Land Locked

Judge a tree by its fruit, not by its leaves – Euripides

One of the things I like about Lost is the depth of characterization. Just when you think you have someone figured out, a weed from the past sprouts up and strangles their belief system. Some characters, like Jack, have obvious merit and self-worth, but their heroic acts screen hidden stores of conflict. Others, like Kate, are light on details but heavy with admirable traits so that any zingers revealed don’t knock us completely off the love train.

No one, however, took quite as long to evolve as John Locke. He doesn’t speak a word of dialogue until the second hour of the pilot, giving new meaning to the phrase, “strong, silent type.” Despite the lack of verbal discourse, Locke still makes an impact. Let’s take another look at the pilot and shine the spotlight in John Locke’s direction.

Pandemonium prevails after the crash. Jack’s unflinching emergency services take center stage, so we barely register when Locke walks on. He’s one of two men assisting Jack in the rescue of a trapped man. Locke is eager to help, but wastes no energy on idle conversation. Once Jack works his way through the primary wave of injuries, an uneasy cadence settles over the crash site. Alone, Locke sits by the water’s edge, contemplating the vast, empty sea. Dusk trickles ashore. The jungle monster makes its cacophonous debut, trampling palm trees inside the green felt valley adjacent to the beach. Locke is one of many who turn in bewilderment.

Our first preview of Locke comes day two when Kate commandeers a pair of hiking boots from a dead passenger. Regret looms large as she searches for a pair her size. Successful, she catches Locke peering at her. His expression is pinched into a tight-lipped grimace. She stills. Does he know the person whose shoes she’s just pilfered? Guilt inflames remorse. Locke suddenly smiles. His lips strain around an orange slice, obscuring teeth and context. He chomps the wedge like Magilla Gorilla then looks away.

Huh? The moment leaves a strange taste in our mouths. While most main characters are drawn together in communal comfort, Locke isolates himself. An abrupt downpour scatters survivors like ants. Everyone scurries for cover - everyone but Locke. He’s seated amidst a circle of plane debris, drenched to the bone. Glancing skyward, he lifts his arms, a sinner rinsed clean by liquid redemption. A queer duck, to be sure.

His first words do little to dismantle the myth. He unearths a backgammon game and assembles the board. Michael’s ten-year-old son, Walt, wanders by. Is it like Checkers? Locke finally replies, Not really. It’s a better game than Checkers. Locke likes games. We know this is symbolic. Dialogue is never throwaway on this show. Every word counts, especially with a man stingy with them.

Locke asks if Walt plays Checkers with his pop - not father or dad. Pop. Informal, unstuffy. Walt discloses he’s been living with his mom, but she died a couple weeks ago. Locke ponders that. You’re having a bad month. No artifice, just simple sentiment. Michael’s initial forays into parenting have been ham-handed and somewhat patronizing. Walt laps up Locke’s candor like a thirsty puppy. He kneels down. Locke explains the origins of backgammon. Remnants of the game were found as far back as ancient Mesopotamia. Older than Jesus Christ. Dice made of bones. Just the kind of entertainment that captivates a ten-year old. No doubt Walt is mentally adding it to his Christmas list. Locke elaborates: Two players, two sides. One’s light, one’s dark. More symbolism? Oh, I think so. Dualism is sewn into the fabric of the show.

Here’s where it gets dicey. Locke leans in and asks, Walt, do you want to know a secret?

If this were HBO or Showtime, an Amber Alert would surely follow. Fortunately Locke is family-friendly peculiar not serial-killer cuckoo. But the question underscores the struggle and uncertainty that shroud Locke season long. This tiny nibble is all we get in the two hour premiere. It’s not until the next episode, Tabula Rasa, that we witness the compassion that insulates his ideology.

The revealing act involves his new BFF Walt. Michael struggles with Walt’s fascination with Locke. Jealousy tarnishes his efforts to connect with the son he barely knows. Michael asks what he and Locke spoke about. Walt is non-committal. Some of it’s secret. Michael’s paternal hackles go rigid. He tell you not to tell me? No. Walt relents. Mr. Locke said a miracle happened here. Michael shrugs. It’s a miracle any of them survived. He doesn’t want Walt hanging out with Locke anymore. Walt is furious – Mr. Locke’s his friend. I’m your friend, too, Michael reminds him. Walt begs to differ. If you were my friend, you’d find Vincent. Vincent is Walt’s yellow lab, missing since the plane crash.

