| Title | SHA |
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I watched Guadagnino’s splash hit Challengers earlier this month at the theatre with a group of friends. When I learned that the movie was filled with references to Hitchcock’s 1951 Strangers on a Train I rushed to watch it at home. Both films are great but both films present very different endings. In Hitchcock’s film, we get (from at least a plot perspective) a very traditional closing: the hero and the villain brawl while helpless onlookers gasp. Finally, the villain is vanquished and the hero emerges from the rubble to freedom and vindication. In Guadagnino’s, instead of two main players, we have three. At the climax, the hatred and vitriol between the two men is on full display. Romantic feuds are resurfaced and expletives are shouted. As the two men approach each other during the rally, Guadagnino frames the swing of a tennis racket like an executioner’s blade. Yet instead of bloodshed… there is benediction as the two old friends embrace. Tashi looks on: at first confused and then thrilled, letting out a scream of triumph that bleeds into the cut to black.
It would not be possible to watch these movies and not remember the endings. No one walked out of Challengers and asked her friend if Josh and Patrick hugged or threw fists. Even those who saw Strangers on a Train on opening night could still recall that Guy bested Bruno on the carousel. Even further, I’d wager that if the ending of Challengers rubbed you the wrong way or if you thought Hitchcock’s closing was too conservative, then you probably didn’t think too much of these films.
It’s remarkable that this is true. The ending of the film, the final buildup and action, may take up maybe 10% of a normal film. Yet it is absolutely no matter at all for a filmgoer to toss out 90% of bliss if the final 10% is a let down. When consuming movies – or probably any other story-based art form – we have an insatiable thirst for a satisfying ending. Endings can be ambiguous – as is the case in Nolan’s Inception – or they can be throat-clenching twists – as is the case in Scorsese’s Shutter Island. Regardless, we will accept and cherish the resolution of a story (or a lack thereof) if we can sit back in our chairs and think, “Yes, the storyteller is quite right. She has understood her story excellently and capped it off with something absolutely appropriate. What’s better, we are quite in agreement about the nature of the characters and the plot. It’s always wonderful to find a mind of the same kin!”
Ugh, a story can drag. How often have we heard the complaint volleyed that the thrill was entirely there entirely except for that 20 minute escapade in the middle. Forget your 120 minutes of plot! I have 10 minutes of climax!
Why are we so obsessed with how a tale concludes? The story of my life has not ended even a single time. The most important plot to me has only a single “great ending.” It’s likely – even cliche – that the twilight years of my life will be quiet and uneventful as I look back on times of travel and adventure and joie de vivre. Even though it is common for a human story to end with a slow burn before a final puff, even though our lives are entirely, 100% “middle”, we people have a demand for proper closings. We denote “phases”, “periods”, “seasons”, even “chapters” (!) of our own lives. I have (self-proclaimed) already lived several eras of my life, but not a single time have I seen the credits scroll before my own eyes or some cheery overture as the protagonist embarks on the next campaign.
I want to be able to put behind me those days that I regret. I want to view the mistakes and errors of my days, which are many, as lives that have been lived and stories that have been told. Completely and utterly past: days that had beginnings and endings and selves that are now gone. This isn’t reality. I am the same person I was when I began typing this essay and the same as I was 15 minutes before as well. Yet slide the time dial back far enough and I will morph from an actor in my memories to an observer of a foreigner.
You are only a single self. Every triumph you have ever earned is still yours to beat your chest about. Every sin can still whisper in your ear. We know this. Through the mysterious process of life, we slowly shed stories about ourselves that are not useful and carefully construct a character we call “me” out of what we find most palatable. Friends and family members are with us for a time, but “me” is always around to critique and study and grow and suffer and enjoy. Smell the juniper as you pass by. Recall the days of youth amongst the brush. You are the same. Through an inexplicable puzzle, nothing has ever ended. The single story that you have lived is still ticking on; it’s still in the middle.
So give a standing ovation to the directors who tie together twelve characters in the span of ten final minutes. They have managed to perform a magic trick before your very eyes. They has constructed something that has never existed: they have made an ending.