A dedication to the final season of Lost
To quote the wise prophet Rafiki from the gospel according to The Lion King: ''It is time.'' (With two small kids, Disney movie quotes come very easy and quickly to me.) We have finally arrived at the end of Lost. Tonight. A two-hour premiere, from 9 p.m. to 11 p.m., on ABC. I really want it to be all kinds of great. I'm nervous that it won't be. There's no rational reason for my nervousness. Lost has never failed to keep me enthralled and engaged for all of its five seasons...with the exception of the first part of season 3. And you know, even then it had me. Last season was my favorite season after season 2, and last May's finale, with its Jacob/Man In Black reveal and Jughead cliffhanger, is tied with ''Through The Looking Glass'' for my fave Lost season finale. I have great respect for Messrs. Cuse and Lindelof and their writing staff. I admire the cast and the Hawaii crew, led by director Jack Bender. This group has a proven track record of excellence. There should be no reason to be nervous, the claims of the Fine Brothers to the contrary.
Still, I am anxious. Because when you want something to be really, really good, you naturally find yourself worrying that it could be very, very disappointing. And when you start worrying about that, you start doing things to protect yourself. Like adopting a cynical posture, a sudden jadedness. There's no way they're going to pull this off. All those mysteries they have to answer? Forget it. Besides, they were probably just making it up as they went along anyway. Or conversely, a posture of tempered enthusiasm, a disinvestment of caring. Must modulate expectations! Must become less of a fan! Must tell everyone, ''It's only a TV show!''
I don't want to watch the final season of Lost from the point of view of managing possible disappointment. And so my season 6 ambition: to be a clear-eyed fan, counting on the best from Lost, capable of judging it fairly and graciously, committed to viewing without the defenses of cool cynicism, arrogant presumptuousness, or muted passion. More than anything, I want to see the story Lost wants to show me, not look for the story I want it to be or think it should be. That's why I'm letting go of my expectations and my theories. Hence, why I declared last week's ''Two Damned Shephards'' theory my ''Final Theory of Lost.'' Don't get me wrong: I'm not done analyzing and speculating and wondering aloud where the story may lead. But my formulating intricate, predictive theories about the true nature of Lost mythology are over. It's time to shut down that part of my brain and fully engage the story that the producers are now ready to finally reveal to us in all its for-better-or-worse glory. And anyway, it's not like I was ever truly trying to solve Lost. Okay, maybe I was but that was a stupid pursuit, and not one I've wanted to succeed at. I've only ever wanted to express my gonzo fandom for a show that has so captured and colonized my imagination and also reflect back your passion and possession, too.
And so I greet the last season of Lost with an open mind and unguarded heart. If by season's end I am disappointed, I hope I have come to that disappointment fairly. And if I'm left with goosebumps ditto. More than anything, I hope this season can be fun 16 weeks of goofy, geeky, thrilling, moving pop-arty bliss. I am excited to take the journey with you. Nervous, but excited.
Invocation concluded. Now will you please rise and join me in the singing of our national Fan-them.
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