Firefly was a phenomenon. Eventually.

Airing from September 20 through December 20 of 2002 on Fox, Firefly was a show with more ambition than viewers. Coming off Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, Joss Whedon looked to bring a space opera to broadcast television. Leaning heavily into the concept of a space western the show followed the prerequisite rag-tag crew of a spaceship for hire, juggling episodic heists and jobs with a larger narrative arc dealing with government experiments and conspiracies. In the era of premium cable and streaming this may sound quaint, but for a broadcast network show in the early 2000s the scope was something remarkable. No one watched it.

Well yes, people watched it. But the viewership lagged considerably from what Fox was expecting. By the end of its run it was averaging 4.7 million viewers per episode. While that may not seem too bad in today’s ever fractured media landscape, that paled in comparison to other prime time broadcast offerings at the time. This was the era of CSI averaging 26 million viewers per episode, Friends was finishing up its run with similar numbers, and reality shows like American Idol and Survivor were increasingly snatching up audience’s attention. Firefly’s viewership wasn’t that far off from those of Whedon’s previous shows, but both Buffy and Angel aired on smaller networks with correspondingly smaller budgets. You don’t get to keep making an expensive space opera for prime time on one of the major broadcast networks unless it brings in the ratings.

So Firefly was canceled, only airing 11 of the 14 episodes that were produced. Getting canceled was the best thing that could have happened to the show.

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When a story ends, whether in book, film, or other form, most of us are looking for more than a resolution to whatever the narrative conflict was. Shows like Game of Thrones or Dexter or Lost that became infamous for terrible endings still managed to resolve the central conflicts on a technical level. Lost is a particularly good example here; one of the main complaints fans had of the show was that it left so many things unanswered. But it didn’t, not really. As Cody Johnston once joked, a lot of the answers just boil down to “the island is magic.”¹ For many, including myself, these are unsatisfying answers. But crucially, they are answers! They are resolutions. But what they are missing is a sense of payoff for the work many fans put into watching the show.

One thing I have noticed (and this is anecdotal, please don’t get mad at me if you are an exception) is that there can be a bit of a split on how you felt about the finale based on whether you watched the show in real time or binged it after the fact. Those who watched the show after the fact on Netflix or the DVD box set tend to be more forgiving of the finale and enjoy it on its own terms. Going from one episode to the next, one season to the next, they are along for the ride and swept up in the momentum. But for those who watched Lost as it aired, it was a very different experience. Waiting a week between episodes and months (sometimes closer to a year) between seasons led to theorizing of what everything meant, what potential answers there were to the show’s many puzzles. Adding to that, the show’s creators continually insisted there was a plan and that everything would come together and make sense. In the face of all that, it was essentially an impossible task to end the show in a way that would live up to the expectations that had been set. The theories and predictions of the fan base were so wide and varied, everyone pulling at different threads and following different sets of breadcrumbs, that there was no way any ending could satisfy everyone.

At the time I remember the Lost finale getting dragged, and it seemed like the general consensus was that they flubbed it. The ending sucked. And in light of this failure there was suddenly a revaluation of the entire series, a pop culture dark night of the soul where everyone questioned why they had loved this show so much. Why did they put so much time into a show that ultimately failed them?

Even as someone who was on Team The Ending Sucked, this has always felt like a terrible takeaway and approach. That pilot episode is good. That first season is good. Even going into the final stretches there were great moments. For the detractors focused on the perceived failure of the finale, it can be hard to recall that on an episode level the writing maintained a pretty consistent quality. There was a reason we all tuned every week, and while some of that was the puzzle box aspect and wanting answers to the ever increasing mysteries, that was not all of it. Yet the other qualities that helped make the show the cultural juggernaut that it was were overshadowed and overwhelmed by the desire for an ending that never existed.

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While Firefly had a small viewership, that viewership was dedicated. That dedication did not dissipate when Fox pulled the plug. Instead it galvanized the fandom. They became evangelicals, proclaiming Firefly one of the greatest shows ever, unjustly cut down before its time. The year after its cancellation the Sci Fi Channel (pre its rebrand to Syfy) picked it up to air in syndication, including the unaired episodes. By the end of 2003 the series was released on DVD, and while its hard to pin down how many copies were sold over 20 years after the fact (Wikipedia cites a source as saying 500,000 but that link is now dead and I wasn’t able to find another source with that number) this became another access point. In no small part thanks to the ferocity of the show’s fans, Firefly was inexplicably finding new audiences. For a period of time in the 2000s you could not go to any kind of geek-adjacent convention without coming across a number of the faithful sporting Browncoats, the name (and wardrobe) given to the righteous Independents who fought a losing battle against the Alliance in the show’s universe.

