Carousel

(Warning: this post contains spoilers. –PB)

I loved it.

There, I said it.

Did it provide clear answers to the many mysteries that have arisen over the course of Lost‘s six-season run? No, not really.

Did it prove that the show’s writers had some great master plan all along, one that only they could have devised and that shocked us with its vision? Certainly not.

But was it a satisfying conclusion to one of the most inventive and emotionally gripping television series ever created?

Absolutely.

There were plenty of superficial things to enjoy about “The End.” I certainly liked the sense of closure and continuity brought about by the decision to end the series exactly as it began: with a close-up on the eye of Jack Shephard, only this time closing instead of opening. And I enjoyed, despite myself, the bits of self-deprecating humor the writers included, such as when Desmond (in the flash-sideways) tells Kate that the coffin contains the remains of Christian Shephard, to which Kate responds, bringing voice to the many critics of Lost‘s unapologetically transparent naming conventions: “Christian Shephard? Seriously?” Or when Rose remarks that she really has no idea “when the hell” they are, a problem often shared by casual viewers over the last six years who lacked the alacrity to disentangle the show’s notoriously complicated narrative structure.

As far as the actual events of the episode go, there were no truly big surprises. Most of the main characters got off the island, except the ones we thought might not; the “Man in Black” was killed; and we found out that the parallel universe in which Oceanic 815 never crashed was actually a kind of afterlife (in a slight twist of the long-discussed theory that the island itself was purgatory, and the castaways were all dead). Indeed, the biggest surprise for me was the depth of the disappointment expressed by the group I watched the finale with, who derided it as “lame” and dismissed Lost‘s writing team as “hacks.” I’ve never seen eye-to-eye with many people about Lost — I disagreed with both those who watched it for the mysteries and those who didn’t watch it at all — but it’s still interesting to see how strongly I differ from others on this point.

Archibald MacLeish wrote that “a poem should not mean / But be.” That’s exactly how I feel about Lost. If you care about what it means, if you are desperate to understand the facts of what happened and why, then “The End” was not for you. The episode did resolve the most salient and immediate plot threads, but the way it answered some of the central questions of the show’s recent episodes — most notably, the nature of the flash-sideways timeline — was incomplete and perhaps even pedestrian. The show’s storied reliance on undisciplined plotting and nonsensical decisions by its characters to drive the narrative was just as prominent in the series finale as it has been for years.

But if what you care about is the experience — the raw emotion of it all — then “The End” was sublime. Acknowledging that emotion is what the show is all about, the series finale took its time to let us experience the depth and range of feeling that we’ve enjoyed so thoroughly for the past six years, one last time. Every time two characters reunited in what we eventually learned was the afterlife, there was a flash of memories, not only for the characters themselves but also for us, as we relived all the reasons we have come to cherish these people, with all their flaws and their triumphs and their love. And when they all convened in the episode’s final scene, ready to journey on to who-knows-where-but-who-cares, I couldn’t help but feel deeply happy that, after all their hardships, these people that I cared about would finally be together and at peace. The expression that Sun and Jin wore as they left the hospital — that serenity and satisfaction — was the same as the expression on my face as the final moments of the series unfolded. That Lost made me feel this way about a ragtag gang of fictional nobodies is a tremendous creative achievement, and its willingness to help me grieve for them was an act of great generosity and insight.

Thus, what I loved most about the series finale of Lost was its unfailing loyalty to the show’s soul and to its legacy. Yes, Lost was a good show because it made you think. But Lost was a great show because it made you feel. I have said from the beginning that I really don’t care about the plot at all, and “The End” reaffirmed my earnest belief that this show is not and has never been about what happens. The episode could have devoted precious screen time to explicating this or that confusing plot point, or to filling in the tremendous narrative gap that exists after the departure of Ajira Airways Flight 316 from the island in the episode’s last scene. Those things might have satisfied many people more than what ultimately made it to air. But instead, the episode proved that, no matter what answers fans might have craved, the team behind Lost understood why they watched the show, why they loved it, and why any answers ever mattered in the first place.

Indeed, as hokey as some might find it, I liked the decision to end Lost in that multifaith church, with its stained-glass depictions of the cross and the Star of David and om, a place where questions and answers don’t just matter but Matter. It was a place of faith and spirituality, values this show has always prized above all others, and it gave the events of the finale a certain gravitas. After all, while the show has always been strongest when it focused on being rather than meaning, Lost has nevertheless been unambiguous in its conviction that life itself should not simply be, but mean. The quest for meaning was the core of Lost‘s dramatic tension, and the idea that we all have a purpose became its central dogma over the course of its six seasons. What was most compelling, then, about the final scene of “The End” was its conclusion that the fateful events on the island mattered so much, were so full of meaning, that the castaways could fulfill their cosmic purpose simply by coming together and existing in the aura of those events forever.

