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You win some; you lose some.
Lost’s recipe for success includes ever-changing allegiances, malleable definitions of “good” and “evil” and a never-quite-resolved list of mysteries. And like the scales of the astrological sign Libra, the confusion and resolution sides always seem to balance each other out. What we gain in clarity we often lose in understanding.
True to this formula, last night’s episode — the seventh of the season — served up a lot of resolution, but it also delivered a quid pro quo of new unresolved perplexities.
Namely:
Why did Ben assassinate his lord and savior, John Locke?
Could Charles Widmore actually be the good guy in all of this?
Just who is this Eloise Hawking, and why does she seem to move Ben to murder?
Did the Island’s magical powers reincarnate John Locke?
Who is this “new guy” that joined our old favorites on the flight to Guam?
Egads, could there really be more Other Others on the Island?
What’s so wonderful about Tunisia?
We can’t answer all of the above, but let’s start with the end of John Locke, to whom this episode was dedicated (it was titled “The Life and Death of Jeremy Bentham”). Just as we’d come to accept the fact that Locke had committed suicide, we learn that he was actually murdered. By Ben.
WTF?
In the lead-up to Locke’s death, we’re subjected to what felt like an eternity of John standing on a desk, an orange, industrial-grade electrical cord wrapped around his neck, arguing with Ben, who pleads with John not go through with it.
What makes this development most perplexing is that we’d come to believe in John Locke as the Christ-hero of the show; a man willing to martyr himself in order to save others (and The Others, too). And it’s by way of Ben’s calm, cool insistence that we — and he, and pretty much everyone else (save the jealous, cranky Jack) — believe that John is The One. Even Jack eventually comes around. Why? It can all be traced back to Ben.
Along comes Eloise Hawking, whose existence is apparently enough to move Ben to kill his own, personal Jesus.
It’s at Locke’s mere mention of Eloise that Ben grabs the aforementioned orange cord, wraps it around John’s neck, and coolly waits for him to breathe his last gasp.
There is much speculation as to who this Eloise character is. Remember that hot, Rambo-outfitted blonde chick who threatens to kill Daniel Faraday back in episode three? Well, it seems her name is Elly (which could be short for Eloise, right?). Also, she seems to be allied with Charles Widmore.
Ah, Widmore. Clearly J.J. Abrams and the Gang want us to like him a little. He, too, makes a convincing case of why Locke is the redeemer of the Island. And, in what is almost always a surefire trick of TV to get the audience on the good side of a character, Widmore makes us laugh — if only briefly.
We learn it’s Widmore who’s responsible for the Jeremy Bentham alias. As he provides a new identity and passport to a confused Locke, explaining that this new name is a reference to an old English philosopher, he says: “Your parents had a sense of humor when they named you. Why can’t I?”
Oh, and Widmore’s the guy who sets John globetrotting around to convince the Oceanic Six to go back. Need a vacation? Don’t worry, Lost can take you around the world in under 18 minutes. We visit Sayid in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. We are whisked up to New York City to watch John have a brief conversation with Walt that essentially amounts to:
Locke: “Hey dude, what’s up?”
Walt: “Chillin’. How’s my dad?
Locke: (Pause) “I think he’s relaxing on a big boat somewhere.”
Walt: “Oh, cool.”
Locke: “Peace.”
Walt: “Peace.”
Um, OK. Then it’s off to LA, where a truly Lost-ian coincidence brings an almost-shot-and-car-accident-killed John to Jack’s hospital. Jack’s welcome was not a warm one. Ditto Kate, who disses John with a “gee, you’ve really evolved, huh?” comment. Asylum-dwelling, sphinx-doodling Hurley’s a no-go, too, first dismissing Locke as a hallucination, but then just plain dismissing him.
Locke, dejected and feeling like a failure, resigns himself to suicide. He pens that heart-wrenchingly concise suicide note addressed to Jack, grabs his self-immolating equipment and…we’re back where this recap began.
Of all the episodes this season, this one was the most satisfying from a storyline perspective. The pace was quick, it didn’t get too caught up in dropping arcane, red-herring numbers and figures, and it brought us a staggering climax to the Locke story that’s been slow-brewing all season. His death — and subsequent rebirth — brought a whole new batch of painfully unresolved questions. And it hurts so good.