It was during this period that I first watched the show, of course at the behest of a friend at the time who sang its praises. Before I had even watched a single episode I was informed about how much Fox sucked for cancelling it, how the failure to find viewers was no fault of the show but of corporate fuckery, and how watching it was a form of protest against the increasing amount of airtime devoted to mindless reality shows. This was not an uncommon occurrence; among my friends and people I have talked to, the fact that Fox unceremoniously canceled Firefly was nearly always the first thing they learned about it from whichever Browncoat got to them first. Before selling potential fans on the merits of the show, the story, the characters, the fandom sold them grievance.

Not there was zero reason for fans to feel aggrieved. Fox did in fact fuck Firefly over in a number of ways. In addition to originally airing it on Friday nights (what used to be considered the death slot in the pre-streaming and VOD era), Fox outright refused to air the original pilot episode, forcing the show runners to retrofit another episode to serve as the new pilot. In addition to that, Fox decided that airing the episodes out of order would be fine and no big deal. Understandably, this made the more overarching narrative elements difficult to follow. It’s hard to attract and keep viewers when they feel like they are missing major elements.

That sucks, and especially as corporate mistreatment of creative work has continued and escalated to the point companies find it more profitable to shelve finished products for tax write offs rather than let them be seen by audiences, it is more than understandable for fans to be angry at the decisions executives make that seem so far removed from what it means to actually enjoy a piece of media. But by focusing so intently on how dirty Fox did Firefly, by making that the pitch, an important aspect gets sidestepped; what about the show itself?

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What constitutes an ending can be tricky to pin down. This has been particularly blurred in our post-MCU world, where the insistence of building “shared universes” with interlocking stories means that big blockbuster movies must tease additional conflicts and revelations that, by design, cannot be resolved in that story. No, you must wait for the next movie, or the movie after that to find out what was going on in that one scene tacked on solely to propel audiences to future installments. If an ending is meant to provide satisfying closure, this approach seems to undercut that intent by ensuring there is always at least some element left unaddressed. As a story in and of itself, then, it lacks a true ending.

But this is not really accurate nor is it all that new. Even among classic stories there are often threads left unresolved, allowing the audience to imagine what might happen next. Matthew Redmond, in teaching courses at Stanford centered around unfinished novels, argues that there is less separating an unfinished novel from a finished one than we might assume. “Read in such faint, flickering light, unfinished novels start to look a lot like finished ones, only more so” he says in discussing the ending of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.² Where Pip and Estella ultimately end up is intentionally left unanswered, in both the original and revised ending. The question Redmond poses is that, had Dickens died before the publication of Great Expectations they way he did while writing The Mystery of Edwin Drood, would we consider Great Expectations unfinished in the way we consider Edwin Drood? Drill down even more specifically; if Dickens had died before writing the revised ending of Great Expectations, would we grant it the label of being finished?

It’s a hypothetical question, but still an important one, as it suggests that labeling something an ending itself has power. Simply the idea that “this story has an ending” can influence, at least to some degree, the amount of resolution we take from it. This is particularly true of stories that have more ambiguous endings. The final shot of Inception, leaving the audience to guess whether or not Dom made it back to his kids in reality or if he is still stuck in a dream and the extent to which that matters, provides a resolution in large part because we expect there to be one. But if instead of a stand alone film we had been told Inception was the first in a two-part series, and the second film never materialized, the view of that same ending would change radically for many people.

The knowledge that a story is meant to have an ending is not enough on its own to smooth over all lack of resolution, intended by the author or otherwise. Lost is testament to that. It is another important factor to consider though when interrogating what people want from endings and why. And it helps explain why there is such a strong reaction when a series is canceled mid-run. Being told in no uncertain terms that there is no end becomes unavoidable context that impacts how everything else in the story is viewed.

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When I first watched Firefly I was a convert. Primed by the backstory of its cancellation the show’s charms took on a heightened import. It is a strange combination, to be enjoying something while simultaneously upset at the knowledge all those moments will lead to a dead end. Because that is very much how the show was framed; as unfinished, unconcluded, and as a result lesser than it should have rightfully been. In that first viewing of the series, this was the unescapable fact. Knowing that many of the things the show was doing would be unresolved created a defensiveness, the mistreatment it received from Fox demanding that you love it because of that mistreatment. The corollary, of course, is that is also demands you ignore its flaws.

Because as a show, removed from the baggage of its cancellation, Firefly is… fine. It’s fine! Like most shows it has its strengths and weaknesses. The cast is mostly great, generally elevating their characters beyond what is written on the page. And I always enjoyed the lack of sound in space; rather than the roar of engines when the camera would cut to any exterior shots in space there would simply be a gentle score, helping to romanticize the notion of freedom the characters desired. But it also must contend with the fact that space western was already a bit of a mainstay in genre storytelling. There’s the obvious example of Star Wars but also animes like Cowboy Bebop and Outlaw Star, with Firefly borrowing particularly liberally from the latter (the entire reveal of River in the pilot episode is pretty much directly lifted from Outlaw Star, and whether you consider it an homage or plagiarism is deserving of its own conversation).

