Have you ever wanted something to last forever? Not a relationship or life or anything that serious, of course, but a form of entertainment, like a TV show or a book series that you’ve read for a long time? I felt that way when I finished Starman, recently, and I even took my time reading the series, postponing the last few issues as long as I felt I could, because I didn’t want to leave the world that had become a part of my life for a while. I’m sure this happened for Harry Potter’s fans, anyone who’s really enjoyed a comic book series, and for people who’ve been watching the same show for five years. We don’t want to lose something that we value, even if it’s inconsequential like a favorite Saturday night program. But, of course, nothing in this world lasts forever, save change, and we must all move on.
As I get closer to finishing the Wire, I feel this same apprehension and excitement. I don’t want it to end, but I have to know what happens. And that, to me , is the ultimate imprint of entertainment on life. It becomes such a major part of our lives that we treat it as a friend and companion. We invest so much time in it that we want to see it through to the end, but we don’t want to lose it, either. On the first episode of Community, Joel McHale’s character makes a point about how people can feel empathy to anything, even a pencil. Whether his exact example is correct or not is another discussion, but his point is well taken. We like things that we’re around a lot and we like things that remind us of ourselves. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start having favorite characters on the Wire that I saw pieces of myself in, and that may very well have been the point. I got so used to the characters, so attached to them, that when one of them died, I felt it, and when the show’s over, I’ll feel it as well. Because of that, and because of what they represent, these characters have meaning. They are important, and not just as plot devices. These people, whether they exist or not, matter. They matter because they delivered the message of the author, and they remain with me and the rest of the audience.
When we’re lucky enough for this to happen, the best hope for us is an emotionally satisfying conclusion. Which is odd, because that almost never happens in real life. We never tell the people we care about how much we love them, the police are never around when somebody zips past us, and plenty of women wind up with jerks. But, every once in a while, we, the audience and the characters, earn an ending that fits, one that wraps everything up for us, and one that makes everyone feel happy about how things ended. Very few writers and creators can pull this off. Morrison’s Animal Man did it. Scrubs did it, and then went back and undid it. The Lost guys couldn’t. The Shield guys got close. Same with the Battlestar Galactica people. There are plenty more examples of where this happens and multiple more where it didn’t (*cough* st. elsewhere, little house on the prairie, Buffy the Vampire Slayer *cough*) Sometimes we’re too close to something to be objective as well. But, with Michael Scott leaving the office, the M.A.S.H. gang finally getting to go home, and Bob Newhart waking up from a dream, we sometimes do get exactly what we’ve waited for and what we deserve. And, come on, if we can’t get that in real life, why shouldn’t we have it in entertainment?
