Dissect - Dissecting INSIDE (Part 8)

Episode Date: June 21, 2022

Our analysis of Bo Burnham's INSIDE continues with the special's climactic song "All Eyes On Me." Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

From Spotify, this is Dissect, long-form musical analysis broken into short, digestible episodes. This is part eight of our nine-part series on Inside, a music comedy special shot and performed by Bo Burnham over the course of a very unusual year. I'm your host, Cole Kushner. Last time on Dissect, we examined that funny feeling, the song that observed the absurd, ironic spectacles of the modern world, while simultaneously acknowledging the looming potential for global devastation through climate change and or economic collapse. The song ended with a climactic, refrain in which both seem to take comfort in the fact that things might be ending soon, and thus he'd be alleviated of the funny feeling or the anxiety and existential dread he feels

living in such a world. But it'll be over soon. The resignation that ends that funny feeling signals a dramatic emotional shift in inside's narrative, whereas Beau seemed to be doing his best to endure and resist the mental decline he's been experiencing in the second half of inside, we now reach the point in the film in which our protagonist seems to be on the brink of defeat, when the hero is surrounded and there seems to be no way out. Fading up from black, we see a projection of a blue sky on the room's main wall scored by chirping birds. The sun shines brightly behind a few gray clouds, creating an almost

angelic scene. It gives the impression that it's a new day, the morning after the simulated campfire of that funny feeling, giving us temporary hope that brighter days are ahead for a protagonist. But this specific sky projection is actually a callback to the very first projection we saw in Inside. It appeared during the song Comedy, just after Bo accepted his divine call to heal the world with this comedy special. He stood up from the piano, and behind him was this exact sky projection, which at the time helped to reflect Bo's heaven-sent white savior character, a sarcastic symbol of hope for the future. Now, after seeing the damaging effects that creating this special has caused, the heavenly sky elicits a much different emotional.

reaction. It's somehow tormenting, a tragic reminder of the outside world Beau has kept himself from, imprisoned in this room. After a few moments, Bo appears in frame, first as a dark looming shadow over the projection. The scene then cuts to a wider perspective showing the entire room. We see Bo on his stool holding a microphone with the blue sky behind him. It's clear that it's not actually daytime. It's still night, which continues the inside-out motif we've observed throughout this stretch of the film, with the lines between day and night, the outside and the inside are blurred inverses of each other, reflecting Bose's disoriented sense of reality. In the foreground of this new shot is the suffocating clutter of equipment. Various tall stands and other lighting and sound

units crowd the scene to the point of visual claustrophobia. It feels very much like a visual representation of Beau's agoraphobia, the feeling of being trapped, surrounded, suffocated, the feeling that things are closing in on him, a feeling of no way to be. out. So I've been working on this special for a year now. As Beau begins to speak, it's clear that he's attempting to give us another monologue, updating us on the progress of the special. We've seen two of these monologues so far, one at the beginning, just as he was setting out to make the special, and one exactly in the middle of the special, just before his 30th birthday, when he reveals that he's been working on it for six months, which was how long he originally intended to work on it.

Bo here reveals that it's now been a calendar year, a full six months pass his original deadline. The visual cues of the hopeful blue sky, the disarray of the cluttered room, and Bo's physical appearance are all symbolic indications of the toll of his journey has taken on him. Our once energized and jovial protagonist, who sarcastically set out to heal the world with this comedy special, is now down bad, to the point that he can't even finish his monologue. So I've been working on... Bo becomes frustrated and enraged, dropping the mic and aggressively walking toward the camera,

intentionally knocking various equipment to the ground on his way. Bo has reached an alarming breaking point, which is made even clearer as inside hard cuts to its next scene. We see Bo on the left side of the screen holding a microphone and shrouded in darkness. In the exact center of the frame is his camera pointed directly toward us, the audience. We realize this is yet another callback to the beginning of the moment. the film, to Bo's very first monologue in front of the mirror with his camera by his side.

We also notice that the oven clock behind Bo is unset, and thus is flashing 12 o'clock over and over. This is a callback to the clock striking midnight on Bo's 30th birthday during the second update monologue. The clock being unset seems to be yet another reflection of Bo's alarming mental decline and his complete loss of the things that ground us in daily life, such as knowing what time it is. Bo once again tries to give us an update, but the only thing he can muster to say is. I am not well. Bo immediately begins sobbing, bowing his head and putting his face in his hands.

If you look closely, you can actually see that Bo's face really is puffy from crying, and that a single tear falls down his right cheek. There's no attempt to deflect the emotion behind a joke or a song. It's the kind of straightforward admission that when finally verbalized immediately triggers a flood of built-up emotions. It's an absolutely gut-wrenching scene, the emotional collapse that's been slowly building over the course of the special. But there is a camera next to Bo. And this camera is perfectly centered in the frame.

