If you haven’t yet seen the finale of Lost, don’t read this.
If you have seen the finale of Lost, don’t read this. It’ll just remind you of the horror.
Ever since the Farscape debacle, TV and I have a precarious relationship.
Ever since I discovered that Farscape had been cancelled I’ve been wary of becoming too attached to TV shows.
I remember thinking to myself, as I watched Aeryn accept Crichton’s patently human marriage proposal, dabbing at my tear filled eyes with a tissue, that, as far as last episodes of prematurely cancelled TV shows went, this was a perfect end.
I own every episode of Buffy, Angel and Firefly, love Serenity and am hacked off that Goners never came to anything.
I adore Star Wars, knew Boba Fett’s name before I’d discovered that Santa wasn’t real (the rotund, creepy, Pagan pensioner that breaks into your house and gives your sleeping children sweets, not that Monica place in California (and, for the love of fuck, don’t let the kids read that)) and truly believe,
Let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, in a land very much like the one you live in now (except if you live in one of those crap ones, like Middle Earth or Pandora), there lived a man.
This man, who for the sake of argument and a sensibly paced narrative we’ll call Mat, had a problem; he was irritated to the point of frontal lobe liquidation by pretty much everything.
When I was a kid TV shows were simple. All you needed to make a televisual extravaganza that would run and run, year after year, requiring little to no effort or imaginative scripting and that would create an indelible impression on the malleable young minds of the day, were a few basic ingredients:
1.Ensure that the main character/s have either an interesting back story/shady past/cool skills, have superpowers, or are David Hasselhoff.