Why the Stranger Things finale might actually be a perfect conclusion
That’s it. Nine years and five seasons later, and Stranger Things - the reference-packed modern TV phenomenon - has finished. The internet, at least on first reaction, appears divided and - while I am no paragon of omniscient truth - I think the Duffer Brothers have done something interesting and necessary. Something that creates a Finalé that is, in many ways, deeply unsatisfying and in others, perfectly fitting. In either case, the fraction of interpretation, experience and audience satisfaction may have longer-lasting benefits for television. Here’s why:
(spoilers ahead)
At the close of the episode, we’re asked to dive back into our nostalgia, and, in fact, many times across the episode, we’re asked to engage with how the show has affected us; how it has become an accompaniment to our lives for nearly a decade - like good TV does. It asks us to feel emotion for seeing how different each character is now, for what they’ve been through to reach where they are and the ultimate heartbreak of El/Jane’s final sacrifice. I cried like a baby as each character was wailing in their own right as they realised a goodbye was, after all, on the cards.
Yet aside from El’s death - or suggestion of it - the episode ends happy, light-hearted, and bearing a tone and musical score not dissimilar to any John Hughes movie. Dustin’s valedictorian middle finger to the principal and denigration of conformity felt as though he might walk off across a football pitch with a leather jacket, raising a fist to the sky and walking off to the soundtrack of Simple Minds.
It is here that the paths of opinion will mostly diverge. Plot holes, unexplained endings, a reappearance of Ted Wheeler, seemingly looking fresh as a daisy, as if nothing had happened to him. If you were looking for perfect answers and the epitome of what makes traditional sci-fi or fantasy worlds so complex, you probably didn’t get it. In fact, if throughout the last five seasons, you were engaged and attached to knowing the perfect truth of the monsters, the chase, the theory of the upside down, and the identity of the Mindflayer, then it probably wasn’t the right ending for you. Is that a bad thing? That’s what I can’t quite decide. The moment we saw more of Henry’s trauma and possession and, far later, when Mike explains the presence of comfort and happiness, the Duffer Brothers seem to be taking our hand and trying to teach us something. This lesson, at least I think, is split in two:
Trauma does not have to kill
If we toss out the importance - stay with me here - of the explanation of theory, and of what the upside down is and of how the many pieces fit together into a resolution of sorts, then the next most important element is trauma recovery. From Henry’s own possession, to many moments of slightly overexposed dialogue, to the growing exhaustion on every character's face as each episode unfolds and their hope is drained, we explore the evolution, impact and recovery from trauma and grief.
Fantasy and the many 80s movies referenced in the show and, for that matter, John Hughes’ The Breakfast Club, as I mentioned earlier, have always created a place to escape to. Even Stranger Things became an act of escape from an incredibly fraught world and, in my own life, a way for me and my friends to discuss and take a step away from the monotony of everyday life and anxieties. In this context, an ending that says “Hey kids, life is still possible” is more useful than one that leaves us empty, devoid of hope and having seen every character's death in a gruesome, violent manner. As an aside, I told my best friend that I fully believed every character would die but I’m glad they didn’t because, though we have forgotten how to accept happy endings, what does mass death teach us, if the point is to inspire real-life survival? If - without glazing too far - the show was always about the impact, rather than the story.
The death of the author; the life of the party
This leads neatly onto ‘the death of the author’, a concept that may be eye-rollingly stereotypical of a former film student to bring up, but is incredibly relevant. This was a theory mostly attributed to Roland Barthes, who suggested that when a piece of art lands into the hands of an audience - a book, a film, a play – the writer dies and ceases to be of any importance. The real, true story, the intended narrative world no longer matters. Instead, the audience's view of that world and what they believe happens, with their own subjective interaction, matters only. In this sense, the Duffer Brothers, whether intentional or unintentional, have asked a greater question about the presentation of art and its place in modern society. Gosh, even re-reading that, I sound so unnecessarily positive, and perhaps I’m making an oak tree out of a twig, but we live in a reality where art and cinema are increasingly at risk of collapse.
As part of that, too many of us have lost the ability to question, to interpret and to discuss. Stranger Things, whichever way you look at it, has reopened the need for discussion. TikToks, reels, forums, blogs. All have come up with phenomenal theories and outcomes, several that could be seen as a better ending, several that could have fitted just as well and some a little more outlandish. When this happens, and when people are so excited about discussion and exploration, is the author not already dead? Is it not already true that the real ending ceases to matter or match up to those others have dreamt up?
These two ‘lessons’ are not without fault. They are not without further questioning and do not, inherently, suggest that the Duffer Brothers are geniuses or that the show does not contain holes that are frustrating and could well just be bad writing. No, but what it does do and has done for the last nine years is bring us together to wonder: how am I meant to feel? What is going to happen? Should I be scared or happy? And it once again places the audience front and centre as the real authors, a reality that - in my mind at least - creates a more interactive and sustainable cinematic experience.
In a world of falling artistic expression and interpretation, I am doing as Mike did and narrating a story, a theory that may have no basis in reality, but that in asking it, provides some happiness. Whether accidental or otherwise, I certainly hope it may have a longer-lasting impact on film, not so we end up with more films and shows with unanswered questions or imperfect strands, but so that we learn to remember that art is greater than just the sum of its creator.
