Wonderful Sunday-morning musings by Heather Havrilesky at Salon about why some of us (and Steve and I are among those some, I confess) keep watching the t.v. series “Lost” even as it creeps in its petty pace towards its last signifying-nothing syllable:
Back then, like teenagers at a Baptist retreat, we thought the big, bad world would add up to something, that every confusing twist was laden with hidden meaning. Now we know better. Now we get up in the morning and put on our Sunday best and trudge off to church on the off-chance that the Lord Himself will appear and shine His glory on us in person. Now we watch because we were once “Lost” fans, and here it is the final season, and there are only a handful of episodes left. Even though the long-awaited answers we're looking for are offered in such blunt, unimaginative language that we feel like we're reading first drafts: “I'm a smoke monster.” “You're going to have to kill the devil.” “It's all meaningless if I have to force them to do anything..” And if we wanted to waste six years in a Judeo-Christian allegory, we would've just followed a Jehovah's Witness home a long time ago. At least their Armageddon should be a little bit gripping and suspenseful.
Yep. Been there. The Baptist retreat.
And I seem still to be there, hoping against hope that every confusing twist bears hidden meaning. And so I’m watching “Lost” until the every last nodus dénoues in the madcap world of meaningless clues the show is becoming as it ends, furious at myself for sticking with the insanity.
Hooked on hope.
And I seem still to be there, hoping against hope that every confusing twist bears hidden meaning. And so I’m watching “Lost” until the every last nodus dénoues in the madcap world of meaningless clues the show is becoming as it ends, furious at myself for sticking with the insanity.
Hooked on hope.
