This is the flip side of yesterday, and while I think some would argue this is exactly what you don't do in a series finale, I think it's about how we define our terms. From the opening of a show we make promises with our audience. Most of them are pretty basic—this is who this character is, this is what the world is, this is what this show is about (in general).
But there's also in many shows, and certainly in SUCCESSION, a sense of the bigger question or quest. It's in the title here—someone is going to succeed Logan Roy. Who is it going to be? You've got to answer that.
But character, too, can have a kind of destiny to it. Jesse Armstrong has said from the start that SUCCESSION is a tragedy. And the characters have indeed all been so incredibly self-destructive. How could it possibly end with any of them succeeding or supporting each other? (Honestly, after that kitchen scene I really really wanted it to.)
If your characters are self-destructive, and you're telling a story where you've made it clear that people don't grow and change or learn, you have to follow that through. That's what you promised. In a finale, you have to deliver in some way on what you promised, or your audience will feel cheated.
Giving the audience what you've denied them for so long works into that really well. Because by offering that moment of friendship and mutual support, Armstrong sets us up to not see that ending coming. It's insane, actually, that he could fool anyone given what we've seen. But really, It's our human capacity for hope and belief in the possibility of new things that is the engine for this show and so many others. If we really saw no chance for any of them to succeed, we would simply not watch.
One of the things I've gained from thinking and writing about shows on this blog is a greater examination of myself as audience. So much of a TV magic trick is about the writers playing on our natural tendencies. Human beings want to believe in a good outcome—or most do, anyway. And that desire is in fact so strong in us that we will reread books, movies or TV shows with the unconscious hope that something different is going to happen this time, that it doesn't have to be this way.
When you're dealing with people who have such a fundamental belief that things can go better that we don't even see it going on—these are also known as "suckers"—you have so much to work with as a writer. First of all, you don't have to provide more than a little bit of reason for hope, or a reason why we feel strongly they should be allowed to succeed—like a father who is a monster—and we will provide the rest. We will drive that train ourselves.
And then, as we see in the finale, If you give us just a couple minutes of our hopes fulfilled, we will feel so confirmed that we will miss entirely where you're taking us. I don't care if there's still 40 minutes left in the ep after the kitchen, the drama now is about the three of them together screwing the Swede. (Note to Self: Having a villain you love to hate is another great way of feeding the audience's hope and desire for a better outcome, and distracting them from what's really up.)
Give them what they promised, but don't let them see you coming. It's a challenge, but when you land it, wow.