Its red recording light is on. It's a reminder that this is, unavoidably, a performance. Regardless of whether the emotion comes from a real place or not, this scene was captured with intent. Bow had to set up the camera, adjust the lighting, check the framing, and more. In order to create narrative continuity, he also intentionally chose to call back to the beginning of the film by mirroring the same monologue scene we saw after the song, Comedy. And as Bo continues to sob, the shot becomes even more cinematic and intentional, as the camera begins to slowly zoom in on itself, just like it did at the beginning of the film.

If it wasn't clear already, Bo is calling attention to the idea of performance by forcing us to reckon with the presence of a camera in this otherwise intimate, vulnerable scene. Like he's done consistently throughout inside, he's forcing us to question the boundaries between reality and performance, never letting us get too immersed or emotionally invested in the story without a reminder that he's actively and purposefully manipulating our emotions to create a compelling story in film. And it's this gray area between reality and performance that Bo has been exploring all special long, partly because the modern omnipresence of cameras forces us to all perform all the time. Yeah, I'm a different person at home. Yeah, I'm a different person

with my friends. Yeah, I'm a different person with my family. I don't think one's real. I think they're all real. I think the way we hope to be seen by the world is maybe a realer version of ourselves than how we really are. I do think that. I do, which is why I think people, which is why YouTube is so interesting specifically and why social media is so interesting. Because it is this weird and it's become very recently like this. That's what kind of I see from young vloggers connecting with their audience. It's kind of an understanding that it's an honest performance.

It's an honest lie about it. And that to them is much more true than if the camera were outside the window filming a person that didn't know they were being filmed. That that is kind of the truth you bring. That's the real truth that matters now is what is your performed truth to other people? people because your private truth is dead now.

There's no private moment anywhere. We all know that like the CIA is like looking at us through our webcam. So like that version of ourself is is going away. So it's like who is the you that you present to the world, which is increasingly becoming the you that you're being most of the time. And that wasn't the case. You know what I mean? That was the thing in the 50s that you maybe brought to the gazebo during the,

you know, town centennial celebration or something. You know, you're in public. The sort of public performance of ourself is everywhere now. I think this quote helps us to reckon with our feelings about Bo breaking down in front of the mirror, camera by his side. The performance itself might inherently be a kind of lie. It is, after all, constructed. And because Bo is recording himself, his weeping is technically acting. But as Bo just articulated, there's an understanding that it's an honest performance, an honest lie.

As an audience, we feel the emotional truth. of Bo's performance within the context of his art, which is why the scene is so powerful despite the fact that Bo is intentionally drawing our attention to its performative aspects. It could actually be argued that the scene is that much more tragic because of the camera, a reminder of the invasiveness and omnipresence of cameras

in our modern world, capturing our most intimate and vulnerable moments. It's also a reminder that Bo's quote-unquote audience for the past year has been the dark, judgmental, intimidating abyss of the camera's lens. I totally, totally get why actors are insane. Like, of course, you know, big movies are like, yeah, they're overpaid, they're over anything. But it's like, there is something like psychically violating and insane about being in front of a camera. It's just like the eye of God and the devil staring at you, like immortalizing you and taking your soul.

It's just like, it's just naked. As Inside continues, we get the full expression of what being in front of a camera for the past year, has done to Bo's spirit. As we continue to see the camera ominously zoom into itself, we begin to hear the sounds of Bo interacting with a live audience. The juxtaposition of these sounds with the visual of the camera's lens once again binds together the modern dynamic of performer and camera, audience, and screen. Just as it did at the start of the film, once the camera zooms far enough into itself, our screen transforms into a black mirror, where we quite literally see ourselves in its reflection while hearing the pre-recorded sounds

of a live audience. We enter and become one with the immortalizing, soul-sucking abyss, the eye of God and the devil, Beau's audience of no one and everyone. I couldn't have done this without you guys. I couldn't, really. I, this last year has been, you know, there are times that, but just knowing you're here, you know, feeling you here with me. Yeah, thank you. Bo hallucinates a theater-sized live audience, thanking us for our support throughout the last year. During these statements, we're still seeing the camera's lens, Bo's actual audience, creating tragic irony and reinforcing the excruciating loneliness and isolation

Bose endured the past year. Recall that Inside began with Bo joking about his lack of an actual audience when he triggered pre-recorded canned laughter during the song comedy. It was a light source of meta-humor, part of his acknowledgement of the unusual circumstances of filming a special in his room alone during a global pandemic. Over time, this His dynamic eroded Bo's psyche, and now near the end of the film, Bo's mental health has collapsed to the point of actually hallucinating a live audience. We saw early symptoms of this when Bo, shirtless, and delirious, imagined a small nightclub audience when telling his joke about the outside world turning into a coal mine for digital content.

