BuzzFeed: "This Breaking Bad Alternate Ending Must Be Seen To Be Believed"

Was it all just a terrible nightmare? Malcolm in the Middle’s Hal may have eaten too many fried Twinkies before bed, according to a new DVD extra. [UPDATED]

At BuzzFeed, you can check out my latest post, "This Breaking Bad Alternate Ending Must Be Seen To Be Believed," in which I take a look at an alternate ending for AMC's Breaking Bad, one that invokes Newhart and, well, Malcolm in the Middle.

Fans of AMC’s Breaking Bad continue to mourn the death of the antihero drama in their own unique ways, but thanks to this DVD extra — from the Breaking Bad: The Complete Series DVD box set, out November 26 — fans of the science-wielding antihero have yet another chance to imagine a different fate for Bryan Cranston’s Walter White.

In this case, an alternate ending to the show itself, which — heavily borrowing from the iconic ending of Newhart (which referenced the earlier The Bob Newhart Show) — imagines that the entire narrative of Breaking Bad was a dream experienced by Cranston’s pater familias Hal from the 2000-2006 Fox comedy Malcolm in the Middle, substituting fried Twinkies for Bob’s Japanese food. Waking up terrified from his nightmare, Cranston’s Hal remarks that he was “this meth dealer,” before being comforted by his wife, Lois (Jane Kaczmarek), who reminds him that he can’t cook anything, let alone meth, and that he’s definitely not married to a “tall, beautiful blonde” woman.

Continue reading at BuzzFeed...

The Daily Beast: "30 Rock Wraps Up Seven Iconic Seasons"

Blerg. 30 Rock will end its seven-season run later this month, meaning that we'll have to say goodbye to Liz Lemon, Jack Donaghy, and the TGS crew... though the show's creator, Tina Fey, isn't going anywhere just yet.

In this week's Newsweek (and over at The Daily Beast), you can read my latest feature, "30 Rock Wraps Up Seven Iconic Seasons," in which I examine the comedic legacy that the show leaves behind.

Back in 2006, one of the year’s most highly anticipated new shows was a roman à clef set at a Saturday Night Live–style sketch comedy show. No, it wasn’t Tina Fey’s 30 Rock, but Aaron Sorkin’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, which also aired on NBC and died in 22 episodes. In fact, 30 Rock was very nearly canceled right out of the gate, with nearly half its 8.2 million viewers fleeing by the fourth week. But instead of being axed, 30 Rock became a sleeper hit. The show that gave us Liz Lemon and launched a thousand catchphrases (“Blerg!”) wraps up a seven-season run at the end of January.

30 Rock made creator-star Tina Fey—a former SNL writer and anchor of its talent springboard “Weekend Update”—a household name, while the show soon became a critical darling, known for its smart, tongue-in-cheek writing and acerbic wit. Beneath the absurdist single-camera comedy trappings of 30 Rock was a hyperliterate cultural magnet, one that exerted a powerful attraction toward the cultural memes of the day, not to mention bipartisan politics, celebrity vanity, corporate mergers, and the eternal struggle faced by working women to have it all.

In Liz Lemon, the harried executive producer and head writer of the comedy show TGS, Fey created an everywoman whose flaws were in fact part of her attractiveness; her persistent fear of exercising and love of junk food refreshing in an era of actresses who would like viewers to forget they have to eat at all. 30 Rock was, in many ways, a bildungsroman depicting the psychological development of Liz as she moved into a semirational adulthood, surrounded by a crowd of unruly eccentrics—such as Jane Krakowski’s Jenna Maroney, Tracy Morgan’s Tracy Jordan, and Jack McBrayer’s Kenneth Parcell—and an unlikely mentor in her boss, Alec Baldwin’s ultraconservative executive, Jack Donaghy.

But rather than make, as most Hollywood projects would, marriage the inevitable conclusion to Liz Lemon’s saga, 30 Rock bucked that long-held trend by marrying off Liz before the ending and downplaying her wedding altogether. There would be no special episode, no electronic invitations on the NBC website, no fuss about reaching yet another milepost on Liz’s uncharacteristic journey. Instead, the show has held out Liz’s ultimate goal—motherhood—as a possible ending for the overworked writer, though it has once again defied expectations. A recent episode suggested that Liz would be adopting an older child, her quest toward motherhood not reliant on biology or medical intervention. In doing so, Fey signaled yet again that 30 Rock was not a traditional comedy defined by traditional sitcom trappings: it was a glorious metareflection of the times we live in.

Fey cohosted the Golden Globes telecast with Amy Poehler this year, the first time two women had done so, well, ever. It was a big night for women in general, between the Cecil B. DeMille Award for Jodie Foster and the wins for Lena Dunham (another multihyphenate, like Fey, it should be noted) and her HBO comedy, Girls. Dunham thanked Fey and Poehler, calling them “inspirations.” And it’s true: Girls gets most often compared to Sex & the City, but without Fey and 30 Rock, it’s possible it might not have existed.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

Eternity: Thoughts on the Series Finale of HBO's Big Love

"I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I'll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I'd be with you."

Saying goodbye is never easy, particularly when it's a series as deeply nuanced and as emotionally resonant as HBO's Big Love, a groundbreaking series that subtly shifted our perceptions of what the television family drama could accomplish.

Over five seasons, the audience witnessed the struggles of the Henrickson clan as they attempted to seek out their own destinies, both as a group and as individuals. This was a series that was centered around hearth and home, sex and salvation, faith and family. It was at times hugely operatic (Season Four, I'm looking at you), Shakespearean, or pared-down (the final season).

But what Big Love accomplished was to deliver a look into a family that was markedly different, perhaps, than our own, but which also had the same growing pains, the same fears, the same desires that each of us face within our own families, whether traditional or nontraditional. It charted the way that we each need to find our independence and also find strength in one another, the way in which we can lean on our loved ones and struggle to understand them. It was, at the end of the day, about love.

It's fitting then that the series finale of Big Love ("Where Men and Mountains Meet"), written by series creators Mark V. Olsen and Will Scheffer and directed by Dan Attias, should end the way that it does: with the three sister-wives (Jeanne Tripplehorn, Chloe Sevigny, and Ginnifer Goodwin) finally able to put aside their differences and come together. Over five seasons, we've seen these three squabble, argue, and manipulate one another, but when they're faced with a truly life-altering event in the final episode, these three find an unbreakable bond within themselves. There is, after all, a reason why these four have been sealed for eternity, but both they and the audience discover why they're sealed on earth as well.

I've been saying for quite some time now that the only way the series could organically end is if Bill Henrickson (Bill Paxton) became the one true prophet, something that Olsen and Scheffer pull off magnificently here. There was a reason why Bill had a testimony to run for office and, despite the legal and political obstacles in his path, he ends up on the floor of the Utah state senate to not only rescind municipality to Juniper Creek following the arrest of Alby (Matt Ross), but also to openly discuss the legality of plural marriage.

Bill has struggled for so long to find a way to bring the Principle out of the darkness and back into the light. With his courageous stand and his refusal to bow down to his enemies, he creates a dialogue about their beliefs and their lifestyle. And in the process, he does become a lightning rod for polygamy, a symbol of openness and freedom that resonates deeply with his fellow believers. So much so that they show up at his storefront church in the hundreds just for the opportunity to listen to his sermon, to touch his sleeve as he walks by, to issue their thanks.

In those moments, Bill Henrickson becomes the prophet he was always meant to be.

We've long known that the rightful prophet of Juniper Creek was Orville Henrickson and that the Grants usurped the religious leadership of both the compound and its adherents. When Orville and Roman went for that car ride decades earlier, the outcome polluted the Principle because it thwarted its natural destiny, corrupting the grace of their belief system for two generations.

Bill Henrickson--businessman, father, priest, casino owner, politican--has worn many hats in his day, but the look of transcendence is clear when he steps onto that dais and sees the crowd before him. It's not an act of pride, but of selflessness as he begins his sermon. I will say that his speech gave me shivers, showing us not only his oratory skills but also his ability to reach into the hearts and souls of these believers. Even though he has lost Home Plus, he is spiritually wealthy.

(It's why I also think that you didn't need to actually see the testimony he receives--in which Emma Smith gives him the nod and her blessings--because we could already see this in his eyes. It was clear that he was having a moment of divine grace without seeing just what he saw; while it paid off the dream sequence he had a few episodes back--the one that conflated Emma Smith with his mother Lois--it was an unnecessarily heavy-handed and concrete bit of parlor magic here. We experienced the mystery and beauty of the moment without seeing Emma Smith in the flesh, as it were.)

And Bill is able to win over reluctant Barb as well, who casts off her husband's church for her own, a baptism into this reform LDS church while the rest of her family listens to Bill preach. Stepping into the pool, alone, Barb realizes that she can't do this on her own, that she needs to follow the path set before her family, even if it means renouncing her claim on the priesthood. When she steps inside the church, her presence there is the first blessing she gives Bill.

That church, as we discover finally here, was build by Bill for Barb after her ex-communication from the Mormon Church. That she would turn her back on it, that she would trade it for another, is an affront to Bill, even more than the way she trades in her old car for a new one. The car was bought by Bill for his wife nine years earlier, before she got sick; it was the car that Sarah and Ben learned to drive on and she traded it away for something new and flashy without a second thought. So too does Bill see Barb's decision to renounce his church as an indictment of the past they've shared. If this was her church, built for her, how can she so cavalierly head off into another direction?

And it is Barb's church, both past and future. Built for her, it serves two purposes: a home in the wilderness, somewhere where she can feel comfortable and be surrounded by her eternal family; and, finally, the church where she can achieve her true testimony as priesthood holder. It's this final element that we're left with at the very end of the series following the shocking death of Bill.

The Henricksons have never wanted for enemies. Whether it be the Grants, the Walkers, the Greens, the district attorney's office, the state senate, the LDS church, law enforcement. They've lived in fear of exposure and then exposed themselves to the world. They've struggle together and apart. But they've always maintained a friendship with Carl and Pam Martin (Carlos Jacott and Audrey Wasilewski) across the street. Carl and Pam have been mainstays of Big Love since the first season, their lives intrinsically linked to the Henricksons.

But we never had any idea just how interwoven their fates would become. Throughout the season, the writers have planted hints about Carl's mental deterioration, as he lost his job, sparred with Pam about money, warred with Bill and Margene about Goji Blast, and crashed two cars, seemingly in failed suicide attempts. But here he snaps completely when he sees that Bill has had his front lawn re-sodded, a promise to Carl that he made in the season opener ("Winter").

Sometimes the smallest things have the biggest impact. All for the want of a nail, and all that. Here, a promise kept is what dooms Bill, as Carl sees the re-sodding not as a neighborly gesture but as a condemnation of his self-worth. It symbolizes everything that Bill has and which Carl doesn't (he is unaware, after all, that the family has lost Home Plus): not one but three wives, financial success, many children. The gunfire in the street is a misguided battle between have and have-not.

It's fitting, of course, given the Easter day of Bill's death, that Carl fires upon him three times. (Three being of particular significance to Christ.) But as Bill bleeds out into the pavement outside his three homes, surrounded by his three wives, his thoughts aren't fearful ones. Looking upwards, he sees not the outer darkness that has plagued him for so long but the blue embrace of eternity, of the celestial kingdom where he will be reunited with his wives forever. But as his wives cry and tell him to hold on, Bill does something selfless and beautiful: he asks Barb for a blessing.

The moment is a profound one and the realization of Barb's own destiny. In doing so, he connects her to the priesthood, fulfilling her the testimony and connecting her to Heavenly Father. Her words don't matter here, as Bill drifts in and out of consciousness. What does matter is the fact that he asks her for that blessing and, in doing so, gives her the church he had built for her. Bill's prophethood lasts for barely more than a blink of an eye but it has resounding consequences. The final shot of the three wives surrounding Bill as he dies made me sob aloud, as the camera pans up over the houses and into the blue beyond.

But as I mentioned earlier, Bill's death also connects the wives in ways we haven't seen before. I thought the joyride scene between the three--in Barb's new car--encapsulated their differences. The split-second of joy they have together (even Nicki smiles, albeit briefly) connects them in sisterhood before the moment is lost, amid realizations of the tribulations of ahead of them: Bill's possible prison sentence and what his loss from their household really means for them. They can keep driving but eventually the truth will catch up to them.

Eleven months after the shooting, we see three sister-wives who are truly united by the bonds of marriage, even without their husband to guide them. While Nicki--the legal wife--wears black in a show of mourning, Barb has ascended to the head of their church as priest, and Margene--her hair shorn as she looks far more mature thatn we last saw her--prepares to leave for another mission. Their final embrace, the three-who-are-one coming together before physically separating, is a emotional display of trinity and unity, with the shade of Bill sitting apart at the table. It's a beautiful moment to end the series, a poignant and heartfelt moment that pays homage to the journey that each of them has been on, a testament to the eternity they will spend together.

I'm extremely happy that the writers brought Sarah (Amanda Seyfried) and Steve (Aaron Paul) back for this final coda here, bringing Teenie (unseen, applying mascara in the bathroom -- "that girl doesn't know if she's coming or going") and their new baby along for the christening at the church. Naming him Bill after her father, Sarah's return here brings her journey full-circle as well. She finally does return to the fold after Barb takes over the church, embracing it as her own because she is not only finally proud of her mother's accomplishment but also because Barb's ascension injects a necessary femininity to the priesthood. Sarah has always condemned the patriarchal nature of their religion and seen first-hand the numerous sacrifices her mother has made in order to hold onto Bill. Here, she sees Barb in a different light and she can finally accept her family and her family's religion in a way she never had in the series.

It's also telling that the baby is named Bill. While the Henricksons believe that our time on earth is fleeting, we do live on through out loved ones and through our offspring. There's the sense that everything will be all right for this family and that death isn't an ending but a beginning of a new chapter for all of them.

Easter, of course, is about resurrection and Bill--along with his parents Lois (Grace Zabriskie) and Frank (Bruce Dern)--all die on Easter***. But one could also argue that they're reborn that day, that they head out to eternity together, that their passing is just the shedding of skin. While Bill dies in an act of horror on his own street, Lois and Frank fulfill their suicide pact as Lois' mind slips away from her. In bed together, they share stories of happy times long ago as they shuffle off their mortal coil. They finally get their happy endings, as everyone does in the end, united as they contemplate an eternity together.

(***In the version of the finale that I saw, there were noticeably TWO syringes on the bedside table, indicating that Frank and Lois had both taken insulin. However, in the on-air broadcast, there was just ONE syringe, an edit confirmed by Olsen and Scheffer over here. So it does appear as though Frank upholds Peaches' request to die, but doesn't follow her into the afterlife just yet.)

The same is true at the Henrickson houses at the end of the coda: we see Ben (Douglas Smith) and Heather (Tina Majorino) reunited; we see Sarah and Steve with baby Bill; and we see the three sister-wives facing the future together. As we pan over the three homes with their shared backyard and the neighborhood, the familiar strains of the original theme song ("God Only Knows") sees us off, a fitting homage to the series and to the spirit of love and cohesion that these three have finally forged together.

Despite Bill's death, it does seem at least as though each of the characters achieved a happy ending, or at least managed to grab onto something they've yearnd for throughout the series' run: Barb received the priesthood; Nicki got control of the family's household and status as legal wife; Ben and Heather found each other once more; Sarah was able to return home and look her mother in the eyes; Frank and Lois were able to turn back the clock, even if only for a few minutes; and Margene was able to grab ahold of the freedom she wanted, while still having a home to come home to. We leave the series as we began in: inside this family's noisy, chaotic, loving households, a collection of individuals each with their own struggles who nonetheless prove that the whole is stronger than the sum of its parts.

It is, in many ways, the perfect way to close out this series, on a positive and uplifting note amid loss and death. Life goes on for Barb, Margene, and Nicki and it goes on for us as well. But we should take strength from the fact that these three women haven't broken under the strain but have been tempered and strengthened by the loss of their husband.

They're still a family as we soar over those now-familiar houses almost a year after Bill's death. And that the Beach Boys' song--and its message--is clear: "God only knows what I'd be without you."

What did you think of the series finale of Big Love? Did it fulfill your expectations of how this series would end? And were you as emotional as I was at the final fate of Bill and the wives? Head to the comments section to share as we mourn the passing of this remarkable series.

The Daily Beast: "Big Love Series Finale: Its 12 Most Memorable Moments" (UPDATED)

HBO's landmark drama series Big Love ended its run tonight with a fantastic series finale.

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "Big Love Series Finale: Its 12 Most Memorable Moments," in which I select the twelve best moments from Big Love's entire run, including tonight's series finale, and allow you to relive these searing moments, thanks to our wonderful video team.

Did your favorite moment make the list? Head to the comments section to discuss.

The Daily Beast: "Big Love Series Finale: Its Ten Most Memorable Moments"

HBO's landmark drama series Big Love wraps up its run tonight with a fantastic series finale.

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "Big Love Series Finale: Its Ten Most Memorable Moments," in which I select the ten best moments from Big Love's run ahead of tonight's series finale and allow you to relive these searing moments, thanks to our wonderful video team.

Be sure to check back after the episode when I unveil my two additional moments from the series finale, which is gripping and emotional, to say the least, as well as my thoughts about the show's end.

Did your favorite moment make the list? How do you think tonight's series finale will wrap up the last five years of storylines? Head to the comments section to discuss.

The Daily Beast: "Goodbye, Friday Night Lights"

Yes, last night marked the end of Friday Night Lights and television--and perhaps the world--is a little sadder for its loss.

I have two connected features over at The Daily Beast that tie into last night's series finale ("Always") of Friday Night Lights. The first is "Goodbye, Friday Night Lights," a eulogy for the show, in which I examine the series' legacy and talk (briefly) to executive producer Jason Katims and series lead Connie Britton about the show's influence and its passing.

The second is a fan-centric gallery-style feature, in which I talk to Katims and Britton about some of the more nitty-gritty aspects of the show. Just what was the deal with Hastings Ruckle? Why wasn't there a finale scene between Jason Street and Tim Riggins? Do they think the Julie/Derek storyline worked? Does Katims still stand behind Season Two's controversial Tyra/Landry plot? Was it tricky to play with the dynamic of Tami and Eric this season? How important was it to tie up the storylines of the original cast? What's next for Britton? And why does she so fondly remember the scent of bacon in the air?

The Ring: Endings and Beginnings on the Series Finale of Friday Night Lights

"Texas Forever."

Those words have been spoken quite a few times throughout the five-season run of Friday Night Lights and each time they've been said with a slightly different meaning in mind. Early on, they represented the optimism and vitality of youth, of dreams for the future that were spoken by those who had yet to learn the lesson of loss. But here, they're some of the last words spoken in the series, a statement of freedom and happiness, yes, but they've been tempered by the experiences of the last few years for Tim Riggins.

It's with a great deal of emotion that we've reached the end of the road with Friday Night Lights, which wrapped up its storylines and left the door open for the viewers to imagine the future ahead for the Taylors, for Julie and Matt Saracen, for Vince and the super-team of the Panthers, for Luke and Becky, and for Tim Riggins himself, finally able to build his house on his land.

The series finale of Friday Night Lights ("Always"), written by Jason Katims and directed by Michael Waxman, was a beautiful and poignant installment that ranks up there with the all-time best series finales, so accomplished in its sense of nostalgia, so true to its tone and its characters, and so willing to give the audience not only what we wanted, but also what we needed.

In many ways, the breathtaking series finale brought the plot full circle back to the show's pilot episode, offering up scenes of the players being interviewed by the news crews, those familiar director's chairs popping up once more on the field. Familiar musical themes made their fitting reappearance here. And the "Texas Forever" spirit that embodied those early conversations between Riggins and Jason Street proudly having reached their apex with Tim finally getting that open land he had dreamed about all of those years before.

Likewise, just as the series began with Tami Taylor considering returning to work, it ends with Tami now taking charge of her destiny and stepping out of Eric's shadow to stand by his side. For his part, Eric has finally learned the lesson of compromise and sacrifice that he tries to impart to Julie and Matt in the restaurant; he's able to finally separate himself from his career to see that his stubbornness is actually killing his wife.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, really. In the hands of Katims and Waxman, this was a finale that not only paid homage to the legacy of the series, to the 75 episodes that came before, but also set up an imagined future for the residents of Dillon, one where they would go on to live out their dreams, even if we, the audience, can no longer be the fly on the wall to these proceedings.

It's fitting that the show ended on such an optimistic note. This has been a series that has found its characters struggling to find happiness in a town--and perhaps a world--that didn't want them to, that offered numerous roadblocks and speedbumps on their quest for personal and communal glory. It was a place where, every week, something went wrong for Coach Taylor and his team, or the individuals that made up this wonderfully vibrant town.

Life goes on, as they say, and the same holds true for these characters. The final coda that Katims offers up, set eight months after the Lions win the state championship (and then cease to exist at all in the process), holds open a window to their futures that lay before them, showing us the Dillon-ites at their very best: Tim and Billy, finally united, building that house together; Vince leading the "super-team" of Panthers, Tinker by his side; Luke embarking on military service, as he's seen off at the bus depot by Becky; Jess in her element on the football field in Dallas; Julie and Matt enjoying a moment of domestic bliss; and, finally, Eric and Tami standing as equals together on yet another field, this time in Philadelphia.

It was, in many respects, an evening of long goodbyes.

There was a grace and beauty to the final sequence amid the state championship, the hushed atmosphere and minimal dialogue, the heartfelt prayer offered by Eric to the team, the elegance of that final soaring arc of the ball overhead. It was, amid a series that prized the silent moments, a nearly silent sequence, save the lilting strains of the instrumentals. I had my heart in my throat throughout, my stomach in knots, my eyes misty. And while we knew that the Lions would roar at the Cotton Bowl and bring home a second ring for Eric, there was something magnificent and triumphant about them doing so, and how the action connected from that final pass to one eight months later in Philadelphia. The circle, it seems, is unbroken.

Kudos to Kyle Chandler for pulling off a tightrope-walk of a performance in these final episodes. It would have been easy to vilify Eric for his lack of support in Tami's career, in his patriarchal mindset that his professional goals would naturally come before those of his wife's, that Dillon was where their Christmas tree was and where they would be staying. But, thanks to Chandler, Eric isn't unsympathetic. He's a product of his environment and his upbringing, yes, but the fact that he supports both his daughter Julie and Jess in their efforts to achieve their dreams point towards a root cause that isn't misogyny; it's miscommunication.

Eric and Tami have always had an understanding about their respective roles in this marriage. Just as Tami is able to turn on the charm at the end of last week's episode when she needs to, Eric sees her as the consummate coach's wife, always willing to rustle up a barbeque or some lemonade when the need arises, to always be there by his side, but not to run ahead of him.

Eric's entire identity is constructed around the fact that he is a football coach and he's made huge compromises in pursuit of that objective, choosing to stay in Dillon rather than go to Florida, defraying his dreams of stability and glory in order to safeguard Vince's and the others'. The conversation between Eric and Tami is one-sided because it doesn't even dawn on Eric that there's even a possibility that he would take a leap into the unknown because his wife has a job offer in the Northeast.

Just as he doesn't congratulate Tami when she receives the offer, so to does Eric not really broach the subject when she tries to bring it up, either forcefully or more delicately. It's not a conversation he wants to have, it's not a possibility he wants to consider, despite the way that his attitude cut Tami to the core. Even, as Tami sobs outside the restaurant and says, "What will I tell my daughter?" Eric still can't bring himself to console her or to make it right.

It's only when he sees his future in front of him, those early morning calls from Buddy, the in-fighting and the politics, does he finally see the offer letter from Braemore right in front of him and sees just what Tami, after eighteen years of marriage, is giving up because she "can't win this fight." It's only then that he makes it right.

The future seems to be a point of contention in a number of storylines in the finale, in fact, from Tyra and Tim's conversation about whether their dreams can "merge" at some point in the future to the marriage proposal offered by Matt Saracen to Julie. Eric's anger at Saracen, his disregard for Matt and Julie's wishes, and his insistence that his daughter is too young are all caught up and reflected in the conflict he's enmeshed in with Tami.

While Julie says that she views her parents as her "inspiration," it's a statement that cuts Tami to her core. Eric makes a big point of the fact Julie and Matt are too young to get married and that he and Tami wed at a very different time. But what signal is he sending to Julie if he makes it clear that his goals are more important than Tami's? Does Eric, at some subconscious level, realize the injury he's doing to both his wife and his daughter?

Just as Camelot can't last forever, neither can Dillon, Texas, it seems. The legend was brought up by Hastings and the others on the East Dillon field last week but it's felt sharply here. There's a sense of promise about the future and Tami and Eric's new start--for all of their new starts in life, really--but there's also a sense that something important and mythical has ended.

I loved that Matt nostalgically got down on one knee in front of the Alamo Freeze and asked Julie to marry him... and that Landry, characteristically, brought up that only a few years earlier Matt was nervous about even talking to Julie. Nice to see the two of them together, if only for that one scene. (I also loved the fact that Tyra, Matt, Julie, and Tim had their scene in the bar together, reuniting a large chunk of that original cast.)

There was a nice sense of symmetry between Julie receiving Matt's grandmother's ring and Eric getting his second state champion ring. I loved the scene between Julie and Lorraine Saracen in the house as Lorraine kissed Julie's hand when she saw her own engagement ring. The theme of family, however non-traditional, seemed woven throughout the episode: Lorraine telling Julie to call her grandma, Becky telling Mindy that they were sisters, Tim telling Becky that they're more than friends: they're family.

That's been at the heart of this series from the beginning: the way that people form something resembling a family, whether that's Coach and the team or the ragtag individuals who end up living with one another, each blending together into something bigger than themselves.

While I'll freely admit that I cried several times during the series finale, one of the moments that got me the most choked up was Becky moving out of the Riggins' house as Mindy and Billy drop her off at her mom' house. The final embrace between Madison Burge's Becky and Stacey Oristano's Mindy was overflowing with emotion; the two have come a long way in their relationship since that first night Becky crashed there after leaving home. There's a kinship there, a sense of sisterly love, that's unbreakable, even at a distance. The single tear on Mindy's cheek as she turns away as Becky is caught up in her mother's arms was heartbreaking in its simplicity.

Another? Seeing how emotional Eric was as he lead the team in prayer one last time, each of them knowing that this would be the last time they'd be taking the field together. And the moment that passed between Eric and Vince? Understated emotion at its best, as Eric told Vince that he would never know how proud of him that he was and how Vince in turn offered his thanks for everything that Coach had done for him. We've always known that Eric Taylor was a molder of men. We see here just how much of an impact he's had on the lives of the men he's trained.

But the moment that really got me was one of the simplest: the sight of Jason Street's name on the wall of the West Dillon Panthers' locker room, right there under the "P," as Billy puts the "Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose" sign to its rightful place. It's a subtle moment that underscores the love that both the audience and the writers had for these characters, for the struggles that they endured, and for the men and women that they became. Their presence is keenly felt just as much as their absence.

Glory might fade, but memories last forever.

NBC viewers will have the chance to watch the fifth and final season of Friday Night Lights beginning April 15th.

All of This Matters: Lost Questions, More on "The End"

Welcome to this week's second look at Lost, in what will be my final column on Lost for some time to come now that the series has wrapped, amid some controversy (those ABC-inserted final shots!) and viewer polarization over the reveal of just what the Sideways/Lost-X storyline was really about.

As I have throughout this season, I'll be taking a second look at this week's episode of Lost ("The End") by responding to reader questions and comments submitted via comments, Twitter, and email.

While I discussed "The End" in full over here (as well as a shorter piece over at The Daily Beast), it's time to dive deeper and get to some further theories, doubts, and questions. (You can also catch me on this week's Instant Dharma critics roundup as well.)

So, without further ado, let's pull the cork from the bottle, lay down in the bamboo grove, and discuss "The End."

As I stated in my 4500-word review of the Lost series finale (which I'd urge to you all read as I was far more eloquent there than I intend to be here), I wasn't all that pleased with the resolution of the Lost-X timeframe and the ultimate ending of the series (i.e., the final ten minutes or so set in the church), but I did love everything that took place on the island in the two-and-a-half hour series finale ("The End"), which saw the final battle between good and evil and the role of ultimate leader get passed from Jack Shephard to Hugo Reyes, the one person who really didn't want the responsibility but who seemed selected long ago for the role of island protector.

Which left me feeling extremely ambivalent about the series finale as a whole as so much during the sixth and final season of Lost was riding on how well Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse could integrate that Sideways timeline, which we learned wasn't a divergent reality at all but a sort of spiritual purgatory where the castaways could finally let go of their earthly troubles, come together one last time, and then move on to the afterlife, having finally achieved the peace they couldn't find in life.

It was a touchy-feely and pat ending that didn't sit well with me, given the stakes we've seen through six seasons and it ended the series on a bit too much of an uplifting note that felt a little too uplifting and buoyant. (Personally, I'd have preferred we ended on that gorgeous shot of Jack on his back in the bamboo forest as the Ajira flight soars away overhead and he finally closes his eyes, a direct inversion of the opening of the pilot episode.) While it didn't invalidate anything that had come before it, it didn't spark within me the emotional response that Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse sought to achieve. While I thought the scenes of connection and reunion between the pairs of lovers were beautiful, the final scene of the cast--or most of them, anyway--in the church didn't resonate with me in any meaningful way.

But it also didn't confuse me either, as it did many viewers (and a few critics, to boot), who mistakenly believed that the reveal that this world was in fact an elaborate purgatory constructed by the collective consciousness of the passengers meant that the island itself was also a fantasy.

Not so.

Purgatory. Whatever happened, happened. That's been said several times throughout the run of Lost and it applies full stop to the six seasons of plot that we saw unfold on that mysterious island that can skip through time and space. Putting aside all manner of smoke monsters, mythical corks in bottles, and four-toed statues, the island DID exist. It was real and the castaways who crashed on the island in the pilot episode lived there and died there before a handful of them managed to escape on the Ajira Airlines flight in the series finale.

There's no getting around that. The island was not, as some have clung desperately to, a purgatory. Nor did the castaways perish "on impact" in the pilot. They lived and loved on this island, explored its mysteries, and either died or escaped at the end. (Save Hurley and Ben, who remained behind to protect the island from further interlopers.)

In other words: they lived their lives until their deaths. Which, for some of them, came years or even decades later. While Jack died in the final moments of the episode, Kate and Sawyer and those who escaped returned to the mainland where they finished out their days. What happened to them and what they did after coming back from yet another plane crash (and how they explained the appearance of James Ford and Claire Littleton, both of whom were declared dead following the return of the Oceanic Six) remains tantalizingly unclear. It will be up to the viewers to imagine just what kind of lives they had post-island.

But everyone dies. That's true not just for those who were buried on the island during the 100-plus days they stayed there initially but those who left too... and even island protectors Jack and Hurley.

Bound together by the extraordinary and inexplicable times they shared together on the island, they jointly created a purgatory where they could meet and come together one last time before leaving for the afterlife together. Thus, the final church scene in the series finale where all of them--including, in the end, Jack Shephard--come together before they step into the light and are rewarded for their struggles, finally letting go of their mortal coil and moving on in peace.

It's fitting that original man of science Jack Shephard should be the last to be "awakened," the last to come to terms with his death. While on the island, he made a huge leap of faith, here Jack needs a sign, a divine intervention to prove to him what he's secretly and subconsciously aware of: he's dead and needs to let go. Thus, the exposition-laden scene with Christian Shephard at the empty coffin, where he spells out for Jack (and the viewers) the nature of this world.

