The Ambiguous Ending

By Julie

Can you tolerate an ambiguous ending? I think I can, as a rule. I watched a movie last week that had a pretty ambiguous ending, but it had enough context clues I could at least make some inferences about why the end needed to be ambiguous and what would or could potentially happen after the credits rolled.

credit: brett jordan's Flickr photostream

In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure the end was ambiguous at all. I think maybe it was just drawn that way, with the screenwriter/director giving enough information during the course of the film that the viewer really knew exactly what was going to happen.

At any rate, though I was somewhat perplexed by this ending, it was not enough to make me angry with the filmmaker or make me feel I'd wasted my time watching the movie only to get no satisfaction. In fact, I felt deeply satisfied by this ending in spite of, or maybe even because of the ambiguity. So much so, I thought about it for days and keep thinking about it now and then. I picture the ending images and where I think they led -- but how they could have led somewhere completely different. I think of the metaphors involved in the setting and the last bit of action and how those things tied to earlier scenes.

I think. And therefore, I am ok with it! (I like to think. If you don't, perhaps this post is completely lost on you.)

As a writer, this is something to chew on. If you write an ambiguous ending, are you attempting true "slice-of-life" fiction, where the reader is truly not meant to know (or maybe even care) what will happen after--the only intention is for the reader to take some meaning from what occurred during the time period in which the story was set. If so, you might want to be sure you're not setting the reader up for complete frustration when they come to the end. If they are left with the sense of What the bleep just happened?! and feel cheated by the lack of a clear ending, you might have a problem. It might mean you didn't deliver anything else meaningful in your slice.

Perhaps a good way to envision this working well is to imagine yourself watching something interesting develop while you're riding a train or sitting in a cafe. You observe a certain person or set of people interacting and making decisions for a short period of time. You don't know what happens to them after you leave the cafe or after you get off the train, but you still feel as if you observed a meaningful moment, even if you don't completely understand the before and after of it.

On the other hand, are you trying to write something that instructs the reader to bring her own thoughts and experiences and opinions to the table, that allows the reader to apply her own ending or at least the next step? In that case, it seems you would be wise to insert plenty of clues that could lead to various satisfying endings -- and by satisfying, I don't mean happy, necessarily. I mean simply that you've supplied your reader with enough information to make a few reasonable assumptions about what happens after the story ends and not leave them feeling like the film broke five minutes before the movie ended. Because we all know how much we hate that.

What about you? Do you like ambiguous endings, or do you want things thoroughly concluded and finished off with a bow? What are some of your favorite novels or films with ambiguous endings?

The movie I watched, by the way, is Take This Waltz, with Michelle Williams, Seth Rogin, Sarah Silverman, and Luke Kirby. Here's the trailer.

Deliver

by Joan

Recently Pamela blogged about beginnings. Also recently I was talking with Susan about endings. I’ve been critiquing her manuscript, The Angels’ Share, and she made a comment about not being entirely certain how the story was going to end, even though she was very close to being finished. It got me thinking about the promises writers make to readers, and how we’ve all read books that started out beautifully and didn’t end up where we thought they would or, rather, where we thought they should. Just as every book doesn’t grab every reader, it’s hard to please all readers once you’ve nabbed them at the beginning!

I told Susan I’d changed the conclusion to The Bodley Girl at least four times and, even though The Architect at Highgate is 99 percent finished, I’m still tweaking the last scene. I advised her to play around with a few possible endings, by writing down several alternatives to see if one spoke to her more than the others.


I recently finished Elizabeth Berg’s Dream When You’re Feeling Blue. I enjoyed the book, a WWII-era story featuring three very different sisters, who embark on letter-writing campaigns to soldiers, including two of their recently-deployed fiancés. Berg weaves the tight narrative with touching emotion and believable wartime observation. It was a fast read and when I breezed toward the end, I did a double take at the twist. The story forwarded about thirty years, which was a little unexpected in itself. But I hadn't anticipated the outcome, filled with sacrifice and love. There were subtle hints along the way that I later recognized as key. Not liking my endings pink and neatly-tied, the more I thought about it, the more I liked the conclusion. There might have been other ways to end the book, maybe Berg wrote a list of her own possibilities, but this one felt perfect.

At the conclusion of the 944-page Crimson Petal and the White, Michel Faber’s bawdy Victorian tale of love, lust, greed, and sorrow, I actually thought the dance stopped too abruptly and wondered why he’d jilted free the reader. There again, after some contemplation, I wondered how I would have ended it differently? Here I am, years later, pondering the story. And I haven't even mentioned Sarah Waters’ Little Stranger and Poppy Adams’ Sister! I’m still reeling from those endings!

Just as beginnings must entice the reader into a long and winding dance, endings must release the reader, satiated and somewhat spinning. As writers, we need to deliver what we’ve promised, whether it be a ballet, hip-hop, salsa or, yes, the twist.

A perfectly crafted last line can sear a book into our memory. Here’s a list, originally from the American Book Review.

And from the lovely novel, The Distant Hours, by Kate Morton (who will in two weeks stop by WWW!):

“The door closes behind her, leaving the ghostly lovers alone once more in the quiet and the warm.”

If you have a favorite ending or last line, tell us about it.