In line with Bo's accelerating mental decline, his live audience hallucination has grown more extreme, as the small nightclub has climatically transformed into a Madison Square Garden-sized arena. All eyes on me, All Eyes on Me. Get your fucking hands up. Get on out of your seats. All Eyes on Me. Bo begins to perform the opening moments of All Eyes on Me, the emotional climax of the entire film,

the song that unifies and addresses all of its major themes. Visually we transition from the solid black inside of the camera's lens to an extreme close-up of Bow's face engulfed in blue light. It's almost as if we've crossed through the threshold of the camera. becoming one with it, which is, of course, the reality of viewing a recorded performance. We're seeing what the camera sees. The fact that the first thing we see after this transition is a close-up of Beau's eyes is no coincidence, as we go from the eye of the camera to the eyes of its subject, each the windows into their

respective souls. It's as if Bo is trying its very best to destroy the insurmountable wall between us, trying to bring us together as close as possible to achieve some small semblance of genuine connection and emotional reciprocation. Both sings the opening lyrics, Get Your Fucking Hands Up, Get On Out of Your Seats. This is a cliche live concert staple, a performer encouraging audience participation,

yet another attempt by Bo to engage with us to elicit some reaction at the other side of the camera's lens. But we also recognize that Get Your Hands Up is a command that police say to a suspect, and it's what a criminal says to someone they're robbing or taking hostage. In either case, forcible surrender is the aim. And this is where we begin to observe

of how Bo is suddenly and cleverly threading together many of Inside's themes and storylines in the song, as this line calls back to the pivotal song, Look Who's Inside Again. Specifically, it's a nod to the line, Come Out With Your Hands Up, We've Got You Surrounded, which we interpreted as calling attention to the idea of a captive performer. It's an allusion to the ubiquity of performance in the modern world, while also a direct reference to Bo performing inside his house, creating this special, where performance was once reserved to dedicated spaces like a stage, or film set. Like all of us, Bo has invited the camera into his home. He let the outside,

inside, and now he's surrounded, full-blown agoraphobia, held captive by performance. Now in all eyes on me, Bo attempts to reverse the dynamics. He's telling the camera, and by extension, us, to get our hands up, to surrender, to pay attention and actually engage with his performance. He's trying his best to get some reaction from the dark, ominous blank stare of the camera's lens. This leads to the title refrain, All Eyes on Me, All Eyes on Me. Boh here vocalizes the thread of eyes that was introduced visually

with our entrance into the eye of the camera, and now his own eyes in this extreme close-up. Given the special's universal threat of performance in the age of the internet, All Eyes on Me feels like an anthemic refrain for the attention economy, but it's also a continuation of Bo's sincere desire to be seen, to be really seen, to be felt, to break the whole, hopelessly indestructible barrier of recorded performance and really connect with us. This is a contrast to the bow we met at the beginning of the film,

the one who began the song Comedy, expressing his reluctance and insecurity about centering himself, unsure whether creating a comedy special that would put attention on him was what the world needed at this time. The bow we see in here now singing All Eyes on Me, demanding our attention, is showing no signs of these initial insecurities. In his hallucinated, dissociative state,

he stopped resisting and is fully giving in to his need for attention. This theme of giving in is central to all eyes on me, and is developed as the song continues. Are you feeling nervous? Are you having fun? It's almost over. It's just begun. Don't overthink this. Look in my eye. Don't be scared. Don't be shy. Come on in the water's fine. We're going to go. Bo continues singing, are you feeling nervous, or are you having fun? As he sings these lines, Bo still in extreme close-up,

turns his eyes and looks directly into the camera, creating the illusion of eye contact. It's one of the most intimate, intimidatingly powerful shots of the entire special. Bo is trying so hard to connect with us, with the audience, with anyone. And from our vantage point as an audience member, we actually feel a connection. Yet on Bo's in, we have to keep in mind that he's looking into the dark abyss of a camera's lens, which in this context feels extremely tragic. He's giving this thing his everything, and the camera just sits there indifferent, giving him nothing, which as we'll see momentarily,

will harvest violent resentment. In this way, Bo's lyrics seem in part addressed to himself as he stares at himself in the black mirror of the lens. He's having fun making this special, while also extremely anxious because of it. Still, the illusion of eye contact gives the impression that Bo is also addressing these questions directly to us. Questions that seem to both relate to our experience watching this special and to our general feelings about the current moment we're living in. Are we enjoying this special while also a little bit nervous that Bo might kill himself? Are we entertained by the mountains of content of the digital age

while also experiencing an existential crisis because of it? It's a dichotomy that feels like a thematic continuation of that funny feeling and its general interrogation of the strange duality of the current moment, overly stimulated yet paralyzingly anxious. The dichotomy continues, it's almost over, it's just begun. This too builds on that funny feeling and its climactic outro about the beginning of the end of the world.

