Island Jams

May 19, 2006

That annoying jingle I can’t stop humming is coming from a soundstage in Hawaii.

Season Two of “Lost” is over and I vote we skip summer — and get on with the new fall episodes. I’ll trade a few days in the sun and sand, a lot of air conditioning, and some crappy “beach reads” in exchange for another few hours with Hurley and the gang. Because, let’s face it, they’re family.

I remember the last time I felt this way about a TV show. It was “Twin Peaks” and I was, well, a lot younger. And I remember reading about how this crazy-brilliant show was coming on, and so I watched. David Lynch scared the hell out of me. The veritable movie of a show opener was better than most flicks playing in the Cineplex. I was hooked. Within the year I was hosting “Twin Peaks” parties with friends. And I loved it ‘til the bitter end.

“Sex and the City” almost crawled under my skin in an unhealthy way. But — maybe because it’s a comedy — I didn’t lose my mind completely. And the darn thing ran for years, changing as I changed. Sometimes short is sweet. No time to jump the shark.

And that’s where “Lost” lives for me. It hovers in the neat longer-than-a-movie, shorter-than-a-TV-show zone. I am with the characters. I’m on the island. I’m dying to stop pushing the button. My boyfriend thinks I’m crazy. But he watches it, too.

So who deserves credit? The writers. All of them, and I know there must be several or a dozen or maybe only a few. Whoever and wherever they are: kudos! Because it is a get-off-the-island show, but for the 21st Century. There are issues here that are so prescient and timely. For example: faith versus effort. Should the castaways believe they were destined for this mess of tropical paradise? Or should they work and build a boat and try to get away? We’ve seen what happened with the raft. But we’ve also seen what happened with the radio Sayid built. Effort works, sometimes.

Faith does, too. Witness Locke’s magical healing. And Rose’s cure from cancer. But faith drives them crazy—and us viewers, too. Eko is driving me nuts with his belief in dreams and apparitions. Locke drives me cuckoo with his button pushing. And Jack makes me wince every time he plays the good guy and runs into the woods and save the day -- believing that, like in his previous role as a doctor, skill and science and rationality will always win out.

But here we are, post-Season Two. Dead people, and The Others. No nearer to resolution are we slaves to the show. And that’s exactly as it should be. The show is a too-obvious, too-perfect metaphor for life. We don’t know how it will end? It can’t end badly. It can’t end easily. It must merely end. Until then, we can enjoy it. Our hearts can race whenever it starts raining because we know that trouble is coming. Our loins can rumble every time a couple gets trapped “in a net” because it’s sexy. And we can smile every time we see Hurley and realize that without much food, he hasn’t lost any weight.