There’s no Lost tonight. In four weeks I’ll be saying that every day, but in that situation I have no new Lost to look forward to again. After a healthy run of three months a week off was scheduled to prepare for the May 23 finale.
I haven’t written about Lost much this season, or about a lot of things in general, but that doesn’t mean I find this season any less amazing. I had faith in the LA X timeline, I thought The Temple storyline was good, and as the series accelerates closer to the end I have no idea what is going on or how it will end. I find it amusing that the characters I care about most (Desmond, Ben, Richard, Jacob, Man in Black) were not even around in season and some weren’t even mentioned until season three.
In light of Lost not being on it’s time to take a walk down memory lane with some scripts from previous episodes. This site has a few scripts from season one and two. I don’t normally read scripts, I imagined they were pretty tame, but if they include the amount of cussing, unsaid suggestion and written like something Quentin Tarantino would do then I should read some more.
What? You brought her along for the sympathy vote? Well she ain’t in my head, Doc, so go screw.
Ow. ON KATE, uncomfortable that Sawyer has crossed into this territory. Jack deals with it another way — pulls out HIS fucking gun, sticks it in Sawyer’s face —
Take us to the guns. Right now.
Now Sawyer has a moment of realization. He doesn’t have his fucking gun! He forgot about it. He involuntarily reaches anyway for the back of his waistband, like you’d check for your missing wallet. Nothing! Double fuck.
That bitch. She stole my damn gun.
(off Jack’s look)
How’d she do that?
Sawyer’s not about to tell Jack that —
What does she need a gun for?
Locke knows why: to get fucking revenge. He realizes he might have seriously fucked up.
Jack. I need to tell you something.
BACK ON MICHAEL — And his expression changes — as if he’s in great EMOTIONAL PAIN that he can’t restrain anymore. A single TEAR slips down his cheek. And then, very, very softly, he says —
Michael abruptly STANDS. Points the gun at Ana Lucia.
He shoots her. POINT BLANK.
And Ana’s eyes barely register surprise as she slides off the couch. SLUMPS into a seated position.
She looks up at Michael, still pointing the gun at her as she opens her mouth — but it’s not drawn out. No. Because a moment later, her body just… goes SLACK.
Her eyes stay open, but the lights are out.
Ana Lucia Cortez is dead.
Michael — ?
And Michael is fucking SHOOTING before he even sees what he’s shooting at — INSTINCT now as he WHIPS AROUND towards the sound of that voice and REVEAL —
SHOCKED. HOLDING THE BLANKETS SHE WAS GETTING FOR HER PICNIC WITH HURLEY. A BLACKENED HOLE now permeates in the center of those blankets as Libby’s knees fucking BUCKLE —
She hits the ground like a back of rocks. Over. DONE.
Oh sweet fucking CHRIST.
TIME STOPS. ON MICHAEL. FREAKING OUT. SWEATING. BLINKING. HIS GUN HAND FUCKING TREMBLING. FROZEN.
And then he BREAKS it. Pulls his eyes away from the dead women as he TURNS — INTENSE — walks over to the ARMORY —
GIACCHINO MUSIC starts to POUND now as his SHAKING HAND spins the COMBINATION DIAL — eighteen to the right — one to the left — thirty-one to the right. HE PULLS DOWN THE HANDLE —
THE DOOR SLIDES OPEN. DARK IN HERE, Michael, the gun at his side, BACKLIT by the living area behind him as we REVEAL…
Henry. Sitting in the corner. Untied.
And considering he just heard three gunshots and a STRANGE MAN is now standing in the doorway of his “cell,” the look on Henry’s face is not one of FEAR…
It is one of ACCEPTANCE.
He stands up. Faces Michael.
And Michael looks at him. ANOTHER tear slides down his face as he raises the gun…
And turns it on HIMSELF — PUSHING IT AGAINST HIS COLLARBONE.