The Ways of the Heart Cannot Be Explained: The Quantum Love of Netflix’s ‘Dark’

“What we know is a drop. What we don’t know is an ocean.

– Isaac Newton

Warning: this series review includes some big picture spoilers.

My family was in the midst of another feverish discussion between episodes of Netflix’s German-language mystery Dark—this one about the revelation that one of the show’s main characters was, in fact, her own grandmother (which is another way of saying that her daughter is also her mother). In-depth conversations about the tortuous relations of Dark’s central families have a tendency to devolve into word salad, personal mnemonics and bemused laughter.

This was just one of many baffled emergency conferences that took place over the course of three dizzying seasons of the cerebral sci-fi drama. Dedicated attempts to follow every overlapping story arc must mimic actual scenes from the show: bulletin board link charts stuffed with well-worn photographs and crisscrossing lines of multi-colored yarn, like countless police procedurals or the hunt for Pepe Silvia.

The moody and uniquely German sci-fi-horror-drama is a dense metaphysical layer cake that piles on twists and paradoxes at a rate that will confound even the most active viewer. It is quite possibly the most narratively complex show of all time, but its insanely high audience and critic scores show that it has attracted a stubborn and curious fandom who seem to love it enough for everyone else.

And the closer you look, the more confounding it all becomes, and not just because of the hilariously perplexing character ties (intersecting in various timelines) but because there are some very big and befuddling concepts at the center of it all.

You could spend many hours of time and many thousands of words dissecting the convoluted particulars of Dark’s nuclear town and its alarmingly intertwined family trees, and some already have. That is not the goal of this review. My purpose is to tease out (for myself just as much as the reader) the mind-bending science behind the show’s central concepts, and reflect on the emotional impact of their implications. 

After all it is this tantalizing sense of inquisitive awe, especially towards the mind-boggling rules of the quantum universe specifically—the microcosm in the macrocosm—that (along with the visual and musical aesthetic) kept me hopelessly entranced even when in a state of overworked confusion. 

Even when I found myself lost in the proverbial woods of Dark’s labyrinthine realities I never stopped marveling at the show for aesthetic qualities alone; it is a deeply beautiful (if sometimes painfully somber) world populated by flawed, perfectly cast characters and a stunning soundtrack comprised not just of Ben Frost’s haunting score but of licensed tracks that add a consistent and powerful emotional dimension. The soundtrack itself is a mood.

The simple but clever symbolism of its mirrored kaleidoscopic opening credits (set to Apparat’s mournful Goodbye) is not fully realized until the third season, which illustrates an important point: Dark is a painstakingly purposeful journey into the astonishing symmetry of our physical world and the asymmetrical flaws of the human heart—there is very little out of place. The show’s creators delight in the details and Easter eggs of its stratified story, and count on us doing the same. It actually seems a minor miracle that Dark was allowed to run its full course without Netflix cutting the cord (as they are increasingly wont to do).

Winden is a small fictional town in Central Germany whose name might be a play on the verb meaning to “twist” or “writhe.” It doesn’t have a skyline to speak of, and much of the town’s identity is defined, both visually and economically, by its nuclear power plant—its steam-spewing stacks crouched over the town like gloomy giants. Winden is also defined by what it holds back: the hushed but insistent presence of the surrounding woods, and the caves which wind underneath the power plant itself. Nature is never far away.

After the mysterious disappearance of a young boy, the townsfolk of Winden form search parties. They pin signs to telephone poles. When another boy goes missing, townhall meetings are assembled. Tensions rise. People ask: “Wo ist Mikkel? Wo ist Erik?” And some of the older and more astute members of the town note that this isn’t the first time this has happened. Winden has a habit of swallowing people.

