Or to put it another way: the strength of the lost-on-an-island conceit is that we, the audience, know only as much as the characters themselves know. They're all strangers to each other, just as they are to us, and none of them have any better idea than we do where they are. That's a unique and creative tack to take in a network television program. It means we're going to be constantly surprised by these characters and the things that happen to them...unless you give us, the viewers, access to huge chunks of otherwise secret information from the pasts of particular characters. As you seem to be doing. Now we feel manipulated, or at least I do, because now the Powers That Be are clearly showing their hands in the specific bits of information they choose to dole out. You'll show me Kate's sojourn in Australia, but you won't tell me what crime she committed? That's not storytelling; that's caprice.
Early the next morning. Locke sits on a secluded part of the beach and blows on the whistle he's been whittling. We hear an extremely high-pitched sound, which I think is inaccurate, yes? I thought humans can't hear dog whistles at all? Also, why do dog whistles attract dogs? I mean, dogs don't know there's anything special about a dog whistle as opposed to the hundreds of other sounds they hear every day. Shouldn't you have to train a dog to respond to a whistle just the same as any other sound? This paragraph is boring, and I hope I remember to delete it before I turn this recap in. Anyhoodle, Vincent the Shifty-Eyed Dog trots out of the woods and plops himself down in front of Locke.
Midsection Beach. Locke wakes up Mercutio and tells him that he found Walt's dog and has tethered it to a tree nearby. "I know that Walt lost his mom," Locke says. "I thought that you should be the one to bring his dog back to him." Aw, that's kind of nice. Mercutio thanks him.
Broody Beach, located just down the way from Midsection Beach. Jack sits staring at the ocean, which I must admit is looking particularly fetching in this scene. A cold front came through New York Sunday night, and my attractive lawyer wife and I were walking back from the car to our apartment and she commented how chilly it was, and I gave her a plaintive look, and she realized she's in for another six months of not being able to mention the weather because I will immediately start yammering on about Hawai'i. Jack's wearing his white shirt and dark pants and brooding about how he killed Shrap. Cripes, if this island is haunted, I want it to be by ghost pirates or something, not by everyone's guilt. Kate plops down next to him. With her white blouse and dark jeans they kind of look like one of those Midwestern couples who wear matching clothes on vacation. Also, they both look sad and pensive. Kate wants to tell Jack what unspecified crime she committed. Jack says no, he prefers that the crime remain unspecified. He says it doesn't matter who any of the castaways were before the crash. "Three days ago we all died," he thematicizes. "We should all be able to start over."