But as it relates to Bo's experience making this special, he might be almost done with it, but that just means he'll no longer have an excuse to hide from the world, thus beginning another cycle of anxiety where he'll look for a reason to hide again. Bo then makes a proactive attempt to comfort us and himself, singing, don't overthink this, look in my eye, don't be scared, don't be shy, come on in, the water's fine. Both soothes are worries, acknowledging the illusion of eye contact. The fact that he says, look in my eye, not eyes, seems to confirm our suspicion that he's referring to the camera's eye

or lens, the soul-sucking eye of God and the devil. The phrase, come on in, the water's fine, is an idiom that's traditionally used two ways. Literally, it encourages someone to get into a pool or ocean, referring to the water's temperature. Figuratively, it encourages someone to start or do something they've been resistant to. Bo makes clever use of both of these meanings. Literally, it's another reference to climate change and rising sea levels, the ocean at our door, which is thematically bound to the beginning of the end. Figuratively, it's a general invitation to give in, to stop resisting, to surrender, which is thematically bound to his commands of putting our hands up, getting out of our seats. We are to follow him into the water, but where is that?

Where exactly are we going? Both sings an ambiguous refrain full of overlapping repetition. The base of the lyric is, we're going to go where everybody knows. This might refer to the universal knowledge of the beginning of the end, a place where like-minded people form a community for the end of the world. It's likely that the place here is inside, treating the outside world, the non-digital world, like a theatrical space in which one stages and records content from the much more real,

much more vital digital space. As the physical world burns and floods, will engage with it like a dangerous coal mine. This interpretation falls in line with the motif of surrender and giving in. All special long, Bo has been wrestling with a rapid migration into the digital interior world. While quite aware of its appeal, he also showed genuine fear and suspicion of it. But now it seems he's surrendering to its call, fully submitting to his agorrah phobia or fear of the outside. If we extend the lyric and include one of its overlapping repetitions, the refrain becomes, we're going to go where everybody knows everybody. This also seems to fit the interpretation of retreating into an exclusively digital interior world of the internet,

a place where everyone knows everyone, a place that transcends the limitations of physical proximity, where anyone in the world and information about them is just a click away. But there's also the possibility that Bo might be referencing a well-known song here. recall we've heard Bo do this a number of times throughout inside, whether that be content's nod to Queens I Want to Break Free, unpaid intern's nod to 16 tons, Bezos 1's nod to Obsession, or 30's nod to Queens Radio Gaga.

In each example, we not only found strong musical resemblances between the songs, but the lyrical and thematic content reflected each other as well. Now, every time I hear the refrain, we're going to go where everybody knows everybody. I can't help but think of one of the most iconic theme songs in television history, where everybody knows your name from the show Cheers. Cheers took place in a Boston underground bar, a communal refuge for a group of friends and

regulars that gathered there daily after work. Let's listen to the song's opening, keeping in mind all eyes on me's themes of anxiety and desire for communal escape. Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot. Wouldn't you like? to get away. These sentiments of a shared struggle and a desire to go somewhere for escape feels to me nearly identical to all eyes on me. And thus the song explodes into its harmony-rich refrain,

which Bo might be intentionally nodding to in his own refrain we're going to go where everybody knows everybody. This desire to go where all our troubles are the same feels thematically akin to Bo's desire to go where everybody knows, where everybody shares the same troubles he does. Well, this is admittedly the most of the most of the same troubles. questionable reference song in terms of it being an intentional nod by Bo. To me, they're too familiar not to point out. Now, beyond this possible reference, there's a third reading of Bo's refrain when we

include all of its repetitions. We're going to go where everybody knows everybody knows everybody. While this could simply be the repetition of a phrase to fill out the melody, the visuals during this part point to the fact that the repetitions may be more than mere lyrical filler. During this section, two additional shots of Bo's face are laid on top of the original close-up shot established at the beginning of the song. The translucency of all three shots allowed them to be seen simultaneously throughout this refrain, resulting in a fluid, water-like texture. This begins to establish all eyes on me as the visual climax of Bo's dissociation and

de-realization, the detached out-of-body experience he articulated by name in that funny feeling. Thus the repetitions of Going to Go where everybody knows, everybody knows everybody might be an intentional lyrical reflection of Bose dissociative state as the lyrical echoes of three everybody's mirrors the three bodies or bows we see on screen in any case the visual motif of dissociation is very clear at this point and it's here that we can pause to reflect on how this motif is also communicated musically as you've likely noticed Beau's voice sounds a bit unnatural throughout all eyes on me that's because Beau has applied

