Okay, so I’ve watched the latest offering of Lost this past week (Season 5, Episode 4), and it’s getting beyond disappointing… I want to turn the television off, really, I do…but I can’t, and I don’t really know why.
The rumour that the remaining two series were written by an infinite number of chimps sat at typewriters during the writer’s strike is forever gaining credence, as the writers continue to try to play ‘Join the plot, dot-to-dot’ with the watchers, seemingly forgetting that we’re all at least five minutes ahead of them.
The jumps three years ahead to see the “Oceanic Six” remains vaguely viewable only because of Ben’s ability to continually steal a scene, Sayid’s attempts not to allow a cockney accent to sneak out and for the many emotions of Jack.
The more I watch Matthew Fox, the closer I truly believe we are to the actorbots so accurately portrayed in Futurama.
Back on the island, we have, apparently, one of the top physicists in the world, whose ex is in some kind of ‘mysterious coma’ and he’s watching everyone around him have nosebleeds, all the while bleeting out so many ludicrously-sciency theories that I just don’t know if I can follow it anymore! I mean, what with me already fully accepting the black smoke monster, the cripple who can walk, talk to the invisible people and will presumably come back to life upon return to the island, I don’t know how I could be expected to understand such complex theories regarding the flashes as “like the needle on a record jumping” or the effects that it has on people as “like really bad jetlag”.
I really, really want to stop watching Lost. I complain about it endlessly, and generally no longer admit to watching it in a room full of men, primarily because now that it’s no longer about various girls prancing around on the beach, I don’t know that I can justify it anymore.
The trouble is, I want to know what happens next. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve who’s snuck downstairs to see a box just big enough for a bike with my name on it, I know what I think happens next, but half expect to find a hole in the bottom corner where the hamster’s gnawed its way out, and the dogs think they’ve got a new present.
I whole-heartedly expect to be disappointed by the horribly slack way in which the writers will almost invariably tie this all together in the end, and I’ll die a little bit inside that these people get paid to put this tripe on television, and complain about it on message boards for months on end, and to anyone who’ll listen.
But I know I’ll watch it… and I already hate that I know it’s going to happen.