What do a film's unanswered questions tell us?
Let's scratch at the uncertain edges of some movies to see what they might tell us. Spoilers for four popular movies.
Not every film ends with every important question sewn up. Some films, excellent films, choose to leave something open.
Of course, every film leaves a trail of omission, as characters leave the borders of their final scene, as the film universe presumably continues after the film's credits start rolling. What makes it into the edit and what is left out is perhaps mostly a straightforward creative problem, predicated on storytelling clarity, acceptable length, audience testing, or whim. When a film leaves out something they shouldn't have by accident we call it a "plot hole" (if it's related to storytelling) or some other kind of flaw.
But what about films that deliberately leave essential questions unanswered? What does this failure to resolve tell us about the question? I think, in some cases, the unresolved question points to the heart of the work, the thing around which the rest revolves.
Enough abstraction, though, let's talk about some movies!
The nature of this discussion necessitates spoilers, so perhaps skip the films that you aren't familiar with and plan to watch!
A History of Violence (2005)
With 2002's (underrated) Spider, David Cronenberg began to shift gear from the overt speculative fiction and horror of the 80s and 90s to more grounded material, and this led to the critically acclaimed series of films that starred Viggo Mortenson: A History of Violence (2005), Eastern Promises (2007), A Dangerous Method (2011).
In A History of Violence, family man Tom Stall is exposed as former hitman, Joey Cusack, who escaped Philadelphia and his family connection to organised crime decades before. He is forced back to Philadelphia where he kills his vengeful brother. The film could have ended there, and in fact for years I maintained that it should have ended there. Instead, it shows a final scene where Tom/Joey returns home to his family, sitting down for dinner. The children set a plate for him and offer him food, and he exchanges a meaningful look with his wife, Edie.
What are we to make of this, then? Joey has certainly cut ties with his past, but does his return signal a comforting re-adoption of the Tom Stall persona? A return to innocence seems impossible, neither Edie nor Joey seem sure of where they are, or what comes next.
And isn't this the vital question of the film? We've had the violent catharsis that resolves the material danger, but what remains is a kind of hysterical neuroses. Everything is fine, but is it, really?
Inception (2010)
This film's ending is a particular favourite for the youtube "X Film Ending Explained" mini-industry. As such, I'm reluctant to dwell on annoyingly overtrodden ground. But for you, I'll do it.
In its last moments, Inception's hero, Cobb is finally reunited with his children as a spinning top - a 'totem' that he compulsively spins to confirm if he is still dreaming - spins unwaveringly in the foreground.
The ambiguity frustrated many. Has Cobb returned to the "real world"? Is he still stuck in a dream? Given that much of Nolan's career obsession is about storytelling and cinema, it seems clear that the answer is simply that the "reality" of Cobb's situation should not matter, not to Cobb nor to us. Of course it's not real: it's a film scene! Ceci n'est pas une pipe!
What matters is that Cobb has completed his emotional journey, accepted his part in Mal's fate, has freed himself psychologically to be able to again enjoy his life with his children. The fantasy remains inescapable, but he is able to embrace it.
Nosferatu (2024)
In Nosferatu, it is clear that Ellen is sexually obsessed with Orlok. Lily-Rose Depp depicts this as a kind of erotic mania, a hysteria that Freud and Jung would have easily diagnosed as the return of the repressed. It's a wonderful performance, sympathetic as well as deeply unnerving.
Vampires, described sometimes as the "zipless fuck" have a long history of sexiness. Dracula is frequently depicted as sexy, as is Lord Ruthven in The Vampyre, as have many since. But Orlok isn't sexy. Don't be fooled by the promotional posters, and the casting of Bill Skarsgard. We the audience, even the monsterfuckers among us, would struggle.
So why isn't Orlok sexy? Or to put it another way, why are we outsiders to Orlok's appeal to Ellen? I think this is the film's way of telling us that there is something going on inside Ellen that she is projecting upon Orlok, something that is more about her than him. He is abject and uncanny, a gesture at the Lacanian Real that resists symbolisation, a fact that he recognises himself when he describes himself as simply "an appetite". He barely exists as a character, and the very moment that he has served his purpose – of letting Ellen eat her cake (give into her lust) and have it too (remain the virtuous and loyal wife who sacrifices herself) – he willingly accepts death, like a good boy:
Why does he do this? The film leaves this hanging. If he is an actual character, he is embarrassingly foolish, reduced to the equivalent of a dog humping a leg. But as symptom of Ellen's repression, of course he fulfils her desire. She gets what none of us can: her true heart's desire. This is the heart of the horror of Nosferatu.
The Substance (2024)
I've chewed on this film a lot; in fact, I have an entire second article written about self-loathing that I may yet finish and publish. What I want to focus on is the gaping questions that seem central to the film: do Elizabeth and Sue share a consciousness while using The Substance? If not, what does Elisabeth get from the exchange? What is she obtaining that is so important that she continues even as its price becomes increasingly apparent? Why do Elisabeth and Sue insist on their distinctness from each other, even in contradiction to the Substance's purveyors?
While there are subtle hints that they do share a single experience and memory, the film leaves it ambiguous, even as it repeatedly flashes up the text "YOU ARE ONE". Elisabeth and Sue repeatedly talk about each other in the third person, aggressively disavowing their shared existence, until finally they are trying to kill each other, psychotically splitting into two consciousnesses before a traumatic and horrifying reintegration.
I think we are asked to recognise in ourselves the way that we think of ourselves as alienated subjects, such as when we talk about "future me" or "past me", or when we feel alienated from our own projected image on the 'Gram, the way that our negative self-talk presupposes an other that is talking to us.
We cannot be allowed to think of Elisabeth and Sue as separate people, or we'll start thinking about the competition between women under patriarchy and other interpersonal concerns that are only of secondary interest to director Coralie Fargeat. The Substance takes place inside the self, and the unanswered questions are vital to making that clear.
Sidebar: Lacanian Gobbledeegook
Just in case I don't write that second article, this is my one-sentence summary of what I think the film is "about":
The Substance shows the way that we fetishise our own Ideal Ego as a subject supposed to enjoy on our behalf, the resentment this entails, and how integration of this self is incompatible with continued existance in the shared symbolic order.
Clear as glass, right?
Questions
Hopefully I've demonstrated how fruitful and fun it is to look at the edge of what a film tells us and what it doesn't when it comes to digging into its ideas and themes. Hopefully I haven't scared you away from watching movies with me. I swear I'm not an arsehole about them!
In any case, if you want some MUCH SHORTER reviews from me about films I've watched, here's a link to my Letterboxd profile (yes, I am exactly that kind of nerd, bite me).