All of it did matter in the end: their lives, their struggles, the traumas that they fought so hard to escape. It all brought them first to the island and then to this place between life and death, where they could say goodbye and be sent on to their heavenly reward. Hugs all around.

Lost-X Island. One question I keep getting asked is why, if this world was an afterlife constructed by the castaways post-death, was the island underwater? It's a valid question and I believe the shot from "LA X" of the island beneath the sea was a bait-and-switch employed by Team Darlton to make the viewer believe even more than this was a divergent reality and that Juliet's actions at the bottom of the Swan Station pit had been successful (echoed, of course, by her line "It worked," which wasn't referring to Jughead at all). By showing us the island at the bottom of the ocean, it was an intentional mislead on their part to make us thing one thing and then yank out the rug later one.

Narratively, there's also another possible explanation: in this world, they don't need the island. This isn't a place of good and evil but a fictional construct where they can achieve happiness and then be released to the afterlife, a waiting room that's not predicated on them recorking any mythical bottle or facing down the smoke monster. The plane doesn't crash because there is no island to crash onto... and the plane doesn't crash because it doesn't need to. Those experiences have already been lived, those sacrifices already made, and those hard truths already learned.

What brings them together is their dawning realization that they are dead after going through another cycle of acceptance. While the castaways were joined by fate in life, so too are they in death. Their interconnectedness comes full circle here as Desmond acts as a divine messenger, awakening them to the truth of their situation, not that there is another world out there where they knew each other but that there is and always has been one world, one life, one that they shared together.

The island's presence under the water is just that: a symbol of buried truth and self-awareness. Rose says it best when she tells Jack in "LA X" that he can "let go now." The plane has crashed once before; it doesn't need to again. Like them, it reaches its final destination in the end.

Jack's Limbo? Saeine wrote, "The only thing that I want to add because it helped me reconcile it a little more was that this particular limbo/purgatory phase was Jack's only. The people that were there were the ones that were important to Jack. Jack was instructed to enter through the back, it was his father that was there to explain it to him."

I'd disagree with this entirely. For one thing, Christian Shephard flat out tells Jack that this world was built by all of them... and the entire season has used the shifting perspectives of each of the characters to flesh out this story and this world, not just Jack.

Each of them had come to this shared purgatory to connect one last time. While Jack is our main character--it's his eyes opening and closing at the beginning and end of the series--the purgatory that's explored here belongs to all of them, not just Jack. He's the last to come to terms with what this place is and his own death, which is why Christian has to appear to him and walk him through it and prove to the skeptical doctor the miracles of life and death.

Missing Passengers. An anonymous commenter wrote, "The second issue was certain people not being present in limbo at the end to move forward. I also think this makes sense. The island brought all these people together and completed their life. I think Walt's "purpose" wasn't the island, so he has his own limbo somewhere else. I think Ben's purpose was the "family" he had and needed to move forward with them. Richard's purpose was always his wife, and a "limbo" outside of the island again makes sense."

But Ben was in the purgatory they established. The reason that he didn't enter the church was that he wasn't ready yet to move on, as indicated by his conversation with John Locke. He chose to remain within the purgatory for an as yet undetermined about of time before letting go.

Others weren't yet ready to make the journey either. Hurley said that Ana-Lucia wasn't ready when he sees her in "What They Died For." Charlotte and Daniel Widmore (ne Faraday) haven't yet been awakened and are still unaware that they're dead. (Not helping matters: Eloise Hawking, who is aware of the purgatory aspect of this world but isn't ready to let her son go.) The same holds true for Miles.

The absence of Michael could be explained away by the fact that his soul is still trapped on the island and part of the whisperers. He hasn't earned his ticket to the afterlife yet. As for Walt, he too might not be ready to leave, even if he might be somewhere within this world...

Desmond. So what did Desmond see when he was dosed with the massive quantities of electromagnetic energy by Charles Widmore? Answer: that purgatory where the others had gathered. Not a divergent reality, not another world, but a twilight waiting room where they were being brought together once more.

Even Desmond seems confused about this in the episode. He pulls out the stopper in the bottle so that they can cross over and be with their loved ones, but that's not what happens nor was it meant to. In those moments in the chair, Desmond was pulled out of his mortal coil and given a taste of true happiness, a place where lovers weren't torn asunder by murderous demi-gods or mistakenly fired bullets but where they could be together, forever.

His purpose wasn't to allow them to cross over but to help them on their way to the true afterlife, just as his actions here enable Jack to finally slay the smoke monster and tilt the scales in the other direction.

Plane wreckage. Valdezign asked, "Could the plane wreckage in the credits be the Ajira plane?"

I got a number of comments from confused individuals who believed that the wreckage shown over the closing credits meant either (A) that the castaways had died in the pilot, or (B) that the wreckage was that of the Ajira flight.

Both are wrong.

I already tackled the first theory, that the castaways died on the island, above. I found it abundantly clear from the first viewing of the Lost series finale, but many people were confused about the outcome of the series and by those final images. I didn't think it indicated anything--after all, other relics of past crashes and civilizations have littered the island in the past (Black Rock, anyone?) and the photos also clearly showed signs that people had been there as well.

Additionally, ABC felt the need to clarify later the next day that they, rather than Lindelof and Cuse, had placed those images over the closing credits. (Long time viewers will recall the love/hate relationship between the showrunners and the ABC promo department, who oversee the promos and closing credit sequences.) Maria Elena Fernandez of The Los Angeles Times wrote a post about the plane crash imagery that confirmed this fact and indicated that ABC did not mean to mislead or confuse anyone with those images.

As for the theory that it was Ajira plane, no dice there. The final shot of the series from Jack's perspective is the Ajira plane soaring off into the skies and his expression of relief and happiness indicates that the plane made it off the island... and the shots of the wreckage were distinctively that of Oceanic Flight 815's fuselage, etc. No, Kate, Sawyer, and the others did escape the island and went on to lead lives that we'll never know about.

Answers. Rockauteur wrote, "Still very upset that no answers about Dharma/Hanso. Nothing about the supply drops on the island, or the outrigger shooting, or Libby's backstory, or how Christian (as Smokey potentially) was able to talk to Michael on the freighter or Jack in LA? Was that Smokey as Christian or Jack as Christian? Was Hurley's friend Dave Smokey? What about the Hurley Bird thing? I didn't care about that but that was something Team Darlton said we would get an answer to in the finale... What was Ilana's relationship to Jacob? Why did half the Oceanic 6 go to the 1970's and the other half the island in the main time stream? Why didn't The Others move through time? What happened to Cindy and the kids?"

Yes, there was still a lot of unresolved mysteries and dangling plot threads when Lost faded to white earlier this week. On the one hand, I fully expected this. There was never going to be a single unified theory that could be used as a rubric to solve all of Lost's diverse mysteries. And it was also inevitable that many questions would be left dangling in the wind when the series ended.

Some of the questions don't require answers as the viewers can piece together or theorize the solutions on their own without it being spelled out by Lindelof or Cuse. Others are just frustratingly ambiguous and should have been answered, if only to give some closure to these questions which loomed larger in the minds of the viewers than they did the writers (or the characters).

There are some questions which don't need solutions. I don't need to know what happened to Cindy and Zach and Emma because they were never the focus of the main story and we can interpolate why they were taken in the first place: the Others couldn't reproduce and therefore couldn't expand their population so they solved this by taking children and by testing women for fertility. Juliet Burke was brought in to attempt to solve the mystery of the pregnancy fatalities but never came close to reaching a solution. (I would assume the cause of this situation had to do with The Incident that Juliet herself caused, making it the height of irony that she was the one brought in to attempt to solve it... only causing it in the first place.)

Why didn't the Others move through time as the castaways did? Perhaps because they had been, over time, exposed to the electromagnetic energy of the island and had been locked in time as a result. (Though this doesn't quite explain why Juliet, having lived there for some time, did become unstuck and traveled through time.) But because we focused mainly on the castaways as they traveled through time in Season Five, it's possible that somewhere on the island, Cindy and the kids were themselves traveling through time. Or perhaps--if we really wanted to get nutty--the vaccine that the Others gave Claire and maybe the other inhabitants prevented them getting unstuck in time.

But, really, it's just not a major mystery that cries out for lengthy explanation. As for why Sun didn't travel back in time with the others, an argument could be made that Jacob had already invalidated her as a candidate when she gave birth to Ji Yeon. (Though Kate's name was crossed off because she too was a mother, yet she still traveled back in time, so scratch that.)

Regarding some of the other issues that Rockauteur raised, I too remember Darlton mentioning the Hurleybird would be resolved. The only thing I can think of is that Hurley eventually became the island's protector. Given that he was already attuned to the island's unique supernatural properties--he can see dead people--perhaps it was the island's way of reaching out to him and acknowledging that he would one day be its protector? Hmmm...

Some mysteries fell by the wayside, that's for sure. A television show is an organic things: it lives and breathes and changes as the writers are forced to adapt, change paths midstream, and shuffle things around. What was important back in Season Two when Team Darlton didn't have an end date for the series became less important when they did. Mysteries that were intended to help fill in the gaps and allow them to tread water for a bit quickly lost steam (and importance) as they began the marathon to the finish line.

However, some mysteries do beg answers: why the Dharma supply drops continued decades after The Purge? What was Libby's backstory and how did she get from the mental hospital to Oceanic Flight 815? Who fired at the time-tossed castaways in the outrigger?

And I'm not entirely convinced by Darlton's explanation that the Man in Black was masquerading as Jack's father Christian Shephard. Given the smoke monster's efforts to terrorize the castaways (starting with the poor, doomed pilot in the, uh, pilot), I don't believe for a second that he would lead them to water, thus saving all of their lives in the process.

Likewise, I'm not sure what to make of Christian's appearance in Jacob's so-called cabin, which was surrounded by ash, the sort that keeps the smoke monster out (or in), given that he was flying around the island at that point wreaking all sorts of havoc. I also have a hard time reconciling this reveal with the fact that Christian appeared to Michael aboard the freighter to say that the island was done with him... and to Jack in Los Angeles. While Jack was addled with drugs at the time, it still doesn't quite make sense to me.

His presence at the frozen donkey wheel? Sure, I can buy that that was the smoke monster in Christian's form as it set into motion Locke's death, his return to the island, and the Nameless One assuming his form. Christian with Claire in the cabin, after the dead Horace sent Locke there? Sure. But the others? I dare say that Team Darlton changed their mind along the way about the ghostly Christian.

And likely, quite a few other things as well. But that's the beauty--and often the pitfall--of doing a long-running serialized drama that is based around numerous and deeply layered mysteries. Things can, and often have to, change.

Even with Lost.

See You in Another Life: Thoughts on The Series Finale of Lost

"No one can tell you why you're here."

I'm of two minds (and two hearts) about the two-and-a-half hour series finale of Lost ("The End"), written by Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse and directed by Jack Bender, which brought a finality to the story of the passengers of Oceanic Flight 815 and the characters with which we've spent six years.

At its heart, Lost has been about the two bookends of the human existence, birth and death, and the choices we make in between. Do we choose to live together or die alone? Can we let go of our past traumas to become better people? When we have nothing else left to give, can we make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good?

In that sense, the series finale of Lost brought to a close the stories of the crash survivors and those who joined them among the wreckage over the course of more than 100 days on the island (and their return), offering up a coda to their lives and their deaths, a sort of purgatory for found, rather than lost souls.

But it's that very ending that's dividing viewers. For some it was a somber and lyrical ending, but for others (myself including), I found it to be sentimental and cliched, as Lindelof and Cuse offered up the very plot contrivance that they fought so hard not to fall into in the island-set storyline.

My broad thoughts about the divisive nature of the ending can be read over here at The Daily Beast, but I also want to dive deeper into the specifics of "The End" and the symbolism of its ending as well.

So how did I feel about the series finale of Lost? Let's make our way to the church, open the coffin one last time, and discuss "The End."

I tried to lower my expectations when it came to Lost's series finale. I'd been burned somewhat by quite a few episodes this season and majorly by the two exposition dump episodes, "Ab Aeterno" and "Across the Sea," which seemed to point towards Lindelof and Cuse's way at the very tail end of Lost's journey to providing answers to the many swirling mysteries that have become intrinsically linked to Lost's narrative over six seasons.

Those episodes, particularly "Across the Sea," seemed to signify the answers that would be given here to the questions that Lindelof and Cuse thought were most vital: who were Jacob and the Man in Black? What was their relationship? What is the island and what is the duty of the protector? Just what is he protecting? How did the Nameless One become a murderous pillar of black smoke? We got answers to those questions but so many others fell by the wayside.

Cuse and Lindelof have been upfront about the fact that they wanted to answer the questions that were important to the Losties, not necessarily the audience. Why pregnant women were dying, who built the statue, what the Source really was, why Walt was "special," etc. weren't part of that equation.

I'm all right with that. I wasn't expecting Lost to tie up loose ends about these long-dangling plot threads or delve into an eleventh hour introduction of Alvar Hanso or the Dharma Initiative's status in the present day. I didn't go into "The End" expecting answers, really. Nor did I need them: Lost has chugged along for six years on the brainpower of its devoted viewers, for whom the mysteries have provided all manner of puzzle. Leaving these things ambiguous leaves the door open for further thought and analysis, for further conjecture and discussion. For all of the things that we who watch Lost have loved doing.

But what depressed me about the series finale was that it veered towards the Feel Good Ending as lovers reunited, mothers gave birth to sons, and friends hugged one another in a church that had a stained glass window decorated with symbols of many of the world's religions... before the crowd--which included most (but not all) of the many diverse characters that have been the focus of Lost over the years.

Many viewers have struggled this season with the late-to-the-game introduction of the Lost-X timeline, or the Sideways world, and how it connected to the narrative of the island and what was unfolding there. In the end, while what happened on the island had huge significance to what happened in that world, the reverse wasn't true. This world wasn't a world at all, nor a divergent timeline that explored what happened when the castaways didn't crash on the island. It wasn't a prism through which to explore their early days and what might have been.

It was, in the end, an epilogue of sorts. An epilogue of the most final kind. This world was a self-created purgatory for the passengers of Oceanic Flight 815 and their loved ones, a place were they could repeat old patterns (with one significant change) before being pulled together once again by bonds of fate.

Like Desmond, we were wrong about the nature of this place: it wasn't an alternative universe, it wasn't an earthly escape from the pain and loss that many of the castaways had suffered through, but a heavenly one. A celestial kingdom where the dead could finally let go of the issues that had plagued them in life and cast off those repeating patterns, finally accepting their death so they could move on to a true afterlife, joined by those they loved in life.

Which is fine on a thematic level, even if I didn't feel as though the Lost-X timeline had earned that ending. It was purgatory, after all, which Lindelof and Cuse had promised the island would never be and it felt like a cheap trick for that very reason. Yes, the series dealt with life and death in so many ways but the symbolism of those final scenes at the church just felt too easy and pat: after all of your struggles, your death isn't the end but the start of a party with all of your friends and family. It seemed to cast off much of the more challenging Dharma-oriented principles to offer up a glossy Judeo-Christian take on the afterlife.

Which, to me, might be the ending that people wanted but it wasn't what I needed. Yes, death is an inevitability for us all, even these characters, who all made their way here eventually and stood on yet another precipice. (Even Hurley and newly installed second-in-command Benjamin Linus, eventually freed from their duties at some point down the line, turned up here.)

