Happily Ever After? The search for a perfect ending.

A note from the writer: this feature discusses endings in modern cinema and as such contains spoiler details regarding the conclusion of each film mentioned. All titles are written in bold so as to alert the reader, but if you don’t want to know the result, look away now...

At the end of Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds (2005), our hero Ray (Tom Cruise) arrives in Boston to find not only that his ex-wife’s neighbourhood has been completely untouched by the conflict, but that his son – last seen running toward certain death in an alien fire fight – has somehow both survived and made it there before him. It is a moment so out of kilter with what has occurred before that it immediately seems far less real than the film’s alien tripods. A narrative’s closing moments can have a great impact on our final view of it, making it essential to get things right. However, it is far too easy to mistake the best ending with the one that seems the most satisfying. Does every story need a “happily ever after”?

Log onto the IMDb.com message board for John Frankenheimer’s 1998 film Ronin and you might, as with any film, expect to find debates regarding minor plot holes and possible explanations thereof. Instead though, the page is dominated by posts deriding the feature’s inconclusive ending. “What was in the case?” This is the question repeated over and over. It would seem that in refusing to reveal the contents of a container pursued by Irish and Russian criminals throughout the film, Frankenheimer and his screenwriter (J.D. Zeik), have – in the eyes of many IMDb users – ended the story in an unsatisfactory manner. They have made use of what Alfred Hitchcock referred to as a ‘MacGuffin’ (a device that motivates the characters and advances the plot, but the details of which are of little or no relevance otherwise), but for some viewers human curiosity has allowed the particulars of this object to take up the position of central importance. In reality, the case is incidental. When the true motivations of Robert DeNiro’s undercover CIA agent are revealed, we discover that he doesn't want its contents and, due to his actions, neither the Irish nor the Russian gangs end up getting it. Perhaps this is all we need to know? At the film’s conclusion, Jean Reno’s character, Vincent, tells us in voiceover; “No questions. No answers. That's the business we're in. You just accept it and move on.” He is of course referring to the life of a mercenary, but it could also be seen as a comment on the film as a whole, or indeed aspects of life itself.

There will always be knowledge that we cannot access and, if art is designed to reflect something of life, then why have we come to expect more closure from it than we might get in reality? As children we are raised on fairytales with happy endings, but before that we listen to nursery rhymes where there is often no resolution. Humpty Dumpty cannot be put back together again, Jack and Jill never get their pail of water and it remains unclear as to whether Little Miss Muffet ever gets to finish her curds and whey. This is not to suggest that all stories must finish on a down note, but we should be aware from a young age that not every narrative has to end with all threads neatly tied-off.

Indeed, returning to cinema, it could be said that sometimes the themes of a film can be reinforced far more by an ending that refuses to compromise with what the audience may be expecting. Take, for example, Joel and Ethan Coen’s Fargo (1996). This is a film where, in the end, good people triumph and the greedy are punished for their crimes. It seems ironic then that the dedicated IMDb message board is littered with people lamenting the loss of the $920,000 that Steve Buscemi’s Carl leaves buried in the snow before his untimely demise. The story should be wrapped up, yet - by our very nature - many of us find ourselves wanting to know what happened to all that cash. In her monologue towards the film’s close, Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) states that there’s more to life than “a little bit of money”. Of course, the audience are privy to the knowledge that there are much larger sums involved than she is aware, but the point remains; too many of us find ourselves focused on that fictional stash when there is so much more we should take away from this story. Far from problematic though, this can actually be viewed as the screenplay’s creative masterstroke. In leaving audience members debating the fate of the lost money, the Coens have left these viewers unwittingly aligned not with the story’s heroes, but instead with its villains, allowing the film to serve as a fictional parable that calls into question the materialistic priorities of our own lives.

