FINALES, SUCCESSION: GIVE THEM WHAT YOU PROMISED THEM

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. 

 

FINALES, SUCCESSION: GIVE THEM WHAT YOU'VE DENIED THEM

I know I said I was going to do MRS. MAISEL next but I'm still just so overwhelmed by the finale of SUCCESSION I have to go there next. 

(And happy series finale of TED LASSO, for those who so celebrate. I'll have things to say about that soon.)

Showrunner Jesse Armstrong delivered an almost 90 minute series finale to the series, as HBO shows often do (call it Max and we rumble). And that allows for lots of different kinds of opportunities, like the extended midpoint in which Shiv, Kendall and Roman decide to let Kendall run the company, and then celebrate in their own weird Roy-an way. 

I'm not a big fan of HBO's extra-super-duper-length episodes in general, but in this case it was really needed in order to get the three of them on the same page in a convincing (aka earned) way. We need the round and round of their time at the villa, and the ocean, and the kitchen scene. 

Having said that, I suspect that they could have done without that kitchen sequence and had it still felt satisfying and complete. 

But knowing how amazing that sequence is, I think we can all agree that would have been a huge missed opportunity. In a show filled with big iconic moments, that is one of the most iconic. 

And here's why: In four seasons while we've gotten moments where the three main Roy kids are on the same page, they've never lasted for more than maybe a scene or two. There's always an undercurrent of insecurity among them. We've never, ever gotten a moment in which they're just okay with each other. And so, having kept that from us so long, we have both come to believe that that is impossible—which is to say, we're not looking for it to happen—and on some deeper level we want it to happen. It's basic human psychology. You want to make someone want something? Keep it away from them. 

I don't think anyone went into the finale thinking, I just hope they have a nice moment together, because they've literally never done that. But in giving us that Armstrong and his writers and performers finally feed the part of us they've been starving. And that is just an incredibly satisfying thing to offer in a finale. 

You want to create a great finale? Give them what you've been denying them. 

FINALES, THE FLASH: LEAVE THEM WITH A GIFT

There's one last "fix" in the finale of THE FLASH. Season 8 saw both Killer Frost and Caitlin killed. And season 9 gave actress Danielle Panabaker a whole new persona Khione who, while charming, never totally made sense relative to everything that had come before.

A lot of her new identity turns out to be a deus ex machina (quite literally) to deal with the corner into which the show paints itself. But then in the end, having done that, we unexpectedly get Caitlin back. 

And I have to say, as mystifying as Khione was, that twist still lands. Which I think goes to show just how special and important a character Caitlin was for the show. 

In a lot of great finales, you try to leave the story with something new to play with, a gift for the future. It seems counter-intuitive; the show is over. But actually that's part of what makes many finales so satistfying. It tells us this world goes on, and not only that, it's got very cool things ahead. 

THE FLASH gave us three new speedsters, which was it's biggest act of gift giving. 

But I think bringing back Caitlin works a bit like this as well. Because sometimes the greatest gift a show can give is a fresh insight, either into our lives or that of the characters. And bringing Caitlin back does just that. She's always been central, but in such a quiet way I think some of the power of her character was easy to miss. By keeping her away for a whole year, the show gives us the chance to realize just how much we've missed her. And that awareness is itself an unexpected gift. 

NEXT: THE MARVELOUS MARVELOUS MARVELOUS MRS. MAISEL

FINALES, THE FLASH: THE FIX

While the finale of TED LASSO doesn't drop for a couple days yet, I think it's safe to say that the way of May 24-31, 2023 will go down as one of the all time greatest weeks of finales ever. We've had THE FLASH, MARVELOUS MRS. MAISEL and SUCCESSION already, and each of them wonderful in different ways. 

I love love love finales. And one of the things I find fascinating about this current set is that in a sense they all approach the idea of the finale differently, with different goals and techniques So this week (and probably next) I'm going to dive into them, one by one. 

We start with THE FLASH, which finished a 9-season run on May 24th with the end of a four-parter entitled "A New World" which brings back season one regular Eddie Thawne. Returning to the beginning in some way is a classic finale move. But THE FLASH takes that idea to a whole other level.

Eddie began the series as Iris' boyfriend and Joe's partner. But he's also pretty much screwed from the beginning. Barry and Iris are absolutely the couple of destiny for the series, and it doesn't take very long for Barry, who has only just woken from a coma, to screw things up for Eddie. 

