Abraham Lincoln (Daniel Day-Lewis) walks through the corridors of the… (David James, DreamWorks…)
The filmgoer was noticeably upset. He didn't like a moment in "Lincoln." More specifically, he didn't like the final moments of "Lincoln."
"I don't understand why it didn't just end when Lincoln is walking down the hall and the butler gives him his hat," he said. "Why did I need to see him dying on the bed? I have no idea what Spielberg was trying to do."
The man on the mini-rant wasn't some multiplex loudmouth. He was actor Samuel L. Jackson, and he was just getting started. "I didn't need the assassination at all. Unless he's going to show Lincoln getting his brains blown out. And even then, why am I watching it? The movie had a better ending 10 minutes before."
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Jackson was offering a sentiment common among people who've seen "Lincoln" and moviegoers in general: Hollywood films are struggling to find the exit. Stories that seem to end, end again, and then end once more. Climactic scenes wind down, then wind up. Movies that appear headed for a satisfying resolution turn away, then try to stumble back.
The definition of a good ending is as hard to pin down as Keyser Söze. But there has been no shortage of filmic finales for people to shake their fists at this season. (Caution: Spoilers ahead.)
After nearly 150 minutes of Tom Hooper's "Les Misérables," Jean Valjean has said a tearful goodbye to Marius and made him promise to protect his beloved Cosette. It is heartbreaking; it is satisfying. There are tears, and melancholic smiles.
But like a late-night infomercial, there's more. A wedding follows. Marius and Cosette rejoice. Ah, a nice wedding finish. Wait, why is Sacha Baron Cohen back to make trouble? The movie can't end with Sacha Baron Cohen making trouble, can it? Of course, it can't. There is another scene. Candles. A convent. Valjean is still alive! No, no, now he is dead. But wait, he is given a new chance in the afterlife. The end seems to take, well, an eternity, as Hooper seems to grope around for an ending to match Hugo's novel.
In "Life of Pi," Ang Lee spends two hours telling us about a tiger, then two minutes telling us there was no tiger. Then he asks us which way we'd like it to be. Choose Your Own Adventure novels have more definitive finishes. (This ambiguity, defenders say, plays better in the novel. Ambiguity always plays better in the novel.)
Jackson has firsthand knowledge of the squishy ending. His holiday movie, Quentin Tarantino's "Django Unchained," has the titular hero maneuvering his way through a climactic shootout. Django slays many of his enemies. He has taken his revenge. He seems to have his girl. But no, the bad guys have his girl. There is suddenly a whole new chapter. The slave is tortured. There is a scheme involving Australian speculators. The director makes an appearance with a questionable Australian accent. There is another shootout, this time with dynamite.
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Jackson acknowledges that this final section did not come easily. "In the original script, Quentin had a really generic ending," he said. "So he decided to add a lot of other stuff."
The unsatisfying movie ending is as old as Hollywood itself. But the examples seem to be getting more pronounced. For those who love film, they raise interesting questions, about which directors have interesting theories. Why are endings these days so difficult? Are we getting more jaded or are filmmakers and studios growing more panicked? Is a coherent narrative conclusion possible in an era of infinite distraction? Where does this all, well, end?
Let's start at the beginning.
The notion of the satisfying cinematic finish goes back as far as 1902, when Georges Méliès decided to have his astronomers crash back to Earth instead of spending the rest of their lives twiddling their thumbs on the moon.
In the decades that followed, directors continued to evolve their endings. In 1939, they approached a level of Darwinian perfection. That year and the three that followed brought a bounty of classic finishes: the return to Kansas in "The Wizard of Oz," the sled reveal of "Citizen Kane," Bogart's hill-of-beans speech in "Casablanca," the frankness of Rhett not giving a damn in "Gone With the Wind."
These movies finished where they should, with scenes that both startled and made sense. We couldn't foresee that Dorothy had drawn from her real life to create the Emerald City, but once she did, we believed that she would.
Other endings would build on their forebears: John Wayne retreating silently and meaningfully off a porch in John Ford's "The Searchers," Michael Corleone's reluctant metamorphosis in the first "Godfather." In 1991, Hannibal Lecter ushered out "The Silence of the Lambs" by telling us that he was "having an old friend for dinner," reinforcing that he had indeed survived and was up to more mischief. Also, it was a witty pun, and we are suckers for a witty pun.