So I spend 13 weeks watching AMC’s The Killing, totally engrossed, trying to figure out who killed Rosie Larsen, thinking I was so smart one episode, and then thinking I was totally clueless the next. And last night, during the season finale, just when I thought I would finally find out who did it and (more importantly) if I was right… wham! There is no answer. Only a cliffhanger. Gotta tune in to Season 2 to find out.
I’m not a big fan of when books and movies and television series do these things. Readers and viewers have invested their time into these projects and deserve some kind of resolution, no? I remember fuming when coming to the end of Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour, a monster of a book that had absolutely no ending at all, leaving readers with an advertisement for its sequel, Lasher. Even the ending to Suzanne Collins‘ The Hunger Games, which I really loved, left me feeling a little unsatisfied. Should I really have to read Catching Fire to find out who Katniss chooses, Gale or Peeta? Will I even find out in the sequel? (Don’t tell me. It’s on my reading list.)
Just on principle, I have a good mind to boycott Season 2 of The Killing and show these producer-people how they can’t do these things to us, how we readers/viewers are not to be toyed with, how we deserve more than a wild-goose-chase ending or having a carrot dangled in front of us indefinitely.
But I know myself. I’ll get over it. And I’ll be sitting on the couch, enthralled, during the opening credits of Episode 1, Season 2.