Tag: closure

#oneaday Day 693: Endings

I finished L.A. Noire tonight. MILD SPOILER: It’s somewhat bittersweet. I liked it, because it was entirely in keeping with the genre in question.

Endings are a tricky business, though, whatever medium you’re working in. The temptation to have a happy ending where everything resolves itself nicely is always strong, because everyone likes things to be “resolved” and for characters they’ve spent a hefty amount of time with to have some degree of “closure”. Leaving things hanging either leaves an author open to accusations of planning a sequel, or leaving the audience unsatisfied.

I wrestled with this particular conundrum throughout the course of the month-long piece of fiction I wrote over the course of November. In fact, for the final post, I rewrote the ending several times. I eventually plumped for a “happy” ending because I felt it was in keeping with the personal journey my protagonist had been on — to smack him down after everything he’d been through would be a bit harsh.

Well, yes, it would — but equally, a harsh ending isn’t necessarily a bad one. In fact, a bittersweet ending where not everyone leaves feeling satisfied can actually be very effective and memorable. I’m not going to spoil L.A. Noire‘s ending here in case there are people reading who haven’t played it yet, but instead I’m going to talk about the first game I remember to have a strikingly “bad” ending — and I’m not talking “bad” in the sense of “poor”.

Rare’s Conker’s Bad Fur Day was a peculiar game. Starting out as one of the cutesy platformers that typified a lot of the N64’s catalogue, it eventually morphed into something completely unexpected: a “mature” title. Now, by maintaining the game’s original cartoony visuals, there was an element of immaturity about it, too, particularly when combined with the not-very-well bleeped out swearing, the grotesquely excessive violence and the crude situations (a bee cheating on his wife by humping a large-breasted sunflower (off-screen, but very audible) being a particularly memorable example). But there was an undercurrent of maturity about the whole thing, too — the game treated the player as an adult who enjoyed puerile humour but was capable of understanding pathos and an impressively wide range of references to movies and popular culture.

Most notably, though, it had a brilliant ending that not only spoofed Alien fantastically, it also managed to provide a genuine “What the fu–” moment in a game that prided itself on its ridiculousness throughout. By providing a sobering, heartbreaking ending after the hours of cartoonish insanity which had preceded it, the game was giving the player a very marked wake-up call. It was marking the end of your time in this brightly coloured world filled with chocolate, poo monsters and cogs which told you to fuck off. It was time to wise up and start being a grown-up again. It also mirrored Conker’s own journey throughout the course of the game — the basic premise of his whole adventure was him attempting to get home and recover from the mother of all hangovers. The most sobering experience he could have was the loss of the one he loved.

This isn’t to say that good endings aren’t satisfying — who doesn’t like to see the Death Star blowing up? But a well-made “bad” ending can be just as — if not more so — effective at tugging at the heartstrings and provoking an emotional response. To date, my favourite game endings include the aforementioned Conker along with Silent Hill 2, surely one of the most depressing interactive experiences you could ever sit through — but all the better for it. Heavy Rain, for all its plot holes and flaws, also had a great “bad” ending. Several, in fact.

So what makes an effective ending? For me, it’s a sense of “closure”, that this is most definitely and unequivocally “the end” — whether that’s because everyone is dead, because the planet is saved or simply because our lead characters are closing one chapter in their lives and starting a new one. Get me invested in your characters and I’ll care what happens to them — so make sure whatever shenanigans they’re involved in reaches some sort of satisfying conclusion — even if you’re planning a sequel.

#oneaday, Day 153: Hopeless Romantic

I watched the finale of The Office for the first time in ages tonight. That’s the original UK version of The Office, for the curious, meaning that the finale was the second part of the series’ Christmas special. I am totally going to spoil the shit out of that episode, so if you’re one of the very few people who haven’t seen it before and care, you might want to skip this post.

The chemistry between Tim and Dawn is the centrepiece of The Office‘s narrative. Everyone remembers David Brent and his stupid Comic Relief dance, but it’s really a story about two people trying desperately to find one another and always seeming to have something in the way.