The brothers proved themselves masters of such ‘unsatisfying’ endings with 2007’s No Country for Old Men. By the time of the film’s climax the character assumed to be the story’s hero has died off-screen, his innocent wife’s fate has been left uncertain, the villain has walked away alive and free, and an aging sheriff has been left questioning his worth in this increasingly violent society. Many who saw the feature were left wondering where the resolution was and, of course, there was none. In response to negative reactions to the film’s ending, star Josh Brolin (the aforementioned ‘hero’ of the piece) was quoted as saying:

I love that people leave the movie saying, “I hate the ending. I was so pissed.” Good, it was supposed to piss you off...You completely lend yourself to [my] character and then you’re completely raped of this character. I don’t find it manipulative at all. I find it to be a great homage to that kind of violence.

The film is about the opportunism, greed and violence that can take hold with increased intensity in each new generation born into a morally apathetic society. Aggression and avarice breed in kind and unfortunately it is unlikely that this will lead to a positive outcome. Ultimately the story is perhaps more about Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, as portrayed by Tommy Lee Jones, than it is about Brolin’s character. At the film’s close, Ed Tom describes a dream in which he sees his father “fixin’ to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold”. However, he says that - before he could witness the blaze - he “woke up”, forced to return to reality. Far from being ineffective, this conclusion reinforces what has been suggested by the events throughout. Society has been enveloped by dark, cold realities and those older generations who fail to adapt will find themselves left behind, unable to see or create any change in the situation. It is not the ending that anybody wants for these characters, but it is the ending that best suits the tale.

It could be falsely deduced from such observations that, in order to be effective, a film’s closing moments must set out to thwart audience desire. This is not true. The point of this article is not to suggest that it is essential for filmmakers to leave people confused or pondering loose ends, more that they should not shy away from doing so purely to create a resolution where one isn’t necessary. Sometimes the perfect ending can be conclusive and rewarding, but in other cases it can be uncertain, upsetting, perhaps even frustrating. For each story there is an appropriate denouement that will best compliment the events narrated and themes raised and filmmakers should never be afraid let the right conclusion show.

Perhaps though, to avoid accusations of scepticism, it is best to end this particular commentary with an example of a full resolution executed well. During the same months that No Country for Old Men graced our screens, another feature provided one of the finest endings in recent memory. This one, in contrast to those mentioned above, was brilliant through its conclusiveness. When the final words of Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (2007) are uttered by aging oil-tycoon Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis), they can be seen as carrying at least four different meanings, each firmly suggesting that an endpoint has been reached. As his butler approaches him, Plainview sits on the floor, food strewn across the room from the meal the servant left him eating. A man’s dead body lies nearby, his head caved in by Plainview moments before. Suddenly, speaking as if in answer to the most informal of questions his butler could possibly be thinking...

- Are you done with your meal, Sir?

- Are you through beating that young man to death?

- How do you think this situation will affect your future prospects?

- Do you think this story of your ever decreasing sanity has now run its course?

...Plainview blurts out a casual, two word sentence. It is the absurd yet perfect conclusion to a film that has shown how nonchalantly destructive a man can be when driven solely by power, and – for entirely different reasons – it is the perfect way to end this article. That sentence is simply this; “I’m finished”.

Film review: October (1928) ***1/2

“Peace, Land and Bread,” reads the Bolshevik slogan, pivotal in Sergei Eisenstein’s October (1928). The director visited these themes in 1925’s Battleship Potemkin and, despite moving the setting forward twelve years from 1905 to 1917, October suggests that little has changed. The similarities should not come as a surprise. It was due to Potemkin’s international success and representation of Soviet ideals that Eisenstein was commissioned by the Russian government to make this film; a 10^th Anniversary celebration of 1917’s October Revolution. What we see here then is a continued development of the director’s prior work, both in terms of the historical events shown and the methods employed to portray them.

