George did it.
There need be no investigation into the death of La Femme Nikita. 'Twas a gradual and painful one, as we all looked on, helpless; in sadness and some disbelief. As L'Homme George became more prominent and Section/Oversight emerged as the monochromatic focal point, la femme, NIKITA -- became just another operative. (Albeit one marked for assassination in every third episode, yet managing to avoid true abeyance status.) Once, we saw through the blueblue eyes of the titular (it means "in the title", get your mind out of the gutter) Ahem, where was I -- oh! Once, we saw through the eyes of the impertinent, outspoken, idealistic titular blonde gal. But -- insert generic danger music here -- the perspective shifted...The "rollercoaster writing" all but eliminated the multi-dimensional qualities of the principals. (may I just give thanks here that I don't have the job of writing for/producing television shows? It must be incredibly difficult to evolve and stay fresh while still maintaining the original premise, I freely admit -- my hat's off to those responsible)
But as the years went by, it started to feel false. Less stylized and more choreographed. The ends didn't seem as just, and the means became more ludicrous than ruthless. Previously horrific necessary actions emerged as pure disgusting megalomania. A near-feasible initial premise turned too fantastic. Some writer, somewhere, became Genre-Confused.
And the "family" changed...
Didn't Madeline used to have a Mona Lisa-smile, a lilt in her voice, a sable softness tempering the steel in her eyes? (You let a gal out of the dungeon, and look what happens, she gets all clinical and sadistic in her stainless steel cage.)
Wasn't Operations once human? I recall his having a calibrated moral compass, the emotions of a remote but caring father/husband -- instead of just a throbbing lust for power. (Cutting back on smoking will always alter a disposition for the worst, I say.)
Remember when the tightly-coiled Michael fought to squelch his tender side, and when, despite his efforts at containment, his valve blew -- and the intensity of it nearly knocked us all out of our Barcaloungers? He used to be sashaying around squeaking of leather, enigmatically caressing guns and threatening recruits about their kitties. (those manipulations and those darting, emotive eyes made a name for that boy, we knew he was true-blue under all that bravado, but we began to miss him yelling at people to "STAND!")
Remember when Birkoff was an insulated, smartass junk-food junkie with a soft crumbly center?
And Walter! In the name of all that is holy! Of all people! How on earth could we be expected to bear the torment, the gut-wrenching pain, the utter devastation, of Walter losing his, umm... changing into, uh....oh wait. Walter remained true: treasured, loved, jaded-philosophical, sexy, cool, and a crack shot with a pistol. The heart, soul, and accurate aim of Section's 5 % club.
And we realized, slowly, that we missed her -- Our Little Nikita, as we used to call her. Her insistent and valiant struggle to express and maintain her individuality, personality and attitude with art, music, color....sunglasses. Where, where went her integrity, her vulnerability, her sensitivity, and that righteous rage?
How my ears ache to hear one last --
"Go. To. Hell."
Oh, the humanity.
We bow our heads in benediction and reflection as the final door in the hallowed Remembrance
Centre halls opens for our farewell to this, our beloved.
Once stylish, strong and stunning -- now a faded corpse. We know nothing exists now
but this empty vessel, the spirit of which burned brightly, then fizzled like one of those
firecracker bottle rocket-thingies that somebody spilled their Bud Light on. We accept this, O Lord,
Gentle Buddha, Blessed Mary, Mother-Goddess-Earth (or whatever). Our denial and rage fade as we
have no choice but to mourn its passing into that good night. Time to go, and yet, gone too soon,
gone in grace -- gone. Gone before we had to buy Depends for
it and feed it through a tube. Gone, before we had to take it out and shoot it to relieve its
misery (and ours). Yea, we loved thee well, and tears fall, but we take comfort in knowing that, for the faithful,
the viewing hours will ever be open, our nostalgia and longing will keep VCRs playing into infinity...
LFN Wake
The Remembrance Centre
has nothing but admiration and appreciation for the writers, producers, directors, crew, and especially -- the talented cast of La Femme Nikita. We're not angry, we know it was just time to say goodbye. Our hugs, love and thanks to the amazing and fearless Peta Wilson, the subtextually-sublime Roy Dupuis, the brilliant and amiable Gene Glazer, the luminous and salty Alberta Watson, the inestimable Matthew Ferguson and the incomparable and kissable Don Francks. (Not forgetting the delicious and shagadelic Carlo Rota and the lovely Lawrence Bayne, and while we're at it -- the charming and versatile Nigel Bennett)Also, The Remembrance Centre would like to send a special shout out to Joel Surnow, Rene Bonniere, George Bloomfield, Sean Callery, Jon Cassar, Jerry Ciccoritti, Laurie Drew, Ken Girotti, Maurice Hurley, Blaine Johnson, Michael Loceff, K. Douglas MacRae, Guy Magar, Rocco Matteo, Joseph L. Scanlan, T.J. Scott, Kari Skoglund, et al... -- all of whom deserve multiple Geminis and a kajillion of those little gold star stickers for giving us what they knew was the essence, heart and truth of the show.
May they all move on from these four well-spent years to higher challenges, higher paychecks, and the
best of peace, love, health, and creativity in all future endeavours.
We bear no malice whatsoever, not even towards George himself, the fine actor, David Hemblen.
Now, get outta here, ya knuckleheads!
P.S. Keep us posted -- nance