The tension between Tim and Dawn is built up throughout the course of the show’s two seasons marvellously. The pair of them hang out together a lot, they joke around, they share a mutual love of making office douchebag Gareth’s life a misery and it’s abundantly clear that both of them are completely smitten with one another. And yet neither of them are able to say the words to make it happen. Dawn because she has a fiancé (yes, that is the correct spelling for the male partner, I checked and everything) who is woefully inappropriate for her. Tim because despite his sweet nature, he lacks in self-confidence thanks to his life situation.

In fact, that’s not quite accurate. Throughout the course of the main series, Tim does ask Dawn out twice and she flat out says no. The most heartbreaking of these moments is at the end of the second season where Tim, in the middle of a “talking head” shot, speaking to the “documentary crew” who are supposedly filming the show, tears off his microphone, goes to tell Dawn how he really feels and gets knocked back. The audience don’t hear this exchange, we just see it through a window, partially obscured by a blind. It’s a genuinely heartbreaking moment to witness.

Throughout the series, Dawn in particular makes a point of touching Tim, whether it’s a light brush on the arm, or holding his face tenderly while she gives him a kiss “for Comic Relief”. Whatever she says out loud, her actions say something different, much louder.

So when she returns from Florida in the Christmas special, some years after the original two seasons, it’s clear that Tim still has feelings for her and wishes things had gone differently. Yet throughout the course of the two finale episodes, it becomes clear that Tim has no idea how to go about dealing with this situation, particularly as the fiancé is still on the scene and never far away from Dawn during their time together.

In what appears to be their final moment together, I really feel for Tim. He is talking to Dawn, clearly struggling for what to say. He does a big and obviously fake cough at one point, and stares after her as she leaves, looking around the office, obviously completely crushed inside but not wanting to show it at all.

And then a little while later, the real ending happens. Dawn, riding in the back seat of a taxi, her fiancé asleep in the front, opens her “Secret Santa” present, which it transpires is an incredibly thoughtful gift from Tim. It moves her to tears.

We cut back to Tim, who is still at the office’s Christmas party, obviously trying to have a good time and not really succeeding, when Dawn reappears unexpectedly, grabs him and kisses him. It’s such a beautiful moment and a wonderful feeling of “resolution” for the series. A genuinely happy ending.

In the meantime, while all this is happening, we’ve also seen the comically tragic figure of David Brent growing as a person more in the space of half an hour than he managed in three years thanks to a special someone. By the end of the whole thing, we have felt sympathy for someone who initially seemed to be odious and annoying; and we have felt hope for his redemption.

In short, the whole thing is a fine example of how to do a finale perfectly. Wrap up every little loose end and make it very clear that “This. Is. The. End.” And that doesn’t have to mean a main character dying, or the world ending, or anything like that. A simple resolution of the threads that have been running throughout the series is all that’s needed for a satisfying conclusion.

I love this ending for several reasons. Firstly, I just love a happy ending. Secondly, I feel for Tim, and Dawn for that matter. I’ve experienced the situation they’ve been in and know how difficult it can be, and how wonderful those few tiny little gestures can feel. To see two people who obviously deserve to be together finally get together is utterly heartwarming and never fails to bring a smile to my face. And it ends there – we don’t need to see “what happens next”, whether it works out, any of that – that’s the end of their story.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I am a sucker for a happy ending. Particularly a romantic happy ending.

There’s some games that have done this sort of thing well, too. The Persona series is particularly good at it thanks to the Social Link system that runs through the last two entries in the series. Each Social Link is a complete story in and of itself, with the player’s character being someone who is there for someone else during a period of change, growth or hardship. With the games centred on teenage life in Japan, sometimes this is as simple as a character growing up and learning something about themselves. At other times, it is about a burgeoning romance. At others still, it is about someone accepting a fate which is coming for them, like a terminal illness. But by far the most satisfying thing about those games was not necessarily reaching the end (though the endings to both are awesome) but reaching the resolution of these little mini-stories throughout. Seeing other people brought to a state of happiness by the actions (or simple presence) of another is a good feeling, and Persona, like The Office, plays on that pleasant feeling beautifully.

Did I seriously just compare Persona to The Office? That’s late-night writing for you. Oh well. There you have it!