Through his pioneering use of montage, Eisenstein juxtaposes shots in attempt to evoke an intellectual response. In one set-piece depicting the suppression of an anti-government protest, furiously paced cuts between the barrel of a machine-gun and the gunner’s manically smiling face are suggestive not only of the sound and workings of the gun itself, but also of the casual immorality of the establishment forces. As a series of bridges are raised to quell the resulting chaos by separating the workers’ district from the city, Eisenstein contrasts striking shots of a slain horse - hanging over the edge of a slowly rising bridge - with the image of a sphinx-like Egyptian statue. These images, unconnected on the surface, invite the audience to draw similarities with another society that was reliant upon, but wholly mistreated, its working class.

Expertly executed as such sequences are, the film often lacks the tension required to be suggestive of an imminent uprising. As a result, when the remarkable scenes do occur, they seem all too brief, none proving as enduringly memorable as Potemkin’s oft-referenced Odessa steps sequence. It is perhaps for these reasons that the film has never quite matched the acclaim of its predecessor, yet - despite this - October remains a landmark in the artistry of Eisenstein’s technique.

Film review: À ma soeur! (2001) ****

It is rare that anybody’s first sexual encounter occurs exactly as they imagined. Let’s face it; “the right time” with “the right person” hardly ever happens. À Ma Sœur! (2001) follows two adolescent French girls seeking to avoid this trend. Elena (Roxane Mesquida), a pretty 15 year-old, wishes to save herself for her true love. Anaïs though (Anaïs Reboux), Elena’s overweight 12 year-old sister, believes a true love deserves experience and so intends to give herself to a random partner. But on a family holiday to the South of France, Elena is seduced by a handsome Italian four years her senior (Libero de Rienzo) and is soon coerced into sexual experimentation much sooner than she anticipated - all whilst her sister lies awake and watching in the next bed.

Already holding a reputation for her frank meditations on sexuality, writer-director Catherine Breillat does not retreat from showing the uncomfortable results. During the awkward bedroom scenes, Anaïs looks on - attracted and horrified in equal measure - literally watching through her fingers. As the camera lingers steadily on her sister’s intimacy, seemingly invading an already unpleasant moment, this voyeurism is passed onto the audience, forcing them to either witness or recoil. Breillat carries these moments of emotional transference throughout the film. One unnerving sequence, showing a car journey that follows a family dispute, assaults with a visual and aural sense of danger. With each honking horn, high-speed lane change and roar of a passing truck the audience are made passengers, sitting in constant fear of an accident. Breillat’s frequent use of sustained shots and extended scenes ensures that nothing is cut short for emotional relief.

With an ending that comes out of leftfield, yet perfectly complements the story’s themes, this is a film that looks without blinkers at the complexities of familial ties and adolescent sexuality. The picture it paints is not pretty, but Breillat’s startling approach will not fail to make an impression.

Film review: Dear Frankie (2004) ***

With a story that is simultaneously optimistic and saddening, Shona Auerbach's Dear Frankie is perhaps best described as the sort of film that makes you smile on a Bank Holiday afternoon spent with your parents. That may sound like a cynical introduction, but picture other charming ‘Sunday afternoon’ fare such as ITV’s Goodnight, Mister Tom (1998), and you may appreciate the compliment.

The film centres on the titular Frankie (Jack McElhone), a nine year-old deaf child, raised in Scotland by his single mother, Lizzie (Emily Mortimer). Frankie believes his father is away at sea, but when news comes in of his dad’s boat docking at the local harbour, it soon becomes apparent that Lizzie has been protecting her son from the truth. If she wishes to continue the charade, a stand-in will be needed; an apprehensive Gerard Butler, credited only as “The Stranger”.

A story about human connections, Dear Frankie hinges upon both writer Andrea Gibb’s restrained script and the understated performances of its cast. Emily Mortimer is suitably enclosed as a woman trying to come to terms with a life permanently unsettled, her sad eyes telling us that she is always thinking of Frankie’s wellbeing, even when searching the town for a new man. Butler also does well, first displaying near disgust at Lizzie’s deceit of her son, before becoming an image of genuine affection during his scenes with Frankie. Perhaps expectedly though, it is the young lead who proves most crucial. Lending Frankie a believable sweetness, McElhone’s performance allows events to progress without crossing the line into unconvincing. As Lizzie and The Stranger grow to trust each other, it is the lovable portrayal of the child between them that makes their connection plausible. Dear Frankie then, is something often unseen; a film that not only acknowledges the narrow gap between sentiment and mawkishness, but passes through it successfully.

