The Finale. The Coup de’ Grace. The End – No matter what you call it, the resolution of a story is one of the most important aspects of a tale well told. While an entertaining journey is always worth the trip, the destination at the end of the journey cannot help but color our perception of the entire process. To analogize poorly, a dog may enjoy a car-ride but his impressions will change greatly once he realizes he’s arrived at the vet. In any case, whether you’re writing a short story or making an epic television show based on a hit fantasy novel series featuring dragons, arriving at a satisfying and logical endpoint is a requirement if one aims to appease the audience. As a result, I thought it would be fun to take a (brief) look at what makes an ending work and why some are “good” and others not so much. Let’s get started…
(Very Basic) Story Structure
While I have a great deal to say on the concept of story structure, particularly as it relates to its overly-formulaic (and thus confining) use within the modern world of screenwriting, it is still important for anyone looking to tell (or understand) a story. While it might seem a basic concept, we should start by mentioning that all stories – large or small – can be split into three distinct stages: Beginning, Middle, and End. The connection between those three is, at its best, an unbreakable bond that links them all in one continuous chain. Each exists to precipitate, or as a direct result of, the other.
The beginning is a promise to the audience, the middle is the keeping of that promise, and the end is the fulfillment of that promise made manifest. More simply put: the beginning sets up the characters, world, problems, and plot, the middle plays out the events set in place by the beginning, and the ending brings all of this to a close. A story without an ending is much akin to a sporting match without a winner – a somewhat hollow and unfulfilling experience. Additionally, given the intrinsic bond between all parts of a story, a weak ending can retroactively damage a strong beginning or middle – the whole is only as strong as its weakest link.
Last Impressions
Beyond the structural reasons why a poor ending may degrade a story, another reason that a bad finish can be damning is the fact that it is the last impression a story leaves on the audience. Much like a sour bite at the end of a sweet dessert, the taste that lingers in our mouth at the end of a story can color our entire experience. A good ending leaves the audience at its most engaged – turning over the details, events, and characters in their mind and wanting to discuss these aspects with those around them. It draws the viewer deeper into the world of the story and makes them almost sad to see it end – feeling content while still longing for a bit more.
This desire to linger just a while longer drives a certain excitement. It inspires the viewer to reminisce fondly over the things that they loved and to ponder what may lie next. Life itself is so full of unanswered questions and imperfections that the relative safety of a satisfying ending can provide a comfort not always afforded by other aspects of existence. This does not mean that all stories must end with every thread resolved and each rock overturned, but just that the final impression left to the viewer is one of completion – that while there may be more story yet to tell, this particular narrative is over. As a result, do not discount the power of the final line/shot/scene to which the audience is exposed – it may well be the defining one of the piece.
Connective Tissue
As mentioned before, the finale should (ultimately) bring to a close the various threads set forward at the outset. Characters should find themselves changed or re-confirmed in their values. Events should have played out to their logical conclusions. The very world in which the story takes place should find itself permanently altered in ways either big or small. One should be able to draw a straight line between specific things in the beginning and their corresponding resolutions at the end. This doesn’t mean that a story cannot evolve and expand over time, finding various new routes to follow along the way, but just that it must deliver on its own premises.
A famous example of this line of thinking is a concept known as Chekhov’s Gun. This particular “rule” of storytelling states that “elements should not appear to make ‘false promises’ by never coming into play.” An example, and one in whence the titular ‘gun’ appears, is the notion that if a story makes particular mention of a gun then that gun should be used in a meaningful way by the end of the narrative. To do otherwise is a betrayal of audience expectations and investment – it tells them that paying attention to the details was a fool’s errand and thus diminishes their enjoyment of the story.
Satisfying and Logical
Another important aspect of the ending of a story is that it is both satisfying and logical. Do the resolutions to storylines feel as if they are the logical conclusion to the events proceeding them? Do plot elements or character arcs feel natural or are they forced? While it is true that a good story can veer off in sometimes unexpected directions, the ultimate destination should always feel as if it was preordained – not in the sense that some broad notion of ‘fate’ brought it there, but because it was a legitimate outcome based upon all that had come before.
A good way to see this notion in practice is to look at when it is handled poorly. The best example of such an occurrence is the use of the ‘Deus Ex Machina (a god from the machine).’ A Deus Ex Machina is “a plot device whereby a seemingly unsolvable problem in a story is suddenly and abruptly resolved by an unexpected and seemingly unlikely occurrence, typically so much as to seem contrived. Its function can be to resolve an otherwise irresolvable plot situation, to surprise the audience, to bring the tale to a happy ending, or act as a comedic device.”
The use of such a device – like having your characters rescued from an isolated sinking ship in their final moments by a randomly passing fishing boat – provides little satisfaction to the viewer. While they might be happy that things worked out well for the characters, they (rightly) feel as if the resolution was utterly disconnected from the rest of the story. It devalues the actions of the characters and undercuts their success – after all, what was the point of following along with their struggles if they had no impact on their ultimate fate? It causes the entire story to feel inconsequential and more akin to an anecdote than a narrative journey.