And on top of that, he discovers that his distant descendant Eobard Thawne is the series' evil supervillain the Reverse Flash. Seriously, this guy is just screwed. This kind of character who normally would be a pretty good guy except he's only there to get in the way of the main characters and therefore is actually cast as an antagonist is a major TV trope; it's the patsy, really. Or, if you will, The Eddie.

In the end, the writers try to redeem what they've done to him by giving him the final heroic turn of the season. Seeing Eobard about to kill Barry, Eddie kills himself, stopping him from ever existing, which is a pretty damn heroic thing to do.

Except even in this regard he ends up being a failure and a writers' patsy. Because Eobard comes back. Like, a lot. The Reverse-Flash is the main antagonist of the entire show. 

This isn't a question that lingers over the characters or the series. We barely hear about Eddie, actually.  But it is a pretty shitty way to have left the character. And so in the final four episodes, they bring Eddie back. And honestly, he's pretty messed up after he learns what's gone on, and tempted to go full evil. 

But then in the finale, he once again sacrifices his pain to be the better person. But this time it doesn't result in his death. I'm not exactly sure what life in the Negative Speed Force universe looks like but it is a life. And he has finally confronted and let go of what he's lost. 

So the finale becomes a way of righting a wrong, fixing an injustice. 

There's another sort of "fix" here, too. Unlike its predecessor ARROW, which was a series about a very dark character slowly coming to trust and come to the light, THE FLASH presents from the start as a hopeful show, a guy who not only gets the power to do the impossible but who believes in the impossible, namely that he can prove that his father did not kill his mother. It's such a beautiful storyline.

But the thing is, his mother is still a murder victim. And the killer turns out to be the man he believes to be his friend and mentor (who then terrorizes others that he loves). And now he has powers that enable him to potentially change all that. Each of these details make the show much, much more complicated and sad. And intriguingly, in some ways the show became more about a guy who struggled against the darkness of what he had experienced. Which has a tremendous real world resonance, and personal dramatic stakes for Barry for sure, but threatened at times to overwhelm the show's foundations. 

In the finale, we get this incredible moment where Barry says all this as he's trying to figure out what to do about Eddie and concluding his only real solution is to murder him. And while he's said versions of this before, there's a sense of him being overwhelmed by it all that really hits hard. It's perfect for the finale. 

And his mission, as given to him by Caitlin's new identity Khione, is to believe in the impossible once again. So again, we're returning to the beginning, but this time for inspiration. And out of it we get not only the resolution of the Eddie story line, but something radically new: Barry sharing his power with three brand new speedsters. It's a bit of fan service for those who know the Flash comics, but it's also a great "fix" on what has been Barry's fundamental character problem, a belief that it's all up to him. 

The series actually ends with us watching Barry run. And it's the first time in a very long time that we see Barry smiling as he does it. He's happy. It's a great end.  

SUCCESSION ON MAKING US CARE FOR EVERYONE

For me the real magic trick of SUCCESSION 406 is, as I mentioned yesterday, that you end up feeling strongly for all three kids, even as they're actually fucking each other over. 

In my experience, that is not generally how SUCCESSION has worked. Other than when they're unified against Logan, we've usually been given reasons to root for or against one or another of the siblings. If I step back and think about that, it's usually their flaws that are used to guide us against them. Kendall has crazy ideas and is often a public embarrassment; Shiv has a hard time standing up for herself; Roman is such a daddy's boy. The show offers us these moments and in doing so guides us to side with the other siblings. 

(I realize there are people who would say, I have been Team Shiv from day one, and her "flaws" are much more indicative of her father's horrendous manipulative treatment of her than a judgment on her in herself, and so on for all the characters. Another way of putting it might be, the show has loved to expose characters as "weak" in some way to turn us against them.)

As we start 406, we find ourselves headed into familiar Roy sibling territory. Kendall and Roman have a plan, they are not letting Shiv in on it, even though that's what they promised they would do just a few days ago. And so of course I'm rooting for her. 

But then slowly she comes around to undermining them, which on the surface, hell yeah. Fuck them. But then in that moment before Kendall is going to go on stage, after Shiv has convinced Roman to not go up there on the stage with him,  we watch Kendall sitting in a chair, just reeling, as we've seen him do before. 

But rather than satisfying it's painful. In some ways that's precisely because we've seen him in this place before. Here again, we're revisiting an icon of the show. But where the water imagery is used to create contrast, here the repetition is like a doorway back into the sympathy we've had for Kendall at other times, the vulnerability that we know is who this guy is beneath the surface. 

