The Last Ship—which debuted to huge numbers—is a solid, populist effort from TNT, no surprise, given its executive producer. Following the spread of a pandemic that is quickly wiping out humanity, a U.S. warship—the titular last ship—and the virologists onboard are forced to take on the unenviable task of developing a cure for the horrific disease.
The debut episode, while good, was a bit frenetic, trying to do a little too much. One small example: A nuclear weapon exploded in France and that was, like, the seventh most important thing that happened. The second episode, by contrast, was more focused: The ship had a mission and executed it—along with a cadre of al Qaeda scumbags hanging out in Guantanamo Bay.
The Last Ship calls to mind another apocalyptic drama: The Walking Dead. But The Last Ship has a narrative gambit working in its favor that The Walking Dead has always lacked. Specifically, our protagonists actually have a goal. They are working to save the world, to better humanity, to fulfill a purpose. Rick Grimes' ragtag band of zombie killers, meanwhile, is simply trying to stay alive. There's no greater goal, no deeper meaning to their efforts. They are trying to scratch out a meager living and avoid getting murdered before dying and becoming flesh eaters.
The Leftovers, which debuted this Sunday on HBO,is yet another drama filled with people trying to make sense of a world that no longer has any. Two percent of the population has mysteriously vanished. Scientists cannot pinpoint the cause of this mass disappearance—though they're sure God couldn't have been involved—and society sputters along, going through the motions on little more than inertia.
The Leftovers at times plays like a horror film by way of Antonioni; we see the ways in which ennui has struck the middle class, how they deal with the realization that events have spiraled beyond their control. Some of the teens we see have turned to increasingly sadistic forms of spin the bottle (powered by their iPhones, natch) in an effort to feel something, anything; others have taken up with charismatic leaders who claim to know what's coming next. The adults are either trying to put up a brave face or have given up or have taken a vow of silence and embraced the fact that they've been left behind in an effort to remind the rest of the world ... of something. That life goes on, that days are short, and precious, I guess.
But it's a man with a gun who seems to have truly grasped what remains of the world. He has purpose.
Early in the episode, a police officer tries to coax a wild dog toward him. He has a collar but he's obviously skittish; we learn later that, after the vanishing, the dogs owned by those who disappeared are now feral, living in packs in the woods. The police officer has almost gotten hold of the dog when a hole explodes in its flank: A man down the street has shot it with a high-powered rifle. He gets into his truck and leaves, the police officer screaming after him "You can't shoot our dogs!"
As the episode closes, our police officer again confronts an animal in the street. This time, it's a deer: majestic, antlers full, a real beauty. The officer approaches, carefully; the deer remains calm. And then, its ears perk. We hear the braying of wolves behind the cop. But these aren't wolves: They're dogs. It's a pack comprised of those like the one we saw before. The deer sprints away, but it is too slow; soon the pack is on him, literally tearing him limb from limb. Our shellshocked officer stands there, a horrified expression on his face—until the shooter from before stands next to him.
"These aren't our dogs," he tells the mortified police officer. "Not anymore."
And the two begin putting the pack down, a purpose found.