Duality and multiplicity in "LOST": Space for both on the island and beyond

Contains big spoilers!

Light and dark, hero and villain, safety and danger, following and leading: the binaries on LOST (airing 2004 – 2010) abound. Yet so does complexity, multiplicity, that which is undeniably multitudinous. Through imagery, narrative, characters, and more, so much within the show defies simple answers, a clear one-or-the-other (to the joy of some viewers and frustration of others). 

Duality and multiplicity, in and of themselves, are clear opposites…yet can they co-exist? Can the island and its inhabitants simultaneously hold both ends of the spectrum? Can we, as viewers? LOST at least asks us to try. 

The binary, as imagery and theme, begins rather early on in the series. The enigmatic John Locke invites the young and moody Walt to play backgammon. “Two players, one black, one white,” Locke explains: a duality resonating through the game’s deep history (a history Locke also underscores). 

The two players move black and white pieces, and perhaps they also represent the ends of a spectrum: young versus much older, innocent versus seasoned. These two poles meet and meld as the two become good friends, Locke arguably even something like a mentor figure to Walt (to the chagrin of Michael, Walt’s father, certainly). They even find notable similarities, such as not wanting to get off the island like most of the survivors do. 

"No try, only do"

The mysterious Locke guiding someone younger, someone struggling, continues with The Moth (S1, E7). Charlie Pace is a heroin addict, and that’s a problem if he’s stranded on a desert island; he’ll have no choice but to detox – no doubt facing painful withdrawal in the process. 

There’s something deeper at hand for Charlie, however, something Locke makes him see; will he give up drugs because he has no choice, or because he has the strength and conviction to actively reject the drugs? Locke calls him to his own agency. 

In lush jungle, knife in hand, Locke points out to Charlie a moth’s cocoon. He could open the cocoon for the moth, he explains, thus sparing the creature the struggle of wrestling its own way out. Yet then the moth would die; that struggle builds the strength it needs to survive its unforgiving habitat.

Locke is essentially telling Charlie that he needs to intentionally rebuff the drug, to make the choice himself – versus the island, and their circumstances, making it for him. If he doesn’t have the strength to do so, he’ll just fall back into addiction. He needs to fight his way out of the chrysalis, and thus become the stronger man he needs to be in order to continue living clean. 

Either the moth is strong enough to survive, or it’s not. Either Charlie chooses to give up drugs, or he doesn’t. He stays clean, or he doesn’t. Locke conveys this binary choice in how he speaks to Charlie about the moth and his choice. “No try, only do,” as Yoda would assert (and Charlie’s friend Hugo might even offer the quote…we know he’s a Star Wars fan). 

Before giving Charlie the “stash” back, Locke will let him ask for the drugs three times – that’s it…no “if”s, “and”s or “but”s about it.The third time, when Charlie seems to fail at recovery simply by asking that third time, Locke’s disappointment is palpable. Charlie surprises him, however. He takes the drugs back, but then throws them in a fire. The man in recovery upsets the binary. 

That’s even more the case because of how Charlie’s addiction struggle doesn’t end there. Boone and Locke find the plane holding Virgin Mary statues, themselves holding heroin: Charlie’s temptation. A figure of purity, of what the faith of his youth would tell him would be part of his eternal salvation, held what could pull him from that path to his personal betterment. And at times, it does just that. 

There is clean, and there is not…but also a path between the two. Charlie walks that path, just as he walks a line between honorable and questionable, between villain and hero, between friend and foe, as the series proceeds. 

The island's light and dark: spaces and survivors of mystery and certainty

One could posit that the island itself is one giant binary. It’s full of life: lush with flora, teeming with fauna, with temperate and comfortable conditions for life. Yet peril lies in many of its dark corners: from the polar bear (on a tropical island?!) to the “Smoke Monster” to its inhabitants apart from our stalwart survivors (Rousseau, the “Tailies”, the “Others”). 