Not only is Dark’s initial question (“Wo ist Mikkel?”) inadequate by design but its ensuing revisions serve to guide a story which begs the biggest kinds of questions that we as viewers can possibly formulate—about ourselves, about the universe, and about how those things might fit together. It should be reiterated that Dark is presented and consumed as a crime mystery with a sci-fi twist, and you could potentially watch the entire thing without becoming overly mired in these big questions (although the longer it goes the harder that becomes). While much of Dark‘s juiciest early subtext does eventually breach the exposition of the show itself, it’s entirely possible to forge ahead in the show without getting bogged down in allusion and metaphor. But you’d be missing out.

Although I have chosen to dial in on the physics of the series, there are other references at work. Hermetic principles of polarity, rhythm, and causality inform some of the show’s most recurrent themes, while the Buddhist concept of Samsara is reflected in Dark’s endless cycle of birth, life and death. These revolutions are repeated and perpetuated by misplaced energy and flawed motivations, and the resulting karma is illustrated in the show’s many tragedies and bootstrap paradoxes. 

Dark is a show designed for the Internet Age, and armchair detectives thrive on deciphering the philosophical, literary and scientific inspirations which make it so richly textural; the dense opacity of reference material in this case basically demands discussion. And while some background knowledge of physics, philosophy and Greek mythology will inform and contextualize the experience of Dark, none of that is strictly necessary. 

The series asks a lot of its viewers not just by virtue of its references and circuitous plotting but because of what it ultimately says about us and our place in the universe. It is at this intersection of human will and quantum physics where Dark finds its thorniest and most interesting questions, and it is this element specifically that I am focusing on in this review.

(Heads up, things are about to get weird).

Everything in Dark is driven by a scientific curiosity informed by our most current models of the universe, specifically the mystifying world of quantum theory where definite states give way to probabilities. This necessitates juxtaposing the “classical” world (big stuff like people, planets, trees and cats) with the “quantum” world (small stuff like neutrons, electrons and photons). One world made up of the other, but so ostensibly dissimilar that each requires its own corresponding mechanics. Common sense, for what it’s worth, simply does not hold in the quantum realm. 

To illustrate this point consider superposition, a foundational property of quantum mechanics. At the atomic and subatomic level, particles (who also act as waves in a phenomenon known as wave-particle duality) exist in multiple states at the same time. This means that an electron’s angular momentum (or spin), for instance, isn’t an either/or proposition. When it is in a superposed state an electron has both up and down spin at once, literally existing in both states simultaneously. A particle’s wave function describes the range of probabilities of a particle’s state at any given time. This fundamental principle never ceases to break my brain.

Particles go on like this until they are measured—at which point, strangely enough, they “choose” one state or another. To continue with the example, our electron becomes either spin up or spin down, but not both. Those possibilities that existed concurrently become something definite, something measurable, and the wave function is collapsed. 

This wave function collapse is also known as the Observer Effect, which has been used to suggest some spooky things about the power of consciousness. But much to the chagrin of pseudoscientific quantum healing gurus everywhere, this does not indicate a scientific basis for some kind of psychic shortcut to self-actualization (there is nothing scientific about “quantum healing” except for some haphazardly borrowed terminology). Collapse comes not from observation itself but from the interference that comes with it—the quantum world colliding with the classical one. Put more simply, observation is interference. Probability turns to certainty, but only once we interact. Everything at the quantum level has commitment issues. 

In Episode 7 of Season 3, H.G. Tannhaus (who is most directly responsible for everything that happens in Dark) comes right out and explains the properties of the wave function and what it might mean for Winden’s overlapping realities; without collapsing the wave function, how can we say if Schrödinger’s cat is alive or dead? 

Dark is in fact an answer to Tannhaus’ questions: what if we apply the characteristics of the microscopic world to that of the macroscopic? What if classical objects (like you and me) behaved like the particles of the quantum world? What if the universe’s wave function (that range of possibilities that exists before we observe it) does not collapse upon interaction but instead splits? How many worlds might there be if every moment of decoherence meant another world, with another version of you? 

