'The Killing' has a really great combination of qualities: Even

The words of Joel Kinnaman, “‘The Killing’ has a really great combination of qualities: Even though it’s very sad and deals with mourning and grief, it’s still exciting. It’s about real people and it doesn’t shy from the painful points of life,” carry a truth older than the art of storytelling itself. In them lies the recognition that the deepest power of art—and indeed of human experience—springs not from joy alone, but from the mingling of sorrow and strength. Kinnaman, reflecting on his work in The Killing, speaks as an artist who understands that to portray truth, one must be willing to walk into the shadows. For it is only by confronting pain that we awaken to the fullness of what it means to live.

At the heart of his words is the union of opposites—the joining of grief and vitality, sorrow and excitement, tragedy and beauty. The ancients knew this paradox well. The Greek dramatists, from Sophocles to Euripides, filled their stages not with heroes untouched by pain, but with flawed souls who suffered greatly and yet remained magnificent in their endurance. Their stories were thrilling not in spite of their sadness, but because of it. To see real people face loss, betrayal, and despair with courage and humanity is to be reminded that meaning is born from struggle. So too does Kinnaman praise The Killing for its refusal to flinch—to show life as it is, not as we wish it to be.

In speaking of “mourning and grief,” Kinnaman touches on a universal truth: every person, at some point, must walk through the valley of loss. Yet few forms of art have the courage to dwell there. Many seek to comfort by escape, to soothe the heart by denial. But The Killing, like the tragedies of old, insists that the path to redemption passes through pain, not around it. Its excitement arises from empathy—the thrill of recognizing one’s own fears and hopes reflected in others. It reminds us that sorrow is not the end of life, but one of its essential colors, deepening our perception of love, justice, and resilience.

Consider the ancient story of Orpheus and Eurydice, the musician who descended into the underworld to reclaim his beloved. His journey was filled with grief, yet it sang with beauty. His music moved even the stones and the gods of death, not because it denied sorrow, but because it embraced it fully. Orpheus’s art, like Kinnaman’s words, teaches that the highest form of storytelling lies in transforming pain into something radiant and human. Through grief, art becomes not despair, but revelation. It shows that life’s pain is not meaningless—it is the forge through which empathy and wisdom are made.

Kinnaman’s reflection also honors authenticity—the portrayal of “real people.” In a world that often prefers illusion and perfection, such realism is an act of moral courage. Real people are not heroic in every moment, nor noble in every choice. They stumble, they break, they mourn. Yet in that imperfection lies the seed of connection. To tell the story of real people, as The Killing does, is to affirm that beauty does not depend on flawlessness. The ancients would have called this catharsis—the cleansing of the heart through the recognition of shared humanity. We weep because we see ourselves reflected, and in that recognition, we are healed.

By saying that the story “doesn’t shy from the painful points of life,” Kinnaman voices a challenge to both artist and audience: do not turn away from the truth. The world often tempts us to numbness, to seek distraction instead of understanding. But pain, when faced with honesty, becomes wisdom. Mourning teaches gratitude; loss reveals love; suffering kindles compassion. To shy away from pain is to remain shallow; to confront it is to become deep. As the Stoic philosopher Seneca once wrote, “Fire tests gold, and adversity tests the brave.” In this spirit, The Killing stands not as mere entertainment, but as a reflection of life’s deepest realities—painful, yes, but profoundly alive.

So let this teaching be passed down: do not fear the sadness that life brings, for within it lies the heartbeat of meaning. The art that endures, like the soul that endures, is that which faces grief without losing wonder. Seek not a life without sorrow, but a spirit that can transform sorrow into strength. As Joel Kinnaman reminds us, the stories that move us most are those that dare to tell the truth: that life is fragile yet fierce, heartbreaking yet beautiful—and that even in mourning, the heart may still find excitement, and in darkness, the soul may still find light.