to his voice an audio effect called format shifting. Format shifting alters the specific frequencies of a sound that contribute to its tone, and it does this without altering the pitch. For example, I can use format shifting on my voice to make it sound deeper, or I can make it sound higher. For all eyes on me, it appears Bo lowered his voice two semitones via format shifting. For comparison, hears his isolated vocals as they appear in the song. Are you feeling nervous? Are you having fun? It's almost over. It's just begun. Now we can do a bit of reverse engineering and raise the format two semitones,

canceling out the effect and leaving us with something close to his original voice. Are you feeling nervous? Are you having fun? It's almost over. It's just begun. The symbolic implications of this vocal effect further express Beau's total disassociation. The voice is his, but the vocal effect creates detachment. It's him, but it's also not. We also have to consider the implicit cultural associations with his vocal choice, as digitally manipulated low voices are a trope of movie monsters and villains. It's because of this that All Eyes on Me is a bit unnerving, almost disturbing.

Yet, at the same time, the song is also oddly soothing. Part of this comes from the song's lyrics, as Beau literally sues our worries and invites us to join him in the water. But the soothing quality is also communicated musically through its melody, as Bo utilizes something called the pentatonic scale. In contrast with the Western Standard Major Scale, which contains seven notes, the pentatonic scale uses just five notes, eliminating the two notes that create harsh dissonances like the minor second and the tritone. Without the possibility of these kinds of harsh dissonances, the five-note pentatonic scale

has a very soothing, pleasant feel. Bo almost exclusively uses the pentatonic scale and his vocal melody for All Eyes on Me. This soothing melody sung by Bo's haunting lowered voice elicits an emotional reaction that is somehow both comforting and unsettling. And this simultaneous dichotomy is also supported by the blue color that dominates the visuals of this song, as blue is historically associated with sadness and melancholy, but also the serenity and calm of water. Combined with Bo's dissociation,

it's almost as if we're seeing and hearing a personification, of mental illness or depression itself, inviting Bo, inviting all of us to surrender, to give up the existential fight, to sink into the blissful waters of nihilism, to stop carrying the weight of the world's problems, stay inside, and enjoy the warm blanket of numbing detachment. The second iteration of the chorus, drums and piano kick into the mix, and we hear the explosion of a live concert audience. The visuals transition from the intimate close-ups of three overlapping bows to a wide shot of the entire room. Boe stands singing in the center, and a huge real-time projection of him fills the entire wall

behind him. It seems to imitate a large arena stage, where often enormous real-time projection screens are utilized so that those far from the stage can see the performer. Seeing two bows in real-time continues the deliberate visual motif of dissociation while highlighting the tragic irony of his situation, alone in his room, hallucinating all of this. Indeed, if this were an actual concert, we would be getting out of our seats. We would be putting our hands up. The fact that we don't do this while watching from home on a screen feels like a deliberate indictment of the limitations of digital interactions.

However hard we might try to simulate uniquely physical human experiences, it's just not the same. The visuals of All Eyes on Me intentionally highlights this limitation, a limitation that has plagued both the entire special. In this second iteration of the chorus, we get an additional line repeated twice. Heads down, pray for me. Heads down now, pray for me.

This injects a religious component into this performance spectacle, as both putting your hands up and standing up and sitting down, are common rituals and church services, highlighting the communal, spiritual experience of live music, which is again tragically absent from Beau's performance captured digitally. But notably, Boe says, pray for me, not us.

On one hand, this could continue his unrestrained indulgence in adoration and worship as a performer, feelings he resisted at the beginning of the special. Or perhaps it's that Bo's mental health has actually reached a point of desperation and his pleas for prayer are genuine, as he feels like divine intervention might be the only way he can make it through. More on this, right after the break. Welcome back to dissect. Before the break, we reached the end of All Eyes on Me's second chorus, where we heard Bo's request for prayer. It's after this chorus that the song breaks down, and Boe's Joe shares a confessional story with his imaginary audience.

Importantly, he begins this by asking if we want to hear a quote-unquote funny story, once again explicitly developing this special long exploration of funny. You want to hear a funny story? So five years ago, I quit performing live comedy because I was beginning to have severe panic attacks while on stage, which is not a great place to have them. So I quit, and I didn't perform for five years. I spent that time.

Bo reveals that he quit performing live comedy five years ago because he was having severe panic attacks on stage. The audience, unable to tell the difference between sincerity and tragic irony, laughs at this revelation. While we've explored Beau's fraught history with performance anxiety throughout our analysis this season, we should recognize this moment in Inside as extremely pivotal.

It's the first public acknowledgement of it in his art, and fittingly, he reveals this while back on a stage, while enduring what itself feels like a song-long panic attack. This formal acknowledgement during the emotional climax of the film is thus a unifying, culminating moment in the personal narrative thread that runs throughout Inside. Recall this thread began with Inside's opening moments, when Bo walked inside the same door he walked out of at the end of 2016's Make Happy, which signaled his retreat from public performance.

