The Expendables

Here's a crazy thought: What if you gathered all the greatest action movie stars ever, put them in one mega-movie, with a ridiculous plot, a huge body count, kick-ass explosions, and a lethal dose of testosterone? What if you actually got Stallone, Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis on the screen at the same time?  If The Expendables would have been made twenty years ago, it probably would have been the greatest action movie imaginable, impossible to watch without your biceps exploding (whether you're a man or woman).On paper, The Expendables looks like a slam dunk, money in the bag.  So why does it suck?

First of all, because it's central idea is essentially flawed: bringing all these stars together is nothing like The Dream Team of Action Movies. Stallone is the major one to blame here, because he directed and wrote this abomination. Everybody needs a one-liner so badly, a signature kill, an awesome catchphrase, that this movie feels schizophrenic, crowded, and corny. Let's not even get started on the "writing". I haven't laughed out this loud since The Hangover, and that's not a good thing. It would be if The Expendables was thought out as a parody, or a deconstruction (try not to read that and laugh) of the genre, if it were a movie that's intentionally bad. I actually wonder how the actors said some of these lines with a straight face on, and let's not forget we're talking about people like Dolph Lundgren and Stallone here. Really, it's almost worth seeing just for the bad writing ( "Like bad Shakespeare", to quote it).

The plot is not worth mentioning, although it had promise (the entire movie had promise). Jet Li is the best of the bunch, he actually still feels dangerous at close to 50 years,while Terry Crews is funny in a scary sort of way. None of his lines are even close to funny, but his demeanor and exploits in this film will make me laugh forever (not a bad accomplishment actually). Eric Roberts is...I'm not even going to go there, Stallone is Stallone, Statham plays the same role he's played 10 movies running, and Mickey Rourke is here just to deliver cringe-worthy monologues about war and how it changes people.

I'm actually sorry for kids these days: I grew up watching these guys in good action movies, some of them in good movies period. The Expendables feels sacrilegious at times, and boring at others. In one scene, Dolph Lundgren fights Jet Li in hand to hand combat. Why did that not feel like something I want to watch over and over and over again? Why did the scene with The Trinity of Action Heroes make me want to puke instead of wanting to hit the gym? Why does The Expendables feel like the most disappointing movie ever?

All this bashing might lead to the conclusion that I had great expectations from The Expendables. I did not. I didn't expect The Godfather or Casablanca, I just wanted a blast from the past, that explodes really good for a few minutes, and then makes me want to see Die Hard again. Not a good movie, but an awesome movie. There's a difference, and I got neither. What I did get was a predictable and incoherent (as strange as that sounds) shamble of an excuse to make money at the box-office.

Maybe I'm too harsh. It's possible that by growing up, action movies no longer fill the same gap they did when I was young, and the old ones feel good by nostalgia value alone. So I decided to test that theory and watched one old movie with each of the poster boys. The ones that were not good, were awesome. Some were even both! So in the end, it's not me. I'll do myself a favor and forget The Expendables ever happened.

Here's a crazy thought: What if you gathered all the greatest action movie stars ever, put them in one mega-movie, with a ridiculous plot, a huge body count, kick-ass explosions, and a lethal dose of testosterone? What if you actually got Stallone, Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis on the screen at the same time?  Wow, that's too awesome to exist, no use thinking about the impossible.

4/10 Stefan

Oldboy

Consider revenge for a minute. Few ideas have been more used, and abused by novelists, writers and film-makers. There's something about the bad guy getting what he deserves, about the idea that no matter how heinous the crime, retribution can be found. Revenge is great when creating dramas and action flicks, but it's even better when creating tragedies. Oldboy is such a tragedy, and one of the best movies ever made about revenge and its consequences.

The plot is deceivingly  simple, and for a reason. One will reasonably expect certain elements to be present in such a story, so director Park Chan-wook can play with our expectations. Smash them. Rebuild them, only to burn them down again. Oldboy starts out strong and is relentless, here's a movie that deserves the thriller adjective, but is so much more.

