The Great TV Goodbye Has Forgotten How to Say Goodbye
I remember when a series finale was an event. Your whole family crowded around one television set. The next day at work, at school, at the barbershop — everybody talked about it. An ending meant something.
Now? A finale airs, half the internet complains, the other half didn't even know the show was ending, and we all move on to whatever Netflix just dropped and abandoned three weeks later.
We have a problem, folks, and I've got a list of grievances. Grab a chair.
Grievance One: The Eight-Episode Season
Streaming taught us that ten episodes was too many. Then eight was too many. Now we get six episodes and a "limited series" disclaimer so they can't be held to a second season.
Here's the math problem: you cannot earn a satisfying ending in six episodes if you spent four of them on atmosphere and one on a flashback episode nobody asked for. Great finales work because we've lived with these characters. The Sopranos ran 86 episodes. Cheers ran 270. You don't build that kind of goodbye in a weekend.
Grievance Two: Cancellation Roulette
Nothing kills a finale like not getting one. How many shows have you watched that ended mid-sentence because some executive in a Burbank office needed to trim the quarterly spreadsheet? The whole streaming model treats shows like content inventory instead of stories, and stories need an ending to justify the journey.
My rule now: I don't start a streaming original until I know it got a real conclusion. Fool me once, Westworld. Fool me twice, everything else.
Grievance Three: The Hype Machine
Every finale now gets marketed like a Super Bowl. "The most ambitious episode of television ever made." Bigger, longer, more expensive. And then the episode arrives and it's 40% flashback, 30% needle drop, and 30% characters staring meaningfully at the horizon.
Hype is the enemy of satisfaction. The best endings sneak up on you. Nobody saw the MAS*H goodbye coming to dominate the culture — it just did, because the show earned it.
The Report Card
Since I'm feeling petty, let's grade a few:
- Game of Thrones (2019) — F. A rush job so sloppy it retroactively damaged the entire series. Seasons of buildup, three episodes of collapse.
- The Sopranos (2007) — A. Divisive at the time, now understood as perfect. Made YOU the final shot. Bold.
- Breaking Bad (2013) — A. Proof that a planned ending, given time, can stick the landing.
- Lost (2010) — C. Better than its reputation, worse than its promise. The character answers were there; the island mysteries were not.
- The Good Place (2020) — A. A comedy about the afterlife that understood endings better than any drama on television. Chose to stop while it was ahead. Imagine that.
What We Should Demand Instead
Here's my modest proposal: creators announce the ending in advance and get the episodes to tell it. Networks commit to final seasons instead of yanking shows mid-arc. And viewers — us — stop rewarding the endless middle. Watch completed shows. Finish things. Celebrate the ones that know how to leave.
A good finale isn't a twist. It's a promise kept. And honestly? We should accept nothing less.
