Prometheus, Lost, and our unquenchable desire to understand everything

***SPOILERS FOR PROMETHEUS AND LOST***

Were you a fan of Lost back in 2010? If so, then you were part of one of television’s greatest finales: the final episodes of Lost that were ready to explain the twists and turns that had plagued Jack, Kate, Sawyer, and Hurley for six grueling seasons. Just about anyone you speak to will express disappointment for the show’s final episodes. They’ll say the last few seasons don’t match up with the first few. Hell, people will say that with just about any television show. And God forbid if you bring up the series’ final episode: “The End.” For years the “final episode” has been the staple for television shows, with fans placing an inordinate amount of emphasis on how a show closes than it develops. Seinfeld is known for having one of the least crowd-pleasing moments a show has ever presented. Next in line would probably be Twin Peaks, followed by the hilariously abrupt black screen of The Sopranos. And why do people hate these finales? They provide no closure. They don’t tie loose ends. They don’t satisfy the customer.

But let me ask you this: 20 or 30 years from now, when your kids, or when the next generation of television watchers embark on your favorite shows, should those majestic shows be ever-willing to please their viewers, or should they be concerned with their own legacy?

Seinfeld owns an unexpected ending, but come on? Is your biggest complaint that it didn’t reward the viewers that had been tuning in for nine seasons? The same goes for The Sopranos, Twin Peaks, and Lost. These awful, AWFUL people floating around in the Seinfeld universe: do they deserve the hokey closure that ties all the loose ends? Isn’t just so damn fitting that they sit together in a jail cell, being punished for being horrible human beings? Does Tony Soprano deserve any more redemption than the quick cutaway he’s bestowed? Would Twin Peaks—which changed the way television could tell stories—own the same legacy without its giant “FUCK YOU” to the powerful network television that tore it apart?

All these moments of displeasure on the viewer’s part work for film as well—especially when it comes to the new line of “ambiguous filmmakers”, who coincidentally created the behemoth that was Lost: J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof. What separates these filmmakers from the aforementioned television shows, however, is the unanswered questions they leave behind. Modigliani Movie Inquiries correctly noted in its review of Prometheus (written by Lindelof) that Lost faltered towards the end because of its desire to answer questions. But that’s only in regards to the finer plot points of the show. In regards to the origin of the Dharma Initiative, the backstory of Jacob and his brother, where the Black Smoke came from, and, you know, all that shit about polar bears and glowing fountains and whatnot. But there are many questions left unanswered after Jack closes his eye to end the series, such as:

What was The Incident? What happened when the bomb went off?

What does Charles Widmore want with the Island?

How did some people time travel, while others didn’t?

What the fuck happened to Walt? He doesn’t get to go to Heaven?

Why were the characters assigned numbers in Jacob’s lighthouse mirror, and why did they coincide with The Hatch’s code?

People attach so much meaning to the answers of these questions. The failure to provide the details of the plot threads guiding our characters leads to the assumption of bad writing and poor execution. Funny, because people never seem to care about Lost’s biggest unanswered question:

Why are we here?

For six seasons—amidst the deaths, romance, alliances formed and broken, subplots and sub-subplots, time travels, flashbacks, flash forwards, and flash sideways—questions are asked, and questions are answered. But when you have to look back and say what you really loved about Lost, will it be those minor distractions? Does it destroy the integrity of the show? It’s a question that plagues both Super 8 and Prometheus, and it’s also a mind-numbingly grating void where the blame falls on the viewers—not the filmmakers. It’s a desire on the viewer’s part to be eternally quenched of his or her thirst for knowledge, despite however inconsequential that “knowledge” may be.

Let’s put it this way: if you’re going to use that logic, then be prepared to use it for everything. Like, according to this logic, you would believe Shallow Hal has better character syntax and a more developed story than, say, 2001: A Space Odyssey. And HOLY SHIT, you might actually be right about that. I mean, 2001 literally offers up zero answers to any of its begging questions regarding the plot, motivations of its characters, or why the fuck that astronaut ends up in an alien zoo. But for Shallow Hal, the question would be: why is Hal (Jack Black) such a sex-grubbing pig? It is explained away (in true Farrelly Brothers fashion) in the film’s opening moments, when a young Hal watches his dad die as a preacher tells him to never settle for “ugly chicks.” Now, technically speaking, Shallow Hal has done a better job of explaining its characters’ motivations, which, in turn, become the driving force behind the plot. So how about it: is Shallow Hal a better film that 2001: A Space Odyssey?

Of course it fucking isn’t. And you’d have to be some pubescent, acne-covered, sexually confused moron to believe it was (or one of the 90% of ignoramuses in your college intro-to-film class). So if we can agree that answering questions isn’t the key to a show’s “success”, we can agree, as noted in the first few paragraphs, that people’s expectations are normally satisfied through extraneous reasons, and they all stem from a desire to be satisfied. And satisfaction means closure. And closure means tying the loose ends. So why don’t people hate 2001 like they hate Lost?