Oldboy is about Oh Dae-su (Choi Min-sik),a man who's kidnapped on a rainy evening after an altercation with the police. He's kept in imprisonment for fifteen years, with no apparent reason. Of course, after being released, one thing is on his mind, and one thing alone: revenge. From here, the plot meanders, from memorable scene to memorable scene, from revelation to revelation, to the ending (and what an ending). I'll avoid all spoilers, but the final third will find all viewers with their mouths agape, for varying reasons.
Park Chan-wook has created some instantly classical scenes for Oldboy (one fight scene steals the show, you'll know it when you see it), but they're part of a greater whole: no frame is gratuitous, all work on a level, and all have a distinct style. It's obvious why Tarantino praised Oldboy so much after seeing it at Cannes (where it won the Grand Prix): it's violent, stylized, with sharp dialogue  and numerous references to the classics (Dostoyevsky, Kafka, Shakespeare, Tarantino himself).

Oldboy is brilliantly acted: watched without subtitles, and not knowing anything about the plot, it's reasonable to expect a fairly intelligent viewer will catch on, and invest in the characters. Choi Min-sik is nothing short of fantastic in playing every human emotion in two hours. Watch his expression as it changes from scene to scene, it's obvious it's been a painstaking role to prepare, and a risk to take on. He deserves as much applause as the director, if not more so.  Kang Hye-jeong plays Mi-do, a sushi chef and the necessary female element for any good tragedy. Pay close attention to the moment in which Oh Dae-su meets Mi-do for the first time. It's a scene that generated a fair amount of controversy, but for all the wrong reasons. You'll want to rewind it after you see the movie, trust me.

To say more is to spoil, so I'll leave the plot at that. Director Park Chan-wook employs some fascinating camera angles and visual twists, making this a beautiful movie just to look at. Which is not to say that it's all style and no substance. One could write books about the themes and motifs in Oldboy. Which is not to say it's pretentious, like foreign cinema usually is.  It's simply a  bloody, deadly and remorseless movie.
 Oh Dae-su's story is more than simple catharsis, bordering on the tooth-grinding and heart-wrenching. Nit-pickers will surely find flaws in Oldboy. Some might even be right, but they are irrelevant.  Here's a movie that could have not existed in any other circumstances, that makes no excuses for itself. If you take one chance with oriental cinema, this should be it.

Consider revenge again after watching Oldboy. It's not the same,is it? Perhaps here lies Oldboy's true triumph: in trying to create a movie about revenge, Park Chan-wook does so much more. Oldboy is timeless and ravishing. Just as  Oh Dae-su's quest for revenge changes everything around him, and everything inside him, so does Oldboy for the viewer: after seeing this one, the very notion of revenge will never be the same again.

10/10 Stefan

Gone Baby Gone

One might expect that Ben Affleck should be the last one to attempt helming a movie based on a complex novel such as Gone Baby Gone. Dennis Lehane's novels have been adapted by the likes of Clint Eastwood and Martin Scorsese, two directors with undeniable pedigree. Sure, Affleck is an Academy Award winner, for writing Good Will Hunting along Matt Damon, but writing and directing are two different things entirely. Most would have expected Affleck to fail, but Gone Baby Gone is an astonishing debut, one that erases all previous mistakes he made, even as an actor (yes, even Gigli).
 

Gone Baby Gone takes place in (where else?) Boston, Massachusetts, and focuses on the abduction of four-year-old local girl Amanda. It's the kind of case that brings neighborhoods together, the kind that moves people, the kind that is never solved. The police are doing their best, but grief-struck aunt Beatrice hires local investigators Patrick Kenzie (Casey Affleck) and Angie Gennaro (Michelle Monaghan) to help as much as they can. Patrick is a smart guy with local connections, so he starts digging, hoping to find the truth. He does, but it's not pretty, and it carries a hefty price, as always.