To me, the end of Lost's narrative is the final scene of Jack in the bamboo grove, his story having come full-circle to the place where it began, a lone sneaker dangling solemnly from a bamboo tree, its laces now rotten and old where once they were new. Time might heal all wounds but it's also a killer. Laying down his burdens where the series began, Jack stares up at the sky to see the plane--carrying Kate, Sawyer, Claire, Lapidus, Richard, and Miles--arc overhead as Vincent the dog comes to lay down next to him. While the story began with Jack opening his eyes, here we finish that thought, seeing the good doctor, the all-too-brief champion of the island, close his eyes for the last time, leaving behind the metaphorical and literal wreckage as he himself soars through those blue skies.

Which isn't to say that the purgatory that the characters created didn't give us some powerfully evocative moments, because they did in "The End." The moments of joyous reconnection between the characters--between Sayid and Shannon, Charlie and Claire, Sun and Jin, and Sawyer and Juliet--were beautifully rendered both by the actors and the subtle score of composer Michael Giacchino. While the ending left me cold, it was these moments that stirred some genuine emotion within me.

Our many star-crossed lovers got their moment in the sun, a final reunion at which they communed with one another and their collective experiences, of lives lived and lost, of loves conquered and stolen all too soon. But the final ten minutes of "The End" took this thematic reunion to a new level that it needn't have gone, with Christian Shephard (whatever did happen to his body on the island, BTW?) spelling everything out to his son as Jack finally comes to realize what the others already have: that they're long dead.

The self-awareness glimpsed throughout this season--the cuts on Jack's neck, the sense of frisson from reflections in the looking glass--all point towards this conclusion in the end. They were coming to terms with their deaths just as the island provoked them to come to terms with their lives. However, while I think this works on a thematic level, I found the ending to be so heavy-handed, clunky and maudlin at the same time, that I couldn't give in to the post-life love fest going on in those final scenes.

Lost-X. My frustration with the series finale may have been the fact of how the Lost-X timeline--or lack thereof--was presented, introduced in the final season and glimmering with possibility of how it directly connected to the narrative we'd seen unfold over the five previous seasons, the island trapped at the bottom of the sea. By revealing it to have been ethereally connected, it removed much of the drama that had been contained in that storyline. What did it really matter if Jack had a child there or Kate proclaimed her innocence or Locke was confined in a wheelchair once more, if none of it was "real"?

They were variations on a theme rather than a full-blown narrative in their own right, offering a sucker punch of emotion that, while moving during the episode, felt entirely false after the fact.

What should we make of the fact that Walt doesn't appear at the church at the end? Or that Michael too isn't there? While we know that Michael's soul is trapped on the island, chained to the rock as one of the Greek chorus of whisperers damned to remain there, that's not true for Walt. We could argue that many of the others absent from that final scene--Faraday, Charlotte, Mr. Eko, Ana-Lucia, and others--weren't ready to let go and move on, still needing to work things out in this intermediate state before they could achieve a heavenly release. (That fact was stated by Hurley in "What They Died For," whose title makes more sense now.)

But what then of the fact that Eloise Hawking seems all too aware of what this place is? That she is somehow self-aware of the fiction of this world yet has been included in a perfect world created collectively by the will of the dead castaways? I understand why Eloise might want to cling to the son she killed in life, but why was she even a part of this landscape to begin with?

I can't quite wrap my head around that one, I'm afraid. For a purgatory that was created by a group of people who wanted to reconnect, they certainly brought in quite a few people who had made their lives miserable in the process and their travails in this purgatory brought them together with other people from their lives as well. What should we make of the fact that Sayid "ended up" not with his one true love, Nadia, but with Shannon? Hmmm...

Or that Jack isn't at all perturbed by the fact that his son doesn't really exist and is instead a fiction created by his own subconscious? It's fitting that the original skeptic is the last to come around to a belief in the profound and divine at the very end, and only when faced with proof of this existence: by coming face to face with his dead father. A father whose coffin is once again empty and devoid of a body. But here, the two finally get a chance to say their farewells and share their true feelings in a way that the messy chaos of life and death doesn't usually permit.

The Incident. The actions that Jack and the others took at the end of Season Five (in "The Incident"), detonating the hydrogen bomb at the future site of the Swan Station never resulted in a divergent reality at all. So what to make of Juliet's final conversation with Sawyer at the bottom of the shaft, the one where she whispers, "it worked" and seems to indicate that their actions did have their intended consequences? Well, her words were taken at face value then, the "worked" element of that statement taken to mean that reality had split and they had managed to ensure that they had never crashed on the island in the first place.

But not so. Jack and Juliet's actions didn't seem to do anything other than cause the very Incident that they were looking to avoid, an action that resulted in the creation of the Swan Station, a button that had to be pushed every 108 minutes, and at the end of that string of causality, the crash of Oceanic Flight 815. (And, yes, sent them back to the present day.)

So what was Juliet speaking about? Had she gained a multi-dimensional awareness, cognizant of the existence of another world? Not quite. She was dying in those final moments, oxygen already depleted from her brain, her synapses firing one last time before fading out. And in those moments, she connected to that place of purgatory, one where she was the ex-wife of Doctor Jack Shephard (I do feel vindicated by that fact) and where she crossed paths with a handsome cop named James Ford and helped him obtain a trapped Apollo bar from a vending machine in the hospital by telling him to turn off the machine and then turn it back on.

The candy bar does drop from its holder. "It worked," Juliet says as the power goes off.

Juliet's words in "LA X" then refer to this specific scene, to the first--and last--meeting of lovers Juliet and Sawyer, achieving the union they couldn't have in life.

The Cork in the Bottle. The Final Battle between Jack and the Nameless One began the moment they set foot in the bamboo grove, the very heart of the island, with Desmond Hume, each hoping to achieve something impossible: that the Nameless One would be able to destroy the island and send it plummeting to the bottom of the ocean and that Jack would be able to kill his adversary. In order to do so, they both needed the help of Desmond Hume, the time-tossed survivor who had a resistance to the island's electromagnetic energy as a result of his proximity to the Swan Station's fail-safe procedure. Des got lowered into the cave, over that precipice--in a scene that evoked the final shot of Season One as Jack and Locke gaze into the abyss--and found himself in yet another grand, man-made cavern that this time contained a literal cork in the bottle.

Believing that by removing the stone stopper he would allow the castaways to travel to the other side that he had glimpsed (which wasn't a divergent reality but a purgatory), Desmond entered the Source and pulled out the cork... resulting in the water draining right out and volcanic heat swelling through the cave as the island began to shake to its core.

Just what is this place? Who built it? What is its actual purpose? I'm glad that the finale didn't seek to answer these, instead leaving the mythology tantalizingly abstract. In the end, the specifics of this place or the nature of the island don't really matter. Like Oz or Narnia or any number of magical realms, there's an inexplicable and unknown quality to their very natures.

That's a wonderful thing.

I don't want everything spelled out for me. I'm quite content knowing what we know about the island (particularly as any further answers just start a new cycle of further questions) and I am happy with it remaining something unknowable and mysterious, something eternal and impossible.

Desmond. Just what was Des' purpose then? Widmore brought him back to the island because of his resistance to the electromagnetism that was the same energy as the Source itself. He was, as Jack put it, a weapon to be used by either side. While it seems as though Desmond's entire purpose is thwarted--his actions, too, don't lead to another reality--he does serve his purpose all the same.

He's the only one who can safely enter the Source without being altered by its powerful energy and the only one who can remove the cork from the bottle. Whether it will sink or swim all depends on what happens next: will the island plummet to the bottom of the ocean? Will someone make the ultimate sacrifice to recork the bottle and keep the island safe?

Desmond was a weapon in the end, a weapon for either side. But the ultimate outcome depended not on fate but free will. Could Jack end his own life in order to save the world? Yes, of course. He had made a solemn pledge to defend this place and protect the Source, which could go off and on. (Just like, as people, we can make good or bad choices and still correct ourselves before the end.)

As for who rescued him from the well, the answer was the appropriate one: Rose and Bernard (and Vincent!), who had long since withdrawn from the battles for the island, preferring to live out their final days away from the others in retirement. "We don't get involved," she tells Desmond. But they did get involved, of course, by saving Desmond's life. Desmond, however, repays the favor, forcing the Nameless One to leave Rose and Bernard alone and not harm them in any way, before he turns himself over to the Man in Black.

The Final Battle.Desmond's actions result in the island nearly ceasing to exist but they also lead to something else entirely: to the Nameless One regaining his humanity. Or at least his corporeal nature. His powers as the smoke monster were derived by the Source. Once its light flickered out, he was human once again. A final loophole that Jack took advantage of.

The showdown between Jack and the Nameless One on the cliff's edge was a thing of staggering beauty, a face-off composed not as a series of close-up shots at first but a long shot that framed the action as a diagonal, a literal image of the scales, long since tipped over to darkness. (Watch again: you'll Jack up in the top left corner and the Nameless one at the bottom right.)

It all comes down to these two men, a man of science who has become a man of faith and a greedy deity who has stolen the face of a man who was willing to die for what he believed in. Their struggle is bloody, brutal, and messy (as is life itself, really). Locke cuts Jack's neck (that unstoppable bleeding in the Lost-X timeline) and then stabs him in his side. It's a mortal wound and Jack really does die then. He just doesn't let go, not yet. It's ironic that the Nameless One's death--in the body of Locke--follows yet another pattern. Just as Anthony Cooper had pushed Locke from a great height, so too does Jack do the same to the man wearing his face, as the Nameless One plummets onto the rocks below, his neck broken, his legs dangling uselessly.

The Candidate. It was too easy that Jack would step up and elect himself as Jacob's replacement ("the obvious choice"), and I had a sinking feeling last week that his oversight of the island would be short-lived. The responsibility falls to the most selfless of them, the one who didn't want the position at all and therefore is most worthy of it: Hugo Reyes, whose time on the island has been characteristic of his altruistic nature. He's been marked for this role from the very early days: he had an advance knowledge of the numbers, managed to survive every scrape without dying (or even coming close), never fired a gun, and saw dead people. He was special in every sense of the word.

Ben offers up a fitting chalice here, a water bottle that works just fine, thank you very much, as Jack makes do with a very different kind of transference ritual. No words, no blessing, just the drinking of the water, and the words, "You're like me now." A message of collective identity, of shared experience, of belonging. The magic circle is complete once more, a new protector for a place that needs protection.

But being protector means making rules. And Hurley's rules don't need to be the same as Jack's or Jacob's. It's fitting that it's the newly redeemed Benjamin Linus who tells him this fact. He needn't rule in the way that Jacob ruled. Desmond can leave the island, he can make his own ways, create his own legacy. Desmond might, after all, be able to finally return home to his waiting Penelope after this long odyssey.

Jack. Jack, meanwhile, fulfills his destiny: he makes a leap of faith into the unknown, recorking the bottle and saving the island from catastrophe. I thought his laughter and solemn joy at the bottom of the cave was a beautiful note to end the Final Battle on as the light of the Source reignites once more, before Jack finds himself at the bottom of the cave's output, the same place where Jacob stumbled onto his brother's body.

But Jack hasn't been transformed by the Source (I'd wager it's because he was already dead when we entered there and his motives were pure) and he instead makes his way back to the very beginning, where this story started, taking us with him one last time into the unknown.

Fly Away Home. I'm more than happy that I was wrong about the final fates of Richard Alpert and Frank Lapidus, both of whom survived their fates in "What They Died For" and "The Candidate" respectively. Lapidus managed to survive the sinking of the submarine and was reunited with the others so that he could fulfill his purpose: flying them off the island and back to the mainland. ("I am a pilot," Frank says with a hint of frustration.)

There was a beauty and triumph to seeing a plane take off from the island, defying the odds, rather than crashing to the rocks, the motley crew of final survivors safely heading away from this place of mystery back to the "real" world, their lives there lost to the mists of time. (Or a fitting choice by Cuse and Lindelof to leave things with Jack at the very end.)

That the plane was flown by the man who was originally meant to pilot Oceanic Flight 815 is no mere coincidence either. Frank Lapidus finally fulfills his purpose, the plane at the ready, soaring majestically overhead as Jack closes his eyes one last time.

Aboard that plane, those who are leaving are heading home, back to a world that they thought was long forgotten. Even Claire, who was so terrified of being a mother, of Aaron seeing her the way she was, that she was willing to remain behind. But she wasn't alone in the end. She might be meant to raise Aaron alone according to some prophecy but she isn't alone at all: Kate is by her side, squeezing her hand. The two mothers, united finally in space and spirit, setting out to raise their shared child together.

"There are no shortcuts, no do-overs," says Jack. "All of this matters."

And it does in the end. The journeys that these characters made over the last six seasons have led them in the end to this place. Which is why what followed left me so cold. I would have loved Lost to have ended on this note, with Jack's sacrifice and the departure of those he loved, those whose lives hadn't been lost and could therefore go on.

I didn't hate the Lost series finale, but I didn't love it either.

However, I did love every moment within the two-and-a-half-hours that was set on the island with the characters we knew and loved by taking it--and the Lost-X storyline to such a sentimental place, to an afterlife of rewards and happiness didn't make me feel good in the end. It made me feel sad that something Lindelof and Cuse clearly intended to be lyrical and magical felt to me instead like it had fallen to earth with a deafening thud.

If Lost has been about mysteries, it's been mostly about the mysteries of human existence rather than mythology. And some mysteries are better left unknown and unsolved. For a series that dealt so lovingly with multiple philosophies and beliefs, with the breadth and scope of literature and the nature of story, to come down to a singularly Judeo-Christian view of the afterlife (despite, yes, the ham-fisted presence of those symbols in the stained glass) felt like a bit of an easy way out to me, a reductive explanation of Season Six and an opportunity to give these characters a happy ending in death that they didn't have in life.

But that's not realistic when viewing the complicated messiness of life. Sometimes endings are happy but often they're just endings.

I'm curious about how you felt about the series finale and the sixth season as a whole. Did the ending make the flash-sideways (or, as I dubbed it early this season, the Lost-X timeline) work for you? Do you feel that the destination was worth the journey? Are you happy with the way the series came together at the end? Surprised? Sad? Feeling cheated? Melancholy? Was your mind blown?

I want to hear about your own thoughts to the very end of Lost and how you felt Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse managed to pull it together at the end of the road. Head to the comments section to discuss, analyze, and debate the very last episode of Lost. Ever.

See you in another life, brutha.

The Daily Beast: "The Infuriating Lost Finale"

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my broad thoughts about the divisive series finale of Lost ("The End") before I post my detailed thoughts here.

Head over to The Daily Beast, to read my piece, "The Infuriating Lost Finale," where I talk about my issues with the narrative and thematic conclusion of the series after six years.

Do you agree? Disagree? Head to the comments section to discuss your take on Lost and "The End." (And the end.)

Dreams End: Heaven's High on the Series Finale of Ashes to Ashes

"A word in your shell-like, pal."

With those final words, BBC One's extraordinary drama series Ashes to Ashes faded into the ether, offering a stunning series finale that was equal parts mythology and mystery, grounded in an emotional context for each of the characters that had me shamelessly weeping on the sofa by the end.

For those of us who have been following the struggles of many of these characters since they first appeared on the scene in Ashes's predecessor, Life on Mars, anticipation was running high that the end to the series would not only provide some vital answers to come of the central mysteries of these two series--such as the identity of Gene Hunt and the nature of this world--but also provide a sense of closure that befitted the legacy of Life on Mars and offered a catharsis of sorts to the viewers.

It managed to accomplish just that and so much more, offering a series finale that I loved every second of and never wanted to end.

Throughout its remarkable third season run, Matthew Graham and Ashley Pharoah's Ashes to Ashes delivered a jaw-dropping parable about good and evil, light and darkness, all enacted against a 1980s backdrop that swirled with menace, the color red, and so many shattered dreams. At its very center lay the man himself, Gene Hunt (Philip Glenister), an anachronistic copper with a penchant for violence, misogyny, and a good boozer.