What does the ending of Lost mean? More than anything, it means that we may be close to the conclusion of an important chapter in television history, during which network television stood up to say that it could still deliver some of the best scripted entertainment there is, no matter what happened on cable or the Internet. Lost marshalled unparalleled passion and ambition every week for six years, and many critics would say that it’s hard to believe networks will ever reach such heights again.

Of course, I can’t help but ask these critics:

Why do you find it so hard to believe?

Last week’s episode ended with a dramatic cleansing ritual in which Coach Taylor and the East Dillon Lions burned their old uniforms, destroying these symbols of a past that included a humiliating forfeit of their season opener and pledging to start anew, to “finish this fight.” “In the Skin of a Lion” (Hulu) deals with the fallout from this incident — fallout which probably wouldn’t happen at all on most shows. Most shows would take this moment for its benefits — an emotional and inspiring scene, a chance for its lead actor to perform, a reason for viewers to get behind a new set of characters — and move on to some other plot line the next week. Friday Night Lights refuses to let go so blithely, lest we forget that these kinds of reckless acts, energizing though they may be, have real consequences.

Eric spends the bulk of the episode dealing with these consequences. I loved the scene where he tries (and largely fails) to explain to Principal Levi Burnwell why, exactly, he needed to burn these uniforms, and why he therefore needs money from the school to purchase new ones. “We’re just a little shy,” Eric begs, getting nothing out of Levi but an admonition that “rebuilding the football program might be a bit premature,” and that he “wasn’t even supposed to take this job.” What’s important about this moment is the oft-ignored truth that even a compelling leader like Coach Taylor is not a leader everywhere: he still has a boss, he still gets put on his heels when his boss doesn’t agree with his decision, and he still has to beg for money like everyone else. He may be in charge on the football field, but that doesn’t mean he can do whatever he wants.

Meanwhile, I still can’t stand Becky. She’s just plain annoying. Even on a second viewing, knowing (though not fully remembering) what happens for the rest of the season, I don’t really understand why, of all the possible subplots they could have written for Tim Riggins, they wrote the one in which he has to listen to a bratty teenage girl prattle on and on, so she can fill the silence and pretend that someone is listening. I get that Tim is supposed to be filling a void in her life — her dad is nowhere to be seen, and her mom is so absent that Becky begs Tim, of all people, to help her choose a dress for an upcoming pageant — but the season’s first three episodes have yet to give us a reason to care. The one redeeming value in this storyline is that it gives us a chance to fully appreciate how much Tim Riggins has grown up in just a few short years; when Luke Cafferty makes a mostly-harmless joke about Becky’s attractiveness, Riggins gives him an unmistakable “I’m too old for this stuff now” look. He would’ve made the same joke a couple of seasons ago.

Plenty of other things happen in the episode — Buddy Garrity publicly breaks up with the Panthers, Vince and Luke chafe against each other and against Coach Taylor’s treatment of them, and Saracen finally has a breakthrough with Richard Sherman (another character I’m not sure I get) — but I paid the most attention to Julie and Tami’s conversations about going to church. It is, in some ways, such a clichéd conversation — teenager has doubts about organized religion, parent tries to keep the teen engaged because letting them out of church could mean letting them out of the family entirely — that you wonder at first why it was worth the screen time to dramatize it. It’s given added weight, however, by the subtext of Julie’s burgeoning doubts about her relationship with Matt. She seems to be wondering, on some level, whether Matt thinks of her the way she is starting to think of God: as someone you maintain a relationship with because you’re supposed to, even though you feel like you’re outgrowing them. I’ve had mixed feelings about Julie Taylor over the course of the series, but I think this is a season in which she begins to take life much more seriously, and she becomes a more interesting character as a result.

The promo for next week indicated that the tension between Vince and Luke comes to a head in the next episode, and also that Saracen will get some news that leads to what’s probably the strongest episode of the entire season (two weeks from now). Looking forward to it!

(Warning: this post contains spoilers. –PB)

With the stage for Season 4 having been set in “East of Dillon,” “After the Fall” (Hulu) started to move the story forward. The episode proved to be a showcase of some of FNL‘s best qualities.

