idea of well, how do I live with this knowledge and not be crushed at every moment?
Because the future disappeared for me.
The way that you think about outcomes and future planning and I had to feel like I had to make a different framework for thinking because I couldn't think about the future anymore.
The future was too upsetting.
And in some ways, it still is.
And so daily living became life, the focus of trying to fight this oppressive sense of how my life had.
As I say, I felt like I was living in Samuel Beckett play.
Yeah, and you quote a Samuel Beckett line, I can't go on, I will go on.
What does that mean to you?
Yeah.
You know.
So I had been an actress, you know, and I trained in theater and I had seen this play.
Text for Nothing.
And I had seen my teacher, who's a very legendary actor, Joe Chaykin, say this line from Text for Nothing.
I can't go on.
I'll go on.
And I remember I was 18 when I saw this laughing, thinking, oh, that's so funny.
It's like so hyperbole, you know, I can't go on, I'll go on, you know.
And suddenly...
Those lines occurred to me, and I thought, how do you get from one sentence to the next?
It was like this chasm had opened up between these two sentences, and I really did not know how.
I could go from I can't go on to I'll go on.
And that's when I started thinking about this idea of devoting myself to what I call everyday joys, or like cultivating these tiny victories, like just having a different metric for what would make me happy, or also um, how I could go beyond my comfort zone, because my comfort zone was like I want to crawl up in the fetal position and not do anything.
How could I stay engaged in life?
So then I had to say, well, maybe I don't know the things I like.
Maybe I have to go beyond that.
So after your diagnosis, you were already separated from your husband.
You'd been separated for like three or four years.
And you were first undergoing mediation, I think like couples mediation.
And then it was like divorce time.
So that's a lot to go through.
So you're dealing with the bureaucracy of the medical world.
You were told to write your will and do all the bureaucracy of death and potential death kind of stuff.
And you're undergoing a divorce.
I don't know how you handled all of that, but let's talk about the divorce a little bit.
Did you want the divorce?
The funny thing is like I knew we were headed for divorce, but then when you get this other trauma, this diagnosis, for some reason, I thought maybe we shouldn't do it.
Now that just makes no sense, but I think it speaks to the way the brain just wants to shut down of like I can't deal with one more thing.
I knew it was the right thing.
We were no longer in a good relationship.
There was no reason for me to want to hang on to it except it was part of my known life.
And suddenly everything, the rug was pulled out from under me.
So I didn't want to get divorced at that moment.
And it was actually a really healthy thing.
And it wasn't my idea.
It was actually my sister's idea to move forward in it because I was stalling.
We would get on these mediations and I would say...
I can't do this.
I've got stage four lung cancer.
The mediator, poor woman, how are you doing today?
I'm doing terrible.
How do you think I'm doing?
I mean, I must have traumatized her.
I was just, hysterical.
And my sister was like, you know what?
You should take this step.
You should do it.
Just keep walking forward.
And she was right.
And I didn't want to do it.
And it was the right thing to do to just And it became this little model of staying engaged in life because I just wanted to shut down.
Well, I can think of another reason why you'd want to stay married, which is marriage implies, even if, in reality, it's no longer true.
That you have a partner who will be there for you.
You have an emergency medical contact.
You have a support person.
You have somebody who's pledged to be with you, even though, like I said, in reality that might not be true.
But you still want to, in the back of your mind, think that you have that.
That is true.
But in fact, one of the things that I have learned in this experience is that When you're going through a really difficult thing you know cancer, whatever kind of trauma you really need more than one person to support you.
If you think that there's one person, even if it was a healthy marriage, that is going to be the support.
One person cannot hold all that.
And I've had to seek out so much more support than I thought I needed, in fact.
And I signed up with something called Immerman Angels, even though the name really freaked me out.
I was like, oh, my God, angels?
No.
No.
That's the last thing I want.
And I got a mentor, someone I was matched with, someone who was a complete stranger.
I was really adverse to that idea.
And my angel, you know, she saved my sanity.
What did she do that helped you so much?
