by Jennifer Squires Biller
After watching the crazy Lost finale, I’m sure you’re busy dissecting the complex plot points and deciphering the significance of numerous props. I, however, have one concern. Why is it that my Sawyer ends up at the end of a gun barrel at the end of every season?
Last year he took a bullet to the shoulder and a header into shark-infested waters, and this year he’s bound and gagged with a shotgun pointed in his back. Clearly The Others missed his “There’s a new sheriff in town” speech, or those beard-wearing freaks would be quaking in their…wait, they don’t actually wear shoes, do they? Nevermind.
Never — and I repeat — never have I been so disgruntled by a television show as I currently am Lost. Not when the Dawson’s Creek kids went away to college and temporarily lost their minds, not when Ally McBeal’s Billy bleached his hair blonde and started hanging out with Robert-Palmer girls and not when Buffy spent more time preaching to future slayers than staking vampires. All of that pales in comparison to the frustration I experienced during the Lost season finale.
I like to think I’m a patient gal, but guess what? I’m all out of patience for this island of misfits. Tonight’s preview touted that “The answers you’ve been waiting for are here.” Umm…not so much. Only a few answers were given. We found out what happens when the numbers aren't entered. We found out the plane crashed because the magnetic energy sucked it into the ocean in 2004 and that the bright light Locke saw in the hatch last year was courtesy of Desmond. And we found out that perhaps “Henry Gale” is “Him,” whatever that means.
We still know little about The Others. We don’t know what’s up with Walt’s powers. We don’t know about the voices, the Polar bear, the monster, the island's healing powers, the ghosts, the numbers, the injections, that creepy Owl, Frenchie, the black rock, the radio transmissions, the food replenishment and Marvin Candle’s hand. The one thing we do know is that if you’re a single woman even thinking about having sex on that island, you’ll be pushing up sand-fleas soon. (Note to Kate: no matter how sexy Jack and Sawyer look in the jungle, don’t go there, girl.)
I was hoping the finale would explain some of the mysteries from season one. Call me crazy, but I think two years is a long time to ask viewers to try and remember plot details that may or may not be meaningless. (Polar bear, monster and Watership Down anyone?) Yes, we got a few answers, but not enough to satisfy this loyal Lost viewer.
I realize I’m probably in the minority with this less-than-glowing review of the finale. My friend Anthony, who has analyzed Lost with me from its debut, loved it. He hated last year’s ender, but thought this one gave him just enough answers. It left him wanting more, he said. It left me reaching for a bottle of aspirin. Sorry buddy.
I’m with Sawyer, I think aliens are behind this whole crazy mess. I’m guessing aliens with four toes, considering that weird statue. I’m joking, people. I’ve given up trying to figure out this show, and that saddens me. I don’t know if it was all the stops and starts in the Lost schedule or the myriad plot threads and prop symbols that overwhelmed me, but somewhere along the way I’ve lost my addiction to Lost. Yes, I still watch, but not with the anticipation and fervor I once did.
I did enjoy seeing The O.C.’s Caleb Nichol in the Desmond flashback. And I couldn’t help but chuckle that Desmond’s choice of what to read on his deathbed is Charles Dickens. But it’s the little things that bug me, like why Claire is fine with injecting her baby with an unknown drug she knows nothing about, and why the island folks aren’t knocking each other down to get to that sailboat and head for civilization.
As we head into the summer to contemplate the Lost adventure, I leave you with these thoughts. Is it a coincidence that Desmond looks like Jesus? (You know you were thinking it, too, “brother.”) Are Eko and Locke dead? Did Libby kill her husband? Are Michael and Walt in Fiji sipping Shirley Temples? And will Sawyer get to use his guns again? (Not those guns, sickos, his weapons.) Wait. His firearms.
Kudos to whomever named this show. I can’t think of a better title than Lost, considering that’s exactly how I feel when I watch it.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
by Jennifer Squires Biller