Can we talk Farscape please? For just a quick little minute?
What. the. frell.
I routinely come across Farscape memes among the geek set, and the respectable proportion of these recently had me thinking I had missed something, one geek to another. I love crazy sci-fi! Why, I wondered to myself, did I ever give up on a show full of awesome aliens, nifty world-building, and adorable cursing that combines crazy sci-fi with the glorious genius of the Henson Studios?
So I pulled out my all-access Netflix pass and jumped down the rabbit hole. For most of the first two seasons, I thoroughly enjoyed the sets, the costumes, the plots…maybe not Ben Browder’s shouty over-acting, but most of the rest of the show. And then they killed off Virginia Hey and things got weird. For whatever reason–make-up toxicity, politics, legitimate career offers for the better actors–Farscape never seemed to have much commitment to the status quo. And at some point, I’m pretty sure the writers were either perpetually high or just irresponsibly stoked about ignoring internal consistency (where in the uncharted territories did Chiana’s sudden onset visions come from?), but once season three got fully under way, it was like they were thoroughly committed to driving the viewers crazy right along with Crichton.
Oh. Right. THAT’S why I stopped watching the show.
I mean, my word, people. Reality on the other side of the wormhole did an complete tailspin to the degree that even having just watched four seasons in the space of a few weeks, I don’t think I could separate out the plot points that actually happened from the ones that occurred in an alternate reality/timeline/simulation or were hallucinated due to drugs/torture/illness/mind control/more drugs/holy dren the main characters spent a lot of time drugged out of their minds on this show for a really impressive range of reasons.
Let me draw you a little comparison:
This is what we call impressionist graphing. I could map it out for you more thoroughly, but I’ve already lost four seasons of my life plus the time it took for me to write this rant, so I won’t. The point should be clear, however: messing with the realness of reality is like lemon pepper seasoning. It is delightful in small amounts, but should on no account be used to thickly batter an entire pan of chicken breasts. Enough is as good as too much.
Because I have more faith than is clearly merited in the internet and the geeks who dwell therein, however, I persevered through to the bitter end, certain that I was missing something, that all would come clear. I wasn’t hoping for much more than a Dorothy Gale waking up in her own bed moment (and you were there, and you…), but it was SO MUCH WORSE.
The will-they/won’t-they champions of the century get engaged, very romantically, in a boat (which they got where, exactly?) and are then frozen by an alien weapon and shattered into a bazillion pieces leaving D’Argo screaming in horror as he watches, helpless to intervene.
And then the show was cancelled. The wrap-up was schlepped off onto a mini-series that I would have to pay actual money to get my hands on, and you know what? I can’t do it. I just can’t bring myself to spend the eight bucks to add that particular DVD to my collection, but more importantly, I can’t resign myself to the fact that I’m not done. I know this may seem like quitting with the finish line in sight, but in my mind, John Crichton and Aeryn Sun will forever be a beautiful pile of commingled flesh crystals sparkling in the sun as Ka D’Argo rages on.
Just trying to find a way to embrace the absurdity.