Well, I was matched with someone named Hardy Mole, who I thought was a joke name.
Hardy was 74 at the time and lived in Chicago.
And she was a psychotherapist, first of all.
So that was fantastic.
And she had the same thing as me.
And She had been living with the disease for a few years.
She allowed me to make jokes and to be like dark humor.
And she allowed me to accept the idea that I could die from this.
And that was very upsetting to my family when I would say things like feeling great, still scheduled to die from this.
And by not being someone in my life, my emotions didn't upset her.
So I could call her.
I would talk with her on my way to my every three-month scans on the phone.
She would ride with me the whole time, like on the speakerphone.
We'd talk about anything online.
And all my anxiety I would just fade away in our conversations about whatever television show or books.
She was an avid reader.
And she wasn't in my family, in my circle.
I never met her in person.
And she was there for me in a way that didn't upset her.
I knew I wasn't upsetting her and that was a relief.
She eventually died of the lung cancer.
What impact did that have on you?
Because she was not only your support person, she was kind of like a role model about how to live with stage four lung cancer, with this experimental therapy, and still have like a decent frame of mind.
Hardy became a role model for me because she just had this zest for life.
And then, when she had progression, her decision to not continue treatment because the side effects were too deleterious to her quality of living.
She modeled how to die for me.
Then she died.
And...
I had to think about what she had done for me, and I stepped into a similar role with other people.
I felt I should—this makes me cry a little bit because I'm very—
I want to share this with you.
I was contacted by her husband, her spouse.
He's still alive and we're going to meet in a few weeks, which I'm very excited about.
That's a new development.
I didn't.
It's a new development.
And I didn't tell him, I didn't contact him and tell him I was writing about her.
This is always a difficult decision when you're writing nonfiction.
Because, you know, I thought deeply about this.
And I decided not to contact him or the family.
And I wrote about her.
And the family has been very touched that I'm keeping her alive.
She was a really beloved person.
And Don and I are going to meet in Chicago where they lived, and I'm very excited about that.
So, after your mentor died, you became a mentor to other people in that same program through which you found her.
Yes.
What did it give you?
I know you were giving the people you mentored something, but what did they give you in return?
Terri, if I had been diagnosed with breast cancer or something that I feel has more services and more support around it, I might not have stepped into this role.
But because there's still a stigma with lung cancer about the connection to smoking and also because we are this first generation that is surviving cancer.
People just didn't used to survive with lung cancer.
So this is a new population of people and it's very scary and underserved.
So I felt I needed to step into this position to pay it back and I started becoming a mentor through Immerman Angels and then also I mentor people who anyone who's basically contacted me through my website.
I came forward in the New York Times and on Good Morning America and With specific aim to help educate about lung cancer.
And people started contacting me.
So I have a number of mentees who I try to do what I Immerman has.
Certain you know guidelines for.
And I try to follow those guidelines with everyone I mentor, where I try to be supportive, not judgmental, like I actually am.
I have mentees that find comfort in religion.
Also, I have some mentees who wear ribbons and who also do things that I don't do myself.
But I try to.
I feel I've been very privileged because I attend these conferences as a patient advocate.
So I have access to knowledge that I need to share back with them.
Having been a survivor this long on these medications, I know a lot about the side effects and also about advocating for myself with doctors.
And I've learned a lot.
I feel I need to share that.
But we need to take another break.
So I'm going to reintroduce you again.
If you're just joining us, my guest is writer, humorist, and actress, memoirist, Annabelle Gorwich.
Her new memoir is called The End of My Life is Killing Me, The Unexpected Joys of a Cancer Slacker.
We'll be right back.
I'm Terry Gross, and this is Fresh Air.
Are there things you stopped worrying about because they seemed inconsequential?
Yeah.
And you know I'm a little hesitant to say like and now.
I don't worry about money or the future, because those creep in.
But I do try every single day to not be in future thinking.
And so that has relieved a little bit of the worry about it.
You know, the problem is and this is what I'm writing to in the book is so I started out writing about making peace with my death.
And then I lived.
Then I'm writing about, well, how do you live when you thought you were going to die?
Like the world of as people are then practitioners which, let me just say, I just have a very brief knowledge of.
Use that phrase, the world of things.
When you're still engaged in the world of things, then you worry about outcomes.
The very first thing I thought of when I got diagnosed, this was my first thought.
Well...
Never have to write a book again.
Oh, worry about that.
Cancer?
Writing a book, that's hard.
And then I did start writing a book.
And so then that daily churn of, oh, I thought I was done with ambition.
I thought I was done with outcomes starts creeping in.
I have felt a little bit of relief from the future.
And although one of the things that has happened, because I've survived now for five years, at first I stopped worrying about my financial future.
And then a friend, someone who's become a friend, Dr. David Carbone, who's the...
Chief of Thoracic Oncology at the James Kanner Center said Annabelle, you know, I had to tell someone, and this was someone with early stage lung cancer, which does have a better survival rate.
But he said I told them they were cured and they said, oh no, I spent all my money.
And actually in the advocate community, we all know this person, Annabelle.
This is a real person who did this because, you know, it is tempting when you get this diagnosis.
I mean, I did have a little bit of sort of mania at first.
So something else that you haven't done is you haven't turned to religion.
And I want to ask you if you thought about that at all.
Yeah, not for one second.
Not for one second did I return to religion.
You know, if you really want to think about a world with no God, think about being diagnosed with stage four lung cancer out of the blue during COVID, in front of your kid, being asymptomatic and not having been a smoker.
I didn't for a second want to return to religion.
And the thing that I do write about in the book is how religion is monetized and commodified, sold to very vulnerable people, people like me going through difficult times.
And that to me is really criminal, because a lot of the wellness gurus out there with their magical cures for cancer and other diseases are braided into this selling of religion.
And it was not something I considered, but something I want to bring light to and just say that my five years of survival, I am made of pharmaceuticals, caffeine no God and personal lubricants.
I want to talk about your relationship when you were diagnosed with the lung cancer five years ago.
You were separated from your husband.
You went through a divorce.
And then you found an old crush who you were both married when you met and you were both now separated.
And he, Jeremy, started a relationship that you're still in.
Do you live together now?
We do live together now.
And, you know, when you say this, I'm just reminded of something.
I am such the person that rejects the idea of like, oh, finding love again.
I really hate these things.
And in particular with this when you go to doctor's appointments, very often they will say oh, do you have someone here to support you?
And I'm that person who likes to go alone.
And at first, you know, I've had to talk to my doctors about this.
I said you know, when you say this to people who are there alone and they'll say like isn't there anyone here with you?
I said, think about that.
You're kind of making people feel like they're missing something.
So just because I'm that person, I wanted to reject the idea of finding someone because I didn't want to have someone to support me through this journey.
Just on principle.
Okay, but you even say you don't describe your relationship as you love him.
You have a deep fondness for him.
Why are you rejecting the word love and substituting deep fondness?
The idea of getting involved in a relationship at this point in my life seemed absolutely something way too big.
You know, too big of a gesture, too much.
Who's going to want to get involved with someone who has a terrible prognosis?
And then also...
Do I want to involve someone new in this time in my life?
Involving someone in your life, involving someone in your death.
This just seemed like too big a thing.
And it was my angel, my mentor Hardy who, at 74, said to me Because I had reconnected with this man Jeremy, and she said you know, you could be in it just for the sex.
I haven't done that since my 20s or whatever.
It just seemed ridiculous.
But it was a small step.
It allowed me to say, okay, I'll just ban it for the sex.
It was a very small way to enter into a something, or as the kids call it, a situationship.
And then, as we started to stay together, I just like the idea of love came up, and that was too much for me.
So I've said that I, I don't even, it just came out one night.
Before I even thought about what it might mean, he said, I might be falling in love with you.
And I said, and I am deeply fond of you.
Were you afraid that he would reject you, that you'd fall in love with him and then, as you got sicker, if you got sicker, he'd leave?