Well, that was a more subtle acknowledgement of the personal narrative that runs throughout inside. The thread was more overtly introduced when we saw a slightly horrified Boe watching a projection of himself performing My Whole Family, his performance origin story. Since that moment, we've seen Bo's struggle with performance throughout the second half of the film, which has now culminated into a full-blown dissociative panic attack here on Alley's on Me, where he also directly acknowledges May Capi in his subsequent hiatus. from performance. With this context in mind, let's revisit May Capi's finale, appropriately titled Can't Handle This, where Beau first articulated his love-hate relationship with performing in front

an audience. The truth is my biggest problems, you, I want to please you, but I want to stay true to myself, I want to give you the night out that you deserve, but I want to say what I think, and not care what you think about it. A part of me loves you. Part of me loves you. Part of me. Bowe' Bhopit me needs him Part of me fears you And I don't think that I can handle this right now Bo articulates the dilemma that's plagued him seemingly his entire career

A dichotomous Tug-a-War with his audience As a creative person he needs and wants their attention But also causes him extreme anxiety to the point of panic attacks Now let's listen to this clip again And this time focus on how and when Beau manipulates his voice. Did you think about it? A part of me loves you. Part of me hates you. Part of me needs you. Part of me fears you. Did you catch it? Bo uses the same format shift effect on his voice that we hear throughout

All Eyes on Me. When he says he loves and needs the audience, he raises his voice, perhaps to symbolize his childlike need for attention. When he says he hates and fears his, the audience, he lowers his voice exactly like All Eyes on Me, symbolizing the anxiety, panic, and resentment he feels while performing. This symbolic musical, motific link to Can't Handle this begins to reveal more of the subtle brilliance of All Eyes on Me. Indeed, if we notice the colors during the majority of Can't Handle this, we realize that it uses the same blue color that dominates All Eyes on Me. And if we think back to the scene where Bo watches my whole family on the projector, we also realize that the same blue color dominates that scene as well.

It's the hue of the light emitting from the projector, but the video for My Whole Family itself is almost entirely blue. Bo is wearing a blue shirt, the wall behind him is solid blue, and a blue LED light emits from his keyboard. Now let's also recall what we heard during the My Whole Family projection scene, a low droning synthesizer playing a four-note sequence. Recall that this synth part was a reduction of the same chords played in the introduction of My Whole Family. the very song Bo was watching himself perform during this scene, creating a musical emotive link between the two. Now let's compare this with what we hear at All Eyes on Me. First, like the projector scene, the song features a low droning synth playing a four-note sequence. While not a direct note-to-note match, the overall ominous feeling is emotionally akin to the projector scene.

And like that scene, we can actually trace the note sequence of All Eyes on Me back to my whole family. This time the source is the song's chorus. Removing the rhythm, here's the chord sequence both plays during this chorus. Now let me play just the root or bass notes of each chord. Now let's play this on a low droning synth. Now let's add full chords over the top. We can now compare this to what we hear in All Eyes on Me. It's the same exact chord sequence transposed a half step down.

So do you see what Bo is doing here? All Eyes on Me encompasses the entirety of Bo's performance career. Musically, the foundation of the song is built from the foundation of his career, My Whole Family. While the voice modulation, an expression of anxiety, is an extension of Make Happy's can't handle this, which for a time marked the end of his performance career. Meanwhile, the blue color that dominates my whole family can't handle this, the projector scene, and All Eyes on Me, binds this thread together visually. And so, understanding this, understanding the all-encompassing panoptic scope that all eyes at me symbolizes in regards to Bo's performance career, we listened to the rest of his funny story with a deeper understanding of its tragic irony.

So I quit, spent that time, prove myself mentally. And you know what? I did. I got so much better. In January of 20, I thought, you know what, I should. Start performing again. Hiding from the world. Reenter.

Bo reveals that his hiatus from performing and his efforts to improve his mental health actually worked. Narratively, this is yet another acknowledgement of the end of Make Happy. There, Bill walked out of the room he's in now and was greeted by his girlfriend and dog before going inside his house.

Bo was leaving the stage to focus on himself and his family. To, as he says here in all eyes on me, improve himself mentally. While it's unclear what exactly Bo was doing behind the scenes to improve his mental health, he did stay away from performance for years. As we discussed in the first episode of this series, Bo turned to creative work behind the scenes, writing and directing his first feature film Eighth Grade, directing comedy specials for Chris Rock and Gerard Carmichael, among other ventures. In his All Eyes on Me story, Bo reveals

his time away from the stage worked, and he improved so much that he felt he was ready to perform again. And this was true, Bo had been occasionally popping in at the Largo Nightclub in L.A. test new material and even had an official show book for April of 2020. Notably, Bo describes his time away from the stage by saying, I've been hiding from the world and I need to re-enter. In other words, he was inside and needed to go back outside. He then brings the story full circle by saying, then the funniest thing happened, ironically referencing the very unfunny global pandemic that shut the world down and forced everyone inside. In a rare interview in late 2020, Bo discussed his experience with the pandemic and mentioned this need to get back outside.

