“Homies help homies, always.” — Finn

“I’m begging you to shut the fuck up.” — Marty

Tom and Huck, Holmes and Watson, Aubrey and Maturin, Gilgamesh and Enkidu – the fictional male duo have often adventured together. Even or especially when their temperaments differ or their individual motivations come at cross purposes. There’s a beautiful narrative balance between two dissimilar yet complimentary types of persona. And such a pair form the core of recent excellent television: Finn and Jake – Rust and Marty. The former with affection and support, the latter with bitterness and anger. Yet both sets containing a deeply desired emotional component of all partnerships: respect.

It’s sometimes difficult to discuss male bonding in these days when gender issues tumble through such a sensitive space of public debate. Plus the contemporary social image of the western man has been so long built upon a foundation of oversimplified tropes continually purveyed by sitcoms, romcoms, beer commercials, and action movies. Fictional men are usually either the epitome of aloof cool manliness or an emblem of the browbeaten suburban schlub who just wants to watch tv and drink beer (if only his nagging wife would let him!). The other portrayals which fill the narrative cracks are either those of simplistic danger: robber, abuser, thug, criminal – or simplistic gay: effete, swishy, comedic.

Males of the human type will absorb these tropes from childhood on, and often define their own status within the bounds of limited and received archetypes. Or if they do not fit within the presented roles, it is often intrinsic to the masculine ego to internalize and suppress their discomfort at their received position. Stoicism has long been portrayed as an ideal manly virtue, regardless of social status. Even if the internal fountain is possibly hormonal, it’s still socially reinforced quite often. And since there’s been only niche movements to define men by anything other than success in their traditionally dominant roles, they generally judge themselves within those staid frameworks.

For instance, the character of Finn wholeheartedly believes in the idealized noble manly hero who actively pursues an honorable and often violent destiny, sword in hand. Adventure Time is thematically defined around Finn’s central motivating desire to stop evil villains and save helpless princesses. Yet the brilliant twist of this cartoon (making it antithetical to older action set pieces like He-Man or GI Joe) is the winking postmodern devices which get in the way of Finn’s hope for constant straightforward adventure. For one, princesses are modernly portrayed as fully three dimensional people with distinct personalities, and not merely prizes to won. They have their own volition and active role in shaping the world. So even though Finn would like nothing more than a basic heroic quest to satisfy his emotional preoccupation, not every girl needs or wants to be saved. On top of that confounding reality, it turns out that not every villain is simplistically evil either. Some (such as the curmudgeonly Ice King) are just lonely, troubled, and confused. And these complicating nuances are always interfering with Finn’s basic hope for simple heroics.

Marty in True Detective (Woody Harrelson’s character) as well contains an idealized version of manhood at the center of his persona. To him this means doing his job appropriately, bringing home the bacon, and basically showing up as a husband/father. It’s a customary outlook adopted by many men in the hopes that it will make this confusing world more straightforward – the domestic version of the heroic quest. The social ideals of stability and achievement are hopefully brought about by hard work and moral fortitude. Of course, simply doing the mere basics of one’s perceived duty is seldom enough to get by in a world often interjected by chaos. Life requires complex choices and imperfect solutions in situations where even the interpretation and application of supposed noble behaviors is as tricky as making decisions without any personal code to begin with.

Jake and Rust understand this all too well. For they are the existential realists in both shows. They see and empathize with their partners’ desire for a fundamental narrative code by which to live, yet they believe life to be uncontainable, spilling the bounds of order on such regular occasion that any strict set of beliefs is unwieldy. To cherish notions of order and elemental morality in a chaotic and quickly changing environment is not only foolish, it’s dangerous.

And dangers of various types appear all over in these shows, both internal and external. Although the primary supposed villains in each are actually simplistic manifestations of pure evil without much rational motivation. Both the Lich in AT and the satanic hillbillies in TD are staple and uncomplicated antagonists, desiring nothing more than wanton pain and destruction for no reason more sophisticated than an unexplainable sickness and malevolence. These sorts of villains are always narratively usefully to a show’s writers, but are thematically boring. So it’s no surprise that neither of these programs’ better conflicts are centered around the primary villain.