In the talented hands of Graham, Pharoah, and Glenister, Gene Hunt became one of the most memorable characters in any fictional medium, a maverick that you couldn't help but fall in love with, from his trademark snakeskin boots and love for flashy rides to his gruff exterior and intrinsic need to exert order over his little kingdom, Fenchurch East.

In a single hour, writer Matthew Graham managed to tie up five seasons worth of storylines and give us the important answers about just what has been going on in this impossible world, a place that has been at the forefront of both Ashes and Life on Mars and which holds the key to unlocking the series' mysterious truth.

Warning: spoilers abound for US viewers who haven't seen Season Two or Season Three of Ashes to Ashes.

I'm still trying to process many of my thoughts and reactions to the series finale of Ashes to Ashes, a beautiful and transcendent episode that revealed the truth about Gene Hunt and the world in which these characters inhabit, the identity of Officer 6620, and the status of Alex Drake (Keeley Hawes) in the so-called "real" world. And indeed, we were given answers to all of these questions and more, a stunning hour of television that challenged us to see what has been staring us in the face all season.

In covering the third season of Ashes to Ashes, I've been making my own conjectures about the series: I believed that Officer 6620 was a dead Gene Hunt, that each of the characters were dead and given an opportunity to process the traumas that occurred to them in order to let go, and that Jim Keats (the superb Daniel Mays) was the evil incarnate. (Several of details about the final episode appeared in my write-up of episode 307.)

I wasn't disappointed at all to learn that many of my theories were in line with what Graham and Pharoah were planning since the start of the season. The clues have been masterfully planted, from the recurring image of the screwdriver surrounding Shaz (Montserrat Lombard, showing off some dazzling acting chops here) and the presence of the stars in the sky.

Alex uncovers Gene's identity by heading to the house from her vision and the photograph she recovered from Gene's desk drawer: a farmhouse in Lancashire with that creepy weathervane, a crone pointing West. (Which I still maintain is one of many Oz references that are woven through the series.) Under the watchful eye of a scarecrow (whose jacket has the Officer 6620 epaulet pin), Alex uncovers a grave even as Gene orders her at gunpoint to stop digging. But she doesn't, even as Gene remains frozen and motionless, uncovering a skeleton and an old warrant card. A warrant card for Officer 6620: Gene Hunt himself.

While many of us came to this conclusion some time ago, it was a staggering scene nonetheless as Gene was forced to contend with proof of his own gruesome death, murdered at a young age in the nearby farmhouse, still decorated for a royal coronation long past.

This world that each of them--Alex, Shaz, Ray (Dean Andrews), and Chris (Marshall Lancaster)--inhabits is a purgatory of sorts, a place where dead (or nearly dead) coppers can access or are sent in order to decide their ultimate fates. Can they achieve the resolution and catharsis that was denied to them in life or will they linger forever, never quite reaching the afterlife?

Fenchurch East Police Station isn't a "real" police station, it's a fantasy concocted by the long dead Gene Hunt, a slice of purgatory carved out as a mythical fiefdom, a fact that Jim Keats is only all too willing to reveal to them, ripping off the ceiling of CID to reveal the stars in the sky, the celestial kingdom looming overhead. Will they choose heaven or hell? Will they move on or cling to old patterns?

Gene Hunt is meant to be helping them on their way, guiding them to an eventual salvation at the end of the road, a communion with the heavens that is embodied in the Railway Arms, the Manchester pub from Life on Mars, the last boozer after the final case, the ultimate reward of a life lived. But Gene is a lonely soul, himself a dead young copper living in this place for far too long. It's clear that he loves his team. Too much in fact as he can't let go of them either, keeping each of them close to him for far too long.

Both Sam and Alex weren't dead when they arrived in this place. Each of them was clinging to life in their own way, desperate to return home, and therefore their minds rebelled against the world, seeing it for what it truly was, a place where their subconscious dragged up images, traumas, and puzzles for them to process. They weren't ready to follow Gene to the pub at the end of the road. Not yet, anyway.

Because they were clinging to life, they were still able to access their memories of their lives but even those faded over time. Alex began unable to remember Molly precisely and Gene himself had all but forgotten his true nature. But Alex and Sam, due to hovering between life and death, were still able to connect to their previous lives, still able to remember their identities and what had happened to them. (Keats even tells Alex this, saying that she and Sam are different than the others: "You both challenge this world that Gene's carefully built for himself. You're dangerous to him.")

Let's not forget that Sam chose to return to this world. Unlike Alex, he recovered from his coma and returned to life but chose to reembark on a path that brought him back here, to a place where good coppers chased bad guys and turned up for a boozer at the end of the day, where childhood memories mixed with filmic and television representations of fictional cops.

Gene Hunt didn't see himself as a skinny kid in a uniform. He saw himself as Gary Cooper in High Noon, a strong, gruff lawman who is unlike him in every way. Building a world around him that was based on this representation, Gene surrounded himself with the good cops who died and were unable to move on, building a team that gave him strength even as he forgot why he was there or who he really was. That's the problem with pretending: after a while, fantasy can become reality.

But it all has to end sometime. When Sam died at the end of Life on Mars, he returned to this world and lived there for years with Annie. But he wanted to move on and he asked Gene to help him, which he did. And which is why he disappeared without a trace. He was finally ready to let go and Gene allowed him to finally head to the afterlife. Likewise, the same held true for Alex, Shaz, Ray, and Chris.

Alex died from Layton's gunshot after clinging to life for the first two seasons of Ashes, dying at 9:06 am in a hospital in London, listening to the news that a body had been found in a shallow grave in Lancashire. Shaz died after attempting to stop a car thief--who had been jimmying open a door with a screwdriver--after he stabbed her in the gut with the tool. (It's worth noting that the courageous Shaz herself died in 1995, as evidenced by the fact that the first piece of modern music--Oasis' "Wonderwall," released that same year--played over her death scene. It also explains her modern thinking: she came from a different time period than Chris and Ray.) Ray, depressed over beating a young man to death--covered up by his DCI--and unable to deal with his grief, hanged himself in his flat. (Ray, heartless though he seemed throughout LOM and Ashes, actually felt too much, both grief and shame at disappointing his father.) Chris, a uniform officer, follows his superior's orders and is shot to death. (He knows better but is unable to stand up for himself, whereas he finally stands up to Gene in episode 307, finally earning his brains.)

I don't want to think of this world as a strict purgatory in the traditional sense of the word. This isn't some limbo for lost souls, but rather a magical place in line with the kingdoms of Oz and Narnia, a place that's perhaps more real than reality, granting the users the ability to deal with their mortal traumas, the formative moments that shaped them as individuals and set up their characters.

For Sam, that was 1973, the year his father murdered a woman in red (Annie) and took off into the wind. (It also explains, with no uncertainty, that copper Annie was also dead in the real world, which fits with the resolution here.) For Alex, that was 1981, when her parents were killed in front of her as a child. Both formative moments in their psychology, which is why their subconscious latched onto these particular time periods. In attempting to understand the very moments that shaped them, they are given the opportunity to reevaluate themselves, to come to know themselves inside and out, and to finally process their pain and release it.

I thought it was interesting that Shaz, in the seventh episode, threw out a line about it being 1953 in Ray and Chris' heads, and wondered if that was the year that Gene Hunt died. It was, as we learned this week, as he was a young copper murdered on the day of Queen Elizabeth's coronation, his body buried in a shallow grave in Lancashire. Since that time, he's been helping cops achieve heavenly release, pushing them on their way in his capacity as a hard-talking angel of sorts.

His polar opposite, Jim Keats, serves an inimical purpose, ferrying souls to Hell in an elevator that goes down to the basement level, making false promises and attempting to lure Ray, Chris, and Shaz to his division. Alex figures out early in the episode that Keats isn't Discipline and Complaints but something else altogether, even if she can't quite put her finger on what it is. But Keats isn't taking no for an answer. He pushes the trio to become self-aware once more, forcing them to come to terms with the nature of their deaths, giving each of them marked video cassettes that contain footage of the way they each died (as I theorized last week), each trapped in an act of violence that marked them forever.

Would they go with the guv? Or choose the seductive lures of Keats? They'd come face to face with proof of their deaths but the choice was in their hands. Would it be up or down? And would Alex stand at Gene's side or help Keats destroy this world after learning that Gene had the power to send her home whenever he wanted?

While Keats offers pleasures of the flesh, Gene offers the team something else: to achieve the things they never could in life: Shaz gets her promotion to DC, Ray receives the praise he always needed, Chris becomes his own man. Keats might offer what they want, but Gene offers what they need.

Keats is all too willing to take whatever souls he can get his hands on, taking them through the fire exit to an elevator bank where they await the path down to the fiery pit below, which is where poor Louise Gardner and Viv end up. It's even more depressing, given Chris' ominous dream of Viv among the fire.

Elsewhere, however, there's an alternative. The Railway Arms, Gene's favorite pub in Manchester, which has now magically been "shifted" across the landscape to London. Chris picked up on barman Nelson's voice in last week's episode as "Life on Mars" played in the background. It's here that our group, after stopping the diamond thieves and saying goodbye to the series' trademark Quattro, find themselves. It's the end point to the world, where a soft white light filters outwards, bringing with it the sounds of happy voices and David Bowie singing "Life on Mars." This is the end of the line, the point at which they can leave this world and travel on to the afterlife. Nelson himself stands at the door, St. Peter at the gates of heaven, ready to admit them to Paradise.

It's been Gene's job to eventually guide them here, to take them to the pub after the case is closed, the bad guys caught, evil vanquished. (Or as he puts it, "sorting out the troubled souls of Her Majesty's constabulary.") But there's one last showdown between Gene and Keats as he once again attempts to get Alex to cross over to his side. But Gene is stronger here than in their last encounter at Fenchurch East (where Keats is able to reveal the stars in the sky and display Gene's true form) and he knocks Keats for a loop.

Chris and Shaz finally reunite, Ray shakes Gene's hand, and then all of them enter The Railway Arms, their deserved final destination. Only Alex remains, Alex who wants to stay with Gene in this world, to continue to challenge and provoke him, to force him to be better. But she can't stay and neither can Gene leave. Both have the paths they must walk and they can't walk them together.

Kudos go to Daniel Mays for making Jim Keats such a spectacular character and for delivering a nuanced and brave performance this week as Keats' true colors began to emerge over the course of the hour, a terrifying shape of evil that, while broken and battered at the end, still was able to cackle malevolently and promise Gene that he would be seeing him again.

Likewise, I also want to praise Lombard, Marshall, and Andrews for stunning performances over the course of the series and especially with this final installment. Shaz's horror, Ray's stoicism, Chris' attempt to prevent Shaz from pain, all cut me like a knife. (Lombard in particular deserves praise for her shocking breakdown after seeing herself die in 1995, which made the hair on my arms stand straight up.)

The final scene between Alex and Gene finally gave them their moment under the stars, a true kiss that signified the end of their relationship and their time together. I've loved Hawes and Glenister together and after their near-consummation in Episode 307, I thought that this was a brilliant way to end their interactions, a soft kiss, laden with passion and love, as Gene finally sent Alex on her way to the afterlife. (Hawes' performance absolutely breaks my heart here.) It's with some regret that Alex finally steps into the light, leaving Gene alone once again. But not for long.

As he peruses a crimson Mercedes Benz 190D catalogue, Gene gets a new visitor: a traveler from 2010 who turns up at Fenchurch East looking for his office and his iPhone. A new companion for Gene, someone who can help him gather together his troops and send them on their way. The magic circle has opened once more for a new figure. (I do wish, however, that this new copper had been a "name" actor, offering us a cameo appearance at the very end, a way of continuing the story in our imaginations.) "A word in your shell-like, pal," he says in pitch-perfect Gene Hunt. And the cycle begins anew as Gene repeats the very words he said to Sam Tyler at the start of Life on Mars.

At the end, Gene is always there, the immortal guardian of this kingdom, an Oz for dead coppers, always watching and waiting. Just like George Dixon of Dixon of Dock Green from the footage at the very end of the episode. It might be the end but these characters endure forever, caught on the television screen, watching over us just as we watch over them. The police light remains on, a beacon in the darkness to all in need of salvation.

I'm going to miss Ashes to Ashes terribly, as well as the remarkable characters whose lives--and deaths--we've followed these past few years. Matthew Graham and Ashley Pharoah have created a remarkable piece of television that transcends the medium, delivering a powerful parable of life and death in two series that bookend the human experience: the turbulent joyfulness of life (Life on Mars) and the release of death (Ashes to Ashes). I'd like to thank them and the many writers, directors, and actors from the bottom of my heart for five extraordinary seasons of a genre-busting series that is unlike anything else on television.

All that's left to say is to fire up the Quattro and see you at The Railway Arms. Be seeing you, guv.

What did you think of the series finale of Ashes to Ashes? Were you satisfied by the resolution to Alex's story? The identities of Gene Hunt and Jim Keats? And the truth about Chris, Ray, and Shaz? How much will you miss Ashes to Ashes? Head to the comments section to discuss.

Gather Up the Dolls: The End of FOX's "Dollhouse"

I've had a very complicated relationship with Joss Whedon's Dollhouse, the metaphysical action series that wraps up its troubled run tonight on FOX with "Epitaph Two: The Return."

While I felt that there were moments of genius among the forced procedural element, the convoluted storylines, and gaping plot holes, Dollhouse often just left me pounding my head against the wall in frustration at times.

I never felt like Eliza Dushku's Echo became a gripping enough central character to anchor the series, which was always much more interesting when the focus shifted to that of Dollhouse's supporting players like Dichen Lachman, Enver Gjokaj, Olivia Williams, or Fran Kranz. (The latter of which grew on me exponentially as the series wore on.) But rather than shift into a full-blown ensemble, the action continually circled back to Dushku's Echo and Tahmoh Penikett's Paul Ballard, easily the two least interesting of the bunch. (Lachman's Priya/Sierra and Gjokaj's Anthony/Victor remain easy favorites.)

Additionally, while I thought that the early second season storyline involving Amy Acker's Whiskey was profoundly moving, it was quickly undone by the eleventh hour reveals of the last few weeks, which turned Dollhouse's compelling post-apocalyptic storyline (begun in last season's unaired and fantastic thirteen episode, "Epitaph One") into a bit of a mess.

Dollhouse has always been creatively uneven: the serialized aspect of the series has always tended to take a backseat to the procedural in both seasons and when the overarching plot has come into play, the results have been less than stellar. Season One's Alpha plot, which had such promise, degraded into a hodgepodge of soap operatics, truncated subplots, and metaphorical mustache-twirling. (It also revealed a shocking lack of security at the Dollhouse, a plot hole that has been used about a dozen or so times over the last two seasons as dolls, prisoners, and clients seemingly can wander in or out of the premises at will.)

The coming apocalypse gave Season One's "Epitaph One" such promise and emotional resonance; the Active technology, used for nefarious purposes via the doll's engagement, took on a portent of doom as it was the advancement of this tech that seemingly brought about the end of civilization. But some truly odd plot twists that come off as glaring retcons--such as the reveal that Harry Lennix's Boyd was in fact one of the founders of Rossum Corporation and that he'd kept the LA Dollhouse employees alive because he "loved" them--remove any sense of strong throughline here. To use one of the complaints of Lost-phobes, it seems like they are making it up as they go along.

Dollhouse will end tonight and that ending will be the ending of this narrative. It's highly unlikely that there will be any spinoff feature films, comics, or tie-in novels. And I'm glad about that. Not every one of Whedon's series can click with a huge audience nor can it find the same sort of obsessive adoration and respect that even the short-lived Firefly engendered.

I've stuck with Dollhouse against my better judgment at times; sometimes I was rewarded (the gripping Priya arc and Summer Glau's appearances as Bennett) and other times I wasn't (the lactating episode). I can't fault Whedon for trying something different and creating a series that asked some deep and dark questions about the nature of identity and reality.