Because Lost—much like Super 8 and Prometheus—ask questions. Constantly. The questions, the mystery, the absolute enigma surrounding the characters’ universe are what drive the plot. And it’s only because those characters constantly ask questions that it takes such adherence. And because they ask questions, we want to know the answers. Nobody is asking questions in 2001 because, well, nobody’s even talking. J.J. Abram’s Super 8 received a ton of criticism for its inability to answer questions, but for also being an inept homage to Steven Spielberg adventures. The two criticisms become one in the same. So why is that? Because Steven Spielberg’s characters, much like the characters in 2001, don’t beg for the answers. In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Roy (Richard Dreyfuss) embraces the spaceship with open arms, ready to start a new life. In E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial, we embrace the alien creature because the children do so wholeheartedly. And never once are we wondering aloud (with any great importance, that is), “Why is this happening? Where did these things come from?” The magic behind the visuals and the mystery at hand lend weight to the characters, speaking volumes of their troubles and deepest unrelinquished fears.

But with Lost, Prometheus, and Super 8, the underlying question is so broad that the interspersed questions hold more prominence, overshadowing the fact that the beguiling dilemma at hand isn’t getting off the island in Lost, or understanding why the human-like aliens in Prometheus want to destroy Earth, or where the alien in Super 8 came from, but instead: what is our purpose? People love Steven Spielberg—a wonderful filmmaker with an undeniable grip on humanity—because he makes it so damn easy. He presents problems, he presents questions, and always are they both resolved and answered. So the themes of a Spielberg film, while magical in the most wonderful cinema-rific ways, aren’t exactly…well, real. They’re honest, but the questions lurking beneath Abrams and Lindelof’s films own a unique commonality: they can’t be answered.

So yeah, 99% of people will probably, in most circumstances, tell you that, yes indeed, the final seasons of Lost don’t match up to the earlier ones. They don’t answer questions. They don’t resolve problems pertinent to the characters. I’m here to tell you: they’re wrong. As far as customer satisfaction: yes, the earlier seasons of Lost are much more willing to please. But that question, that HUGE question that plagues them for six seasons, when does it have the biggest impact? Is it during the early seasons when the sprawling narrative carries the gang from The Others to The Hatch to the capture of Ben Linus to the animal cages of the Dharma Initiative? Is it when inconsistent characters receive thematically repetitive flashbacks and bicker amongst one another about trivial alliances and power positions? Is it when Jack’s only wish is to escape the island, or when John Locke is so goddamn sure they’re all supposed to stay? Or, maybe, just maybe, is it when this underlying question finally starts to break down the characters. When Jack leaves the island, only to discover it made his life worse? Doesn’t that decision and outcome shine a more revealing light on Jack than the stubborn character who couldn’t learn to follow from the first few seasons? Or when Locke, who so adamantly and profoundly desired a purpose in life, tragically came to believe he was insignificant? People call Locke an inconsistent character, but as the Smoke Monster points out in Season 6, Locke was constantly confused about his purpose, putting on a face when he was really unsure of himself. So, in keeping in line with the “discovering one’s purpose” aspect of the show, shouldn’t his revelation—which he glowingly discovers in purgatory—that his purpose was to make Jack believe in himself be more consequential? He fought and tussled with Jack season after season and died believing he had failed, only to discover that his faith in one’s purpose drove Jack to carry out his seemingly inconsequential and tragic fate.

For the entire sixth season, the characters exchange alliances, lose one another through war, and run around in circles, hoping and praying their new mission will solve all their troubles. There’s a beautiful moment in the episode “The Candidate” where Jack looks into the ocean. Up to this point, Jack had tried everything in his power to outsmart the Smoke Monster. But nothing was working. Jacob was dead. Locke was gaining ground. The submarine plan backfired, and Jin, Sun, and Sayid had died trying to escape. And as Jack looks into the ocean, away from his friends he so desperately strives to save, he finally, finally cries, and the complexion on his face begs one question: Why? Why am I here? And what do I have to do?

It’s such a broad question that people disagree it can become a television show or a movie’s central theme. But, really, isn’t this something that plagues us each and everyday? It’s a trait that continued in Prometheus, which unfortunately is a preface to the Alien franchise, meaning that, no matter fucking what, it will never please its constituents. For while Prometheus plays out like an elongated piece of fan fiction, it really doesn’t resemble the Alien films at all. And once again, while everyone in the world will probably disagree, I’m here to tell you: that’s a good thing. Don’t get me wrong: Alien is a good film. Maybe even great. If it’s great, it’s for its tick-tock progression of events, giving a vicious and unrelenting suffocation to its tagline: “In space, no one can hear you scream.” But what holds both Alien and Prometheus back from being great is its cast of vibrant yet boring characters—it’s also what kills Aliens, which might as well be the most overrated film (and action flick) of all time.