Michael doesn’t believe Vincent survived, but he issues the standard platitudes – yes, he cares about the dog; of course he’ll do everything he can to find it once the rain stops.

Guess what? The rain stops. God’s own paternal prod. Make good or eat crow, buddy.

Despite giant reservations about entering the forest, Michael tramps in only to get chased out by something he doesn’t stick around long enough to see. Well, he tried, didn’t he? Meanwhile, Locke is whittling a small block of wood into a whistle. The main plot of the episode - the fate of the marshal – straddles these brisk snippets of Locke, Michael, and Walt. By the time Sawyer makes his fateful decision, forcing Jack to act, we’re ready for an emotional pick-me-up.

By dawn the next day, we get it. Locke parks himself on a spit of sand, facing a wall of dense vegetation. He blows into his whistle. The high-pitched frequency softly resonates. In the distance a dog barks in response. Out trots Vincent; happy, hardy and whole. The camp is just stirring when Locke returns. He wakes Michael to tell him he’s found Walt’s dog. Locke points to where he’s tethered Vincent to a tree. I know that Walt lost his mom. I thought you should be the one to bring his dog back to him.

When Walt wakes to see his dad leading Vincent toward him, we are putty in Locke’s hands. Fresh starts abound among the survivors, but only Locke’s gesture make this Hallmark moment possible for father and son. Before we pronounce Locke Santa Claus, though, he logs in a course correction. As Michael and Walt are enmeshed in a euphoric display of fist-bumping, the camera pans to Locke. He scrutinizes their mawkish spectacle with the unsentimental glower of an alpha male forced to watch High School Musical. Is Locke rethinking his generosity? Judging Michael’s parenting skills? Fantastically constipated?

We don’t have enough info to say either way, but the next episode, Walkabout, exposes a startling secret, adding a fascinating layer to the crazy quilt that is Locke’s character.

First Impressions

Courage is the ladder on which all the other virtues mount. - Clare Booth Luce

First impressions can be dicey things. Sometimes what you see is what you get. And sometimes you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The former adage seems to apply fairly handily to Jack Shephard’s character in the premiere episode of Lost. On the surface, he’s a heroic guy, putting the needs of others first like you’d expect a doctor to do. Underneath he’s a genuine person with a couple of flaws and quirks, but nothing so deviant you rethink your first impression of him. Let’s look at the primary female lead of Lost and see if the writers employed the same strategy to unveil the castaway who is Kate Austen.

By the time Kate makes her entrance, Jack has already rallied other survivors to rescue a fellow passenger, applied a life-saving tourniquet to his leg, shielded the pregnant Claire from certain doom, assigned Hurley as protector, revived the unconscious Rose, and improvised a surgical kit with hopes of mending his own injury. All in ten minutes. Talk about your full day’s work. Jack is on the brink of accepting his limitations when Kate totters into his private copse. Grasping her wrist, she takes a moment to realize someone has called to her. Little wonder, considering her flight was torn to pieces by the devil’s own turbulence. That she isn’t curled into a tight ball drooling is a testament to her strength already.

Jack queries: Has she ever used a needle? Patched a pair of jeans? I need a little help. Dr. Shephard, master of understatement. Jack turns to expose the gouge carved into his torso. Kate closes her eyes as if to stave off a variety of things – fear, nausea, revulsion. The urge to faint. Her voice betrays a tremor as she repeats his request. Despite growing discomfort, Jack is ever the leader, guaranteeing she can stitch him up. No problem. He knows she can do it. If you wouldn’t mind.

That’s the clincher. He doesn’t want to put this on her, but he’s in a bad way. The guy who waded through wounded has an emergency of his own. And he’s in pain. He doesn’t voice this – we already understand he wouldn’t manipulate an innocent that way – so we hang on the next breath. We’re emotionally invested in Jack. We need him to be okay. We also feel for Kate. Stick a perfect stranger with a needle and watch flesh pull and blood pool? Sign me up! Sorry, no. Sooner stick a needle through my eye. But we expect more of Kate. We need her to succeed. If she does, so does Jack.