For Rose, diagnosed with cancer, being without medical treatment would seem to be a death sentence – but it seems that the island is what heals her. She knows it, she tells her husband Bernard; she feels it. The cancer is gone. She’s healed. 

The hatch is a more specific site of binaries, as well as irony that results from them. Strictly speaking, it’s a gateway to another place: Desmond’s home, where the numbers must be entered every 108 minutes. Yet – to Locke and Boone’s utter frustration – it just won’t open. It was built to protect life, yet it is intimately connected with Boone’s death; he was spending a good deal of time with Locke in order to figure it out, leading to the incident with the plane. [That death is also simultaneous with new life; Boone passes away as Aaron is born.] 

In darkness, both literal and metaphorical, Locke beats his fist on the hatch: pleading to the island for a sign, begging for its guidance and wisdom. It’s only Desmond turning on a light, but that light comes up at Locke. He believes he’s found his sign. Is the sign in the hatch? 

Inside they find an obligation to enter a certain set of numbers every 108 minutes in order to save humanity. They enter the numbers or don’t, they save humanity or don’t. Viewers come to learn that the site of the hatch, the “Swan Station”, was built to shield the effects of a catastrophic electromagnetic event. 

Ironically enough, with that having to enter “the numbers” every 108 minutes or the world ends, the site essentially becomes a ticking time bomb. Is it ultimately saving or severely threatening life? Our main characters believe all sorts of things about it all, and nothing in the show offers much more clarity. 

The “Black Rock” is another site of ironic dualities. Richard (then “Ricardo”) arrived on the island through it, hundreds of years ago. Our main characters arrived on a much more modern plane. It is old; plant life grows up around it, nature overtaking this man-made force. Yet it holds the dynamite that the survivors believe is their future, their survival (Season 1, Episode 23 and 24....not so much for Arszt, rest in power).

A colossus of the past, yes, but it’s where Sawyer has a chance to (in his mind) move forward with his life by doing what he’s wanted to do for literally decades: kill the man who took his parents from him, so young and defenseless. Way back those centuries ago, it carried Ricardo to where he became Richard: leaving his past behind, becoming immortal, finding new purpose beyond his old life and its grief. 

All of these spaces also hold events that utterly defy binaries. Hence, what powerfully attracts some people to this show and totally turns off others: the complexity, the ambiguity, the elliptical nature of interweaving plots, timelines, and catalyzing forces. 

For one example: will something else entirely happen if they don’t enter the numbers into that computer in the hatch…how can they know? That is sincere doubt infused into a certainty of “save the world or don’t.”  

Many also say that a lot of that ambiguity and complexity lies in the show’s ensemble. We began here with a discussion of Locke, Walt, and Charlie – let’s again look more specifically at characters. 

The grey backgammon: characters muddying the binary

Indeed, many of the characters’ arcs complicate strict dualities – those that may at first seem clear within these individuals. Our main characters, as a group, begin as embattled survivors against the threatening others…who Charlie calls “animals.” 

Yet many of those “Others”, such as Juliet and Ben, come to act in ways that complicate a view of them as wholly evil (we’ll look at Juliet more specifically). Mr. Eko was a warlord who stepped into the role of priest: quite the binary. On the island, he has moments that reflect both histories – and ultimately meets his end in devotion and sacrifice to higher cause. 

In Season 1, Sawyer and Sayid are at opposite poles of a moral spectrum: the menace to the community versus someone supremely capable and generous. Such strict moral binaries blur as we learn more about their histories. Their roles are, in a way, even reversed in later seasons: Sawyer becomes the security professional LaFleur, a pillar of community, while Sayid becomes an assassin. 

Juliet enters the narrative as a feared, vilified “Other” – and then ends her life in courageous self-sacrifice. Throughout, however, she displays a level of grace and kindness; though she’s a “researcher” rather than a doctor, she’s got quite the bedside manner. Exhibit A: her tender care of the pregnant Sun when taking her to rooms of the “Others” to be sonagrammed – and her fate gleaned. She is a sometimes-villain, sometimes-hero – yet always with ferocity and human gentleness that defies both extremes. 