But, ultimately, Dollhouse was a television series that no one--not Whedon, not FOX, not the series' writing staff--seemed to be on the same page about; it was as though everyone's agendas were at odds with one another and that was felt and seen on the screen each week. I'm hoping that Whedon lands somewhere more suited to his talents (FX, anyone?) and that his creative instincts and vision gel better with those of a future network.

In the meantime, I am more than ready to say goodbye to Dollhouse. Here's to hoping that some of the series' stand-out talents land on their feet after tonight's final future-set showdown.

The series finale of Dollhouse airs tonight at 8 pm ET/PT on FOX.

Emotionally Invested Detectives: One Last Look at ABC's "The Unusuals"

I'm really going to miss The Unusuals.

Given that the series ended last Wednesday evening without much fanfare, you might be wondering why I'm bringing this up now. I was on vacation so have only just gotten the chance to watch the final installment of ABC's tragically underrated cop drama The Unusuals ("EID"), written by Danny Zuker, and was not only impressed by the way it seemed to effortlessly fuse serious character beats, zany cases (this week's involved a serial accuser and break-and-enter gonzo porn), and off-kilter humor.

Throughout its (far too) short run, The Unusuals--created by Noah Hawley (Bones)--has always played by its own rules. Much like the dynamo partnership of Casey Shraeger (Amber Tamblyn) and Jason Walsh (Jeremy Renner), one of the best mismatched cop partners on television. Ever. Her wounded rich girl shtick was diametrically opposed to his low-key salt of the earth approach but they found a supportive (and, indeed at times, nurturing) partnership that played to both their strengths. Both came from unexpected backgrounds: Shraeger from one of Manhattan's wealthiest families; Walsh from professional baseball. They were outsiders in a profession that many today still regard as little more than trash collectors, public servants who round up the city's detritus and send it away from delicate eyes.

But The Unusuals didn't stop there. No, it also provided us with two other remarkable partnerships of opposites: that between Eric Delahoy (Adam Goldberg) and Leo Banks (Harold Perrineau) and Alison Beaumont (Monique Gabriela Curnen) and Henry Cole (Josh Close). While brain tumor-afflicted Delahoy seemingly couldn't die (even after several scenarios that should have resulted in his death), Banks is obsessed with his own mortality at the age of 42, wearing bulletproof vests, buying inflatable furniture, and investing in a lifetime supply of hand sanitizer. Cole concealed a misspent youth that was at odds with his deeply religious views, which themselves were a source of humor for his street-savvy partner.

And that's to say nothing of the hugely ambitious precinct pariah Eddie Alvarez (Kai Lennox), who sadly didn't even appear in this week's series ender. Nor did Terry Kinney's space-obsessed Sgt. Harvey Brown, for that matter. Their absence from this nearly flawless installment depressed me even further as the episode didn't function as a season (or series) closer in any way, especially as some of our main characters weren't even along for the ride.

Still "EID" let The Unusuals go out on a high note. While Cole and Beaumont had to go undercover as a couple in therapy (complete with an embarrassing and awkward session where they had to hold each other in silence for fifteen minutes) and Delahoy and Banks had to wade through a stack of pornos (in order to identify apartments which the "Bagman" had broken into), Shraeger became the titular emotionally invested detective.

Investigating the strange accusations made by Abigail Allen (Fringe's Betty Gilpin) a.k.a. Margot Stanford, a mentally unstable woman who changed her identity years before, Shraeger uncovers a long buried secret from the woman's past: an unsolved abduction and beating that left her in a coma for ten days when she was sixteen. It's a case that forces Shraeger to come to grips with her own privileged youth as an unwitting member of New York City society and the fact that she moved in the same circles as both Margot and her attackers.

The scene in which Shraeger finally gets one of the perps to confess to the decade-old crime was a thing of beauty and showcased Tamblyn's rough-and-ready charms in this role: confident, strong, and canny, she fully embodies the reality of this role. And the solemnity of the final scene, in which she tells Abigail/Margot that her attackers have been caught--only to receive little more than a blank stare from the intensely in-denial Abigail--and then sits beside her on the couch and allows Abigail to put her head on her shoulder was a masterclass in nuance and emotional depth.

I do wish that we could have gotten to the bottom of Delahoy's condition. After getting medical examiner Dr. Monica Crumb (Susan Parke) fired from her job for illegally using the hospital's MRI machine, Delahoy learns that he does have a mass in his brain that is likely causing the bizarre symptoms he's experiencing (not least of which is smelling horses everywhere). Delahoy's storyline has been an intriguing element of the series since the pilot episode. Yes, the seemingly supernatural elements fell by the wayside along since that first installment (remember the angelic hail of buckshot?) but his battle with mortality--and accepting his possibly fatal condition--have been one of the series' most compelling backbones, especially when juxtaposed with Banks' irrational fear of dying. I'm sad that we won't get to see what happens to both of them next, just as Delahoy finally comes to grips with the severity of his condition and gets brutally shafted by one-time lover Monica.

And, really, that need to know what would happen next applies to all of the members of the second precinct, from Delahoy and Banks to Shraeger and Walsh and all of the other members of this colorful and well-drawn cast of characters. I'm beyond crushed that this intelligent and riveting series isn't continuing next season. After just ten episodes, I feel an intense camaraderie with this motley crew, from their choice of after-hours hangout (a Chinese restaurant where the oysters are not recommended) to their ongoing squabbles (just look at Banks and Delahoy's old married couple routine). We saw them on the clock, off duty, on dates, and getting shot at. But the action never took a turn for the obvious, soapy angle and it never lost the sense of humor that made it such a fun hour of television.

Yes, I suppose you could say that I was emotionally invested in these characters. Do we, like Walsh tells Shraeger, get one of these a year, a series that we find ourselves sucked into despite wanting to remain aloof viewers? If so, The Unusuals was mine, a series that proved itself too different, too smart, too unconventional for network television.

Ultimately, The Unusuals was unlike any other police drama on television, a quirky and entertaining dramedy that didn't take itself too seriously but instead used its innate humor to conceal a beating heart underneath the uniform. That, in and of itself, is, well, unusual. It will be severely missed.

The Ending is the Beginning: A Night of 1000 Bubbles (and Tears) on the Series Finale of "Pushing Daisies"

In the topsy-turvy world of Bryan Fuller's candy-colored Pushing Daisies, death isn't always the ending but quite often the beginning.

This weekend's series finale of Pushing Daisies ("Kerplunk"), which sadly went off the air without much in the way of fanfare after being delayed six months and unceremoniously dumped on Saturday evenings, followed through on this underlying thread, which had deliciously wriggled its way through the entire series.

After all, it's a series that began with the resurrection of a beloved dog by a grief-stricken young boy who soon learns that he has the power to bring the dead back to life with a touch. But it's an ability that has deadly consequences for those around him, even if he uses his powers to solve murders and avenge the dead.

The death of lonely tourist Charlotte Charles has lasting repercussions, particularly to her aunts Lily and Vivian (or, I should say, her mother and her aunt), who have become withdrawn recluses following Chuck's death, removing themselves even more from the world that once adored them as the Darling Mermaid Darlings. On the eve of their return to fame and fortune with the Aquacade, long-buried secrets have a nasty way of rearing their ugly heads, but so do second chances.

And really, that's what Pushing Daisies is all about in the end: second chances.

I had the opportunity to watch the final three installments of Pushing Daisies back in April (and wrote about my experiences watching these incredible episodes here) but, now that the final episode has aired, I'm curious to know what you thought of the series' send-off as it heads to the big piehole in the sky.

Pushing Daisies clearly meant to go out with a bang rather than a whimper and one need only look at the slew of guest stars assembled for the final installment to see how the series retained its unique quirkiness right up until the end. What other series could boast a single episode featuring Wendie Malick, Nora Dunn, Wilson Cruz, Michael McDonald, Joey Slotnick, and Josh Hopkins at a traveling sea show? (My answer: none.)

While "Kerplunk," written by Gretchen Berg and Aaron Harberts and directed by Lawrence Trilling, was clearly not meant to be the series' ultimate episode, I thought that creator Bryan Fuller and Company did a good job of quickly wrapping up many of the storylines. The swooping CGI-laden camerawork as we soar over the familiar landmarks of the already-missed Papen County was a delightful and bittersweet way to end the series, by backtracking through the entire series' many stops along the way, an aerial trip down memory lane that culminates in a final image of Digby running through the fields of daisies, heading inexorably towards his death... and his life.

Elsewhere, Vivian finally learns that her fiance Charles Charles had cheated not with some unnamed woman but with her sister Lily and that Lily had secretly given birth to a baby girl and concealed her pregnancy and Charlotte's true parentage all these years. And, while I assume that had the series continued Vivian would have kicked Lily out of the house they've shared all of these years, their row is interrupted by Ned and Chuck at their front door. And Chuck finally gets to tell her aunts that she is in fact miraculously alive. I can't help but wonder what their reactions would have been to seeing the once-dead Charlotte alive again (or how Ned would have explained that without exposing his ability) and I can only hope that the adventures of this diverse band of eccentrics does get to continue on in comic form.

Meanwhile, the publication of Emerson's book, "Lil Gumshoe," has the intended result: it manages to bring him together with his missing daughter Penny, who uses the pop-up book to track down her detective father. Again, while we don't get to see the reunion between the two (we hear Penny knock at the door and say she's looking for Emerson Cod), it leaves things open enough to continue in another medium.

And lovelorn Olive Snook finally finds love with the loopy Randy Mann, allowing herself to keep her heart open even after it got broken (over and over again) by her unrequited love for the Pie Maker. I loved that this unlikely duo would open up The Intrepid Cow, a cow-shaped restaurant focusing on macaroni and cheese. (And that said macaroni would be Lil' Ivey brand, a clever shout-out to Fuller's own short-lived FOX series Wonderfalls, where the cocktail bunny spoke to Jaye.)

Was it a perfect ending? Definitely not but it was bittersweet, featured the dulcet tones of unseen narrator Jim Dale, tied up some of the series' dangling plotlines and made me tear up all over again.

Ultimately, I'm going to miss Pushing Daisies, which remains one of the most unique, inventive, and original series ever to air on US television, and most of all, it's compellingly quirky and lovable band of characters. To Ned, Chuck, Emerson, Olive, Lily, and Vivian: I'll see you on the other side.

What did you think of the series finale? Was it everything you hoped for? Did you tear up or sob? And is this the end for the forensic fairy tale? Talk back here.

Evicted: Bret and Jemaine Sing, Herd Sheep on the Series Finale of "Flight of the Conchords"

Was anyone else let down by the series finale of HBO's Flight of the Conchords?

Last night's episode of Flight of the Conchords ("Evicted") marked what is likely to be the series' last installment as Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie have publicly indicated that it's unlikely that they'll return for a third season.

In the episode, Bret and Jemaine discovered that, unless they were able to raise roughly $7000 (in US currency, that is) within a month, they would be evicted from their apartment. Unable to do so, they end up moving in with Mel and Doug and launching a bid at Broadway stardom by putting on a play written by Murray about their lives (with a little Star Wars thrown in). Inevitably, however, the play's themes about illegal immigrants attract the attention of the INS and the duo are deported to New Zealand, where they return to their previous lives as shepherds.

I wasn't terribly impressed with this installment and it felt almost haphazardly thrown together, as though the writers didn't quite know how to wrap up the series or had completely run out of steam at this point. I loved the percussion opening and Mel and Doug... and that was about it.

Full disclosure time: I was one of the Conchords' early adopters. I heard them live in Los Angeles in 2006 and was a fan of their BBC Radio series and I was completely captivated with the series' first season when it aired in 2007. The second season, which wrapped last night, seemed to lack the sort of spark and verve that was completely felt in every single installment of Season One. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike in the first season, the scripts were written first and then the music tailored to the episodes rather than vice-versa.

Which isn't to say that Season Two of Flight of the Conchords didn't have some memorable moments, because it did: Jemaine becoming a prostitute, Bret forming a gang and embarking on a West Side Story-influenced dance-off, the gorgeous Michel Gondry-directed installment, the fantastic 1980s synth pop of "Fashion is Danger" and the hilarious "Sugalumps." There were some stand-out episodes among Season Two's ten-episode run, but sadly the season finale wasn't one of them.

Which is a shame as "Evicted" seems perfectly set up to be a truly memorable episode. The subplot that had Bret and Jemaine move in with Mel and Doug only to have the couple separate and divide up the band, with one of the boys staying with one of them should have been a bigger part of the episode rather than just a five-minute aside. Instead, the focus was mainly on the meta-theatrical play-within-the-show about Bret and Jemaine's life... which really wasn't all that funny and went on for way too long.

Adding to this head-scratcher of an episode was the fact that the last full-length song the guys perform on screen was the surreal and bizarre "Petrov, Yelyena, and Me," which recounts Bret's dream of being stuck in a liferaft with Russian versions of Mel and Doug as they chop off his body parts and feast on them before he doses himself with arsenic and kills his attackers. Not exactly reaching the same sort of memorable replay value as say "Sugalumps" or "Fashion is Danger"... or any of the first season songs.

Ultimately, "Evicted" lacked the off-kilter humor, hook-filled musical numbers, and character-based banter that have defined Flight of the Conchords since the beginning. And it left me feeling more than a little nostalgic for those early days when the episodes were overflowing with laugh-out-loud moments and clever repartee than about meta-theatrical plays and deportation. Personally, I think I want to remember Flight of the Conchords in that context rather than continue to think about last night's subpar series finale.

But I am curious to know: what did you think of last night's episode? Was it a fitting send-off for the guys and the series? Or did it leave you disappointed? Discuss.

Deus Ex Machina: The Divine, The Infernal, and The Mundane on the Series Finale of "Battlestar Galactica"

I went into the series finale of Battlestar Galactica with more than a little trepidation.

Would Ronald D. Moore and David Eick be able to wrap up all of the loose threads in this five-year-long tapestry of a narrative in roughly two hours? And, more importantly, would it be a satisfying swan song for the series itself, which has attracted millions of devoted followers who have theorized, discussed, and dissected every moment leading up to this ending?

I did expect Moore and Eick to deliberately leave some things open to interpretation and discussion with the series finale of Battlestar Galactica ("Daybreak, Part Two") but, while I enjoyed watching the final moments of this intelligent and provocative series, there were a few things that got under my skin.

So put on your Viper suit for the last time, unplug the toaster, prepare for some spoilers (if you haven't yet seen the series finale) and let's discuss the Battlestar Galactica series finale.

Most of all, I had feared that the series ender wouldn't tie up Kara Thrace's story neatly. After all, Katee Sackhoff herself has said publicly that she isn't sure she's happy with the way that Starbuck's journey ended. ("I don't know yet. I'm still wrestling with it. There's certain aspects of the character that had tremendous closure, and then there's certain aspects that are completely wide open. I'll leave it to the fans. I'll keep my opinion to myself right now.") And I have to agree with her: I wanted a more satisfying sense of closure for her character than to just disappear in a field after standing next to Lee. We're left with the notion that Kara was tied into something divine and ancient, that her purpose was fulfilled by bringing the survivors of the human race to the (new) Earth. And that having completed her mission, she vanished into the ether, which felt to me a little bit like a cop-out on the part of Ron Moore and the writers.

Was she a ghost, an angel, a messenger of God? I don't know and clearly it's meant to be left open for interpretation. (Though she clearly had a physical form, unlike Head Six and Baltar, and was able to interact with the world around her.) But it seems an odd ending given the fact that Kara was connected somehow to the ancient Cylon race via her piano-player father and was able to get the fleet to Earth by using the notes of "All Along the Watchtower," which she was able to recall thanks to little Hera's drawing. Turning the notes into numerical values, she's able to jump Galactica to our Earth... and brings humanity to its end. Or rather the end of its journey. (How she was also the "harbinger of death" that the Cylon hybrid prophesied remains unclear and unseen.) In that respect, I see it's why Kara was brought back to "life," as it were, to be able to lead her people to the Promised Land.