Compare the above example to an alternate scenario wherein the same basic events occur, only this time they are directly influenced by the characters – people on an isolated sinking ship attempt to maneuver it closer to a well-known fishing spot and are then saved in their final moments by a passing boat. While the same events technically occur, in this case, they are a direct result of actions that take place over the course of the story. Thus, unlike the empty outcome from before, the audience can appreciate that the character’s salvation was a consequence of the circumstances they had been a party to. The logical nature of this resolution is thus satisfying to the audience in a way that mere happenstance could never be.
Worthwhile Payoff
While we have spoken, via Chekhov’s gun, about the importance of using all the plot elements of the story by its completion, the notion of a worthwhile payoff is deeper than merely checking a few boxes. For instance, it is possible to have an entire film dedicated to attempting to blow up a building only to then show the building explode as a tiny blip from miles away. While this is technically following up on the notions set forth previously, it is also likely (unless done for a very good reason) to anger the viewer. A satisfying payoff is about not just arriving at the ‘promise of premise,’ but of it living up to the audience’s expectations. Again, not in the sense that films can’t subvert expectations (this can be a very effective tactic), but just that it should deliver a resolution equal to or greater than that which a viewer might be reasonable to expect based upon what was set up prior in the story.
Does the film promise a grand love story? There better be an epic kiss at the end, not some weak tentative flop. Disaster flick? Something massive better be destroyed – no house of cards falling over, here. These are but two examples of the type of worthwhile payoff that the audience wants. Additionally, as mentioned before, if you can find a narratively satisfying or compelling reason to not give us these things (the aforementioned subversion of expectations) then that can work just as well (if not better). That said, it is important that any such subversion, insofar as it relates to a finale, is not done merely for its own sake but to serve a larger purpose. People don’t mind being denied as long as they are given something equally interesting in its place and feel that their denial was an important component to their enjoyment. In short, don’t be anti-climactic – unless that’s the point.
Resolution
Perhaps the most important job of an ending is to provide resolution to the various aspects which comprise the story in the mind of the audience. Again, unless intentional, avoid having dangling threads or unanswered questions – basically, don’t leave the audience feeling as if they have experienced something incomplete. A good ending is simultaneously the cherry on top of the Sundae and the very bowl in which it rests. At its most pure, the ending is the way out of the story, both for the characters and the viewer. It is the state in which we leave the world of the narrative and our expectations for a future untold.
Too many films choose to end their story with a teaser for an upcoming adventure – the promise that there is more to come. While knowing that characters we’ve (hopefully) come to know and love will live on, such a non-ending feels a slight to the viewer, a perpetual “tune-in next time.” While this can be justified in larger stories wherein a follow-up is both planned and known (think The Empire Strikes Back), it is too often implemented as a crutch by smaller tales who can think of no better use for the finale than to promote a sequel. Rather than consider what is best for the story they are telling, creators run the risk of focusing too heavily on what is to come. They feel that they can cover up a lackluster tale by promising to the audience that there are better things on the horizon – completely ignoring the fact that if they had a better story to tell then that’s where they should have started. After all, if they can’t live up the promise made within one film, why should the audience expect them to be able to do so on a grander scale?
Conclusion
In the end, the completion of any story is as foundational as its beginning. They are inexorably linked – two halves of the same whole. Without one the other has no meaning. The best story in the world, told as well as any before, carries no weight without a destination. It is the reason that so many of the plotlines in soap operas tend to be mocked – not because of a poor performance from the actors (though that can happen), nor even bad writers (though, again, possible). No, the true reason is that, by their very nature of being never-ending stories, they cannot conclude. They must perpetually spin a yarn that stretches on into the infinite – Sisyphus, perpetually rolling the rock up a hill, never to be made whole by the completion of his task. Stakes give a story impact. Finality gives it meaning.
In truth, people are often willing to overlook a great many failings when it comes to stories: low production value, poor acting, bad writing, lackluster effects, and convoluted plots. Of all these, only one has the ability to so greatly alter the perception of all that has come before – a poor ending. Look no further than the lasting damage done to the legacies of once-revered television shows because of the perception of an underwhelming ending (true or not): Dexter, LOST, and Game of Thrones just to name a few. While but one medium, these examples showcase the damage and loss of goodwill that can result from an audience who feels betrayed.
The ending, in many ways, is the greatest display of theme and message that a story can offer. It provides the audience with the tools to understand both where it came from and how they can apply its lessons in their own mind. While the phrase “It’s the journey, not the destination.” can certainly be true of many things, rarely is that the case in storytelling. It is the destination that provides context and meaning to the journey. Unlike the random and chaotic nature of existence, stories (in all forms) are a curated and controlled environment where each and every thing that happens does so at the express will of an omnipotent creator(s). Thus, a story with a poor or nonexistent ending is but a reflection of the ineptitude of those who have created it – of a lack of care or skill in the technique. More than that, a bad ending represents an artist unconcerned with the experience of the audience – more interested in pumping out a product or meeting a deadline than of the actual impact of their work.
All this to say: if you are creating a story, no matter the length or medium, make sure you take care to craft an ending that lives up to your own expectations. If you are not fully satisfied, it is unlikely that anyone else will be either. Just like in aeronautics, sticking the landing is perhaps even more important than getting off the ground.
And then he was rescued by a randomly passing ship. The End.
Chris