The first was the show’s sense of narrative balance. Even as the core plot line — Eric’s effort to pick up the pieces after forfeiting East Dillon’s season opener — unfolded, the episode still spent a huge chunk of screen time advancing the stories for all of the other characters. This is in contrast to, say, Lost, which generally moves stories forward one piece at a time, to the extent that fans refer to most episodes as “Jack episodes” or “Kate episodes” or “Locke episodes.” “After the Fall” was an Eric episode, to the extent that such a thing exists, but we still got to know two new main characters (Luke Cafferty and Jess Merriweather), pumped our fists as Tami stood up to Joe McCoy and his crew, watched with restrained skepticism as Tim Riggins continued to try to put his life back together, and cringed as Matt Saracen discovered that his new art internship with a “genius” didn’t live up to his expectations. Obviously, you can only make so much narrative progress when you keep so many threads running. Friday Night Lights is a slow burn, demonstrating tremendous patience on the part of its writers and requiring equal patience from its viewers.

Which brings me to the second great quality — the music. FNL‘s musical style, patient like everything else about it, is gentle and minimal, deceptively simple. Much of the episode doesn’t have any score at all, and when it does, it serves the narrative without getting in the way. Just check out the climax of the episode and how W.G. Snuffy Walden‘s score (I really love this guy’s work) builds emotion without ever becoming kitschy or melodramatic. The first two notes set the tone for the entire scene.

The third quality, which I realize I mentioned last week and therefore need to stop talking about, is the show’s trueness to life. My favorite scene in the entire episode was the one in which Eric and Tami argue about the mailbox used by the Panthers boosters to establish Luke’s residence in West Dillon.

The way this scene develops is like all arguments in real life, and like FNL itself: ragged and raw. The escalation is uneven and, in some ways, unexpected, and Tami and Eric argue like people who don’t fully understand how they got into this argument in the first place. And I love how the scene ends with Eric storming out of the house saying that he’s going to go get some milk, as if he has any clue whether there’s milk in the house or not. We’ve all done that — made up a ridiculous excuse just to escape an argument with someone.

You get the sense from this episode that the strength of Eric and Tami’s relationship will be tested in this season more seriously than we’ve yet seen. It’ll be interesting to see how they cope, and how we cope along with them.

(Warning: this post contains spoilers. –PB)

Friday Night Lights returned to NBC this weekend with its Season 4 premiere (Hulu), and I’ve decided to write a review on every episode this season. As part of the unique financing arrangement that can be credited almost exclusively for keeping the show alive this long, all thirteen episodes have already aired on DirecTV, so I’ll be watching this season for the second time; I’m hoping that I’ll notice new things this time around. (I don’t want to spoil later episodes, though, so I’ll often write as though I haven’t seen the rest of the season.)

Season 4 begins a summer vacation after the Season 3 finale, in which Coach Eric Taylor (Kyle Chandler) lost his job as head coach of Dillon High School’s football team and was instead named the head coach at East Dillon High, a long-closed campus that’s reopening after a controversial redistricting. The final shot of Season 3 saw Taylor and his wife, Tami (Connie Britton), visiting the run-down East Dillon field that would become his new home.

We viewers have been trained to dread these kinds of plot developments because they tend to signal “reboots,” often perpetrated either by networks who want to “take the show in a new direction” (see: Alias) or by writers who have run out of ideas (see: Weeds, which has done this literally every season, with absurd and appalling results). They almost always turn out to be disasters. If there’s one thing I have to say about FNL‘s Season 4 premiere, “East of Dillon,” it’s that we can rest at ease. It’s clear after just the first few minutes that nothing has really changed, that we are right back where we want to be, with Eric and Tami and Matt Saracen (Zach Gilford) and Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch) and all the other characters we know and love (or love to hate). Credit is due to the show’s writing team for turning in a new direction without jumping the shark.

But while nothing may have changed for us, plenty has changed for these characters and for the town of Dillon. Coach Taylor has a new job, of course. Saracen, having decided to stay and take care of his grandmother rather than accept his scholarship at the Art Institute of Chicago, is stuck delivering pizzas — to the Panthers’ newly obnoxious starting quarterback, J.D. McCoy (Jeremy Sumpter), no less. Riggins spends less screen time at college than you will reading this review, before he drives his truck from San Antonio State straight back to Dillon. And of course, all of Dillon is on edge as a result of the school redistricting, which has left Tami, Dillon High’s principal, caught on both sides of an argument with deep racial and socioeconomic subtext. The pace of the first half of the episode is brisk, quickly bringing us up to speed on what’s happened to everyone and introducing us to a new character, Vince Howard (played by The Wire’s Michael B. Jordan). I continue to be impressed by how FNL can say more in a 45-second scene — indeed, in a single shot of Buddy Garrity (Brad Leland) looking uncomfortable at a Panther boosters meeting — than some shows manage to say in a 45-minute episode.