There’s also the clear parallels to the American Civil War, which becomes weirder and more uncomfortable with each rewatch. Within the show’s universe, it is the Independents, the show’s heroes, who become the stand ins for the Confederates and the Alliance for the Union. I’m not suggesting that Whedon and the writers are secretly pro-Confederate, but having Mal, our main protagonist say lines like “I think we’ll rise again” in a stand off with pro-Alliance folks is certainly a choice that hasn’t aged particularly well.

(As an aside, the Whedon-style banter that has fallen out of fashion is still very prevalent in Firefly, but it also seems unfair to hold that against it, as at the time it had not yet become the cultural punching bag it is now, and mostly works within the confines of the show. Whedon’s weird gender politics, however, are also still evident and do not get the same pass. Mal routinely refers to Inara, a high class companion and escort within the world, as a whore, often to her face. It happens so often as to become truly nauseating and no, the idea that Mal is not comfortable expressing his love for her is not in any way an excuse.)

None of this is just to rag on the show. The point I am working to illustrate is that Firefly, like many (perhaps even most) shows, is fine. It is solid entertainment, with high spots but plenty of issues that leave room for criticism. It isn’t even the best show created by Joss Whedon; it lacks the weaving in of social commentary and coming of age parables with the supernatural that Buffy pulled off, instead playing the western visuals and tropes almost too straight at times. What really set it apart was its cancellation and the way the show was handled by Fox executives. Remove that element, and Firefly would likely have been remembered fondly but without the fervor. If it had been able to go on for another season or two it likely would have picked up some additional fans, maybe even been considered a success, but it would not have left the same cultural imprint. The incentive for fans to take to message boards and conventions to push the show on people would have been removed. It would have been another show, completed, with nothing left for fans to demand.

Because in the end Firefly did return in the form of a movie, Serenity. The build up of enthusiasm after the show’s cancellation led to Whedon getting to follow the series with a film in 2005, essentially a condensed version of what season two would have likely been. And with Serenity fans got what they seemingly wanted: an ending. And with that ending, with that closure, the intense fervor of the fandom began to wane. Even though Serenity, like many a story, ends with a tease and a nod toward additional adventures, the demands for a Firefly revival died down. The calls for it to be renewed began to fade. There are still fans who want it, but their numbers no longer seem legion. Because it wasn’t really about wanting more of their favorite show, not completely. It was about getting what we take as implicitly promised anytime a story begins; a conclusion.

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One area where the need for endings has played out in a pronounced way is the fantasy genre. Fantasy book series can run long, reveling in the details of their world building and immersing readers into every nook and cranny of the imagined realm. That extra time and space also helps further endear characters to the reader. These are selling points to fans of the genre. But the longer any series goes, there is an increased risk that it will not be finished. Perhaps the writer dies, or loses interest. Perhaps the publisher goes bankrupt, or simply gives up if the sales slow. The risk is always there, looming and threatening.

And in the wake of high profile series’ stalling, such as A Song of Ice and Fire and The Kingkiller Chronicles, there seems to be an increasing tendency among readers to wait until a series is finished before picking it up, lest you devote your time to one that never reaches its conclusion.³ The problem with this line of thinking, which you may have already thought of, is that if everyone starts waiting for a series to finish before reading it, how can a series attract the readership necessary to be able to continue, let alone conclude?

Requiring assurances that a series will indeed be finished also leads to authors like Brandon Sanderson constantly updating fans of his books on the status of his drafts, as if the fandom were an over-eager middle manager demanding productivity reports. I find this silly, but I do understand the impulse. I’m sure Sanderson, aware of the constant shit George R. R. Martin receives on the status of The Winds of Winter, feels that this is a better situation to be in. Certainly you can never accuse him of not making progress. But is also feels like an overcorrection, one that turns the art of creation and story telling into an excel spreadsheet. A series of quotas and milestones to meet and present to the board of directors. I don’t want to downplay the extent to which deadlines and structured goals can be helpful for writers; these can be valuable tools for remaining focused. But they should be self-imposed and done for the benefit of the creator, not a requirement to ensure fans don’t get too spooked by the fact they can’t read the next volume yet.

Moving away from books, a similar problem has arisen for Netflix. Their propensity for canceling series after one or two seasons, leaving threads unresolved and sticking fans with cliffhangers, has become a running bit of the most frustrating kind. And as Paul Tassi at Forbes puts it, Netflix has created a self-fulling loop.⁴ The speed with which Netflix has canceled shows makes viewers feel it is a waste of time to start a new series, which leads to low viewership and thus cancelation. Rinse and repeat. The unceremonious cancellation that enraged the Firefly fandom in the early 2000s is now so commonplace it is considered part of the streaming business model. And rather than demand restitution, viewers today have instead shrugged, choosing to just not get invested in the first place. In a media landscape increasingly filled to the breaking point with remakes and IP expansions, the idea of new stories resonating with enough people to continue on and stake their own claim shifts ever more into the realm of, well, fantasy.