Now, that's a narrative that totally makes sense, right?
Doesn't that make sense?
Of course.
Of course I was afraid of that.
I also was afraid...
And I still feel this way.
And I also really and truly don't want to be invested in the future in the sense of like what would be a successful outcome in this relationship.
Would it be that we stay together and he stays with me through my death? don't know.
Why is that the narrative we want to hear?
How about we're in this wonderful thing now?
And that's just the metric I live with now.
We need to take a short break here.
So let me reintroduce you.
If you're just joining us, my guest is Annabelle Gurwitch.
Her new memoir is called The End of My Life is Killing Me, The Unexpected Joys of a Cancer Slacker.
We'll be right back.
This is Fresh Air.
In talking about your partner, Jeremy, who you're quite fond of.
He is in the music industry.
And he made you this offer like, hey, do you want to come to Europe with me?
We'll go to Italy.
We'll go to Paris.
We'll go to what was the other place?
Say, would you like to go on a European whirlwind trip?
We'll go to London.
We'll go to Prague.
We'll go to Amsterdam, the countryside in the Netherlands.
We'll go to Paris.
That sounds pretty great.
So you wanted to do it.
And then you found out the actual purpose of the trip and what your role would be.
Do explain.
So then – and I'm like, yeah, this sounds like a bucket list.
And, as a matter of fact, that day earlier in the day, when we were having dinner, when he made me that proposition –
I had been at my oncologist and I had hit the 18th month in treatment, which is the average time people get on the drug.
And my oncologist had said, So I'm like, this is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Then he said Well, you know, I manage this heavy metal band and they're on their first trip to Europe.
And to save them money.
I'm going to be driving a van and you can come.
If you'll come and work as their merch girl.
And your reaction was?
Well, in my head, I thought, this is the worst idea I've ever heard in my life.
But at that moment I was doing, you know, one of these like framework in thinking experiments, which was take contrary action.
Do the opposite of what you think is a good idea.
So I said, yeah, I'm in.
And I just did not think it was actually going to happen.
I said yes, because I thought, you know, this was a new relationship.
We were like three weeks in.
It was after COVID.
I just didn't think it was going to happen until I was standing in the parking lot.
In Heathrow.
I just didn't, I packed the night before.
And then there we are standing there in the parking lot in Heathrow looking at the van, which was much smaller than it looked in pictures.
Jeremy slides the door open and says, welcome to your home away from home.
The van?
Yeah.
And out of the van falls an empty beer bottle, a nicotine patch, a half-eaten bag of crisps and dirty socks.
Okay, so let's make matters a little bit worse.
You were on a very limited budget for this tour and booking hotels for like what?
120 a night or euros.
Yes.
Yeah.
I don't even know what it was.
But it was cheap.
These were horrible hotels.
I'm surprised it even cost that much.
This was like one of the hotels we ended up in is like a place where you wake up in an ice-filled bathtub without a kidney.
When we get to Paris, we end up in this hotel that has bleach stains on the carpet and a mound of toenail clippings.
There were bars in the window on the fourth floor and there was no fire escape.
Terrible things.
Plus, there was a Mr. Coffee coffee maker in the city of cafes.
I mean, I had this fantasy that was Bogart and Bergman and American in Paris.
And I'm kind of.
You know, it's a whole La Boheme, but with a higher thread count sheets and a better ending for me than Mimi.
I had all these fantasies.
Also, the band hated me.
Well, no, I can't say the band hated me, Terry, because they didn't care enough to hate me.
They were actively ignoring me.
Because you were a woman or because you weren't a fan and didn't know heavy metal music?
They were 27 years old.
And on a first time in Europe and on a tour, they hoped would change their life.
And what I didn't expect.
And so I'm trying to like Jewish mom it.
I'm getting them snacks.
I'm charging their phones.
I'm giving directions.
We're tracking down lost suitcases and the merch.
And then I did sell their merch and I sold 1400 of their merch and they gave me the gift of indifference.
I didn't know what a gift that was until they gave it to me.
What I realized was... their ignoring me was such a relief.
This you know.
It had been a year and a half since I had been diagnosed and everybody was treating me as you would, you know in my life, as someone who now had stage four cancer.
This had subsumed my identity, and these 27-year-olds didn't learn my name.
They didn't know anything about me.
They never asked a question about me.
It was such a relief.
I wasn't that cancer patient.
I wasn't cancer mom, as my son had called me.
I was band mom.
And it was fantastic.
If it was me, I would have never, ever gone on this trip.
I mean, you had been getting chronic UTIs, which turns out was really related to a side effect of the medication that you're on the targeted therapy.
And you know the last thing in the world you want to do when you're on the road and in horrible hotels, including one where the bathroom's down the hall.
You know you have to live close to a bathroom when you have a UTI because the frequency is so frequent.
And you even had to camp out one night, which, I mean, you were in your 60s.
That's like not comfortable anymore.
Now I just want to say so.
Not only did I have UTIs, but you know, the gastric side effects of this medication can still come on really strongly.
And you don't want to be in a van if that happens.
You also don't want to be in a porta potty.
Oh, so true.
So true.
I mean, it's the nightmare.
So there were all these precautions.
I was traveling with a suitcase full of pharmaceuticals, over-the-counter supplies.
What I had to do was to... only eat bread on the trip.
I was so afraid of any other reaction, of any other food that might upset my stomach, that I only ate bread.
And I didn't eat a lot.
I mean, it was a little extreme.
And I did sleep.
We stayed indoors.
We did not have to stay in a tent.
But I did have to sleep one day.
At the music festival, the Pink Pop Music Festival.
Because there was no room in the tent that was the band's dressing room, I had to take a nap in the rain under a picnic table.
Oh, gosh.
But, you know, that's my superpower.
I was able to, on a concrete slab under a picnic table.
But that was my superpower.
I could do that.
You're lucky you didn't get sick.
I am lucky I didn't get sick.
And I did have one of those really dark nights of the soul in the hotel in Paris where I wasn't sure I was going to wake up with all my organs intact.
You know, I'm not proud of this.
So I just want to say I wish you continued reasonably good health and a longer life than you expected.
Can I say that without sounding like I just said something that's an offensive cliche or that I shouldn't have said?
Is that all right?
Because I mean it.
No, I really appreciate that.
And I also just appreciate, Terry, the reasonably good health because that's what I can expect.
So I really appreciate that.
I really love for reasonably good health.
That sounds great.
I'll take it.
Okay, good.
Thank you so much for talking with us and for sharing so much.
Thank you so much, Terry.
Annabelle Gurwitch's new memoir is called The End of My Life is Killing Me.
After we take a short break, John Powers will review a new Netflix series about a tortured Oslo police detective.
This is Fresh Air.
A tortured Oslo police detective named Hara Hola is the hero of a series of international bestsellers by the Norwegian crime writer Jo Nespa.
One of the detective's most famous cases has now been adapted by Netflix for a new series called Jo Nespa's Detective Hola.
Our critic-at-large, Don Power, says that, while some of it is familiar, it's got the kick of a big cold glass of Aquavit.
Murder mysteries are all about the conflict between order and chaos, between the rules of society and the violence that injects havoc into the system.
Nowhere does the gap between social order and homicidal mayhem seem any wider than in clean rational, low-crime Scandinavia.
This chasm gives an electric spark to crime stories set there, one that's helped make Nordic noir a juggernaut.
No Nordic detective is any noir-er than Hari Hola, the brilliant, boozily self-destructive Oslo cop who's the hero of a series of violent, cleverly plotted novels by Jo Nesbitt.
With tens of millions of copies sold, it was inevitable that someone would put Hari on screen.
Hollywood did just that in the 2017 thriller The Snowman, starring Michael Fassbender.
A movie so shockingly awful, it had the rotten tomatoes begging for mercy.
Yet Hari is such a strong character that someone was bound to try again.