Casey Affleck does a remarkable job as the quiet, but streetwise Patrick. He's easily the most identifiable character for the viewer, and his grief becomes ours from the onset. He would keep the movie together if he were surrounded by lesser actors. Fortunately for the viewer, he's not. Ed Harris continues to be one of the most underrated actors of his generation, playing Detective Remy Bressant, a hard-ass who's seen one case like this too many. Look into Bressant's eyes as Harris delivers each line. He combines humanity with cynicism, says more with each pause than others do with monologues. Morgan Freeman also graces the screen with his presence, although this one isn't exactly his usual spiel. Also worth mentioning is Amy Ryan, who received (almost undeservedly so) the most critical acclaim for her role as Amanda's damaged mother.
 

The plot is gritty and sad, and will pose questions for all attentive viewers (especially a sentence or two in the final few minutes that hit like a shotgun blast to the chest). The dialogue is sharp and some quotes are unforgettably delivered and written. Adapting such a novel was a daunting task, and Affleck shines: it's never confused, pathetic or preachy, as many similar-themed movies usually are.
 

Gone Baby Gone is a movie not to be missed: the Affleck brothers, with a little help here and there craft a movie that surpasses all expectations, defies clichés, and engages the viewer, without leaving him feeling cheap after the final pieces have fallen into place. It's a crime drama about people, the dark places some can go to, and the fact that making the right call is never easy.

10/10 Stefan

Kick-Ass

Let's look back and consider the last few years as far as comic-book movies are concerned: mostly competent adaptations (most of the Spider-Man an X-Men series), some excellent ones (Iron Man, for example) and a few that transcend the genre: Watchmen, Batman Begins, and especially The Dark Knight. The last three could be considered more or less successful attempts at deconstructing the most important myths of the comic-book hero.  After deconstructing the genre, why not take a stab at reconstructing it also?

Kick-Ass is based on a brilliant (although not fantastically original) premise by Mark Millar, brilliantly illustrated by John Romita, Jr. Instead of thinking from the outside in, as in a world full of super-heroes and villains, Kick-Ass is thought up the other way around. Why hasn't anybody tried to be a super-hero in real life? "They'd be dead in like, a day" replies the movie. Dave Lizewski (played by Aaron Johnson) decides it'd be the most natural thing in the world, orders a diving suit, and after donning it becomes the titular character. He's got no training, no special skills, just a lot of guts and a good heart. Unfortunately those are hardly sufficient, as he is brutally beaten the first time he actually tries to fight crime. What seemed to be a light-hearted comedy then suddenly takes a turn for the brutal, rated "R" (for awesome) romp, that's as genre savvy as it is fun.

Kick-Ass soon encounters other "heroes" (the term should be used extremely lightly when discussing most masked people in the movie), Bid Daddy, the ever fantastic Nicholas Cage (whose quirky Adam West-like take on his character is memorable), his daughter, Hit Girl, and the aptly-named Red Mist (who's all smoke and mirrors).  Hit Girl is portrayed by Chloë Grace Moretz in a star-making performance, her relentless energy carrying each and every scene, no matter who's in it. You'll remember her and her character long after you've forgotten everything else about the movie. Which is not to say that it's forgettable, because that's far from the truth. Mark Strong is also unforgettable as the "bad guy", bringing life to a character that in the comics is bland. 

The source-material is dark, violent, and is much more intelligent than it lets on, hiding sharp commentaries about how deranged someone actually should be to hide behind a mask and fight evildoers behind panels upon panels of the old "ultra violence". The movie does a good job at adapting it for the silver screen, improving in some areas, but actually toning it down (!) in others. It's a shame, because it results in a story that sometimes feels a little too optimistic, while still avoiding major pitfalls hidden in most movies of the like (no tired clichés here). I won't give them away (read the books!), but  had the producers and writers kept the darker elements, Kick-Ass would have surely ascended to cult-status. The same general message is portrayed, but detractors might say pointing it out would be pushing it. It's not, and said detractors were probably nit-picking just for the sake of it. I can see them, all "that's not possible" this and "that's sick and inhuman" that, while the rest of us are grinning madly at what transpires on the screen.
 
Kick-Ass carries itself with aplomb, and acts like it's the only one in the room worth looking at, the cool kid that everybody actually likes. One might think that it's a step backwards for a genre that's growing up, but consider Kick-Ass its coming-of-age party. What's the point of being mature and serious if you can't have a little fun once in a while?