And so instead of feeling vindicated, because he has been a complete shit to Shiv and also he's so incredibly self-destructive, we're suddenly protective of him. Sad Vulnerable Kendall is itself part of the language of the show, so much so that when played it generates sympathy. 

(While I'm trying to look at this strictly from a writing point of view, it's important to note, this scene works like it does because Jeremy Strong just fucking kills it. He's so damn good in this episode.)

And writers Georgia Pritchett & Will Arbery are not content with leaving him stripped away like this. They make him go lower, first by having Carl, who is by far the wishy washiest character on the show, the most milquetoast, go absolutely toe to toe with Kendall, ruin the plan he's spent the last few days dreaming up, and leave him speechless.

Pritchett & Arbery set this moment up so well; earlier in the episode we get Gerri and Roman going head to head as well. And she is in many ways more confrontational than Carl, and a stronger character by far, and Roman absolutely steps up and shuts her down. Meanwhile Kendall, facing a far weaker foe, can barely get a word out.

And even that is not the bottom for Kendall. We watch him go out onstage, and his opening moments are just a trainwreck—he's repeating the same thing over and over; he's talking to the teleprompter; he has a simulated conversation with his dad—so painful. It's just one long spiral of agony, with cutaways to his family and employees watching in horror. 

There's just no way not to care about this guy in the face of all that.  

And yet again, he is being terrible to Shiv, lying to her face and seems completely at ease with it. And he's tanking a deal that he absolutely shouldn't. All of which is classic Kendall. 

Which for me makes where the show leaves us with him just an incredible feat. And I can look at structurally how they did that—repeat an iconic Kendall trope; have him roll over and play dead against a weak foe; and publicly humiliate himself—and say yep, that's how they did that. And now we can too!

But honestly I think I'm still barely scraping the surface. Because there's something else going on in the episode with all three characters, beats of them being really exposed and vulnerable—always in private—that seems to grant each of them that same sympathy, even as they are each being, again, so horrible to each other.  

Could it be that the good will and sympathy that the Logan's death episode generated in us is still a work? Is that what this is? 

I may continue to babble about this tomorrow. It's just such great writing. 

SUCCESSION ON THE ART OF REVISITATION

Another great episode of SUCCESSION this week. Maybe my biggest takeaway, and one that I'm going to write about, is the way the episode creates conflict amongst the three kids, and you see them each fucking over the others—especially Kendall and Roman screwing Shiv—yet somehow you end up feeling for each of them. Like, start of that ep I am 100% Team Shiv, and in a way that doesn't change. But then once Kendall's all alone I am so rooting for him, too. 

There's a lot to unpack there. 

But today I just want to note the way the episode ends. Kendall, on his own, floating on his back in the Pacific. It's clearly a baptismal moment; he's come through something, his own self-destructive tendencies, and come out the other side. 

And what's brilliant about that end image of him floating is the way that it calls back to him in the pool at the end of 308. There he's really at his lowest point: having killed someone at the end of season one, he's now got his father—who of course got him out of it—holding it over him, telling him he'll never be free of that. He's basically trapped. And at the end he's floating on a raft, drunk. But the episode ends with him passed on, his face in the water, his beer floating away like an image of his soul. It was a huge question mark whether we hadn't just seen him die. 

How brilliant to take that image and flip it on its head—or on its back, as it were—to represent what is really his resurrection. Where he was face down and drowning in despair in 308, now he's face up, floating without even needing a raft to hold him. 

One of the things I adore about the final season of great series is the way that they revisit its key visual metaphors, events and lines of dialogue. Together those moments are the imaginative landscape of the show, that is, the landmarks of the show as it exists in our minds. To offer any kind of callback is great fan service. But to do what Georgia Pritchett & Will Arbery do here, to take such a moment and use it in a whole new way, is both deeply emotionally satisfying for the audience and carries the water for so much story. Kendall floating on the ocean tells us everything that we need to know about him without a single word having to be said, and it does so 1000 times better. 

We should all be so lucky as to write on the finale of a great show. But the same principle applies to the end of a season, or even the end of a pilot. What can I revisit at the end of my piece that casts that moment in a whole new light?