Enter Yonesba's Detective Hola, a new clumsy title Netflix series made by and with actual Scandinavians.
Based on the fifth Hari Hola book, The Devil's Star.
It's a bit drawn out, but it gets right what the snowman got wrong.
Tobias Sandelman stars as the frazzled, stubbly T-shirted Hari who, as the action begins, is in good shape by his standards.
He's got a police partner, Ellen, who understands him.
A wonderful girlfriend, Raquel, with a son he's winning over. and best of all, a mission.
He's set on taking down a fellow detective, Tom Waller, whose everything Harry is not.
Sleek, efficient, and corrupt.
Waller is played by Joel Kinnaman, the fine Swedish-American actor from House of Cards who's currently got another big role in Imperfect Women.
Before he can get the goods on Valor, something bad happens, sending Hari into an alcohol-fueled tailspin.
Luckily, the one thing stronger than his drunken self-hatred is his obsession with catching killers.
When a woman is found murdered with a five-starred red diamond under her eyelid, he's assigned to the case working under Valor.
As the body count rises, complete with ritualistic clues, is there a psycho killer afoot?
Hari deals with a slew of suspicious characters.
These include a wannabe savant who talks apocalyptic guff about Martin Heidegger, and a theater director played with Iri Panache by Frank Chausas, whose actress wife has gone missing.
To be honest, by this point, I'm pretty much serial killered out in pop culture.
Folks, there just aren't that many of them.
Nor is Oslo, whose charms are captured in incessant drone shots, remotely as violent as the series suggests.
The police there don't even carry guns.
In all of Norway, there are about 35 murders a year.
In this series alone, I counted 13.
Yet despite such silliness, I found myself pulled in.
This is partly because the action is genuinely suspenseful, with some neat twists I won't give away.
But the show's real strength lies in a sense of character that's unusually intense for a TV cop show.
While alcoholic detectives are a staple of crime fiction—Inspector Morse, Inspector Rebus, Matthew Scudder, etc—Harry's binge drinking comes steeped in the great tradition of lacerating Scandinavian angst.
It's like the inside of his skull was painted by Edvard Munch.
Small wonder he plays the Ramones' I Want to Be Sedated in his car.
Now, when casting the role of a popular literary hero, it's usually a mistake to pick a movie star.
Just as Tom Cruise was wrong for Jack Reacher, so the self-contained Fassbender didn't fit the warm, battered masculinity of Harihola.
Santelman does.
Looking a bit like the Skid Row version of Jason Statham, his Hari comes across as driven wounded unsocial, but also sympathetic.
And unlike say, the self-pitying Karmie on the bear who I keep wanting to smack upside the head, he gets on with the job.
What gives the show its seductive tang is that Valor is both Hari's nemesis and his alter ego.
While the shopworn Hari has a sturdy moral compass Valor, played by Kinman with an air of laminated creepiness, looks like the ideal cop.
But beneath that cool facade, he's volcanic.
All rage and paranoia and vigilante righteousness.
He's one of the rare villains who keeps doing things you don't expect.
As for Hari, he does what the detective is supposed to do in a mystery.
He solves the murder and restores order. but only for a while.
You see, in the world of Detective Hola, the eternal war between order and chaos doesn't only happen on the streets, but in the tormented soul of its hero.
John Powers reviewed Yon Nesbitt's Detective Hola.
It's streaming on Netflix.
Tomorrow on Fresh Air, our guests will be Dr Mary Fariba Afsari, an OBGYN who built one of the only mobile gynecology clinics in the US.
Her new book Labor, is a portrait of reproductive health care in America, told through her patients, her Iranian heritage and the discovery of her grandmother's illegal abortion.
I hope you'll join us.
To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air.
Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger.
Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham.
Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Boldenado, Lauren Krenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Thea Chaloner, Susan Yakundi, Anna Bauman and Nico Gonzalez-Whistler.
Our digital media producer is Molly C.V.
Nesper.
Roberta Shorrock directs the show.
Our co-host is Tanya Mosley.
I'm Terry Gross.
