Oz this aint.īut you don’t – you can’t – go in to Prison Break‘s first season expecting gritty realism or strict adherence to the rules of logic or plausibility. And that’s even before we take into account the giant matchstick model of the Taj Mahal that Michael’s compelled to structurally reinforce by the prison’s wishy-washy warden. And he only has four weeks in which to accomplish this task. Michael then engineers his own arrest and imprisonment in said facility so that he can break his brother out before the poor lump gets his head fried off in the electric chair.
Yes, the premise is absolutely batshit crazy: Genius structural engineer Michael Scofield spends hundred of hours and thousands of pounds tattooing himself with the disguised blueprints of a maximum security prison he himself helped design, and in which his brother, Lincoln – framed by a shadowy cabal called The Company for the murder of the vise President’s brother – just happens to be incarcerated on Death Row. (Relax, I don’t have any fish.) (Well, not now, anyway.) I couldn’t get enough of it, to the detriment of my health, relationships and the survival of my pet fish. My couch left imprints on my exposed body and face that were almost as intricate as Michael’s tattoos. That way, you can judge the show’s quality based on how many times you sell yourself the old lie: ‘I’ll just watch one more and then go to bed.’ Prison Break‘s first season turned me into a drooling insomniac. Sometimes it’s better to watch a completed series on DVD. – comes the time to weigh up the experience, from the good, to the bad, and the WTF-ly…
Having now witnessed the entire saga from prison to prison and break to break, and back again – and back again etc. Christ asks much of his people, but even he has to draw the line somewhere.)
I’d watched three seasons of Drop Dead Diva, for Christ’s sake! (I’m not being literal. Even if Lincoln inexplicably regenerated into the Fourteenth Doctor, or Michael was unmasked as a Cylon: so what? I could take it. There would be no half measures in my commitment. So I resolved to ‘stick it to the man’ and keep watching Prison Break until the bitter end, no matter what its detractors said, or in which direction the series happened to evolve.
Well, we’ve all had fingers burnt in defiance of the command: ‘Don’t touch that, it’s hot.’ It’s human nature. Their warning was similar to that which you might use to dissuade a young lad from rushing to the hospital for one last moment with the still-warm corpse of his favorite grand-uncle: ‘Just remember the good times you had together, lad. Fourth season: awful.’ My friends urged me – and humanity itself – not to watch past the season two finale. The responses on my newsfeed, from those who’d stuck with the show to the end, were uniform: ‘First season: great.
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