House finale

I went out for early voting today, for the May primaries. I still did not feel like I got enough info about the different candidates, but I did the best I could based on local endorsements. At least redistricting gave us a new Democratic seat.

I wanted to see Hysteria this weekend, but I found out that it's not coming here until June, so I've been watching TV shows on Netflix to pass the time. I'm going through season 1 of Murder, She Wrote now, and I wish current TV shows were still made like this. I want traditional whodunits, not serial killers and CSI gore. I want mystery plots that make sense, instead of being all random flash and style. (I've been so fed up with the declining quality of Castle mysteries that I've quit the show.) An episode should not end with viewers confused as to what happened, or doubting the plausibility of the story.

Anyway, tonight was the House finale. I stopped watching the show many seasons ago, but came back for the end since I heard about Wilson's cancer. He's the one guy I still cared about on the show, and I'm glad he didn't die onscreen. I found House's brooding and talking to past characters in his head boring, but at least the bastard finally decided to make a sacrifice for his friend Wilson. Going to the extreme of faking his death and being unable to ever resume his old life, suggests a very deep love indeed. The two of them riding off into the sunset together is ambiguous enough that we can imagine them living slashily ever after if we want. It may be bromantic crumbs, but it's a lot better than many shows lately that don't want to support sexual ambiguity. (I was very upset about Person of Interest introducing Grace out of nowhere, destroying past continuity for gay panic.) Some viewers said the fake death was reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes's death in "Final Problem". Well, sort of, but with Watson joining him on his hiatus, with no marriage in the way, but a real impending death to shorten their happiness. It was sentimental and schmaltzy, like the ending to E. M. Forster's Maurice. But sometimes we like our sentimental fairy tales.