Spy series Burn Notice (USA, Thursday, 10/9c) builds from the same blueprint that neo-detective dramas Life and Life on Mars follow: our hero competently pieces together his job’s puzzles while trying to solve his own greater mystery. But Zen and the nature of reality, time and consciousness—the respective obsessions of those programs’ metaphysical detectives—don’t concern Burn Notice’s Michael Westen (Jeffrey Donovan). He’s a protagonist fit for the New Depression, just a workingman trying to work, scraping together new freelance projects as he tries to figure out why his old long-term contract went bad.
Michael was a covert CIA operative until he was “burned”, spook-speak for downsized. Stripped of his cash and credit along with his profession, he finds himself back in his Miami hometown, hiring out his spy skills to the highest bidder as he tries to learn who got him ousted him from the world of intrigue—and why. The first season leads up to the answer to the who: he was burned by the mysterious “Carla” and her cohorts, who then force him to work for him, threatening to harm his family if he ditches the job. The second season is spiraling closer to explaining exactly who this who is—but why is still in the distance. With two episodes left, it seems unlikely that we’ll get a full explanation before well into season three.
Meanwhile, Michael will surely keep working on the cases that come his way, investigating art theft, thwarting con artists, busting kidnapping rings. It’s all in a day’s work for a self-employed spy. And after a day’s work—well, this isn’t Law and Order with its self-contained workplace in which the protagonists’ personal lives are revealed slowly, through a cumulative and casual build-up. Michael’s personal and professional lives are inextricably intertwined, meshed in a way the rest of us might aspire to, or maybe fear. His spy work is the crux of his identity. Learning why he was burned—and potentially returning to high-stakes international espionage—is a search for self. He wants to regain his place in the world and return to the image with which he identifies. And, as he struggles to reclaim this public identity, circumstances force him to also confront his roots and his personal life, or lack thereof.
Washed up in Miami, Michael is embraced by the neurotic, pushy mother he’s avoided for years, Madeline (a spirited and sparkling Sharon Gless, who imbues what could have been an annoying stock character with more charm than seems possible). He has a loser brother to contend with—and the legacy of an abusive father to sort out. Mom’s interference and his brother’s escapades mean Michael’s work and family lives inevitably intersect, and he’s ended up working with some old colleagues with close personal connections. Dangerous Fiona Glennane (Gabrielle Anwar) was an IRA operative, and an ex-girlfriend. Ragged Sam Axe (Bruce Campbell, finally grown from a brat into a likable character actor) is a former Navy Seal, and Michael’s only friend. They have their issues to work through—Michael once abandoned Fiona, Sam was briefly spying on Michael—but it’s nothing that this expansive protagonist can’t bring to light.
Film noir this is not. Blue skies, swift low waves, sweeping aerial shots—Burn Notice’s Miami is clear and bright, not a place of shadowy vices or dark ambiguities. Michael as often as not encounters his enemies out in the open on bright days. When the show retreats to indoor shots or night scenes, things are clearer still, the action and explication unfolding under even lighting that’s as revealing as yet a respite from the searing truth.
And Michael is no film noir tough guy, no ambivalent keeper of justice with a dark or amoral streak. There’s little romance or grit to him, just a solid competency ad professionalism that mask a sensitive yogurt-eater. His personal issues aren’t quiet core flaws; his interpersonal problems aren’t static givens. They’re things he’s working through—to become a better man, and, not incidentally, to become a better worker.
He’s not a metaphysical sleuth of the Life/Life On Mars mold, but a self-help or self-actualizing sleuth. His place is alongside The Closer’s Brenda Leigh Johnson (Kyra Sedgwick): she heads a high-profile homicide unit, but the show focuses as much on her relationships with her parents and with sugar, and her wedding is the center of the season finale. If noir played out the cold war and moral upheaval, these shows are trying to understand what we’re worth.
