I just finished watching the final season of Angel.
Like two seconds ago.
Probably shouldn't be blogging now.
they told me.
I won't offer analysis.
not on the ending,
or on plots that get out of control,
not on Big Bads that are really minions for even Bigger Bads --
and how annoying this is for an invested audience/reader --
not on the killing off of characters
or comic relief,
or on good and evil,
on free will,
fighting the good fight,
on champions and heroes, love and hope,
or whether, indeed,
there is "nothing in this world but grief."
It had to end this way, didn't it?
I will say, there's something about love. Beyond romance (or bromance), beyond friendship or kinship or duty . . . That's what I'm left thinking about, as I watch them each die in my mind's eye, finishing off the story. How much they loved each other.
Such a sap, I know. Hope I'm not the only one. . . .
But oh how I want this. This kind of love in life. And if not in life, in art. Maybe it's a Joss Whedon thing. I think Firefly might do it too. Buffy sure does. Makes hell worth living in, worth loving in. And those stakes skyrocket, don't they? Makes the fight worth the dying.
It's why I read. Why I watch shows like this.