This can be seen in the central theme’s application to the characters at hand. In Aliens, it’s literally nonexistent, with the only redeeming trait to be applied to any character outside of Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) is “badass motherfucker”, while the film goes on to strip the humanity from Ripley that was so rich in Alien. And Prometheus isn’t as good as Alien because it doesn’t own that central character to drive the narrative’s themes, which are actually less involved with the mythology of an alien and more fixated on a woman’s role amidst a male-domineered environment. So yeah, Prometheus doesn’t own that hit-home character that, in the end, would make you forget about all those ambiguous dilemmas Lindelof spent so much time constructing. But, once again, as discussed for Lost, what’s more important: why the aliens exist, or why the characters are there?

Because Lindelof and Abrams are more fixated on the mystery than the answers, it’s completely unadventurous to compare them to Spielberg. For Spielberg is more dedicated to constructing a cohesive plot than pondering the mysteries of the universe—despite what it may seem. For Spielberg’s characters always receive answers and satisfaction, which coincides with the viewer’s satisfaction. But are these characters real? Do we really always learn the answers to life’s greatest mysteries? Do we ever? This is what’s explored in this wave of ambiguous filmmakers’ films. It’s about the weight of a question driving the story. It’s about the breadth of human life and how inconsequential it can make us feel. It’s about asking asking asking and asking again, only to never be quenched. Do we like these questions plaguing us? Of course not, and I believe this is why the majority of moviegoers and TV-watchers will never embrace these men’s plight.

And while it may seem I’m in love with this wave of ambiguous filmmakers, I lay part of the blame on them, along with narrow-minded viewers. For while I understand the goal of these men’s cinematic mission, and while I find the gumption to explore the repressed questions of every human mind to be beautiful and true, they haven’t mastered such an encompassing project yet. Prometheus turned out to be a deeper film than anybody imagined—probably because Alien is surface-deep and Aliens isn’t deep at all. But Alien’s best traits emerge because it’s a horror film. Aliens’ best traits emerge because it’s an action film. And Prometheus’ best traits emerge because it’s science fiction. Staying true to the name of the ship, Prometheus explores the darkest fears lying beneath the birth and death of life, and the war that emerges externally (and internally). Many of the external events can be seen as labors of one’s mind. The film encompasses the question of why we’re here, but never provides a clear-cut answer for our characters. Elizabeth (Noomi Rapace) begs the human aliens to explain why they wants to destroy Earth, recalling her owns fears regarding her inability to create life in the face of such destruction. Her birthing scene works concurrently as a cloudy plot thread as well as an examination of such a fear—a gripping display that may seem more hilarious than profound, but all the same dedicated towards advancing those fears that drive the plot. The rest of the film plays out in this manner, utilizing David and Charlie as creations of their own makers and the similar questions and bitterness they share regarding them. Fussing over David’s reason for implanting the fetus in Elizabeth proves to be a detractor from the fact that his actions reflect Charlie’s own desire to be accepted by the gods who created him, thus giving headway to David’s own desire to be understood by a higher being—a desire that’s forcefully yanked away when the god tears his head off.

The only problem with these filmmakers’ method is pretty simple: they haven’t mastered it yet. Even with Lost, which is easily their most realized and glowing vision yet, is dampened by its loose moments. And while people may believe those moments exist in the later seasons, they’re actually in full force during the show’s opening seasons, where somebody like Kate is prominent because of her inconsistent actions and inferior womanly demeanor regarding Jack and Sawyer, but not because her ultimate reason for existing on the island, which is explored in the latter seasons. No, both Lost and Prometheus falter because these men haven’t learned to create consistent characters to exist within the universe at hand. Abrams and Lindelof know how to surround their characters with unanswerable life-affirming questions, and how to make those questions resonate, but not how to apply those questions from start to finish. The final season of Lost is completely and utterly dedicated to exploring those broad questions, which are never answered, but finally gain meaning in regards to the characters. Prometheus is beguiled by several boring characters who serve no purpose, such as Fifield and Millburn, whose existence keeps in line with the “unanswerable questions” theme, but doesn’t own the same prominence or tenacity as David or Elizabeth’s.

I’m not here to flat-out proclaim people are wrong for faulting these filmmakers for their ambiguity. Sometimes the surface details of a plot thread lend more weight to the action at hand. But, as seen in the underlying theme of Prometheus and Lost, it’s ultimately inconsequential in retrospect. For when I remember Prometheus, I won’t be wondering why David implanted Elizabeth, but instead the utter fear in Elizabeth’s face when the beautiful act of birth she wishes to perform so wholeheartedly becomes a nightmarish ordeal. Nor will I be remembering the unanswered questions from Lost, but instead the moment where Jack closes his eye, mirroring the opening image of the series and bringing the show’s mission full circle. The moment where Jack stops asking questions and simply performs his inconsequential duty to become The Island’s keeper for a split second in order to save it. The moment where bliss spreads across his face in understanding one’s purpose. And paired with the moment where Jack looks out into the ocean, I see a set of filmmakers that aren’t interested in answering questions, but exploring them instead. They’re dedicated to a vision that’s as equally realized as any Spielberg film—a beautiful vision to explore humanity and all its encompasses.