Another ass-kicking heroine explores what it means to be human: Dollhouse (FOX, Fri., 9/8c) joins Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (FOX, Fri., 8/7c) and Battlestar Galactica (SCIFI, Fri., 10/9c) in a familiar quadrant of the science fiction universe. Dollhouse’s automatons are physically human, not machines, but, judged by this week’s pilot, that twist might be about all the show offers.
Created by Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s Joss Whedon and starring Buffy’s troubled slayer, Eliza Dushku, Dollhouse should have a built-in cult fan base. Its premise lives up to its pedigree; its execution—so far—does not. A shadowy, illegal organization maintains a stable of men and women (mostly women, all beautiful) whose minds have been made blank via fancy computer programming and who the company can “imprint” with various personae to hire out as prostitutes, killers, chefs, whatever wealthy clients require. But one doll, Echo (Dushku), isn’t entirely forgetting her memories between jobs. Cue meditations on personality, individuality and memory, and the reprise of the classic humanity vs. technology and mind vs. matter dialectics.
Flinty ex-cop Boyd Langton (Harry Lennix) is trying to convince himself that the Dollhouse might sometimes help its clients, or at least not get them killed, and indignant maverick FBI agent Paul Ballard (Tahmoh Penikett) is investigating the organization without support from his supervisors; insert a Wire-y look at government’s failures and the inherent flaws of institutions here.
So far Dollhouse has only hinted at those sweeping themes—and so far it’s been clumsy about it. It’s a portentous slog broken up by gratuitous action scenes and layered with oblique lines that beg to be taken as weighty epigrams. Maybe that’s just first-episode awkwardness and the show will live up to its lead-in, the underrated Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles.
Now resuming its second season, Sarah Connor forsakes the movie franchise’s Arnoldian bulk and bumble to pick up where Blade Runner left off: the machines are nearly human. Of course, here the machines have grown into rebel robots who rule an apocalyptic future and visit our era to track and kill mankind’s savior, high school student John Connor (Thomas Dekker). But as that plays out, we get to watch a guardian girl-robot (Summer Glau) seem to develop emotions and a conscience and early robo-prototypes ascend the binary ladder to sentience. The martially maternal title character (Lena Headey, reprising Linda Hamilton’s role) keeps chaos at bay, or did until this week’s mid-season restart.
Throughout the series, Sarah Connor has rose ably to the role of the promised child’s mother and protector; now, she’s reduced to needing the encouragement of imaginary conversations with her son’s dead father-from-the-future—a crutch made all the more pathetic by the woeful casting of pretty but unimposing Jonathan Jackson. Hopefully the rest of the season will return Connor to her old toughness, and iron its convoluted who-built-the-robots and who-can-we-trust plotlines into something that will garner enough viewers to keep the show on the air.
If not, there’s still the critically-acclaimed Battlestar Galactica, which resumed its writers’ strike-interrupted fourth season last month. Sentient robo-slaves called Cylons revolted against their human masters, in, yes, an apocalyptic war. The handful of humans who remain find their mythic Earth —and deal with Cylons who masquerade as human, Cylons who don’t know they’re Cylons, and Cylon-human hybrids. With an assortment of strong female leads—the 1978 series’ Boomer and Starbuck have been recast as women—the show has touched on genocide, religious fanaticism, terrorism, and unjust war. Pity it keeps forgetting what it means that a slave revolt started it all.
After The Wire perfected a new urban social realism, and CSI (and its offshoots) took Law and Order’s procedural drama to absurd technical heights, the cop show had to get a new angle. The answer: Police the realm of the spirit and cast a non-American English-speaking actor as a brainy detective with a life-changing problem and no easy love interest, and watch him struggle to make sense of life and of time. This is the strategy taken by both Life and Life on Mars.
The past week saw two metaphysical detective dramas return. After a seven-week break in its second season, Life’s Zen detective Charlie Crews resumed unraveling why he’d been framed for a triple murder (NBC, Wed., 8/9c). After an out-of-order episode aired last week, Life on Mars (ABC, Wed., 10/9c) finally delivered the belated conclusion to its mid-November mid-season cliffhanger and brought its contemporary cop, Sam Tyler, a step closer to figuring out the nature of reality-and why he’s stuck in 1973.