In the first episodes Jack and Kate quickly become heroes: smart, competent, self-sacrificial. They stand in opposition to Sawyer, a public liability (not forever, as described; he greatly grows and matures). Yet the darkness in their respective pasts, and still in themselves, becomes illuminated before long. 

Their last moments solidify their generosity and commitment to causes beyond themselves: redemption arcs, at least from a certain angle. In the church of the finale, with those they love, they have thus earned some sort of salvation.    

The ultimate character duality comes towards the series’ very end, in the form of Jacob and his brother – the “Man in Black.” They play backgammon, just as Locke and Walt do seasons before. The fair, blonde Jacob uses the white backgammon, while his darker-colored brother uses the black. 

As they grow into men and face temptations, challenges to what they’ve always known, that light and darkness reflects through their actions – and, seemingly, their underlying character. We, as viewers, learn that Jacob comes to essentially be the protector of the force keeping the evil that is his brother at bay. That force is the island itself. It doesn’t get much more classical binary of good and evil than that. 

Yet the series even complicates that strict duality. The imperfect Jack – sometimes rash, often overly proud, forever wounded from his past – defeats the ultimate evil of “The Man in Black” (taken form in John Locke). Thus, even in his human fallibility, he steps into Jacob’s role. 

Speaking of Jacob, even he is shown to be imperfect. It comes to ultimately be Hugo stepping into those hallowed shoes, with Ben Linus’ assistance. They discuss problems with how Jacob “ran things.”

One can certainly critique Jacob’s handling of human lives, those he chose to potentially be “candidates” to fulfill his role: like dolls, like puppets. Where is their autonomy, their say in the matter? Even the embodiment of ultimate good…might not be 100% good. 

Nothing so simple

One could even argue that time itself is a character in the show: offering an avenue for exposition and deeper character understanding (via flashback), presentingchallenges, infusing mystery. Time is inherently dependable, as sure “as clockwork” (we even have an idiom for it). 

Time is also inherently linear; we go forward and can look backwards (in science fiction, perhaps travel backwards). One or the other – it’s a strict binary. 

In Season 6, that forwards or backwards duality isn’t so certain; a bomb changing events of the future effectively creates a “flash sideways”, something like a whole other timeline that could have been if Oceanic 816 never crashed. Plot complexities certainly result from this frame – losing some audience members who are just too confused. 

Fair, understandable…yet the complicating of linear time does have something to offer. Who among us hasn’t wondered “what if”: they hadn’t taken that job, met that person, got on that particular train that day. In the context of LOST, no binary is immune from an infusion of multiplicity. True life is just complex like that, isn’t it? 

Also holding complexity is the plethora of faiths reflected, through imagery, in the series finale – when Jack once again meets his father. Jack is (understandably) confused and uncertain. Yet his father is assured, compassionate, a rock for his son in that moment: more than we had ever seen him be in life, arguably. 

Something unites all of those faiths: the Golden Rule. All of the moral questions they hold could be boiled down to following that Rule or failing to do so. In the same way, one could argue that all of the show’s twists and turns, its diversions and mysteries, also boil down to much more essential questions. 

Jack’s father reinforces community, care, and love…and agency to bolster those values. Jack walks out to, in the presence of these people for whom he’s come to deeply care, experience those same gifts of human connection and tenderness. 

In the series, moral questions remain complex. Beliefs, perspectives, motivations, personalities all together hold an unimaginably vast multiplicity. Yet that question of the Golden Rule remains. That church, emanating with love – the tensions and pains of the past having faded away, if at least for a moment – it can hold both, the duality and the multiplicity. 

LOST calls us to ask ourselves: can we? The show may leave us with many questions we’ll never answer (and, to this writer, that’s part of its magic). Yet that quandary, even if it may take our whole lives…that we have a shot at.

Images via ABC, no rights claimed