9/10 Stefan

The Marshall Mathers LP

"This is another Public Service Announcement, brought to you, in part, by Slim Shady. Slim Shady does not give a fuck what you think. If you don't like it, you can suck his fucking cock. Little did you know, upon purchasing this album, you have just kissed his ass. Slim Shady is fed up with your shit, and he's going to kill you."
 

The above lines open Eminem's "The Marshall Mathers LP", and compared to the rest of the album, actually seem peaceful, tame, and mild-mannered. It's the fastest selling solo album ever, a landmark achievement in hip-hop, and one of the most controversial things ever put on tape.

"Kill you" is a disturbing (and I promise not to use that word regarding every song on this album) warning Eminem waves in our faces. A slick beat allows him to explain that if he "can't rap about coke no more", he'll kill, rape, take drugs, and spit it in their faces: "Oh, now he's raping his own mother, abusing a whore/snorting coke, and we gave him the Rolling Stone cover?". He's cold and psychotic, not to be trifled with.  After that first song , one might think he's all flash and no fire, no substance to his shocking rhymes. 

They'd be wrong, because "Stan" follows, a song everybody knew but few really understood (that label could actually fit Eminem perfectly as an artist). It's an incredibly tight narrative, that descends into the psyche of eponymous, mad, obsessive fan that identifies himself with Slim. He writes him letters that start out as normal and end as nightmare-inducing. It showcases Eminem's ability to change his voice, his perfect cadence and the fact that he understands us as fans, creating a scary caricature of anyone who's ever had an obsession. This song is also the first, and so far only reason anybody's ever heard of Dido, her suave voice balancing out the madness.

"Who knew" is a slap in the face of everybody that ever said that music is responsible for violence's pervasiveness nowadays. He laughs at people who tell him to sing without swearing constantly ("Oh - you want me to watch my mouth, how?/Take my fuckin eyeballs out, and turn em around?"), and throws their accusations against them ("But don't blame me when lil' Eric jumps off of the terrace/You shoulda' been watchin' him - apparently you ain't parents"). It's obvious he's pulling people's legs here, probably laughing like a maniac every time somebody accuses of corrupting the mind of the youth.

"The way I am" was the song that dispelled every doubt people might have had about the young rapper's talent. Eminem's flow is untouchable, and lyrically, he's at a legendary level on this song. It's a big middle finger pointed at everybody else, yelling his thoughts with an almost subconscious power (And all of this controversy circles me /And it seems like the media immediately points a finger at me /So I point one back at 'em/But not the index or the pinky or the ring or the thumb/It's the one you put up when you don't give a fuck /When you won't just put up with the bullshit they pull/Cause they full of shit too). Eminem gives everybody hell, whether they deserve it or not here. "Think twice before ever criticizing your favorite artist" is the moral here.
The next song is more light-hearted, treating all the imitations that came along after him, a whole lot of celebrities, and proving to be a chart-topper (even if it was written as the exact opposite). He rips Pamela Anderson, Christina Aguilera, and most memorably Will Smith ("Will Smith don't gotta cuss in his raps to sell records/well, I do. So fuck him, and fuck you too."), and prophesizes that there's a little Slim Shady in all of us. Truth be told, haven't we all wanted to tell everybody who's made it big a thing or two?

In "I'm back", Eminem is especially cynical, and finds some of his favorite targets over the years (Christopher Reeve, N'Sync and others). He's treading on thin ice, with a reference to the Columbine Massacre (that's censored even on the uncensored version of the album), psychopaths, and addressing rumors that he had sex with Jennifer Lopez. Any other artist would have been considered a lunatic. Eminem did all of this with so much panache, people embraced him as  a genius, and with lyrics as scary-good as these, who's there to argue?
"Marshall Mathers" is the most underrated song on the album, an eye-opening story told through a clenched jaw, that pities music in general, his new-found fame, and the hypocrisy it brought. It also starts, and ends a beef with Insane Clown Posse, and is complementary to "Stan". After listening to it a few times, you can't help but feel sorry for the guy ("Is it because you love me that y'all expect so much of me?").