It's also just like a very psychic time. It's a very, I found it to be very interior psych, and that's tough for me. I mean, that's just like, that's not totally easy to deal with because I'm just like, I'm the guy that, you know, is already kind of shut in in his head. And now that I'm like encouraged by the government to be in my own head, that feels like it's not the ideal. Like it was just even this year I was like you know I need to go out more I need to engage with the world more I need to like be outside and I and I and then so there's just a kind of a sick irony to all of that as Bo says here there's a sick or tragic irony to being forced inside precisely when he was mentally ready to go back outside an additional tragic layer is added as we watch Beau reveal this irony while having what feels like a panic attack on a make-belief stage inside his home hallucinating an arena-sized audience. Indeed, while a live audience gave Boe anxiety to the point of panic attacks on an actual stage, what Bo has learned over the past year, forcibly stuck inside, is that his performance anxiety is actually worse without an audience. It's worse without people,

without communal human interaction. Despite those five years of mental improvement, Bo once again finds himself back at rock bottom as a direct result of performance. Thus, Bo's quote-unquote funny story here on All Eyes on me, is the peak of the tragic irony that's dominated inside second half. A demoralizing revelation made all the more crushing by the music and visuals encompassing Bo's entire comedic career, a career trying to be funny, which inevitably results in him feeling funny. Are you feeling nervous? It's almost over. It's just begun. Don't over think this. Look in my eye. Don't be scared. Don't be shy. Come on in the water's.

After the personal story revealed in the middle of All Eyes on Me, this repetition of the opening verse feels very much like Bo's disassociated self talking to him while on stage. Part of him is nervous while performing. Part of him is having fun. Part of him is comforted knowing this particular performance is almost over, while part of him knows that the end of this performance will only begin the inevitable, dreaded anxiety cycle all over again. He then once again attempts to convince himself to stop resisting the unavoidable collapse and find bliss and surrendering, which this time around seems to work,

leading into what could be argued is the musical climax of the entire special. Both fully submits to the part of himself, both fully submits to the part of himself that wants nothing more than to surrender. He begins, you say the ocean's rising like I give a shit. The thing is, we know Bo does give a shit. He's referenced climate change a number of times throughout the special, and his most overt references were just heard on the previous song That Funny Feeling. As Bo's own mental health declines, it seems he's finding it harder and harder to care about the catastrophes of the outside world when his own immediate interior world is itself a catastrophe. Broadly speaking, Bo here also seems to be tapping into a larger phenomenon dubbed empathy burnout or compassion fatigue,

which is severe emotional exhaustion caused when, quote, a person is expending much of their energy, emotional, physical, mental, to care for others to the point that they themselves feel exhausted, unquote. Studies have found that living through the past few years, with its global pandemic, numerous social uprisings, a tumultuous presidential election, frequent mass shootings, an invasion of Ukraine, economic uncertainty, and much more, has resulted in a widespread numbness, desensitization, and decline in empathy.

This is only exacerbated by the distribution of information on social media, where we're seeing so much of everything all of the time, scrolling through a timeline of tragedy after tragedy after tragedy. How can we possibly emotionally invest in every horrible thing we see on a daily basis? Bozone compassion fatigue continues with a line, You say the whole world's ending, honey, it already did. You're not going to slow it. heaven knows you tried. This feels like a direct continuation and amplification of the end of that

funny feeling, where Bo's sings about the unavoidable end of the world in the near future. Bo's depression voice thws himself into fatalistic apathy, giving in to the all-too-attractive temptation of ridding yourself of the burden of caring, caring for problems you didn't create, caring for people that don't seem to care about you, caring for a world you don't even want to be a part anymore. The idea of not being able to slow the world's impending annihilation seems to capture the smallness one can feel as an individual attempting to shoulder the weight of the world's problems, feeling helpless trying to make a meaningful, positive impact on your own and your limited time on this planet. This is particularly true when it comes to issues like climate change,

where the fate of the globe, the literal future of humanity, depends on you. And while we understand the importance of taking on these kinds of responsibilities, when you're struggling with your own mental health or simply the ongoing effort it takes to sustain a life, that responsibility on top of everything else can feel crushing. And thus, despite understanding it's no sustainable way to live, both siren call to unshackle yourself from the burden of caring, to indulge in the freedom of indifference. It's incredibly enticing. Before All Eyes on Me, sinks back into its refrain. Before All Eyes on Me, sinks back into its refrain, both things got it good now get inside at this point in the special we understand the multi-layered