Except that I thought that's what Laura Roslin, the dying leader, was meant to do. With her role usurped by Kara Thrace, Laura was left in this two-parter with very little to do other than help Ishay oversee the emergency triage center on Galactica during the final battle, chase after Hera after experiencing a vision of the fabled Opera House.. and then lose her.

How Kara was brought back to life is meant to be a mystery, a divine miracle enacted by an unseen heavenly presence that's pulling everyone's strings. It's also this godlike presence that recreates Kara's exploded Viper and places the secret path to the (old) Earth in its nav system so the Final Five can unlock it and return to their desolate planet.

Daniel, the fabled seventh Cylon model, was a "rabbit hole" that many of us fell down, according to Moore. He was just a piece of the Cylon backstory, a convenient analogue for Cain and Abel's story of fratricide, and wasn't connected to Kara Thrace whatsoever. In fact, Moore is quoted as saying that Daniel was an "unintentional rabbit hole" and that he "had no idea" that anyone would draw any conclusions between Kara, Dreilide, and Daniel. ("It's one of those things where you're inside the show and doing it, you don't realize that people are going to seize on this detail and it gets a life of its own," he told Alan Sepinwall.)

Which is funny as, while it's only a small piece of the overarching mythos of Battlestar Galactica, it could have perhaps drawn these threads together. Why couldn't Kara have been the offspring of Cylon Daniel and her human mother? Wouldn't it perhaps have gone a long way to explaining just why she is tapped into this shared consciousness, vis-a-vis "All Along the Watchtower" and her paintings of the Eye of Jupiter? Or is that just me reaching?

Or is it enough to have had her return from the dead as a Christ figure, bring the humans to their salvation on Earth, and then return to the heavens once she's fulfilled her destiny?

Likewise, I felt that the use of the Opera House visions here didn't quite match up to what had been built up so successfully over the course of the last three seasons or so. The shared visions of the Opera House seemed so climactic and crucial to the plot. After all, these were haunting glimpses into an otherworldly place of power and were shared by Six, Roslin, Baltar, Athena, and Hera... as they chased after Hera, the salvation of both the human and Cylon races, and Six and Baltar brought her into the presence of the mythic Final Five.

But in the end, it all went down amid a firefight aboard Galactica as Laura and Athena chased after Hera (and poor Helo nearly died after rescuing his daughter) and Six and Baltar literally stumbled on to Hera... and then simply brought her into CIC. Was that really all that this was about? Walking the little girl into CIC? The clues that we had been teased with up until now pointed to a more momentous and significant moment. Why was it important that it was Six and Baltar who shielded Hera and moved her into place? And why was it so crucial that Hera be brought to that place, under the gaze of the Final Five, where she was once again placed in jeopardy by the arrival of Cavil, who held a gun to her in a rather cliched fashion? (Regarding Cavil enacting some sort of standoff by threatening to shoot Hera, did anyone really believe for a second that he would go through with it, seeing as she was vital to his people's survival?)

To me, the resolution of the Opera House vision was one element of the series finale that truly let me down. Does it get our characters all in place for one final showdown between the alliance and the evil Cavil? Yep. Does it enable Baltar to speak about the divine puppet master pulling their strings and how this being, whatever it is, isn't good or evil? You betcha. But it lacked that epic, mythical quality that this plot thread seemed to be building towards. It seemed to be about the notion of sacrifice and of redemption. In fact, what bothers me most was that it seemed to be about something entirely different the entire time we've been tracking this storyline.

Ultimately, Hera is the salvation of both the human and Cylon races and we learn via a flash-forward 150,000 years to the future (our present day) that Hera is in fact Mitochondrial Eve, the matrilineal ancestor of the human race. Her bones, discovered in the Cradle of Life in Africa, are incorrectly identified as the start of the human race, though she's actually the result of reproduction between an off-world human and a Cylon. (I did find it semi-amusing that it's Ron Moore himself who's reading the magazine article about the discovery of the bones while the angelic Six and Baltar look over his shoulder.)

So was it essential that Hera be protected and fulfill her own destiny? Definitely. We're told that, without her, we wouldn't be here today as the human race at that time were a handful of pre-linguistic tribal people with spears. It's because of Hera that we exist at all and because of the sacrifice of the Cylon rebels and the Colonial survivors that Earth's population evolves to what it is today. Rather than destroy, they opt to create. They find Eden on Earth and recreate Paradise. Hera herself grows up to be the matrilineal ancestor for us all... which means that each of us shares a piece of her original mitochondrial DNA. We truly are human and Cylon, gifted with the "best of us" that Lee wanted to share.

Of course, things in life are cyclical. Patterns repeat themselves. "This has happened before and will happen again." In the present day, the massive advances in technology are making things possible in a way they haven't been before. Man is once again looking to create artificial life, to steal the fire away from the gods, and embue their mechanical creations with thought and purpose. The scenes in present-day Times Square point towards humanity's drive to recreate the Cylon race: to enslave a population of artificially created beings to their own ends. Will the pattern repeat itself? Will this robotic race rise up to annihilate their creators? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. As the angelic Six says, even complex equations of probability point towards patterns changing.

The humans and Cylons DO form a lasting alliance, especially after the playing field is leveled with the destruction of resurrection technology. (And, make no mistake, it can't be recreated now that Tyrol enacts his vengeance for Callie's death upon Tory, who rather fittingly finally gets some Biblical justice rained down upon her.) The humans and Cylons make a new home on Earth together; their new relationship isn't based on old grudges but mutual survival. And they do both survive through Hera.

The series has been a journey for both races as they are finally forced to put aside their enmity and become one, unified nation of survivors. Which is a hopeful message about solidarity and equanimity, the choice of compassion over destruction. We're meant to be left with a feeling of hope, that these people settled into a quiet life of agriculture and lived out their days in peace in some very uninteresting times. (Unlike that ancient Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times.")

Yet why did I feel deeply saddened by the ending then, one in which the people of the Colonies, bound together through genocide, war, and the fight for survival, all seemingly went their own separate ways? It didn't feel hopeful to me at all that these people, after being through so much together, would opt not to stay together but to disperse throughout an empty planet. What is it in their nature that would push them towards solitude now, after everything they've fought for?

When Lee realizes that Adama is leaving with Roslin, he knows that he'll never see his father again. But why? I had believed that Adama was going to kill himself once Roslin died. After giving her one last glimpse at life, at the innocence and diversity of the wildlife on the African plains, Laura Roslin finally dies. It's a fitting death for the former president of the Colonies and I'm glad that we do see her finally succumb to cancer on screen. It's an important death, given that she fought so hard for so long to keep her people together and find them a new home. (Even though, as mentioned above, it's really Starbuck who does so in the end.)

But I thought that Adama's decision to live out a life of solitude after her death, away from even his son Lee, wasn't how I pictured the Old Man going out: alone, having lost his true love, building a cabin for one on a lonely bluff high above the valley. It would have been one thing if we had seen other survivors down in the valley and had the feeling that Adama was somewhat removed from his fellow mankind but still watching over them in his own way, but it was saddening to me that he would just walk out on Lee forever. Poof, like Kara, he's gone.

And I thought it was rather strange that we never got to see any final scene between Adama and Saul Tigh. Throughout Battlestar Galactica, it's Adama and Tigh's relationship that comprises one of the backbones of the series. We've seen them drink together, fight together, and cry together. Yet after arriving on Earth, we never seen anything pass between them. To me, it was a missed opportunity to tie up their relationship in a satisfying way. We've seen them go through thick and thin together; why should now be any different?

(Meanwhile, Tyrol heads out for Scotland, telling Ellen and Tigh that he can't be around anyone, human or Cylon.)

As for Tigh and Ellen, they finally get the life that had been eluding them all along: the chance to see out their days together, reunited once more. And this is it for them: there's no resurrection, no rebirth. They have one life to live, together, and they intend to make it count. So too for the little family that manages to make it through the series more or less unscathed (at least mortally, anyway): Helo, Athena, and Hera. A literal post-nuclear family comprised of two races, pointing towards the future. (Even Boomer gets a chance to redeem herself and pay back the Old Man... before she's gunned down by Athena.)

Sam leads the ships into the cleansing fire of the sun, finally able to fulfill his own destiny: the chance to be a part of something that approaches perfection. To embrace the heat of the sun and its consuming fire. The sun destroys but it also creates and ultimately Sam becomes part of this neverending process too.

Baltar and Six get the opportunity to change their fates, to strive to build rather than tear down. The most emotional moment for me in the finale (besides for Laura's death) was Baltar tearfully admitting to Six that he knows how to farm. That Gaius would finally admit where he came from was truly touching and that Six told him that she knows. These two, responsible for the mass genocide of the human race, really do come full circle here. They know each other inside and out and they get the chance to grow their own Eden together, on equal footing.

One of the most beautifully crafted moments in the finale was Gaius standing aboard that Raptor, deciding whether he would stay and perhaps die fighting Cavil or if he would once again run. Baltar's been running for as long as we've known him, and even before: he obliterated his past as a farmer's son, erased his accent, and transformed himself into an intellectual. He's gone through more transformations than anyone else on the series: scientist, savior, president, pariah, prophet. And in that moment, standing on the brink of possible destruction, he chooses the path of sacrifice, placing himself in the path of the divine. That he does so with his own free will is the important part. Shaky, unsure, and absolutely terrified, he makes his decision... and comes face to face with Six, placed right next to him in the final firefight. Coincidence? Hardly. Once again, it's a sign of the divine. That these two, united in their complicity for the destruction of the Twelve Colonies, would end up side by side in the Final Battle is meant to be proof of their connection with the celestial mysteries and in their redemption.

Which leads us then to the revelation that Head Baltar and Six, pushing their fleshy counterparts to do both good and evil, are in fact in the employ of the unseen presence... or are in fact a part of said divinity itself. As Baltar says, they're not good or evil, they just are. They poke and prod, they pull strings, they conduct experiments to see just what will happen. And it's fitting that God's messengers should be these two: the creators and destroyers themselves. They are part of a pattern that never ends, of birth, death, and rebirth. The wheels keep on turning and they are once again watching and waiting.

That they would still be around 150,000 years later, still shadowing the human race, is fitting. Them, walking through Times Square while the ancient/modern "All Along the Watchtower" played was a nice coda to everything that had passed. Once again, they appear to be keeping a watch over the next "experiment," waiting to see whether things will once again play out: whether humanity will choose the path of destruction or enlightenment. And, they, like Hera, are a part of us all, whispering in the dark recesses of our collective consciousness.

Ultimately, I felt that Battlestar Galactica offered an ending that did answer some of the series' looming questions (though not always satisfyingly) and left some others painfully ambiguous. While some of the revelations pointed a little too much towards divine (or angelic) intervention, I did appreciate the full circle nature of the series' overarching plot and the fact that, for a series as dark as this, some of the character got their happy endings, standing in the cool, sunny plains at the birth of civilization.

What did you think of the series finale? Were you satisfied with the disappearance of Kara and the reveal about the Opera House? Are you glad that the crew of Galactica didn't all perish in a fiery end in the fantastic final showdown with the Cylon Colony or did you think that the ending was uncharacteristically sunny? Discuss.

Channel Surfing: "Doctor Who" Feature Possible, J.J. Abrams Talks "Fringe," Rainn Wilson, and More

Good morning and welcome to your Monday television briefing.

Steven Moffat, who has taken over the reins at Doctor Who from Russell T. Davies, has said that he wouldn't rule out a feature film spin-off of Doctor Who so long as it didn't interfere with production on the series itself. "It would be good to see it in the cinema so long as it was great and fantastic," said Moffat, speaking at the Edinburgh International Television Festival. "But a film is on [for] 90 minutes and that is not as important as the series. But so long as it doesn't get in the way of the show we could do it. If it got in the way of the show that would be appalling." The series itself has already had two feature spin-offs in the 1960s: Doctor Who and the Daleks and Daleks: Invasion Earth 2150 AD, both of which starred Peter Cushing as the Doctor. (The Guardian's Organ Grinder)

There's a fantastic interview with J.J. Abrams about his new FOX drama Fringe and about the differences in telling stories with self-contained episodic storylines like Fringe and the Byzantine plots of series like Lost and Alias. "I just got tired of hearing people say to me, over and over, ‘Yeah, I was watching it, but I missed one, I got really confused, and I stopped watching it,’” Abrams said in a recent phone interview. He goes on to discuss just went wrong with Alias. And no it wasn't the giant orange floating ball that was supposedly Rambaldi's endgame. (New York Times)

Meanwhile, the Los Angeles Times has interviewed Shawn Ryan about the end of The Shield, which kicks off its seventh and final season next month. Ryan, of course, was on the picket line when the series finale of the series he created (which launched FX as a destination for quality drama) was shot, as was the pilot for the doomed FOX supernatural series The Oaks (which never made it to air), which Ryan was on board to produce. He talks about his decision to view pencils down as a refusal to perform editing duties as well as writing services, the end of The Shield, and the strike itself. (Los Angeles Times)

If that weren't enough interviews for you, here's one with The Office's Rainn Wilson about his role in the feature film The Rocker and, of course, Dwight Schrute. (New York Daily News)

James Cromwell (24) has been cast in NBC's new drama series My Own Worst Enemy, where he'll be playing the enigmatic head of a covert government agency that is tinkering with Christian Slater's dual-identity husband/superspy Henry/Edward. Does he play the head of Janus (i.e., Mavis' mysterious employer)? Only time will tell. Cromwell joins a cast that includes Christian Slater, Madchen Amick (herself turning up in several episodes of Gossip Girl next season), Saffron Burrows, Mike O'Malley, and Alfre Woodard. (Entertainment Weekly's Ausiello Files)

FOX will be streaming the series opener of Fringe and the season premiere of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles online... if you're a college student, that is. Users who log onto Fox.com from college-based .edu domains will be able to watch a simul-stream of the opener of Fringe and Sarah Connor at the same time as they launch on-air, as well as behind-the-scenes footage, cast interviews, and music videos. It's a novel concept, but why wouldn't students just, er, watch the episodes on the linear channel? (Variety)

In other fall launch news, FOX and CBS will respectively not air the original pilots for comedy Do Not Disturb and drama Eleventh Hour until later in the season. Instead, the networks will air subsequent episodes when they launch Do Not Disturb on September 10th and Eleventh Hour on October 9th. Having already seen both of these pilot episodes, I can honestly say that the networks are making the right decision as both were just awful. (Futon Critic)

Lifetime has given a six-episode order to reality competition series Blush: The Search for America's Greatest Makeup Artist, to launch in November as a potential companion for its poached Project Runway. Series, produced by IMG, will follow eight makeup artists as they live together in LA and compete for a one-year contract with Max Factor, $1,000 in cash, and the opportunity to style a magazine cover shoot. (Variety)

Paris Barclay (ER) has been promoted to executive producer on HBO's In Treatment; he'll direct at least ten episodes of the therapy drama next season. (Hollywood Reporter)

ABC has announced the cast for the latest iteration of reality competition series Dancing With the Stars, which kicks off on September 22nd. Susan Lucci, Toni Braxton, Lance Bass, Cloris Leachman, Kim Kardashian, Ted McGinley, Brooke Burke, NFL champ Warren Sapp, Olympic athletes Misty May-Treanor and Maurice Greene, chef Rocco DiSpirito, Cody Linley (Hannah Montana) and comedian Jeffrey Ross will compete for the top spot. (Variety)

Songwriter Kara DioGuardi will join American Idol as a new judge for Season Eight, alongside Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul, and Randy Jackson. (Variety)

Stay tuned.