This is in a way the central conceit of the entire series. Dark is a creative exploration of the Many Worlds Interpretation, which directly ties into the unavoidable question of free will versus determinism—a quandary faced nearly constantly by the show’s world-hopping Travelers. It makes sense that Dark has been described as “the most mentally exhausting show” of all time when you consider its fascination with the most mind-boggling ideas humanity has yet to come up against. Theoretical physicist Richard Feynman himself said: “I think I can safely say that nobody understands quantum mechanics.” And I think I can safely say that no one has completely untangled the many threads of Dark.

An audience’s enjoyment of this show does not of course necessitate an understanding of such heady ideas, but an instinctual curiosity about the fundamental questions of existence will go a long way in determining your enjoyment of a show which is not, admittedly, for everyone. 

Consider quantum entanglement: the term was coined in 1935 by Erwin Schrödinger in reference to his now-famous “Schrödinger’s Cat” thought experiment (ironically, this correspondence with Albert Einstein was meant to illustrate the “ridiculous” and unlikely nature of quantum theory).

Entanglement happens when a pair (or group!) of particles become linked: multiple particles, same wave function. Measuring one will immediately tell you the complementary corresponding state of the other, even if the two particles are separated by vast distances. Particles in our galaxy may theoretically have “twin” particles on the other side of the universe, linked as if by an invisible tether. Einstein, who led us to the quantum world through his theory of light quanta, was deeply skeptical of this phenomenon, famously referring to entanglement as “spooky action at a distance.” 

This brings us to Martha and Jonas, the dovetailing heart at the center of this whole series. Poor, sweet Jonas and his better half Martha. Sometimes friends, sometimes lovers, sometimes aunt and nephew. Often all at once! Yeah, it gets a bit weird.

They are, as we eventually find out, born out of new universes and tragically linked—one of them trying to untie the knot that holds their worlds together, the other trying to keep it in place. The strength of their connection (both amorous and adversarial) becomes more and more obvious as the show progresses, until their relationship begins to answer Tannhaus’ earlier question: what if the macroscopic world behaved like the microscopic? What if people behaved like particles, conversely related and entangled even when they don’t know it? What if the rules were different?

Zoom out further and this hypothesis plays out on an even bigger scale. Tannhaus’ dual worlds, created out of a desperate attempt to save his own family, exist in a state of superposition, where the multiple possibilities of important events play out together, layered and on loop. One influencing the other, entangled from the start. 

In the final episode we see Martha and Jonas break free from the endless loop of destruction (with the indispensable help of Claudia Tiedemann) to make an impossible decision: undo the worlds created by Tannhaus, and in so doing undo themselves. To accomplish this task they cross a bridge outside of time and space, and while in these coruscating tunnels they encounter each other yet again—an older version of Jonas coming face to face with Martha as a young girl, and vice versa. A final parting mystery which shows, in trademark Dark fashion, a moment of inexplicable entanglement. Two separate but connected particles, endlessly intertwined. One last bootstrap paradox for the road.

Back in Winden, Jonas repeats his mantra to Martha, as if wishing it into existence: “We’re a perfect match. Never believe anything else.” By the end it would seem that this is not just a declaration of love but a law of physics: a scientific truth that binds them no matter where they go. Right up until they dissolve in a shimmer of light.

This is when I step out from the platform created by scientific knowledge and start to sound like a guru in my own right. Because I would say that Dark implicitly suggests that love—that seemingly irrational bond between two human souls, and perhaps everything else—might be powerful enough to be its own physical law, as astounding as the subatomic realm that seems to break all our rules. 

Love shapes our space and our time in a way that confounds our senses; it shifts our ideas of what is possible in a universe that allows myriad worlds to exist next to and on top of each other, connected in this little twisted town by dark wind-blown bridges of human design. Embracing the mysteries of the universe while simultaneously seeking their answers is an attempt to understand (as Hawking said) the “language of the universe.” Math is the original love language.

In their final moments of existence, Martha asks Jonas: “Do you think anything of us could remain, or is that what we are – a dream?” Jonas, in keeping with long tradition, has no answer. But I want to tell her (I want to tell myself, I want to tell you) that the brevity of our physical existence does not imply meaninglessness, but quite the opposite. 

