The Lost finale, contrary to my expectations, was absorbing and moving and dropped enough hints to keep us going during the long, dry summer. This was no lumbering advert-filled exercise in excess (yeah, I'm glad Carrie won, and her duet with Rascal Flats was fabulous) but a grande finale worthy of its name. Props to J. J. Abrams and his talented writer crew.
Now, as to the hatch: are they really in purgatory and have discovered the gates of hell? Or is it true what we thought as kids, that if you dig far enough you'll get to China? If they're in a Bermude triangle loop, why do the enemy have motorboats? Turns out they didn't want Claire's baby after all, but Walt. Sure, maybe they think it's the Second Coming and he's the One, but Walt had enough kinetic power to kill birds and, um, people well before the crash.
We see Hurley in a flashback on the plane reading a comic book with a picture of the white bear on it, the same bear that turned up at the beginning of the island sojourn. So, okay, we're on the Island of Dr. Freud, where all boundaries between the real and the unconscious, the id and the superego, disappear. Michael doesn't want to be a Dad? Okay, the zombies grab him. Be careful what you wish for, even in the darkest recesses of your subconscious. That doesn't explain why, though, unless Dr. Phil shows up and cures them all on the last episode.
Sigh. Guess I'll just have to wait to find out. Hope J. J. and the gang give us a new season quicker than these guys.
(thanks for the invite, Christian.)