You know who you are. You’re the people that bitterly complain that nothing’s happened all season on LOST. And now you don’t watch. You, the fair weather fan, are jeopardizing the one show that’s managed to fill the void in my heart left by the untimely death of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2003.
And now another show has bit the dust. Last night we saw the season finale of The OC. I hear you laughing. The OC? Are you serious? That show was lame. No it wasn’t. It was funny, irreverent and utterly ridiculous and I loved it.
To examine why The OC died is to study the evolutionary course of episodic drama. Many a comparison has been made between The OC and its predecessor, Beverly Hills 90210 (hence forth referred to simply as Niners.) Niners lasted for ten years while The OC burnt out in under four. Sure, those final three seasons of Niners were atrocious (Vanessa Marcil as Tori Spelling’s illegitimate half sister/competitive ice skater? Blech) but the story telling was [relatively] strong until the seventh season.
I recently caught several episodes of Niners on the Soap Network and the show doesn’t hold a candle to The OC. The writing is dismal, the outfits, even by early 90’s standards, are comical, and the soundtrack (cheesy guitar riffs, anyone?) is obnoxious. But what Niners had that The OC so tragically lacked was pacing. Those writers managed to drag out the Brenda-Dylan-Kelly love triangle for nearly three seasons. Dylan’s father’s mysterious death in Season 4 was revisited again in Seasons 5 and he was brought back to life in Season 10. On The OC, a love triangle arc could be resolved in under four episodes. Marriages, career changes, arrests, etc… never lasted more than half a season. New characters were introduced and then removed in record time. All of this made for exciting, albeit unrealistic programming, but it didn’t encourage the show’s longevity.
So, what does this have to do with LOST? Many people argue that the writers haven't resolved any of the mysteries central to the show's core. They are frustrated that none of the storylines have yielded new information. That’s called pacing, people. I’ll remind you of another Fox episodic drama, and personal fave of mine, The X-Files. Oh, poor, sweet X-Files. For six, blissful seasons we were teased with black goop, alien-human hybrids and the omnipresent but mysterious Cigarette Smoking Man. Then the movie came out and explained everything. Now all they had to do was prove it. But the magic was gone. We, the viewers, knew too much, and the only thing left to do was change the channel.
Its my belief that LOST’s success is based on its ability to keep the viewer guessing. When a mystery is resolved (i.e. the identity of The Others – Scruffy, Walt-stealing “Zeke” was way scarier than poor, bumbling, possibly gay “Tom”) the balance of power shifts from the writer to the viewer. We now have the information, and if we like the way the narrative is headed, we’ll continue watching. If this new development displeases us, perhaps we’ll stop. But not having any information at all, keeps us intrigued, and that keeps us tuned in on Wednesday nights.
Perhaps the demise of The OC, and the pacing backlash that’s assaulted LOST this season stems from the changing pace of today’s society. We’re no longer content to watch our dramas unfold slowly and thoughtfully. We’ve become fixated on resolution with little regard to how that resolution is achieved. So, my dear, sweet readers: Use those DVRs wisely. Slow down and savor the LOST magic. Because its not always about how the story ends – its about what happened along the way.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Long Time No Blog...
I originally started this blog to examine my observed differences between life in Michigan vs. New York City. For a couple of weeks, I was on a roll. Then I stopped writing. Why, you ask? My official answer is I became engaged and singularly obsessed with reception sites, calla lilies and tulle. But that’s not the truth. In actuality, it got too damn cold.
With the exception of traveling to and from work I have not left the house in weeks. WEEKS. The temperature hovers at 10 degrees. It’s icy, snowy, sleety, slippery. At night wind chills dip dangerously low. As I’ve struggled to come up with a topic to write about, I realized I haven’t done anything blogworthy since the Great Kitchen Reconstruction Project. And I’m certainly not going to blog about the pivotal decision of straps vs. strapless wedding dresses.
I did, however, manage a dinner date with a girlfriend last week. I bundled up in my big, fluffy, purple coat and headed out into the cold. We met at Outback Steakhouse (which, you snooty New Yorkers, is actually quite scrumptious – I recommend the coconut shrimp, but I digress.) We exchanged pleasantries, chatted about work, discussed the aforementioned strapped/strapless conundrum and then we got into the (pardon the Outback pun) meat of the conversation.