Out of the final few songs, "Bitch Please II" stands out as the one of the best group efforts on the album, and probably is the most memorable W.C.-Jam of the last years, with Eminem being the best of the bunch (Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg and Xzibit). "Kim" follows, a brutal mock-murder of his then-wife, a song that will remain in history as the most strange, paranoid, and disgusting love-letter ever. "Under the influence" is a fantastic song for D12, Eminem acting as a deranged conductor to his own take on the tired "boy-band" concept he so happily smashed on this record. It's quotable line for line, as is the last song, "Criminal". On these two, he dispels any doubts: he's the bad guy, and he loves it, for better or worse.

I was 9 years old when I first bought and even though I only recently fully understood just how fascinatingly sick it is, I was still mesmerized. People listen to Eminem without even thinking about the lyrics and that's a shame. They nod their heads to murders, rapes, and hate. It's not the beats (although they help), it's Eminem's undeniable talent. This album feels like a train-wreck, an accident, something that you shouldn't like listening to, but are compelled to. It's so vulgar and profane, no fully uncensored version exists. It's bloody, and bloody brilliant."The Marshall Mathers LP" is one of the best albums of all time, created by the most talented guy of his generation, at his peak. Eminem knows this, and juggles between fact and fiction, in creating the most fascinating character we've ever witnessed in music: himself.

10/10 Stefan

Room on Fire

Following up to an amazing first album is a daunting task for any band who's made it big on their first try. The Strokes were facing one such task in 2003 when they launched their sophomore effort "Room on Fire", because comparisons to their landmark "Is This It" were inevitable. It's hard not to compare the two albums: both have eleven songs, both run approximately the same, and both are largely about the same things. Consider the band first, though. A laid-back, young, brash assortment of "garage-rock-revivalists", that surely were having the time of their lives. It's a stretch to expect a great deal of change (musically speaking) from guys like these. But if it's not broken, don't fix it, right?

The Strokes are ever ironic, and so is the album's first track, opening with another rhetorical question, a la "Is this it". "What Ever Happened?" jumps between romantic musings and more or less subtle jabs at critics ("Did they offend us and they want it to sound new?"), while being catchy all at once, no small task. The second track, "Reptilia" gives the album its name ("The room is on fire as she's fixing her hair"), and Casblancas yells his lungs out about "not trying hard enough", and it feels as though The Strokes aren't even breaking a sweat. The themes approached by the band in their debut are still here: "Automatic stop" is about a failed relationship, featuring the staccato guitar riffs that were ubiquitous in most alternative rock albums of the time (if you're sick of them already, blame not The Strokes, but all the imitators).

The Strokes deserve credit on this one: even songs about sad attempts at reaching the past are catchy as hell (what song up to here has not been?), "12:51" for example (with lyrics such as "The world is shutting out...for us. We were tense for sure, But we was confident... ").For the band, it appears life should be taken with a pinch of salt, especially when it's hard, or sad. This optimism feels like a breath of fresh air after the avalanche of angsty rock music from so-called "emotional" bands that came after. "You talk way too much" is a blast, one that makes up for any lost energy while keeping that ironic tone, always hovering between serious and laugh out loud moments ("You talk way too much/It's only the end").

"Between love and hate" is again about a failed relationship, and sometimes I wonder whether Casablancas has approached this particular subject one time too many. It only takes a chord or two to bring me back, because it's just too much fun to matter. "Meet me in the bathroom" is an obvious shout-out to their first album, and by this time listeners must have realized that "Room on fire" can be the soundtrack to mostly everybody's teenage years, and only a band a few years removed from adolescence can reignite that elusive spirit. The Strokes, it seems, can capture lightning in a bottle, and sell it back to us.

The melancholy "Under Control" exudes feels infectious, and is one of the few tracks this band has produced that feels like a confession, but it's not pathetic in the least. It feels more like a pat on a shoulder after realizing some things are impossible no matter how much you want them to be true. So even if "You are young, darling", it's only " For now, but not for long". You'd be hard pressed to find a more descriptive evocation of youth, just ask someone who's no longer young.