implication of inside it's a command to stay indoors shut away from the problems of the outside world it's a command to live strictly inside the much more real much more vital digital space at the internet it's the command to submit to depression's seductive passes to sink deeper inside of oneself it's a command to indulge in the narcissistic sentiment of all eyes on me me me prioritizing and objectifying yourself, the world be damned. Musically, Bo does something incredibly interesting during this section, as he applies something called a harmonizer to his voice. This effect allows you to sing a single pitch as you normally would,

and the harmonizer automatically generates artificial, synthetically created harmonies, as if multiple singers were backing you up. But because these are computer generated, the effect has a metallic, digitized sound, like a choir made up of robots. Let's isolate Beau's vocals during this section, so you can hear this effect more clearly.

Bo utilizing a multi-voice effect precisely at the song's climax feels intentionally symbolic of its dissociated out-of-body state. Just as we see multiple visuals of Boe generated digitally, so too do we hear multiple bows generated digitally. This added layer contributes to the rising climax of All Eyes on Me, as Bo becomes increasingly unhinged. Indeed, it's during this section of the song that we notice a visual detail that forewarns us of Bo's upcoming physical collapse. The large projection of Boe on the wall behind him is created by a second camera in the room being run through a projector. On the upper right-hand side of this projection, we can see the camera's memory and battery life icons.

The memory indicators show two numbers, 9,9,900. 99 and 2959 or 29 minutes and 59 seconds. 9,999 indicates that the memory card is full, while 29 minutes and 59 seconds is the maximum length that a DSLR camera can record video. In other words, times up. Bo has reached max capacity and is ready to burst. As for the battery life icon, during the majority of the video, the battery displays full.

But during this final refrain section, it's suddenly completely empty and blinking directly above Bo's head, indicating that it, like Bo himself, will shut down at any moment. Get up. Get up. Get up. I'm talking to you. Get the fuck out. Go to fucking head. There you'll see. Bo here finally snaps. The built-up frustration and anxiety and exhaustion caused by performing for the lifeless, unresponsive, soul-sucking eye of the camera.

for over a year, results in a full-on meltdown. He screams violently at the camera, at us, at the world. He then walks toward us, toward the camera, and picks us and it up, singing the final chorus while dancing around the room, filming himself. Notably, the hand that's holding the camera is above his head. Bose got his fucking hands up, theoretically forcing us to do the same. Yet it's during this moment of the film that we're more aware than ever of our complete passiveness as an audience member, experiencing Bo's chaotic point of view on screen while sitting

comfortably on a couch or lying in bed. Bo is so desperately trying to inject some life, some semblance of meaningful reciprocity in this digital transaction, this new way we interface with each other. He's putting up his best fight, but the wall of recorded performance, the barrier between camera and screen, performer, and audience, proves to be insurmountable, and it's not long until Bo finally collapses to the floor. camera in hand, drowning in the sound of enthused, disembodied roars from his imaginary audience. Bo's physical collapse while holding the camera is incredibly significant. As we've discussed at length during the series, the camera is a symbol of performance.

It represents Bo's entire career journey as a performer, while also representing the ubiquity of performance in the modern internet-driven world. Indeed, if Inside has a villain, it's most certainly the camera. that ominous soul-sucking, all-seeing black void of an eye Bo has been battling all special long. And at this point, after Bo's biggest confrontation with the camera, it seems the camera has won, leaving Bo collapsed on the floor physically and mentally broken.

It's that scene in the movie where it appears that the protagonist is dead, that the villain got the best of them, that in Bo's case, the show is over. Like every good narrative climax, All Eyes on Me weaves together all the stories, story's central themes into one critical, culminating scene. It's the peak of Bo's dissociation and agoraphobia that's been developing since the beginning of inside. It's the peak of Bo's anxiety and existential dread about the world outside, with its converging crises of climate

change, late-stage capitalism, COVID, gun violence, economic inequality, systemic racism, and polarizing politics. It's the peak of Boe's anxiety and existential dread about the world inside, With its convergent crises of the digital flattening of the human experience, the unchecked influence of big tech, the ubiquity of performance and loss of interiority, dehumanization, over-stimulation, desensitization, and the decline of empathy and genuine human connection. All these themes explored throughout inside come to a head and all lies on me, and the result is what feels like a religious experience with mental illness. With its haunting, heavy drones and its oddly complementary soothing harmonies, all eyes on me vividly

captures the all too real temptation to concede, an anthem for a generation born into and continually ravaged by so many coinciding pressures and anxieties and looming catastrophes. It is the all too real temptation to say fuck it, to appease depression's call to submerge yourself into its pacifying waters, to take shelter in the warmth of your bed, to lose yourself in your phone, to stop trying to extricate some glimpse of meaning from a meaningless world, accept defeat and stay inside forever.