Martha and Jonas were never meant to exist in the first place—yet they did. The unlikeliness of their existence (some infinitesimal fraction away from a zero percent chance) does not mean that their lives, or the moments they created together, were any less meaningful than those we see going on once the knot is finally undone. 

Our own lives are just as unlikely, predicated as they are upon the precise cosmic conditions of this narrow band of space and time in our beautiful backwater galaxy. Our moon has shielded us from the bullets of space without ever once asking for repayment. It has kept us, unceasingly and unconditionally, on our axis. It has let our oceans breathe. Light from our little sun travels 150 million kilometers just to keep us alive—any more or less and we would be as Martha and Jonas: the lost dream of some never-made world.

Would we matter then, if we never existed? Or would we always have existed in some tiny tucked away possibility of a universe that branches like the limbs of a tree, each twig invisible to its neighbor? How hard might the question of existence be if we had such an incomplete vision of our world? This is not a rhetorical question, and science has always grappled with it.

If, like Martha and Jonas, we have our own corresponding twins out there in various worlds, do they matter? I’m sure they matter to themselves, but do they matter to us? Are we bound to them? Did our choices make or unmake them, or is it the other way around?

Dark pries back a panel on the universal apparatus, but the only thing that comes pouring out is questions and a feeling of undefinable mystery. It’s the feeling of finding something and losing it at the same time. It is emotion in superposition, not so much a point as a wave, full of love and loss and fear and gratitude. If I’m doing a bad job of explaining it, it’s only because I don’t understand. It’s because I’m trying to explain something that might be inexplicable. The wonder, ultimately, is that Martha and Jonas (that we!) exist at all, inextricably bound—through math or miracle.

If death turns life into a work of art (as Einstein supposed), then Jonas and Martha are what Bob Ross would call “a happy accident,” a sublime realization of human love existing in the remotest of mathematical probabilities—their heartbreaking push and pull ending finally, beautifully, in a moment of tenderness and long-elusive acceptance.

I am not a physicist. And if you are, I apologize for my rudimentary explanations and emotional extrapolations. My algorithmic ineptitude limits me to fanboy status in the world of science and physics. I am just a curious layperson with an itch that I can’t quite seem to scratch. I believe that approaching physics and cosmology even imperfectly is a worthy pursuit, because it aims to understand something that I will never be able to put into words. It grasps at the boundaries of everything we know, and I am enthralled by the thought.

If the third and final season of the show has a weakness it is that the emotional core by which we relate is often superseded by breathless exposition, in a hurry towards its destination. It sometimes loses sight of the fact that Dark is a love story. It is a punctilious exploration of fate, folly and the predictable constant of human weakness.

Winden is a small town growing up in the shadow of nuclear disaster, and it taps into some of our deepest fears: nuclear annihilation, lost love, cosmic irrelevance. But there is just enough light brimming energetically at the edges and in the hearts of its misguided players to not give in entirely to the overwhelming struggle of existence—it is bleak but not hopeless, and its characters for all their mistakes are driven forward by the best intentions.

What keeps me hooked even when the show sometimes gets lost in its own ambitions is this reverence for the mysteries of time and space that recall Einstein’s notion of a “cosmic religion,” which finds God everywhere, discovered through the scientific method one testable piece at a time. It is the difference between looking at the night sky and feeling wholeness instead of abandonment. With this belief, uncovering the natural laws of nature and the expanding scope of the universe renders us not insignificant but, ironically, more significant than we realize. In a world of quantum mysteries, size is no indicator of cosmic import.

At the center of Dark’s finely tuned machinery I hear a still and quiet voice that urges us: do not fight the current, but swim enough to stay afloat and go where it takes you. If time is a river then swimming upstream will only steal your strength, and you will still end up at the same place in the end. Do not despair at how little you control, but accept the beauty in front of you as enough. Because it is enough. It must be enough. Never believe anything else.