Film review: Festival (2005) **1/2

Comedic, but not romanticised, Festival is writer-director Annie Griffin’s portrayal of life beneath the surface of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. An ensemble piece, the film weaves together stories as Irish comic, Tommy O’Dwyer (Chris O’Dowd), attempts to seduce a local radio host and comedy competition juror, Joan Gerard (Daniela Nardini), who herself is involved in a clash of personalities with arrogant celebrity comic, Sean Sullivan (Stephen Mangan), a member of her judging panel.

These characters are only a few in a collection of personalities serving to highlight the tensions between the entertainment industry and the personal happiness of its stars. “This is a festival, it’s about fun”, Joan’s producer tells her in one scene and it is this expectation of constant joviality that weighs so heavily upon the lives of entertainers. Indeed, even when Sean and his disillusioned agent, Petra (Raquel Cassidy), are arguing on a hotel staircase, passing tourists assume that they must be witnessing a play. Festivals may bring lives together, but they can also disrupt them. It is this irony that Griffin is interested in.

Sadly though, the director’s approach to her exploration of the showbiz underbelly is not always a success. Take, for example, her unabashed portrayal of sex. The sight of Tommy lifting his face from Joan’s crotch to swig on a Barcardi miniature amuses, but a scene in which a comic whose routine is reliant upon having his hand in a puppet’s rear-end finds himself on the receiving end of his own scenario seems entirely misjudged.

The main problem though is that Festival simply tries to do too much. The central threads engage, but elsewhere characters seem peripheral and weakly drawn - a trio of kooky Canadian performers are little more than a clichéd annoyance, whilst the tragic arc of a clergyman and his one-man show about paedophile priests seems largely unnecessary. Had it been more focused then this bleak comedy could have been a hit, instead though the frequent variation in quality creates a link between entertainment and frustration almost as strong as the one the story attempts to exemplify.

Film review: A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) *****

Released in 1951, Eliah Kazan’s adaptation of the Tennessee Williams play A Streetcar Named Desire tells of disturbed Southern belle, Blanche DuBois (Vivien Leigh), who arrives in New Orleans seeking refuge with her sister, Stella (Kim Hunter), following the unexpected loss of her family plantation. Bullied and tormented by her brutish brother-in-law, Stanley (Marlon Brando), the secrets of Blanche’s past slowly reveal themselves as she is gradually driven deeper into her own despair. Leigh’s face tells the whole story. Blanche is terrified by the violent dynamic between Stella and Stanley and yet captivated by every male she sees. With her longing eyes and pouting lips, Leigh is constantly expressing newfound love as Blanche seeks solace with one man after another, exposing her desperate desire for protection long before the script does.

But this is Brando’s show. His Stanley is a picture of unrestrained masculinity; his handsome features and imposing physique suggesting he’s equally capable of seduction or violence. His muscular arms are there for Blanche to grasp when startled by an alley-cat, but they also belie an aggressive streak. With his T-shirts perpetually drenched in sweat and his drawling voice coming from a mouth that is almost always mid-chew, he is – as Blanche describes – “an animal”, eating, mating and ruling over the territory of the small apartment set. With Brando’s ability for both restrained anger and outbursts of rage, Stanley’s every smile has the potential to turn to intense wrath. One second he is Blanche’s confidant, the next her attacker, throwing her down and cruelly mocking her. It’s hard to believe a face can simultaneously convey both belittlement and lust, but as Stanley advances on Blanche, jaw still chewing, Brando’s displays just that. A thug to be hated, played by a force that cannot be resisted; like Stella, we want more of him, but are unable to explain why.