What's On Tonight

8 pm: The Big Bang Theory/How I Met Your Mother (CBS); Deal or No Deal (NBC); Gossip Girl (CW); High School Musical: Get in the Picture (ABC); Prison Break (FOX)

9 pm: Two and a Half Men/New Adventures of Old Christine (CBS); America's Toughest Jobs (NBC); One Tree Hill (CW); Samantha Who?/Samantha Who? (ABC); Prison Break (FOX)

10 pm: CBS News: Democratic National Convention (CBS); Dateline (NBC); Vote 08 (ABC)

What I'll Be Watching

8 pm: Gossip Girl.

Looking to relive the freshman season of the teen soap? On tonight's first season finale ("Much 'I Do' About Nothing"), Blair comes to Serena's defense and faces off with Georgina Sparks (Michelle Trachtenberg); Lily prepares for her wedding but can't stop thinking about Rufus; and Serena finally tells Dan what's really going on with her.

10 pm: Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations on Travel Channel.

This week on No Reservations, Tony travels to Egypt, one of the oldest civilizations on Earth and spends some time with locals in order to get an understanding for what it means to be Egyptian.

10 pm: Weeds on Showtime.

On this week's episode of Weeds ("Head Cheese"), Nancy deals with the aftermath of Shane's exploits and another confrontation with Guillermo; Celia tries to find a new rehab facility; Doug and Maria's relationship hits the skids and they turn to Andy for help; Silas' new business is growing too fast.

Over the Rainbow: The "Life on Mars" Series Finale

Oh. My. God.

I don't even know where to begin after watching last night's final installment of Brit import Life on Mars, one of the most gripping, thrilling, and jaw-dropping series finales (or series, full stop) around.

While I knew that the writers--Matthew Graham, along with Tony Jordan and Ashley Pharoah--wanted to tie things up in the strange, strange life of Detective Inspector Sam Tyler, I had no idea the lengths Sam would go to in order to return to 2006, who he would betray, and what mechanism by which he'd catapult himself out of his future coma-state.

If the above sentence made any sense to you, you're obviously a Life on Mars fan. If not, you've missed out on a series, which over the course of sixteen episodes, redefined genre television, blending science fiction, cop drama, romance, metaphysical drama into one groovy package and populating it with a cast of characters that proved themselves misogynistic, racist, pigheaded... and yet having a sort of primal dignity that was impossible to look away from. Simply put: this series rocked like vintage Bowie.

It was no surprise that Sam did manage to get home but what a long, strange road it was to that darkened tunnel. Would Sam betray Gene and "A" Division to the ruthless machinations of Frank Morgan, a man hellbent on making an example of Gene Hunt and bringing order to the chaos of the Manchester constabulary? Would he make it back to 2006? Would he be able to say goodbye to Annie?

All of these questions were answered in a fashion with last night's episode, a heart-pounding installment that made the audience question everything we've been told about Sam Tyler since the start and which bookended the series with its first episode in dizzying, brilliant fashion. We learn from Frank Morgan that Sam is in fact an undercover officer from Hyde, sent to
infiltrate Gene's team as part of Operation: MARS (Metropolitan Accountability and Reconciliation Strategy); his real name is Sam Williams. Or is it?

Just as Sam begins to question his true identity and is willing to sell out Gene and his colleagues, he undergoes an operation in the future to remove a tumor that is keeping him in his coma. Is Gene the manifestation of this cancer in his dream state? Sam believes so and gives over evidence to Frank Morgan that would lead to Gene's pensioning and dismissal from the force; Morgan promises him that he can come home to Hyde, a promise made all the more real by what Morgan reveals: that Sam had been in a car accident on the way to Manchester, that he had been in a fugue state before when he was in a bus crash at age 12, and that everything that was happening here was very much real.

Faced with the choice to save the team from their demises at the hands of a psychotic cop-killer (presaged by a telephone call last episode) or the chance to return home, Sam chooses the latter and wakes up in 2006... to discover that Frank Morgan is his surgeon. While Morgan was able to remove the pressure from his brain, the tumor was inoperable but is benign. (Which begs the question then if the tumor was what caused him to time-travel or if it was all a dream.) The hospital room where Sam laying all this time? Hyde Ward, Room 2612, the same combination (Hyde 2612) as the phone number Sam was trying to call earlier in the episode (and from which several of his ominous calls derived).

A brief aside: I'll let you count out the many, many references to The Wizard of Oz that have filled this series, including last night's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," but I will say this: it's no coincidence that Frank Morgan, the surgeon/copper played by Meadowlands' Ralph Brown, is also the name of the actor who played the titular character in The Wizard of Oz...

Returning to work, Sam discovers that he cannot relate to his coworkers nor can he feel anything, such as when he cuts his finger during a meeting (recalling bartender Nelson's words that to feel pain is to know you're alive) and promptly--and to the tune of David Bowie's "Life on Mars"--throws himself off of the building, an echo of the series' first episode in which Sam nearly jumped off a roof in order to free himself from 1973.

Does Sam die? That's a matter of conjecture. But he does suddenly return to 1973 to the precise moment in time when he faced that earlier choice. This time, he chooses to save his dying friends, felling the villain with a few precise gunshots. And later, he finally gets to confess his love for Annie (yay!), telling her that he's staying "forever" and asks her to tell him what to do ("stay here"), before embracing her in a climactic kiss that we've all been waiting sixteen episodes to see and which echoes their conversation from the series' first episode.

Gene, Chris, and Ray have all survived the debacle at the train (engineered by Frank Morgan to lead to their deaths to further discredit the department), and the fivesome climb into the back of the Cortina before driving off into the afterlife, down that yellow brick road, as it were. But not before Sam switches the radio from the sounds of the EMTs trying to save him ("It's no good, he's slipping away from us")... to Bowie's "Life on Mars," a deliberate choice on his part to choose this "dream" over reality, over death, over the end.

Was the psychic pain of his "suicide" enough to propel him back to 1973... or is this Sam's dream state, his own personal Oz, experienced in the moments as his brain shuts down in the back of an ambulance in 2006? The answer is deliberately, deliciously vague and left to the audience to decipher. (Though I did get goosebumps when the little girl in red--the Girl from the Test Card--appeared and turned off the "television," signaling the end of the series.)

As for this jaded writer, I choose to believe that Sam did die in 2006 after coming out of his coma... and lived in 1973, in a state of suspended animation. I want to believe that he did finally find love with the adorable Annie and that in order to survive, both Sam and Gene--two sides of the same coin--need each other, to push each other into changing themselves and the world around them. What better place to bring about real change then, then the front lines of policing in the 1970s? What better ending for a crusading copper than to drive off into the twilight to fight crime?

Of course, some of the truth of Sam's condition must come in the form of Life on Mars' sequel, entitled Ashes to Ashes (again, deriving its title from a Bowie song), which picks up the story of Gene, Chris, and Ray in the 1980s as they come into contact with Alex Drake (MI5/Spooks' Keeley Hawes), a female detective who has traveled back to 1981 after reading Sam's case files. A look at the promo for the series, due later this year on BBC1, can be found below.

But don't expect to find Sam Tyler in Ashes to Ashes; his story has already been told and actor John Simm sadly won't be appearing in the sequel. But from the looks of that gorgeous promo and the fact that I am already experiencing withdrawal pains from Life on Mars, Ashes to Ashes can't arrive on these shores quickly enough.

Penguin or Flying Fish: The "Extras" Series Finale

I don't know about you, but I was unable to fall asleep last night as the series finale of Extras, Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant's brilliant rumination on the fickle hand of fame, fortune, and success kept me thinking all night long. Living in Los Angeles and working in the industry, it's hard to escape the constant whiff of desperation that permeates this town.

It's only fitting that the dark Extras, Gervais and Merchant's follow-up to the groundbreaking comedy The Office, would end on such a depressing note. It is, after all, the only way that the story of actor/writer Andy Millman (Ricky Gervais), dim-witted hanger-on Maggie (Ashley Jensen), and pathetic agent Darren Lamb (Stephen Merchant) can end: with more than a few cringe-inducing laughs, some raw emotion, and the potential for redemption.

Over the course of twelve episodes and last night's feature-sized Extras: The Extra Special Series Finale, Gervais and Co. have given us an insightful look at the quixotic nature of success, diametrically opposed as it is with integrity, and a scathing look at how quickly those who find fame and fortune forget their roots and abandon the friends who stood by them in their salad years. Life is, as slick agent Tre Cooper (Adam James) reminds us, cruel.

Andy Millman is no different; when we last saw him he had created a stereotypically cheesy sitcom entitled When the Whistle Blows, in which he's forced to wear glasses and a stupid wig and shout a hackneyed catchphrase for six million people each week. As a piece of art, When the Whistle Blows couldn't be more different from Gervais and Merchant's The Office and yet there are intentional similarities as Andy claims to have based Whistle's Ray Stokes on a former employer (as Gervais had done with The Office's David Brent) and wishes to wrap up his hugely successful series after a brief time.

For Gervais, the decision to end The Office came with his willingness to let the series go out on a high note; such a decision has given the series an immortal place in the pantheon of great comedy. For Andy, however, it's an opportunity to move on to bigger and better things, to stop shouting catchphrases at "morons." He wants fame on his own terms; he wants to conflate fame, with all of its trappings (table at The Ivy, paparazzi stalkings, interviews and acting offers) with artistic success. Instead, he sells his soul to the fame-making machinery of pseudo-celebrity.

Looking to cut dead weight from his management team, Andy quickly fires Darren, a decision which pushes him and sycophant Barry (former EastEnders actor Shaun Williamson) to return to work at Carphone Warehouse, where in a nifty cameo, he is now working alongside... former EastEnders castmate Dean Gaffney (who played shrill Robbie Jackson before he was fired from the soap in 2003).

My heart broke for poor Maggie, who finally finds her courage and pride when she walks off a set after being cruelly insulted by Clive Owen (in a painful, if hysterical, scene). With no employable skills, talents, or experience, Maggie leaves behind her so-called "glamorous" life as an extra to become a cleaner, scrabbling about in the dirt for a few quid an hour, a lifestyle not wholly unfamiliar to her. In a series of sad vignettes, we see how far she's fallen: the happy-go-lucky girl has been replaced with a charwoman who in one incredible sequence goes from washing dishes in The Ivy to sitting down next to Andy seconds later in the same restaurant. It's no surprise that self-absorbed Andy has no idea what she's been up to or where her sad little bedsit even is.

Yet even after he's lost Maggie, Andy still hasn't learned the price of selling out, instead agreeing to appear on Celebrity Big Brother, where to his chagrin he discovers that he doesn't even recognize his fellow contestants, a sad display of celebrity whores, reality TV stars, and bargain-basement has-beens (oh and Lionel Blair). It's a scathing indictment of celebrity culture and allows Andy (and by dint Gervais himself) to offer an assessment of our cultural obsession with fame and how all of us--even Andy--should be ashamed of ourselves for even watching. And he tearfully makes amends with disgraced Maggie, finally answering her question about whether he'd rather be a penguin or a flying fish. It's a speech that finally garners Andy the respect he's so desperately sought and made him finally a true media darling. And that's when the man so famously mocked in song by David Bowie finally does something right and achieves redemption in this Christmas special: he walks out.

Needless to say, that final scene between Andy and best friend Maggie is one that will forever remain with me as the two drive off to the sea, laughing the way they used to, to find a place where no one knows who Andy Millman is. In the end, we do believe that Andy really is that penguin about to eat the flying fish. The world is, once again, his oyster... or can be once again. And so Andy and Maggie drive off into the future, whatever it might bring them, together.

If Extras has always been about two friends' canny desires to make it big, then it's only fitting that the series ends on a triumphant--if slightly downcast--note about the redemptive powers of friendship, integrity, and honesty. Extras is virtuoso storytelling at its very best, mining comedy from the mundane, to hold up a giant mirror to ourselves and our society. I'll miss Andy, Maggie, Darren and all the rest, but I can't imagine a better way to end this intelligent, witty, and scathing series.

Welcome to Promise City: "The 4400" Takes a Great Leap Forward

It's rather depressing to me that the end of USA's seminal sci fi series The 4400 sort of came and went without very many people even noticing. Sure, part of that is what comes from airing a season (or is it series?) finale opposite the Emmys but the other is that The 4400 has long been overlooked by most people.

Which brings me to Sunday night's season finale of The 4400 ("The Great Leap Forward"), which played things rather like an episode of the old Twilight Zone, complete with a zinger of an ending that sort of tied things up in an unexpected way but left the door open for an eventual return to the concept, while also possibly being the very last thing we'll ever see of The 4400. USA, which was always a strange home for this daring, smart series, hasn't yet decided the fate of the series and is said to be in some discussions for ordering a fifth season of futuristic mayhem, but I wouldn't hold my breath.

Sure, there are still several dangling storylines: just what are Jordan Collier's mysterious abilities, which seem to include resurrection? Is Kyle's "ability" Cassie good or evil? Or both? Who were the other members of The Marked and are they still in power within the US government and several multinational companies? Will Maia's prophecy of 4400 concentration centers ever come to fruition? Were the "ghosts" that Maia visited in Promise City really those of her parents? Can Alanna ever be saved from the past? Will Diana and Ben ever get back together as they are fated to? And just what apocalyptic battle looms on the horizon?

In any event, I was happy to see that the series did resolve some of its ongoing storylines: restoring Tom Baldwin to his own persona after his "possession" by those tiny machines, The Marked; forcing Isabelle Tyler to make a decision about which side she's really on (and whether she's finally received redemption); and dealing with the fallout of Shawn's brother Danny taking the promicin shot. That last storyline is what propelled the plot of the finale, a decision which reverberated throughout Seattle as Danny unwittingly infected thousands of people with promicin, killing half and granting the other half with abilities in his wake. That weighty decision--to inject or not to inject--was taken out of the general populace's hands and decided for them, with shocking consequences.

The result? People were dropping like flies: patients at the hospital where Danny and his mother Susan were taken, NTAC agents back at HQ, people on the street. Some would remarkably be saved while others, standing next to them, were felled by this invisible killer. (Never was that 50/50 proposition more visual or terrifying.) One neat twist: that the writers wisely remembered that Diana had been injected with Kevin Berkhoff's experimental promicin trial waaaay back when and it rendered her immune to the promicin infection (but sadly once again left her on the outside of the group and rendered her useless to 4400 daughter Maia).

I loved seeing the NTAC agents deal with their newfound abilities: Marco being able to teleport (after seeing a location in a photo); Meghan has the ability to turn inanimate objects into plants; Garrity is a multiple man, etc. And I guess Meghan wasn't evil, after all. (Though I do wish the reveal of that had been a bigger deal.)

Much was made of the fact that the White Light's prophecy of a new and better Earth (and/or Paradise) would come when a long list of prominent citizens would take promicin, along with Tom Baldwin. The final scene between Kyle, who stepped up to lead Jordan Collier's movement during his abduction, and his father was fraught with tension and peril. Would Tom take the shot, as prophesied by that arcane text that Kyle holds so dear? And would that decision save the 4400 and the Earth... or doom them? We never do see whether Tom takes that fateful shot, but the final scene of the episode is nonetheless haunting in its implications: after Maia tells Diana that things will be better because the 4400 are now in power, we see a defaced Welcome to Seattle sign that has been vandalized to read Welcome to Promise City. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the future is here. But is that a good thing?

It's an eerie and subtle coda to a series that has been more about the underlying current of fear and dread than horror movie mechanics. And should this truly be the end of The 4400, I like to think that it's the perfect Rod Serling-style ending: open-ended, divisive, and imaginative. If nothing else, it will keep the loyal fans of The 4400 guessing and pondering for the rest of their lives. Unless, of course, USA decides to wrap up the ambitious storyline definitively. Maybe then we'll finally get to learn just what Jordan Collier's abilities really were...