SUCCESSION ON THE CATHARSIS YOU DON'T SEE COMING

Last night on SUCCESSION, "Kill List" written by Jon Brown & Ted Cohen, we got our first real glimpse of Roman and Kendall working together. And on the surface what we're shown is the challenge of having two heads rather than one (or three heads, as it goes on). Where Madsen is able to shoot from the hip and move on the fly, Rome and Ken are backfooted at the first meeting by the fact that they clearly have such different reactions to the offer. 

And by starting there, the Brown & Cohen con us into thinking that the issue of the episode is getting them on the same page, seeing whether they can "pull off" the deal. It's an easy groove for us to fall in, as getting the kids on the same page is always the problem with the Roys. And so is Kendall self-destructing.

But this episode is not about that. It's about not holding back. And even though Kendall is the main player at the table, in the end this is really Roman's episode, not Kendall's. He's the one that has the most trouble with the new offer. And then in the second scene, he's the one that still says nothing. Kendall is actually firing on all cylinders. Roman mostly nods.

That scene ends with Madsen saying, "Well I don't care what you think," he says to Kendall's critique of his analysis of Waystar. "You're a tribute band." It's a brilliant SUCCESSION-worthy line. The dialogue on the show is so often about reducing complicated things to witty, devastating (accurate) metaphors. 

But what I love about that line is that it brings the conversation back to Logan. Which is where Roman's head is anyway. He's the one dealing with Connor's craziness about the body. He's the one that just cannot hear anyone saying his father is a bad guy or his plan should be tossed out. But having said that, Brown & Cohen give us nothing to suggest he's going to cut loose. That's not how this world works, actually. For as entertaining and nasty as the banter of  SUCCESSION is, it's also highly constraining. You do not pour your heart out here.  (And this is especially true of Roman. He is 100% "fuck off" and quips.)

And that's what makes Roman's monologue to Madsen on the mountain so incredibly thrilling. Certainly the other conversations with Madsen have been building to this, though again, by putting Kendall front and center they've distracted us from Roman. But it's not just that; in a sense by so often withholding a more open conversation, they've sort of starved us. And so when Roman comes in with "I fucking hate you," even though it makes him sound like a teenager talking to his dad, we absolutely relish it. 

There's a bunch of possible lessons to take from this. One is obviously how important it is to create early distractions in an episode, so the audience doesn't see your end gambit coming. 

But another is, when you're working on the last season of a show, it's worth asking, what have we been withholding from the audience? What are the things we haven't let them have? And if we can find a way to give that to them, Wow will they eat it up.

SUCCESSION ON HOW TO CRAFT A SURPRISE

This is going to seem like a really obvious observation, but it's something I've been thinking about a lot in terms of not events but character choices. If you really want to surprise people, don't telegraph that it's coming. 

I did say it seemed really obvious. But I think it's worth mentioning from a broader perspective. There's so often when I'm working on a script or a character where I think to myself, I need to set up that later reveal, event or character choice early, so that when we get there I've established a runway for it. I don't want the audience to feel like I've cheated. 

And there's truth to that. If Miranda Bailey starts murdering people on GREY'S ANATOMY—well, first of all I would be here for that, because I would follow Chandra Wilson doing anything. But I might very well say, Um, not sure that really tracks? 

In the case of SUCCESSION, we've had plenty of set up over the last three seasons that Logan is not well. But probably they could have sold it anyway because he's just old. He comes with his own ticking clock built in. 

But as I think of some the best character work I've seen, oftentimes it involves a certain refusal to signpost or pre-justify. I see it especially with great villains—instead of seeming good while secretly twirling their mustaches, we have the character play altogether good, and then in other moments simply be evil. Basically, they leave it up to us to put those pieces together. 

Admittedly, this can go wrong. Te boy next door who turns out to be a creepy voyeur/serial killer is actually pretty tired at this point, not only because it's been done but because it can feel untrue. There has to be some deeper truth that justifies the surprise. 

But the key truth is this: Story Gaps are great for audiences. It gives them a way to participate. It gives them something to sink their teeth into. 

In the case of SUCCESSION Logan's own behavior is a great example of this. We never know what's going on in his head. All we have is the things he says and does, which in his case are so far from the fullness of what he's up to. And that gap not only keeps the kids spinning, it keeps us engaged. 

But the choice to have him die without warning is kind of a version of this as well. Telegraphing and signposting are sometimes great, essential. But sometimes it's the gaps that we create between our signposts and story choices that create great story.

 

SUCCESSION ON BEING TRUE TO WHO YOU ARE AS A SERIES

This week I'm going to write a lot about the latest episode of SUCCESSION. If you're not caught up and like the show, you should definitely not read this until you do. (In fact you might try implementing a media cone of silence, because yowza.)