Of much more fascinating interest and twisted terror is the sort of chaotic baddie who desires love and affection but does not understand how they work. The type who does not wish to merely destroy society, but instead to have it conform to his dark and mangled desires. In Adventure Time this is perfectly represented by the Earl of Lemongrab. A deeply weird and struggling symbol of an empathy removed and power gone awry. He desires followers, he wants to lead and issue weird decrees, and even build up his odd kingdom, but he is trapped inside a bizarre tangle of self-justifying visions which set out a sick social order to which even he can not conform. It is these delusions of grandeur combined with a potent narcissism, locked in a withered mind lacking all compassion (and seemingly too far gone to be redeemed) which make for a truly frightening antagonist. The type of twisted sociopathic yet functional derangement which humanity has to more regularly deal. The kind that can not be eradicated by sheer force, because it is less a freak aberration than a manifestation of poor social conditioning upon a susceptible mind. It is coding for a sickness inherent to many forms of terrorism and the scourge of the modern rampage killer. Baffling to us, yet welling up from our common cultural soil.

In True Detective the same symptoms of chaos appear, but even more frighteningly and more potently, they appear within the protagonists themselves. Both Marty and Rust are their own worst enemies, and the true conflict of the show is not between them and the perpetually mysterious criminal, but between them and their own demons. This is a much more mature, nuanced, existential, and universal struggle. For we can not arrest one portion, one segment of ourselves. Everyone must cope constantly with a multifaceted nature and the unpredictable circumstances of our lives which might too easily drive us to personal failure.

As True Detective progresses we watch the protagonists slowly descend into the palliative salve of alcohol and their repeated attempts at redemption via women, sex, and cathartic violence. None of which work to bring stability to their lives. It’s a downward slope for both, episode by episode, and the crux of the show is our collective witness to this tortuous fall into anger and hated. From the beginning, Rust appears to be emotionally irredeemable, due to his exceedingly deep cynicism borne of past trauma. While it becomes increasingly evident that Marty is also doomed to failure by existing in a near constant state of denial about his personal troubles and moral failings.

In the fundamentally more light-hearted Adventure Time, the characters’ internal struggles are often dealt with as an expression of exterior plot elements, rather than the slow broiling conversations of two cops driving around the deep south questioning suspects and bickering at each other. For instance, when Finn enters the alternative pillow universe in the episode “Puhoy” he experiences an entire separate life there, growing old while having a wife and children. His quest for continual adventure is put aside for a domestic existence of staid contentment, and his only greater goal is to find his way out and back to his own world, even though he is clearly happy where he is. This is a common emotional conundrum often portrayed in the character of the aging male: to relinquish idealistic dreams of youth and excitement for the practicality of family maintenance. Just like Marty in True Detective, Finn in the pillow world knows he should be satisfied with his familial outcome, but the call of visceral excitement is too strong. Men of a certain type (think: Teddy Roosevelt) want to compete and win whenever they can. They desire to test themselves and measure their worth against the demands of a straightforward challenge, often hopefully physical. But in this modern bureaucratic, rather docile and ordered world, many are denied daily access this emotional outlet, and their latent desires can become frustrated and fester.

One of the deepest thematic commonalities of the two shows is the sometimes desperate needs of the male ego. In the episode “Dungeon Train” Finn finds his ideal scenario: a never-ending ring of heroic challenges and rewards. A video-game-like environment that is extremely appealing to his interests, but quickly bores the realist Jake. Here is another conundrum of the male desire to conquer and achieve, as represented in True Detective by the never-ending case on which they toil: when ensconced in activity or work, one does not need to confront one’s own frightening lack of emotional fulfillment. There is a circular painful struggle within attempting accomplishments while constantly judging their worth. Exemplified by the unending puzzle of a complex police case, or an unceasing circle of repetitive adventures which keep the mind and spirit occupied, but are not truly enough to satisfy a deeper more ineffable desire to be worldly substantial and make a true difference.

Related to this need for accomplishment is the corollary hope for a fulfilling domestic life. The Don Draper struggle of “having it all”, which is relevant to everyone in different ways, but can often be seen by men as an inherent tradeoff between family responsibility and the exciting freedom of an active bachelorhood. At one point in AT, Jake has offspring and his stress and anxiety grow to tremendous levels before a lucky deus ex machina saves him, when it turns out his little scions magically mature in about a week, leaving him the benefits of being a father whilst skipping most of the work and returning to the freedom and fun of adventuring. An all too boyish fantasy. But Marty, living in a much harsher reality, is not so lucky, and continually struggles with his innate ideal of a family life while still desiring risky sex and exhilaration.