Taking the lyrics form "The way it is", and putting them on a slow ballad tune would result in a blueprint for all the James Blunt wannabes that kept on popping up these last few years like mushrooms after rain. Lyrics like that have no place being yelled around, it doesn't feel right for any serious musician. Serious is not an entry in The Strokes' dictionary, at least not in the traditional sense ("Without humor or expression of happiness; grave in manner or disposition; earnest; thoughtful; solemn."), and their energy is viral. No other band could have pulled off an album like this, not like this. "The end has no end" is almost schizophrenic, with disjointed lyrics, but is quotable almost line for line ("Said I can do a lot of things, but I can't do that/Two steps forward, then three steps back"). It's reminiscent of "Hard To Explain", in that you need to listen to it for a few times before actually understanding what they meant. The final song is a distillation of everything that came before it: it's a song about failing (with a title like "I can't win", that comes as no surprise), but not caring about the vicissitudes life throws in front of you.

If you compare "Room On Fire" to "Is This It", you'll surely feel it comes up short. But that would mean you have not been paying attention, because it's not about that. It never was. It's about being young even if you're not anymore, about smiling when you should frown, about looking fate in the eye and laughing. Some people can't even say those things, let alone do them. The Strokes do it with the ease a child plays with his cubes, and maybe that's the crux of their legacy: no matter how hard, they made it seem so fucking easy.

10/10 Stefan

Lost

In a year that features the final episodes of the longest running action-espionage TV show ever (24), some of the best drama one can find (Mad Men) and a new HBO super-production from the team that brought us Band of Brothers (Pacific), it comes to nobody's surprise that none of the above are even close to the biggest event in TV or even entertainment. That is because 2010 features the most awaited-for finale since The Sopranos took its bow in 2007: ABC's Lost. So how does the show stack up, now that it's over? What was it all about, now that the black smoke has dissipated (give yourself a tap on the back if you got that reference)?

Lost was a show about an Island. The Island. It's the defining characteristic of the show at first glance, a place as interesting as it was mysterious, taking its place in pop culture ever since it came along. On The Island you could find whispers, polar bears, secrets, more dead bodies than many cemeteries, statues, boats, hatches, dynamite, guns, and airplanes. And so much more. You know, the good stuff. But this island was more than a trash can for crazy ideas that the producers thought up and threw in. This Island was full of people.


Lost was a show about characters. Living (mostly), believable, fascinating characters, that acted according to their principles (or lack thereof). Indeed, every one of them had motivation, an arc, a back-story, covering the entire range of human existence, from babies to men incredibly old, from priests to torturers, men of science and men of faith. Everyone acted as such for a reason. These characters often clashed, and when they did, it always proved to be something worth thinking about, from philosophy to the simple management of the group's resources post-crash.

Lost was a philosophical show. It encompassed themes from all major religions, touching on life and death, duality, fate, determinism, hope, revenge, and fulfillment. What other show merged its main characters with such themes by actually naming them after influential philosophers (Locke, Rousseau, Hume, to name a few)? Lost was never preachy in its web of motifs though, and the producers knew when to shift a gear when needed, and did so, resulting in some of the most intriguing action sequences on TV in the last decade.



Lost was a show about action. Things happened, fights broke out, explosions pulverized everything around them, people were shot, animals were hunted, glances were exchanged, and tears were shed. It always carried a feeling of importance, like it was the only thing that was worth seeing, like it was airing with purpose. One of the most important notions on the show was that everything happened for a reason. It never seemed too over the top, nor low-key, but rather just right as far as everything was concerned, from humor to seriousness.



Lost was a funny show. While no characters existed for pure comedic relief, some were funny as hell. From Sawyer's nicknames, to Hurley's sometimes geeky references, knowing how and especially when to insert a joke, mainly because something big was always going on in the background.


Lost was a sad show. Viewers cried their hearts out when it got really sad, and Lost had its fair share of sad moments during its six year run. This sadness is inherent to the show's hugely ambitious scope, with tragedies abounding on all levels, both cosmic and personal.



