If any previous explanation of the series is understood, it’s also one that’s hard to describe fully without giving away big plot points. The pilot, while flashback heavy, builds a wholly intriguing world. As Ethan runs through his investigation, he discovers that some people believe it’s 2000 and they’ve been in town only one year, while others who arrived a year before believe over a decade has passed (and, seemingly has, thanks to certain casting choices).
Carla Gugino pops up as the latter, donning a cooking apron, perfect hair-do, and cheery pink lipstick – all Stepford Wife with nowhere to go – and provides the show with its first hints at its cheesily enjoyable conspiracy. “They’re watching us. They’re listening,” she whispers, glancing towards a ceiling fan as the camera zooms in dramatically on a small red dot. Then, with a practiced facade of cheeriness, “You could be happy here, Ethan,” she drones. It’s surprisingly chilling stuff. There’s a lot thrown at the wall here – from fake cricket noise-making boxes to an ending cliffhanger that provides a larger-scale idea as to what’s going on around the town – but what’s perhaps most impressive, considering its decided lack of answers, is that most of it sticks.
“Don’t try to leave Mr. Burke. That’s rule number one,” a group of kids yell back at Ethan as he’s arrested trying to leave town early in the second hour. What are the other rules? “Do not discuss the past. Do not discuss your life before. Always answer the phone if it rings,” a helpful sign reminiscent of war-time propaganda greets Ethan as he exits the local toy store. The second hour of the series delves a bit deeper into the politics of the town, but mostly just piles on more questions.
But the show, behind all of its weirdness and silly dialogue – “Ring up the ducks, Kate!!” – manages to reveal a genuinely threatening sense of malice in the town, and its citizens, by hour two’s chilling conclusion. There’s a sort of The Lottery-esque hint of evil unearthed throughout that second hour, and once it reaches a boiling point in a shocker of a twist, you realize the show isn’t all sci-fi flash without substance: it means business. It’s perhaps most comparable with Edgar Wright’s best Trojan horse genre films – The World’s End, or, more aptly, Hot Fuzz – though played a bit more straight than those farces, thanks mostly to a low-key musical score and grandiose sense of ominousness courtesy of the towering mountains encompassing the town on three sides.
That may be Wayward Pines‘ biggest success: it feels lived in and true, like the bucolic little town of Wayward Pines was there long before you showed up and will be there a distressingly long time after you leave. Twists come naturally out of the story being told and don’t feel like they were a post-it-note on a wall long before a story-board even showed up.
But, like any pilot built on shrouded mysteries, the biggest issue here is follow-through. The show, based on the first book in a trilogy, will apparently cover the contents of that first story, “Pines.” I have a feeling that the question representing the elephant in the room – “What is the town?” – won’t see any sort of definitive answer within the freshman season, but that’s okay. Arguably the most intriguing aspect of the show, it should be kept to be dealt with in (hopefully) future seasons.
For now, Wayward Pines finds success where its fellow brethren faltered, by using the format of previously successful mysteries not as a shackle, but as a launching pad. It shoots off in its own deliriously demented direction from word go, like an over-excited bottle rocket you’re never quite sure where is going to land. As a result, the most entertaining aspect of the show isn’t its dense mystery or stellar cast or quixotic dialogue, but a satisfying mash-up of all these various moving parts: its menacing unpredictability.
