Ok, so, I’m now firmly hooked on Lost.
(Note to self: In this age of Netflix, you don’t have to apologize for blogging about a TV show that’s been off the air for two years.)
I’ve watched Season 1 and about a third of Season 2, and what’s as surprising to me as being hooked on the show is that, with every successive episode, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that I must be more of a masochist than I ever imagined.
After all, what other explanation can there be for continuing to watch, when, at the end of each episode, as the screen goes black, those damned drum taps sound, the show title flashes, and the credits roll, I scream at the TV, something to the effect of:
“NO FRICKIN’ WAY!!! BASTARDS!!! HOW THE HELL CAN YOU LEAVE ME HANGING HERE LIKE THIS?!!!”
I mean, who, in their right mind, would continue to voluntarily subject themselves to that kind of torture, night after night after night?!
I’ve thought a lot about the fact that the millions of viewers who watched the show when it first aired had to wait a whole week between episodes, or worse, a whole summer before the start of each new season. Those people, I tell myself, must be the REAL masochists!
But, what does it say about me, that I do this to myself every night, sometimes several times a night, watching two, sometimes three on a weekend, episodes per sitting?
Anyway, if I am indeed a masochist, one other thing’s for sure, the producers of Lost were master sadists. That they could cook up one cliff hanger after another, episode after episode, well, you can call it artistry, or you can call it premeditated sadism.
So, you might ask, will this analysis, this awareness of just how much I’m being manipulated, convince me to stop watching?
At this point, about the only thing that would stop me is if the survivors from Oceanic Airlines Flight 815, as they explore more of their desert island home, run into the survivors from the S.S. Minnow, Gilligan, The Skipper too, The millionaire and his wife, The movie star, The professor and Mary Ann…