So, here we go... Spoilers Ahoy. 

SUCCESSION 403 is The One Where Logan Dies. Which is um, definitely unexpected. The episode actually begins with Logan doing normal screwed up Logan stuff—asking Roman to do his dirty work; ditching Connor's wedding. Bad Dad Head Fuckery 101, basically. 

And then we get the phone call from Tom on the plane, which leads into this incredible, 28 minute sequence in which first Roman and and Kendall, then Shiv, and finally Connor are all forced to confront the fact that their father is dying...isn't breathing...is dead. 

And creator/writer Jesse Armstrong makes this really unexpected choice to not let us see Logan at all for a good portion of the sequence. We hear from Tom, we see stuff going on in the background, others also chime in, but there's no "Cut To: A stewardness doing chest compressions on Logan."

Objectively, that's super strange. That's not how you do these things on TV. A big part of the drama, in fact, is watching someone try to save the person's life. It's the will they make it or won't they. 

But here's what that choice does: it puts us in the same situation as the kids—but not just in terms of this moment, but in the broader context of the show. Logan Roy is the monster in the closet that you can never fucking kill. He is the shark that disappears only so that it can show up behind you and rip your fucking throat out. You are never fucking safe with him. A conflict with him is never over. 

Given that, of course they don't want to show us him falling ill, or dying, or dead, until the end (and even then they don't show us his face; I wouldn't be surprised if Brian Cox wasn't used at all). It's a way of leaving it open whether this is really happening, whether this isn't some next level mind fuck ruse of the all time mind fuck master. 

There are a hundred ways that Jesse Armstrong could have killed Logan Roy. And I think a lot of the press around this version is going to be about how it captures the death of a loved one, especially a parent, in such a real way. But as writers, let's not be fooled by that. SUCCESSION is not an after school series. This isn't a very special episode.

This is a series about three kids (sorry Connor—we'll get to you) who are constantly unsure where they stand with their father and desperate for it not to be like that but also completely incapable of overcoming him or themselves to get to that point. They live with constant instability and uncertainty.

And that's what's drives Armstrong's choice about how to show his death. The bigger concept drives the specific story decision. 

It's such a great model for us as writers. Whether we're doing a death, a dinner party, a high school dance, the point is absolutely the same. The concept of the show should inform our thinking to make our choices specific. 

To put it in terms of a question: What is the "Our Show" version of a death? A dinner party? A high school dance?

THE LAST OF US AND THE ARC OF THE COVENANT, PART II: REMEMBER YOUR RULES

So in THE LAST OF US season one Mazin and Druckmann scatter breadcrumbs to build the sense of something bigger at play on Ellie, deep feelings within her that are going to need to be released. 

But then, when you're plotting the actual moment where that happens, there's still the question of the specifics. What should occur? 

And you've got unlimited options, right? It's your show. Anything could happen.

But you and I both have seen way too many stories where the thing that does happen just does not feel right. To some extent my complaints about the David are an example of that. Her going full Wilding Mode on someone makes total sense to me. But this guy that she's murdering, he does not seem right. 

And I think this points to a key thing about writing a TV show. Whether we know it or not, every show we work on has an internal set of rules. A lot of them, actually—rules for how each character can and can't behave (which depending on your show could be A LOT of rules; rules for how the world of the show works, what kinds of things happen in this world and what don't; and rules for the series, by which I mean what kinds of stories do we tell her and in what kinds of ways. 

Sometimes you can break these rules and it's thrilling for the audience specifically because it's so unexpected. But almost always if you try you can trace back that rule break and find a way in which actually no, it does fit the show. For instance the last of THE GOOD FIGHT has an ongoing growing riot going on outside the law offices, and it keeps impeding on their work more and more. It's insane and scary and some might say, what the hell, that is not this show. Except when you step back, sure it is. It's just the latest and most profound sense of dislocation that one of the characters has been feeling since the very beginning. And this show is about that deepening instability. 

The rules of THE LAST OF US definitely include the possibility of Ellie going completely nuts. While we haven't seen her do that yet, we have seen her confront some terrible things, and we've seen some scary stuff running across her face at times. So that part checks out. 

But the rules of THE LAST OF US also include the idea that every character is actually trying to proceed out of some kind of experience of love. Which is also to say, that every character has the ring of truth about them. They resist tropes. 