Reluctant and apprehensive, she agrees. How can she not? Human decency demands an affirmative response. Kate has a conscience, or at least a generous supply of mercy. She disinfects her hands with a mini bottle of vodka. When presented with the variety of thread in the sewing kit, she asks, “Any - uh…color preference?”

This is the first true break in tension for Jack, one he badly needs. We instantly love Kate for this. He manages to find the humor and assures her standard black will do. What’s more, this glimmer of personality shows (not tells) Kate uses humor as a coping mechanism, a skill that comes from experience. She not only has the backbone to get through this, she’s trying to ease Jack’s suffering as best she can.

Despite her own show of grit, she’s amazed by Jack’s composure. As she patches him up, he relays his first spinal surgery story (see Get Lost, Doc for details). How things went wrong. How he gave the fear five seconds – he counts – and it was gone. How he saved the girl and salvaged his career. Kate’s sure she would have run. Jack disagrees: I don’t think that’s true. You’re not running now.

Kate pauses to look at him. Says nothing. Humble? Or hiding something? For now, we are left to wonder.

Darkness falls as Jack kneels beside a critically injured passenger. The man has a piece of shrapnel the size of a wrench wedged in his chest. Kate asks Jack if the guy will make it. Jack looks up. Do you know him? She hesitates before answering. He was sitting next to me. The unnerving disclosure of someone who owes her life to the fickleness of fate? Or something more?

Jack and Kate rehash what they can about the crash. Jack remembers the initial turbulence, the sudden and devastating loss of altitude, then . . . nothing. He passed out. Kate was not so lucky. She was conscious for the whole thing – the drop, the tail section ripping away, the front of the plane dropping off. The audience is humbled by this, the courage it takes to endure such trauma and not descend into madness. Kate is rattled, but remarkably poised and level-headed. Admirable.

And tenacious. When Jack makes a case for finding the cockpit, ergo the transceiver, Kate recalls seeing smoke up in the valley following the crash. She insists she accompany him. It’s at this precise moment they hear indecipherable noises slam through the jungle. Everyone on the beach is paralyzed by its fury. Welcome to the tropical Twilight Zone. Could things get any worse?

Never say never. This sways neither Jack nor Kate from their commitment to find the transceiver the following morning. In light of the invisible jungle monster, Jack makes an effort to give Kate an out, but she won’t budge. He further recommends she get better shoes, forcing her to scavenge among the dead for decent hiking boots. The fact that she can – albeit with great remorse - further reinforces Kate’s mettle. Which is fortunate because she’s going to need it.

Their duo increases by one when Charlie Pace, a jittery Irish rocker, volunteers to join their search party. Jack isn’t thrilled to endanger more people, but Charlie is adamant. A sudden, torrential downpour pounds them during their trek. In the watery miasma, they stumble upon the front of the plane, nose up against a sprawling tree. Inside is a nightmare of dangling oxygen masks, drooping cables, and dislodged wall panels. Washed-out light leeches all but the color yellow - the color of danger. A portent? On this show? Count on it. They must fight gravity and the gruesome remains of ghost-white passengers still strapped to their seats to crawl up the passageway to the cockpit door.

Jack batters the locked handle with a fire extinguisher until the door flies open, ejecting the corpse of the co-pilot down the aisle between our terrified trio. Again, Jack tries to deter Kate from following him but she’s resolute. He pulls her up beside him and they scramble into the cockpit to explore the interior. Kate leans over the body of the pilot only to leap away when he sucks in a breath and regains consciousness. He’s alive! Jack assesses his injuries, declares he has a concussion, and pours some water down the pilot’s parched throat so he can speak.

The news it grim. Before the crash, the plane lost radio contact. The transponder went out. The crew decided to turn around and head for Fiji when the turbulence hit – one thousand miles off course. Any rescue effort will focus in the wrong direction.

Wonderful. At least they find the transceiver. While the pilot fiddles with it, Jack realizes Charlie’s missing. Kate drops back to the head of the cabin, calling Charlie’s name. He practically falls out of the lavatory when he bangs the door open, guilty as a kid caught shoplifting. Before Kate can question him, the bugle-like bellow of the jungle beast trumpets nearby. The fuselage trembles from its discordant, mechanical-monster approach. A giant shadow circles the plane, predator to prey.

Currently out of the loop, the pilot wants to know what the hell is going on and decides to have a look-see out the broken window on the nose. Great idea. You know this can’t end well.

The pilot leans forward, thankfully dumping the transceiver on a chair before sticking his head out the busted opening. A horrible metallic screech echoes through the plane before it shudders again. The bugle call competes with the hideous screams of the pilot as his body is jerked, not once, not twice, but three times through the opening before he springs upward out of sight like a puppet on a string. Immediately, a backlash of blood splashes the side window near Kate’s head.

Outside, the shadow creature attacks with such violence the fuselage wobbles and flops onto its belly. Jack clambers for the transceiver then all three blast out of the broken plane like cannonballs. Kate races through the rain with Jack and Charlie hot on her heels. The creature pursues, giving off all manner of ravenous, conveyer-belt clinking while remaining unseen. Divided by the gloom, Kate takes shelter in a fortress-like stand of branches and vines. Crazy with fear, she clings to the prison cell limbs, shaking and sobbing. Oh, God. Where’s Jack? She shrieks his name. Thunder is the only reply. Struggling for command, she starts to whimper: One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . using Jack’s trick to sooth the savage fear inside her.

After an agonizing commercial break, Kate emerges from her tree haven only to have Charlie shave ten years off her life by appearing out of nowhere. She’s so frightened she knocks him to the ground and demands to know where Jack is. Charlie explains they got separated. Kate is not happy with this explanation. She won’t abandon Jack. But there’s a certain gargantuan quality to this beast, Charlie warns. Fine. Don’t come. She’s already moving off without him. Resigned, Charlie rolls up and follows. The rain stops but an eerie blue fog hugs the muddy forest floor. Something catches Kate’s eye. When she approaches, she recognizes pilot wings lodged in the mud. She shifts her gaze to the reflection in a nearby puddle. The silhouette of a body lies cradled in the canopy of trees overhead.

Beyond horror, she and Charlie look up. What is that? Jack emerges from the thicket, unharmed, and informs them it’s the pilot. The very dead, mutilated pilot. At least thirty feet in the air. Charlie is dumbfounded. How does something like that happen?

So ends the first hour of Lost. Not exactly The Waltons, is it?

What have we learned so far about Kate? She’s no Mary Ellen, that’s for sure. Her decision to stop and help Jack sew up his wound tells us boatloads about her – she’s tough, empathetic, and willing to put herself out there when another human being is hurting. She’s courageous enough to enter a jungle harboring a big nasty and steadfast enough to go back in when one of their search party goes missing. She’s also adaptable. Though out of her mind with fear, Kate had the sense to apply Jack’s advice and get through a hairy moment. Jack set the bar high in terms of character, but Kate bears up well under the pressure.

Now, what don’t we know about her? What’s missing in her character sketch that we got almost immediately from Jack? We don’t know her characterization yet. We learn her character first – what she’s made of vs. who she is. In Jack’s case we glean his characterization almost immediately – dedicated doctor - while the nuts and bolts that make up the man slowly unwind through the engine of story. Kate’s profession, her station in life, are still a mystery. Why?

What don’t the writers want us to know about her? Would it alter our perception in a negative way? Up till this point, we’re feeling pretty positive about Kate. This woman has steel in her spine. Her cover shouts gutsy, ferocious, loyal, compassionate. I’d read that book, give it glowing reviews. What could possibly alter my opinion, make me throw the book against the wall?

Hints have been subtly inserted. She was holding her wrist the first moment she walked on scene. An injury? It didn’t affect her ability to stitch Jack up. As she worked the needle and thread, she told Jack she would have run in his shoes. Jack’s response: You’re not running now. Her silence sits like the elephant in a room. Later when Jack asks if she knows the man with shrapnel in his chest, she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she states, He was sitting next to me. Coincidence? Or something more sinister?

That answer in the next post.