So I watched lost during its original run. I was one of those fellas who pored over the minutia of the show, looking for hints as to what ON EARTH was going on. No matter how you remember the show, you have to admit that it was absolutely, unbearably frustrating to watch week after week (not counting hiatus). As much as I loved it, I was a watcher who was fueled primarily by the mystery of the show. I was prodded along by the slightest hint of metaphor or simile, trying to determine what the show was about. I was hungry for its mythology. I wanted to taste its heart and know what it knew. But the characters? Who cared? The writing? Forget writing, what is that thing in the woods?
But.
This is an important “but.” I re-watched the show recently on Netflix. I watched the episodes not weeks apart, but hours apart–minutes apart on marathon evenings cuddled up on the couch with my wife. We churned through the series and I was no longer thrust forward by mysteries because those had been resolved during my first watching. I started noticing how well-crafted and well-acted the show was. I’ve never seen a show that could handle the weight this show did. There were still flaws. Did the show drag and do a sort-of about-face during the season 2 and 3 years? Yes. We all know that the writers and producers committed to a certain number of seasons. When they did, they had their ending in mind and started working towards it. It’s kind of like reading Charles Dickens, who wrote many of his works in chunks for pay. Yes, kids, the massive tomes we read today were actually serialized like modern television shows. Like modern television shows, you can notice when Dickens “gets it” ad starts working toward his ending, working his magic as he often did. Stephen King did this with moderate success when he released The Green Mile serially, wanting to echo times before when readers had to wait patiently for the next morsel of writing. The problem? We don’t read any more. Sorry, Mr. King. Hence: Lost.