And this is why the Peter fails, right? At one point he might have been doing what he was doing out of love, and as I wrote on Tuesday, if he had just been doing the cannibalism thing, I think they could have made it work. But with the pedophile moves and all the ranting that follows he's suddenly just a crazy person. And that breaks the rules of the show. 

But you could also see Mazin and Druckmann getting to 108, knowing they wanted to get Ellie to that climactic meltdown, but asking themselves, what do the circumstances that trigger this need to include? Like, what would cause her to lose it so completely? And they might argue, if we're going to follow the rules of Ellie, he would have to be an absolute monster. Him just feeding people she doesn't know human flesh, that's not going to trigger her enough. She needs a lot more. And making him this violent predator, that'll do it. 

Personally, I wonder if it wouldn't have been enough just to have him on top of her, trying to control her, maybe threatening her life, without any of the rape or "actually I am secretly a monster" stuff. I wonder if wouldn't have made it more grounded and personal to Ellie, in fact—this isn't about who he is, it's about her being triggered and what she does when she is. It's about the trauma inside her. 

Or was there some other way of building David or that moment to get Ellie to that point? Could he be someone who has love, but only for his own people, and in the end he's going to kill Ellie to feed her to them, and the threat of him plus the madness of that is enough? 

Or maybe some people would say they like it just the way it is. The point is, in building that climax we have to keep looking back to our rules for the show and make sure our plot choices fit, that they're true to the characters and world that we've built.

THE LAST OF US AND THE ARC OF THE COVENANT (aka CLIMAXES NEED SPACE)

After I posted about the David on Tuesday it struck me that there's another side to the show's decision to present such a flawed and trope-y character in a show that has brilliantly avoided those kinds of clichés. 

It turns on the character purpose of the episode, i.e. where does Craig Mazin need Ellie to land? And it's really clear, he thinks she needs to murder David, and to do so in just the most horrific fashion. 

But does that actually need to happen? That's what I want to talk about today, which is really Writing the Climax of a Character's Season Arc. 

If we plotted out Ellie's story in season one of the series, we would find moments here and there that are disturbing and traumatic. Everyone remembers 103 for the gay love story, but before all that we spend about 10 minutes with Ellie and Joel. And there's that spooky scene where Ellie goes down into a cellar that she finds without Joel knowing. She finds a zombie trapped under a bunch of bricks, and rather than just kill it or leave she goes up to it and slowly cuts into its head, almost just for kicks. Then when she does kill it, it's with all this rage. And she tells Joel nothing. So chilling. 

In 104 she shoots a man to save Joel, and once again there's that rage on her face, and also absolute horror. And in the episodes that follow we get other sorts of horrifying things she has to deal with. In 105, she tries to save Sam, and ends up failing him in her mind, then watches Henry kill Sam and himself. In 106 she's suddenly rougher to the Indian couple than she had been with people in the past. She's not violent or anything, but she is kind of menace-y in a way that seems new. And in 107 and 108 she has to deal with Joel getting stabbed and everything now depending on her. She either saves him or she's all alone. 

All these little moments are meant to add pressure within us, a sense of anxiety about where Ellie is headed that will need to be released in some way.

At the same time, one of the things that I love about the Druckmann and Mazin approach is that it's done with a gentle touch. You do not go into 108 thinking, Oh my God Ellie is about to fucking lose it. A lot of shows do exactly that—they want to give you every single breadcrumb on the path to that final moment. And it turns out if you've done your job right, that's unnecessary. In fact, telling us too much kind of suffocates the life out of the moment. We end up knowing that it has to happen, and pretty much exactly how and maybe even when.

The Druckmann/Mazin approach instead is to give us breadcrumbs, sure, but also to leave a lot of room for the emotions of that final moment to expand into. That's what we want. 

An analogy: The big character arc climax moment is like a fire that we're going to light. If we want that moment to really explode, there needs to be a lot of oxygen available when we light the match. 

In climaxes where we've done too much work, we've effectively lit the fire too soon, so the climax just doesn't have much oxygen to work with. Which means it can't be as emotional and explosive. 

Druckmann and Mazin hold a lot back, give us just moments here and there, and in that way they allow a lot of room for the emotions of Ellie's climax. They enable it to be as big and as crazy as it is. 

So, does Ellie's climax fit her arc? Does it or something like it need to happen? Absolutely. 

But then the other question is, Does it need to happen in this way? And that's what I'm going to talk about tomorrow.