We were skeptical at first when Mama Chaiken revealed that the final season of The L Word would morph from a trashy lesbian soap opera with incoherent plotlines into a trashy lesbian murder mystery with incoherent plotlines. Initially, we clenched our fists in defiance and resisted, but eventually we accepted it. (Did we have a choice?) After all, there is a rumor going around that 2009 is the “year of change.” And change is a good thing, right?
So as you already know, Jenny is sleeping with the fishes. A few viewers managed to warm up to Jenny’s character in the last season, and they wait with bated breath to see who did the dastardly deed. Most viewers, however, fell to their knees in relief and thanked Lilith for doing away with the terminally psychotic Jenny. “Ding dong! The witch is dead!” they sang in glee. These viewers patiently tune in every week and endure unfortunate developments such as Max’s new Unabomber-inspired look in order to discover the identity of the good doctor who lanced the festering boil on premium cable known as Jenny Schecter. The two camps may disagree on how they feel about Jenny, but they can agree on one thing: They want to know who killed her. That is, after all, the point of this season.
As our good friend Suze Orman says:
Yesterday, the Los Angeles Times reported that Mama Chaiken will leave us all in the dark about the identity of the killer:
Come on, Ilene. Don’t you know that President Obama signed an executive order to outlaw torture? We gave you the benefit of the doubt and sat through Jenny’s intolerable carnival montages. We twitched uncomfortably in our seats as we watched her meltdown leading to her stint stripping as “Miss Yeshiva Girl.” We continued watching even after the unforgivable Sounder storyline. We suspended our disbelief when we witnessed the perpetually disheveled and bewildered Shane bag hottie after hottie after hottie, and then Jenny. Yes, lesbians are used to eating bitterness, but couldn’t you have just thrown us a bone?
Uh-oh — I think I’m hearing En Vogue again.
But I suppose you know that no matter what abominations you throw our way, we just can’t quit you.
Damn you, Ilene. Damn you. We’ll be back next Sunday, as usual. Le sigh.