The Substitute

In tonight’s episode of Lost, Richard Alpert, he of the guyliner, did the unthinkable, and turned down the possibility of having all of his – and our – questions answered. When the mysterious being wearing the Locke suit offers to tell you everything, you say yes, Richard. If only for my benefit. Of course, the question then becomes, how much truth are you going to get out of him. And whose truth is it?


Another hour into the final season of Lost, and we still don’t know. I get the feeling that what comes out of FLocke’s mouth is a dangerous mixture of truth and lies, intended to keep the Lostaways, and the viewers, uncertain. So far, its working.

I wouldn’t mind traveling via smoke. It would make my commute so much easier. Does this mean I have to be ambiguously evil now?

Locke episodes always make me so uncomfortable. The character inspires such palpable pity that it makes me want to hide in the couch cushions until he’s done making an ass of himself, and tonight was no exception. It was interesting to see Terry O’Quinn play between masterful and sad. Seeing capable, optimistic Hugo was a treat, too. This version of Locke – the original flavor – does have some upsides in his life. He’s engaged to Helen and he’s got a lot of other Sideways islanders on his side.

Back on the island, even ol’ Smokey sees monsters. The ominous, pre-teen messenger informs FLocke that, per the rules, he can’t kill him. ‘Him’ in this instance is presumably Jacob, debunking my theory that the kid was the little towheaded spirit of the island’s seemingly benevolent deity. A theory made and refuted in a single episode? That’s a new record. It also causes FLocke, who shares his body’s habit of falling down, to take another page from original Locke’s playbook and scream ‘Don’t tell me what I can’t do!’ John, you in there, buddy?

The sideways version struggled with that concept as well, but a fantastic Rose, calm and accepting of her terminal cancer, basically bitchslaps him into getting over what he ‘can’t’ do, and forces him to focus on what he can. Which is yelling at teenagers, apparently.

Meanwhile, FLocke has failed to coerce Alpert to follow him down the rabbit hole on the thin promise of some sensemaking, so he went after a drunk and damaged Sawyer. What is with the filthy undergarments, man? That is the form that your grief is taking? Bitter and a bit sloshed, Sawyer agrees to go tromping around in the forest with a man he fully realizes isn’t Locke. He also decides to put a gun to his head, a la Lenny and George.

First I was shouting for Sawyer to shoot FLocke - SHOOT HIM DAMMIT, I WANT TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS – until the scarred one started talking about feelings and being trapped and shit, and then promised to give Sawyer some answers. At that point I changed my tune – DON’T SHOOT HIM, I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON. Lost is interactive, the way I watch it.

Sidenote: In a bookstore last week, my roommate and I overheard a girl about our age loudly telling the unfortunate person on the other end of her phone that her professor had told her about some guy named John ‘Steenbeck’, and apparently he had lived just down the coast in Monterey and was kind of famous. We followed her, at a non-creepy distance, until she gave up looking for him in Local Interest, and asked a clerk where she could find books by Chelsea Handler. She and FLocke would have gotten on well, I think.

Whoserface, the leader of the recently arrived Jacob mercenaries, lets slip the information that FLocke is apparently stuck in his Locke suit. Trapped, you might say? They bury Locke in the picturesque seaside cemetery where so many Lostaways have already found their eternal rest, and let Googly Ben give his eulogy. It was actually pretty touching, without the murdering bit.

More emphatic yelling – DON’T BE A PUSSY, SAWYER, GET SOME ANSWERS. JUMP OF THE CLIFF IF YOU HAVE TO. And then - HOLD ON TIGHTER, YOU FLOPPY HAIRED BASTARD, YOU CAN’T DIE BEFORE THIS SHOW MAKES SENSE. At the bottom of the rickety ladders is a cave with – oh hello, thematic scales and yin-yang rocks. FLocke hurls the white one into the ocean – apparently ageless deities have inside jokes.

There’s more! Inside the cave is another cave (new theory: the island is a giant Russian nesting doll of confusing shit) with a bunch of chalked on – and crossed out – names covering its walls. Prominently displayed were ’16-Jarrah’ and ’42-Kwon’. Seat numbers? THE numbers? Even FLocke doesn’t know. First the list hidden within an ankh within a guitar case, now here’s a giant Jacob list in cave form.

I completely give up boggling over Locke teaching basketball to boggle over Sideways Ben harping about coffee grounds. Am I alone in this, or did it look like Locke was already planning on offing Sideways European History teaching Ben?

Flashbacks show us that the intact names inside the cave are people Jacob met at one point or another. Touched for the most part – but did he make contact with itty bitty Sawyer? Hard to tell. According to FLocke, all of these people were candidates – to take over Jacob’s position. I have a feeling that this wording will be significant: Jacob THOUGHT that he was the protector of [the island]. Whether he truly was, or whether FLocke is lying, remains to be seen. He ominously crosses out 4-Locke, implying that a touch isn’t enough to save one of Jacob’s chosen.

Here’s where the double-talk really picks up: he posits that there is nothing to protect the island from, that Jacob was an idiot who was just luring people into the new Bermuda for the hell of it. So Sawyer can either ignore this new mantle of power that he supposedly has been given, stick around protecting the island from ‘nothing’, or he can go home. With FLocke in tow. Because I’m willing to bet that whatever is inside that creepy shell needs a ‘candidate’ or other unsuspecting stooge to get him off the island. He has chosen wisely; bitter over the loss of Juliet and his own captivity on the island, Sawyer consents.



I didn't even miss those confused bastards hiding in the temple. More of this, less of the lovey dovey shit, eh?


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