There are slightish spoilers in this discussion of tonight’s episode of Lost. But then again, they aren’t that spoilery if you’ve watched any past episodes featuring Jack.
All the ads in all the magazines say that this is the final season of Lost. We’ve been promised answers to the myriad questions posed by the last five years of this, and while I’ve seen more than a few answers I think more and more that my largest question will never be concluded satisfactorily.
Why do the writers have such an attachment to the most boring and tedious characters, namely Jack and Kate?
Watching hours of Lost which center around its narcissitic and vacuous Prom King and Homefleeing Queen makes me think that this must be what it would be like to read the Harry Potter series–if multiple chapters focused on Padma Patil and Terry Boot. All the action and sympathetic characters are elsewhere doing riveting things. And yet we are forced to divert our attention to watching these two contemplate their navels.
I am a person afflicted with an overabundance of natural curiousity. I have to know the answers and will stay up late at night to finish a book when I know the solution to all the riddles awaits after a just-a-few-more…pages. When I meet a new person I often pepper them with questions, dying to know as much as I can about their life experiences.
It seems that Jack is the anti-me. Because whenever he is faced with an excellent opportunity to get some answers to even the most basic and pressing question he goes into Hulk Smash mode and throws a temper fit worthy of the most spoiled toddler. And that’s why watching him makes me feel like I may vomit. Or drive to the writers’ houses and pelt them with old sausages.
Tonight was quite possibly the worst example of Jackholery I’ve ever witnessed and it was so bad that I just left the room in disgust. Here he is, after traipsing around the globe for YEARS. Finally he is in front of a device that just may hold some answers. And you know, even if it DOESN’T have one answer to give Jack, you’d think that it’s utter coolness, it’s “Holy cow, this is a live-action Myst game!” gadgetry would make any person with an IQ higher than lightbulb wattage want to examine it more closely.
I am speaking of the ancient lighthouse. The one with the names (and those infamous numbers!) of various Losties and others etched around its circumference. The one that showed the image of Jack’s childhood home reflected in its mirrors when it was dialed to ‘Shephard’.
If I were in front of that thing I sure would spin it to as many names that I recognised as possible. I’d say to Hurley, who was with me and also on the wheel, “You wanna see what your number has?!?” I’d examine the sucker. I’d spend time with it, studying its engineering and craftsmanship. I’d look at all the names to see if there were others that rang a bell. (How cool would it be if there was an etching for ‘Earhart’?!)
Jack? The man we’ve been told has enough brains to be a world-class spinal surgeon. Jack smashes the mirrors. All the while screaming about how “He’s watching me!!!”
What a self-centered, thoughtless, biological smear of a man! Now no one else can get answers. And, by the way, good of you to notice the other multitude of names on there. You aren’t the only one being watched, Dr. McSelfish!
And so the writers think we’ll be moved by the sight of post-smashal Jack sitting on a cliff staring out to sea. All I want to do is push him in and go back to Locke’s storyline.