Life is the more straightforward of the two. Los Angeles detective Charlie Crews (played cucumber-cool by London’s Damian Lewis) spent twelve years in prison for allegedly killing his business partner and his wife and son. By the time DNA evidence exonerated him, his friends and family had turned against him, and he’d been brutalized by inmates with grudges against the police, fallen hopelessly behind on technological matters, and found comfort in Zen Buddhism. Crews is slowly piecing together why he was set up as a killer, sporadically pining for his since-remarried ex-wife, and gingerly dealing with his partner-in-policework Dani Reese (The L Word’s Sarah Shahi), whose no-longer secret boyfriend is their captain and whose father is connected to the set-up. Zen gives Crews a wealth of koans to use as ambiguous comebacks—and a sense of peace and interconnectedness that keeps Crews calm as he faces the fact that he’s been screwed out of life (which his $50 million settlement doesn’t nearly make up for.)
Based on a British series of the same Bowie-inspired name, the David E. Kelley-initiated Life on Mars (currently helmed by Josh Appelbaum, Andre Nemec, and Scott Rosenberg, the trio behind the short-lived but watchable writer-can’t-go-home-again drama October Road) has a lot to live up to. Dubliner Jason O’Mara—he’ll pass for The Wire’s Sheffield-Irish Dominic West if you squint—plays Sam Tyler. A detective with New York’s fictitious 125th Precinct, Tyler was hit by a car when rushing to investigate a case. When he gets up, he’s still Sam Tyler of the 125th, but it’s 1973. Is he in a coma in 2008 dreaming that it’s 1973, or does his head injury just make him think so? Is something even stranger going on, or is this just how strange life is anyway?
The coma explanation initially seems most likely; that turned out to be the truth in the BBC version, from which the ABC show is already diverging. Within that framework, Tyler goes about his police duties as he tries to get back to 2008 by learning whatever life lessons or enacting any time-traveling plot-changes the universe is demanding of him. He dreams of his 2008 love and fellow detective, Maya (Lisa Bonet)—we assume the allusion to the Hindu concept of maya as a veiling, illusory reality is intentional—while maintaining a careful distance with his 1973 animas, a pioneering lady cop who serves as his confidant (Gretchen Mol) and a sagely hippie neighbor who opens his mind (Tanya Fischer). He encounters his parents, his young self, future mentors and criminals, real or products of his mind.
1973’s primitive technology is a continual source of amusement for Tyler; 1973’s police force, less so. Michael Imperioli plays a detective who thinks Tyler stole a promotion that should have been his. Harvey Keitel, in the casting coup of the century, nearly reprises his Bad Lieutenant role by playing the hard-drinking, suspect-beating station captain. If the show is largely missing the opportunity to revisit the crime-infested, recessionary New York that may be the future, it balances an infatuation of the style of 1973 (in terms of both visible fashion and a late-hippie aura of freedom) with a rear-view moral righteousness that rarely exceeds its place. Sam Tyler is the voice of progress and tolerance, yet he’s painfully aware that 2008 is little better than 1973. When he dusts himself off after being hit by that car, he barely registers that the housing projects that had surrounded him have been replaced by rubble and by billboards announcing that new apartments will be available on the site in 1974; it’s only when he sees the World Trade Center in the distance that he begins to understand the full magnitude of what’s happened. He rails against his colleagues’ treatment of women, gays, minorities and anti-war protesters; but when he speaks against the war in Vietnam, he also means the war in Iraq, and he has to hint to 1973 of horrors yet to come.
Life is, unsurprisingly, a bit more detached: the closest we get to a sociopolitical history is watching Crews’s former cellmate, pension-raiding ex-CEO Ted Early (Adam Arkin) humbly teaching business school and managing Crews’s money during a recession.
Next week, both shows deal with crimes against musicians and try to figure out what the Russians have to do with their heroes’mysteries. We’ll be hoping that Life on Mars, with all its shadow-dwelling robots and shadowy conspiracies, isn’t going to start emulating Lost and its nonsensical twists, but will continue probing inner and outer realities; and that Life will more fully communicate its Zen mindfulness as its arrow approaches its bullseye. A good detective or two of the human experience might be just what we need.