Bill watches the Six applying the resin to his girl, zipping her up, turning her into a half-beast thing, husbanding her into new life. These scenes are repetitive, but they're only a few seconds long each, and make a staccato point that informs the scenes on either side. I think it's elegant. Saul was hers, uncomplicated, a man who would -- and did -- let her fuck all New Caprica, "catting around with all the men," as long as she came home at the end of it all. The man she spent a year and a half dreaming of, drawing his face. Dependable, a good drinking partner, kind and angry by turns, ready for a flareup when their love burned too hot, and ready to laugh when the waters calmed. And now he's got Six all over him, in his pores and on his skin, and in his head. He's becoming something new, made stronger and more strange, something that might not love her like he used to: Ellen's Galactica.
The first Article of Faith is and always should be very simple: this is not all that we are. The Final Five and the Cylon race are Galactica too: falling apart, rehabilitating, stronger and stranger, not fitting together anymore. Cobbled together from shoestring and half-remembered directives and fears. This scene is really sad, in a way: Ellen and Saul join a random Six and Eight, along with Galen and Tory, around Sam's bedside. The Final Five, together for the first time. And the daughters breathe in, joyful, waiting for the single event that will tie up all their loose ends and tell them what they're doing here, mend their rended hearts and recreate the Cylon world they remember, or something better. And nothing happens.
Imagine you spend weeks setting up a lunch date with Dorothy Parker, Scott Fitzgerald, Ursula LeGuin, St. Augustine and William F. Buckley at the Algonquin, and when you get there they're stoned and talking endlessly about like Rock Of Love and what their farts remind them of. That is the saddest thing I can think of.
Paulla should take notes, because she's Gaius's Galactica, and she knows what this is like. These are your saints, girls: One illuminated and pretentious, and still rocked by human jealousies, and one comatose, whose half-dead brain holds mysteries like a dream, a joke. Three still amnesiac and hopeless: Tory trying her best to become more Cylon than the Cylon even as they're trying to be as human as possible, Galen regressing to five personalities ago and trying to have it both ways, and Saul Tigh with his nasty little secrets. Isn't that so sad? When they dreamed of them, and forgot them after waking, they shone immaculate and white, in angelic robes, under frescoes of creation, in a beautiful lost hall with proportions and acoustics fit for a holy choir. Reaching out and welcoming you home... And now finally you see them, you've sacrificed an unbelievable amount both personally and racially to find them and bring them together and explain yourself to you, and they are just these freaks! These broken-ass dirty motherfuckers! That is comedic.