Lindelof and Monkey Poo

(NOTE: I'm not a fan of vitriol-filled screeds about popular entertainment. I prefer to comment on things I really like, and ignore things I don't. But there are rare exceptions, and this is one of them because, well, Damon Lindelof).

I must be a masochist—that is the only explanation for why I watched the first two episodes of Damon Lindelof's "The Leftovers" on HBO last night. After the wet-fart-in-the-face that was LOST's crash-and-burn and the cinematic abortion of Prometheus, I swore I would never allow my eyeballs to take in a single moment of the man's "work" again. Silly me.

Let me just say this: mystery for mystery's sake is not art, or even passable entertainment. Unless you're a master of the surreal (think David Lynch), you are a monkey in a zoo jerking off while throwing your shit at bystanders. Halfway through LOST's arc I began to realize I was being conned—that there was no "there" there, and it was simply an exercise in vapid mental "mystery" masturbation. I was proved right when, despite Lindelof's assertions that it was all going to be tied up neatly, it turned into a "they were all dead the whole time" purgatorial group hug. That feeling emerged in the pilot of The Leftovers and only increased in episode two. Which is a shame, as everything other than the story was pretty good—the acting and the direction are of HBO's usual high-quality.

I found myself speculating: What is with these crazy "other" dogs rampaging through the streets? Is the protagonist cop *really* seeing the man with the jaw full of chaw? Why is the town's most famous "left behinder" conducting secretive and bizarre interviews? What was with the deer smashing up the cop's house and are his dreams prophetic?

And then I realized, "This is Damon Lindelof, dipshit. THERE ARE NO ANSWERS BECAUSE HE'S JUST THROWING SHIT AT YOU LIKE A MONKEY IN A ZOO."

I hope I've learned my lesson now. Please excuse me while I wipe the monkey poo off my face.