Lost was a show that was grandiose. Everything was exotic, from the sets on The Island, to Michael Giacchino's perfect music. Part of Lost's huge appeal was that one could not care about what actually happened, and still be awe-struck by some of the best cinematography and sound mixing ever seen or heard on TV.


Lost was a show about choice. For a show about choice, it's ironic that it gave you little to no choice to keep on watching episode after episode, season after season. Those who followed the show from the beginning were, of course, the most rewarded when "The End" finally came, but for a show so heavy in mythology, mysteries and questions, one could have jumped in anytime in the first two or three seasons. After that, it was a whole other ballgame. The choices the characters made were never left without repercussions, their stubbornness prevailing in the end, man preserving his power over the universe, through choice. "Don't tell me what I can't do" seems more than a catch-phrase, uttered when the writers had no idea what to do, but a guide they followed when writing it.

Lost was a fantastically written show. The writing on Lost has been the best of the last few years in television, without exception. Even on an off day, it was instantly quotable ("See you in another life,brother";"Go get Jack";"Others!"), and the immense number of quotes, slogans and mantras this show is going to generate gives me a headache just thinking about it. A few years from now, someone seeing Lost from the beginning will be greeted by the same familiarity that exists when one watches a classical movie for the first time. They'll know many lines, identify some original ideas before hand, and make the necessary connections easily, because so much of this show is universal. Which is not to say that Lost was predictable. The writers were only outdid by the actors as far as I'm concerned.


Lost was a perfectly acted show. Featuring a huge cast of over 14 main members (in the first season) and many more secondary ones, it boasts one of the most talented groups of actors ever brought on screen for such a long time in studio-years. Starting from stereotypical characters, the writers subverted all clichés.

Matthew Fox plays Jack, the young, handsome, doctor, who steps up (but not with his own accord) as leader for the survivors of flight 815,but has daddy issues, doubts, uncertainties and regrets.

Terry O'Quinn plays John Locke with the steadiness only a veteran can provide, presenting a human side to the stoic paraplegic who regains use of his legs after the crash.

Michael Emerson plays Ben Linus, in what might be the most underrated role and performance of the last decade. His quiet but menacing demeanor defines a man who always seems to know more than he lets on, balancing the truth with oh-so-many lies. Ben and Locke are formidable on-screen, and as much as they do appear, they always leave the viewer wanting for more.

The struggle between Locke (the man of faith) and Jack (the man of science) was the focal point of the series for its entire run, and the pay-off is as rewarding as it could have been. What about Sawyer, Kate, Desmond? Sayid, Jin, and Sun? No one skipped a beat in six years and it's too bad that awards have to single out performances because Lost was an acting master class through and through.


All of this praise is just a general view of Lost, without actually dissecting what happened, and what it happened for. Fans will discuss this show long after it's over, especially considering the final episode, aptly titled "The End". "The End" was not unlike the series finales of MASH, The Sopranos or Seinfeld, in that it was created to fit a mold the series sculpted before it. It gives the entire series a sense of cohesion, in the same way the final chapter of a novel ties everything together. I may have expected something else, but what I got was what I, as a viewer, needed. It leaves behind it a yearning in fans, one that might never be fully quenched, since I doubt another show like this will ever come along again.


Lost was the first defining show of the internet era, because in spite of the fact that excellent TV was made besides it, none felt tailor made to a generation that needs puzzles, and craves information and discussion as much as ours. It may truly be the last show that can ever be anything for anyone at the same time.Unfortunately,it's over, and everyone must move on and accept it, but where are we, as fans, after six years? Where has this show left us after all this time?

We're a bit older, but hopefully more experienced, more chiseled. We still do what we want to, whether we are meant to or not. We're emotionally involved, because it's human to be, and we sometimes get hurt for this. We're still here, on route to our final destination, as we always were. There's the past, which accounts for everything we are, and there's the future that accounts for everything we will be. But essentially, we're in the present, trying to live as best we can.

There has to be a word that perfectly describes the above situation.


Oh, yes.


Lost.

Stefan