Recently I've been watching an old BBC series on Netflix. I got into it because it was sweet and quaint and charming, and tho I didn't like all the characters, I did enjoy the stories.
Part of the ongoing story carried from one episode to the next was the love interest between the two primary characters. Because I don't want to turn anybody onto or off the series, I'm not going to give details, but let's say it was one of those romances that seemed impossible due to the other commitments in the characters' lives.
So three seasons in (I've been watching every few nights when Elliot goes to bed early), they finally get their priorities straight and decide Love Conquers All. He finally, poetically, passionately declares that he loves her.
She is then unceremoniously and unexpectedly killed.
...
(this is not what i signed up for)
...
After scanning episodes on IMDB, it seems the show gets into a habit of killing people off, so I will not be watching it anymore. In the meantime, I'm trying to rewrite the last episode in my head, and reminding myself that these are not people, they are characters. Their fate was determined by the whim of the writers, and could as easily have been different.
In my mind now, I've written off the last scenes as a bad dream, one which the lead awakes from and is finally ready to face life head on, trust his feelings, etc. and they walk hand in hand off into the sunset.
Because really, it pisses me off when people mix their tragedy drama in with my escapism. Not, mind you, as bad as all that, but bad enough.
Maybe I need to stick to positive thinking in the real world, since the media seems determined to disappoint me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment