Another Tuesday, another round of "whaddayawannawatch". A couple more hours until 10:00, and Justified. ("Can you keep it down? I didn't order assholes with my whiskey." Raylan Givens is the best-written character on TV right now, in arguably TV's most entertaining show since...)
Oh, yeah. Lost.
The DVR sags with the weight: 8 - now 9 - episodes of what used to be my favorite show. Ever? Yeah. Hell, I used to write a weekly thing about it, and it was an absolute joy, diving into that strange and thrilling world and seeing what sense I could make of it. I used to engage in long, sometimes spirited, and always nerdy discussions about giant statue feet and disappearing Walts. And even now I avoid Twitter on Tuesday nights, so as not to be Spoiled. One of the Internet Geek sites I frequent informed me that last night's ep was the show's ANTIPENULTIMATE (all caps, lots of exclamation points, from which I will spare you).
Two left. I should really get caught up, I thought. If nothing else is on.
I scrolled through the DVR's listings...wait. Friday Night Lights! The season premiere! ("East of Dillon" - even the title feels like end-of-the-road Texas, dusty and forlorn, and a nod to Steinbeck, who would have been a fan.)
So we watched the folks of Dillon wrestle with the ordinary. The convoluted myth/mess of time/space hopping mysterious Islands, alternate universes, the Man in Black and Jacob, and Hurley and Sawyer's pat one-liners would have to wait.
I'd say that it pains me to write this...but really, it doesn't. The last season ended with a stunning finale, one that promised a final season of Holy Shits! and WTFs?! to surpass anything that had come before. The End, though, began with a whimper, a bizarre riff on It's a Wonderful Life that felt slapped together. Three episodes in, and I found myself disengaged. Locke's dead? Or he's the Smoke Monster? Jacob's dead? Or not? Sayid's dead? Oh, wait, he's not quite dead - he feels happy! He feels happy! Claire is infected? With what again? And why is there two of everybody? The more I watched, the less I cared. One of the chief complaints about the show is that it long ago became it's own monster, all red herrings, no bluefin tuna. I love a good mess, and certainly the best thing about Lost were the riddles within riddles within riddles, but at some point, I love a good ending.
I can't presume to know what's going on in the minds of Mr. Cuse and Mr. Lindelof. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt (I've heard from a few trusted folks that the show has picked up), and I'm sure that at some point I'll watch the rest of this last season, out of obligation if nothing else. At this point, I wonder if the writers have painted themselves into a corner. I wish had Locke's faith. The old, good Locke. Who's now dead. Or not.