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I rewatched Firefly for the first time in nearly a decade while writing this piece. And it was rewarding because I was able to enjoy it free of baggage. Long past are the days I was angry about its cancelation. Long past are the days I was disappointed at it not holding up the way I had hoped. Instead I watched it for what was there, and what’s there is good enough. The fact that the final episode is essentially just a regular episode of the show did not bother me. I watched 14 episodes of pretty good television, and came away from the experience enjoying Firefly more than I had in years. I did not even find it necessary to put on the movie, the natural progression of a rewatch and the thing that would have provided an “end.”

Now, I will always prefer a story that is able to be seen through to its conclusion, to be finished in the manner its creators intended. There will always be a letdown when there is an unsatisfactory finish. But it’s also important to remember there can still be joy to find in an unfinished story, because there is still something to experience even if it doesn’t have a formal resolution. There is inspiration to be found. There can be new aspects of yourself and the world you would not have considered otherwise. This can be applied to shows with lackluster endings as well; I may not have liked how Lost ended, but I would never give up the hours and hours of discussions and theorizing I did with friends in college as we watched it week to week.

One book series I think about a lot is Mark Z. Danielewski’s The Familiar. Best known for the cult horror novel House of Leaves, Danielewski spared no ambition when it came to his plans for The Familiar. Intended to be a 27 volume epic broken into five acts of five books apiece, the endeavor was likely doomed from the start. Anyone who has even flipped through House of Leaves knows Danielewski can’t leave fonts and page formatting be, constantly playing with and reshaping it on the page to suit whatever mood he tries to set for the story. The Familiar ratchets that impulse up to 11. Each chapter is told from the point of view of one of a handful of characters, and each has their own distinct formatting and sentence structure (we won’t even get into the Narcons, entities that periodically interject themselves into the story and reference things from the other volumes, including things which haven’t happened yet). Its weird and dense and difficult to read. It is not much of a surprise that it failed to gain traction, and the publisher pulled the plug after the fifth volume.

As a result there is a lot left unresolved and unanswered. Some character’s storylines end in a place that provides at least some closure, but others are left vague or in outright cliffhanger territory. To use that fifth volume as the end of the series results in an extremely unsatisfying finale. And yet I love it. I have reread the books a couple times now, even knowing that there is and likely will never be an end. I appreciate the unique way the story unfolds, the way additional layers of the narrative are revealed, the fact that you basically need to teach yourself a new way to read for each character’s respective chapters. Reading the series is a unique experience, and while it is disappointing there is no proper ending, the lack of one has not diminished my enjoyment of the books that were published.

This is why the righteous fury that came in the wake of Firefly’s cancelation now seems somewhat misplaced. In mourning an ending that never came, the show that actually existed became lost. It was something talked about in terms of unrealized potential and what could have been. There was love for the show, sure, but that love was so often eclipsed by a longing for something more. The episodes that were produced were not enough, and I can’t help but feel sad at this notion. Whatever flaws were present in the show, whatever bad decisions were made by Fox executives, Firefly existed as it was and it deserves to be appreciated for that. The insistence that the ending it was denied be taken into consideration helped get the word out and expand the fan base, but at the cost of the show no longer being taken on its own terms.

I need to stress again that I am not trying to argue that a good ending (or any ending) is unimportant. There are countless examples of stories that are memorable and impactful specifically because of the strength of their ending. But I do think we need to start becoming more comfortable with the idea of engaging with stories that may not get that desired conclusion. Particularly as we live in a world where corporations are axing even finished products for tax write offs and to make Line Go Up, the likelihood of a series being cut off before it can end has also gone up. Success is not even a guarantee; as Riley MacLeod pointed out, the Netflix series Kaos was canceled after just a month, despite its first season being in Netflix’s Top 10 for most of that time.⁵ And this isn’t even getting into the current political climate, where there is increased pressure to get rid of anything that could be considered “woke,” especially if it touches on trans or queer issues. Series being able to continue until they get to a satisfying end is no longer an assumption that should be made, and waiting until a series is finished to begin experiencing it a waste.

The lesson of Firefly should not be that network interference doomed it. It should not be that its cancelation cut it down in its prime. It should be that even thought it ended without providing a planned conclusion, millions of fans still found joy in it. They still thought it was worthwhile. There is more to a story than its end, and we should not let the possibility a story might lack one dissuade us from experiencing the journey we are able to take.