My friend went on a first date with a guy she really likes. He took her out to dinner on a Saturday night and they really hit it off. She continued to talk to me about their blooming relationship, but I couldn’t focus. First Date on a Saturday night? A whole dinner? What is he, crazy?
Back in my pre-betrothed dating days in NY, Saturday nights were precious. They were reserved for my good friends. We went to nice restaurants (not Outback), saw plays, had birthday parties, and generally had a grand old time. First Dates are random. They are in fact, not a guaranteed good time and no Saturday night would ever be granted for a first date.
First Dates occur on Tuesday, usually over one drink in a heavily populated bar, where escape from both physical harm or social atrocity is easily accessed. If things went well, a second or third date would occur on a Saturday night. The First Date thus became the pre-Saturday night screening process.
But what if the New Yorkers are the crazy ones? During the work week, we’re distracted and short on time. Are we really giving the nice, sweet man who’s paying for the martini a real chance if we squeeze him in on Wednesday in between the gym and LOST? And, as much as we don’t like to admit it, when us girls go out on Saturday night, looking our finest, aren’t we really looking for someone new and interesting? Wouldn’t that time be better served sitting across a dinner table from someone whose attention is focused wholly on us, rather than the scantily clad chick at the bar?
New Yorkers are risk averse daters. They return emails after a several hour delay regardless of the beeping Blackberry on their desk. They impose 2-day moratoriums on returned phone calls. They withhold Saturday nights from first time suitors. Some people might call this “playing games.” I call it dating protection. However the real risk for New Yorkers is not taking any risk at all. As someone who has taken the biggest risk of all – I left New York and followed my heart to Detroit – I know that the net only appears once you jump.
With the exception of traveling to and from work I have not left the house in weeks. WEEKS. The temperature hovers at 10 degrees. It’s icy, snowy, sleety, slippery. At night wind chills dip dangerously low. As I’ve struggled to come up with a topic to write about, I realized I haven’t done anything blogworthy since the Great Kitchen Reconstruction Project. And I’m certainly not going to blog about the pivotal decision of straps vs. strapless wedding dresses.
I did, however, manage a dinner date with a girlfriend last week. I bundled up in my big, fluffy, purple coat and headed out into the cold. We met at Outback Steakhouse (which, you snooty New Yorkers, is actually quite scrumptious – I recommend the coconut shrimp, but I digress.) We exchanged pleasantries, chatted about work, discussed the aforementioned strapped/strapless conundrum and then we got into the (pardon the Outback pun) meat of the conversation.
My friend went on a first date with a guy she really likes. He took her out to dinner on a Saturday night and they really hit it off. She continued to talk to me about their blooming relationship, but I couldn’t focus. First Date on a Saturday night? A whole dinner? What is he, crazy?
Back in my pre-betrothed dating days in NY, Saturday nights were precious. They were reserved for my good friends. We went to nice restaurants (not Outback), saw plays, had birthday parties, and generally had a grand old time. First Dates are random. They are in fact, not a guaranteed good time and no Saturday night would ever be granted for a first date.
First Dates occur on Tuesday, usually over one drink in a heavily populated bar, where escape from both physical harm or social atrocity is easily accessed. If things went well, a second or third date would occur on a Saturday night. The First Date thus became the pre-Saturday night screening process.
But what if the New Yorkers are the crazy ones? During the work week, we’re distracted and short on time. Are we really giving the nice, sweet man who’s paying for the martini a real chance if we squeeze him in on Wednesday in between the gym and LOST? And, as much as we don’t like to admit it, when us girls go out on Saturday night, looking our finest, aren’t we really looking for someone new and interesting? Wouldn’t that time be better served sitting across a dinner table from someone whose attention is focused wholly on us, rather than the scantily clad chick at the bar?
New Yorkers are risk averse daters. They return emails after a several hour delay regardless of the beeping Blackberry on their desk. They impose 2-day moratoriums on returned phone calls. They withhold Saturday nights from first time suitors. Some people might call this “playing games.” I call it dating protection. However the real risk for New Yorkers is not taking any risk at all. As someone who has taken the biggest risk of all – I left New York and followed my heart to Detroit – I know that the net only appears once you jump.
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