Sunday, February 21, 2010

Alexandra (Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen)

"She's not my daughter.  I stole her as a baby from an insane woman. She's a pawn, nothing more. She means nothing to me. I'm not coming out of this house. So if you want to kill her, go ahead and do it - "
- Ben, The Shape of Things to Come

Ben has always been one of the most fascinating characters on LOST, and his tale seems continually marked by tragedy, some of it brought upon himself. It's hard to say how much blame he deserves for the death of his adopted daughter in the devastating season four episode The Shape of Things to Come, but it's clearly something that's been eating away at him. Season six's The Substitute gives me reason to hope that Sideways Ben, purified by his horrific experience on the Island and his remorseful reponse to his complicity, is atoning for his failure to protect his daughter by spending his days in a position where he can guide teens like her to better lives. Here's a reflection to the tune of Rufus Wainwright's version of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah.


It hadn’t been an easy year.
The little girl who you held so dear
Had made it pretty clear she couldn’t stand ya.
Oh, teenage love’s a tricky thing.
You only sought to clip her wings
To fling away a threat to Alexandra.

Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.

Defiantly, you had made her yours.
You snatched her from the out-of-doors
Though wars were fought and Widmore would’ve banned ya.
And yet it was your choice to spare
The child and leave her mother there,
Despairingly imploring, “Alexandra!”

Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.

Steering her to the secret spot,
You sought some solace in the thought
She’d not be caught by those who would demand ya.
But Keamy brought her back home to you.
Now your mind games wouldn’t do,
And you knew that you had lost your Alexandra.

Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.

The mercenary called your bluff.
You loved her, Ben, but not enough.
You gruffly said the isle would reprimand ya.
In the dead of night, your darkest dreams
Were littered with the tortured screams
Of Keamy’s lily victim, Alexandra.

Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.

You were traumatized at first
And, haunted by your last outburst,
You cursed the man accustomed to command ya.
But the blameless blood that was freely spilt
Then forged in you a transforming guilt,
So you built a life to honor Alexandra.

Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.
Alexandra, Alexandra.

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