I didn’t, of course, like everything the show did to kick off Season 4. We meet two as-yet-unnamed characters in this episode, when Riggins, back in Dillon, has a one-night stand with a red-haired bartender and meets her plucky daughter when he tries to sneak out of her house the next morning. The daughter is just plain annoying and talks too much in that way, the way that often happens on TV but almost never in real life. She’s too young to be a credible love interest for Riggins and, at least for now, doesn’t feel like she has that whatever-it-is that makes us believe so strongly in every character on this show, no matter how minor. The redemption of her role in this episode is that she delivers its best line: “So what’s it like being the guy who used to be Tim Riggins?”

After all, that’s what this episode is really about, and what it seems that this season will be about: when life veers off course, when you lose the things that made you who you are, what do you do? How do you cope? Nearly every character has to find an answer to this question, Coach Taylor most of all. What we see in “East of Dillon” is that he honestly doesn’t know. What we’re reminded of is what we’ve always known: that Eric Taylor isn’t perfect. For one thing, he doesn’t handle the stress very well. He yells, because he can’t think of anything else to do; he even yells at the well-meaning (if buffoonish) Stan Traub (Russell DeGrazier), who joins the East Dillon Lions as an assistant coach after a chance encounter at Sears. Taylor’s frustration, along with that of many other characters, is palpable, and he’s generally as clueless as the rest of us when trying to channel that frustration.

But imperfect though he may be, Coach Taylor is also amazing. His pregame speech in this episode literally gave me chills, and I don’t even have the excuse of being an impressionable 17-year-old. I loved the earnest affection in his eyes as he checked on his bruised and battered team at halftime, gently probing to discover the seriousness of their injuries as they attempted to conceal them, wanting to prove to their coach that they could keep fighting. Coach Taylor might yell, and yell, and yell, but he loves his team, and they love him, and we all know it.

Indeed, FNL‘s commitment to verisimilitude, to showcasing not only a flawed hero but a full cast of flawed characters, human and real, has become its legacy. It’s the reason we watch it and the reason we’ll still be talking about it a decade from now as one of the great television shows of our time. Because if these people, imperfect as they are, can still do amazing things, then maybe I, with all my myriad flaws, can do amazing things too. By watching and learning what these people are capable of, I’m also learning something about what I’m capable of.

And that’s why I can’t wait for next Friday night.

1) When I was three, she took me to the library every Friday to pick up a new set of books which she would read to me over the next week. (I’m sure she got a little tired of Eric Carle and Frog & Toad after a while, but it never showed.)

2) In 5th grade, knowing I had been watching a lot of Star Trek: The Next Generation, she picked up a full-length Trek novel at the library and handed it to me, saying, “why don’t you try this?” This was the first book I ever read from the “grownup section” — who knows when I would have ventured there on my own?

3) For my fifth birthday party, she cooked enough food for something like ~75 guests. By herself. And it was all good. And she did the exact same thing ten months later for my brother’s first birthday.

4) She took care of me (age five) and my brother (age ~three weeks) when we had chickenpox…while she also had chickenpox.

5) When I lamented last year that we had gotten rid of a couple of random action figures from 1992 (yes, really) during our moving sale, she went on eBay and bought the exact same ones.

6) When I had to catch a 6 AM bus in high school, she woke up every morning at 5 AM to make my lunch, give me breakfast, and drive me to the bus stop, even though I could, in retrospect, have done all these things myself.

7) She worked extra hours, and sometimes even Sundays, so that she could rack up enough comp time to come home early when she needed to pick up my brother or me from after-school activities (despite the fact that she worked ~50 miles away).

8) Since I got my own apartment, she has sent me a steady stream of carefully measured and written recipes, in the hope that I might finally be able to fend for myself, even though she had to perfect them through decades of hard work. I don’t think I would be interested in cooking if I couldn’t make food that tastes at least vaguely like hers.

9) She remembers even the most obscure and useless life detail I share with her, even things I don’t remember sharing! She recently embarrassed me by asking about a flight voucher I’d forgotten I had and which I therefore failed to use before it expired :-P

10) She has tolerated my BS for nearly twenty-five years and shows no signs of giving up on me :-)

Happy Mother’s Day!