Sons of Anarchy: An open letter to Kurt Sutter

Dear Kurt Sutter,

I know we don't talk much. Some of that's my fault, I admit that. I wasn't exactly 100% on some of the things going on this season. In fact, I was pretty much in vocal opposition to the direction that you were taking Juice (but that's another topic entirely). However, I feel like we really need to sit down and talk about what happened last night.

I watch a lot of TV. I mean, a lot of TV. I think my current list of Must Watch consists of around ten shows, plus another five or six old/cancelled shows I cycle through regularly on DVD, plus another five or six shows I watch casually to follow the work of actors I fangirl for. (At least, I think so. It all blends together after a while. I'm sorry, okay?) For all this TV I watch, very little of it — if any — leaves me on the edge of my seat, hands clasped over my mouth, muttering "Oh please, oh please, oh please" at my television set. So little of it is so compelling, and enveloping, and heartbreaking, as to have me jumping up and down, whether in anger or excitement, anticipation or fear. Almost none of it leaves me goosebumps that I can still feel long after the credits roll.

That's what happened for me during last night's season four finale of Sons of Anarchy.

I knew by the end Clay would be ousted, his house of cards finally coming down around his head. I knew Jax would take his rightful place at the head of the table, despite his efforts to pack up his family and get out of Charming before he allowed the club he loved so much to destroy him as it had his father. I knew Tara would usurp Gemma's role as Queen, both of the MC as its devoted matriarch and as the de facto HBIC of the entire town. I knew Tig's devotion to Clay would bring poison to their doorstep, his ill-advised retaliation against Laroy and the Niners ending in the death of Oaktown's heiress and opening the door to further violence in the future. I knew Opie — the faithful, loyal, heartbroken Opie — would be forced out as the club's Judas, refusing to go along with Jax's decision to claim the club for him and Opie in exchange for Clay's ruin. I knew something was rotten in Denmark with Romeo and the cartel. I knew Juice had to be redeemed, and short of that, at least forgiven. There were all things that I knew had to be done, because without them there would be no room for the next season.

But the way you did it, so quietly unfolding each event, without violence or bloodshed, kind of amazed me. This was the quietest season finale I've seen from this show so far, which has always capitalized on stunning violence to achieve memorable show-closers. I think it was the uncharacteristic lack of violence that made it better, honestly. This may be a show about bikers, but at its heart, this is a show about people. Flawed, fascinating people. All of this had been coming for years — decisions made, plans put in place, secrets kept hidden, truths swept under rugs. And you made that palpably, beautifully, clear last night, in every gut-wrenching twist and turn.

Last night wasn't about bikers. It was about making beds, and sleeping in them.

Every act played out so perfectly, every character coming to the same conclusion in his or her time that they were all victims of circumstances much larger than themselves, and accepting it. Clay died without dying, his old ways fading away as surely as he did, left behind by Jax as he stripped Clay of his role as President of the MC. It happened so gently, so plainly, as Jax took his seat in the chapel, followed by each of his members, one by one, taking their places in the new club. In this new Life After Clay. Chibs is the new sergeant-at-arms (and rightfully so), Tig accepts his time as sergeant has passed with Clay, Happy arrives and Juice, my sweet wonderful Juicey-Boy, he breathes a deep sigh of relief and takes his place at the table, relieved of the weight that has crushed him all season.

Somebody said it was like The Last Supper, with Jesus and his Apostles. I can't say I explicitly disagree with that connection of the imagery. It certainly felt pretty Biblical to me at the time, half-hanging off my couch, flapping my arms like a crazy person.

We the viewers are anxiously awaiting to see if Opie finally steps through the doors, to take his place at Jax's side as the Vice-President, but he doesn't. He can't. I don't think he'll ever be able to, and that's heartbreaking. (What comes of Opie next year I can't say for sure, but I know it will break what's left of my heart.) Instead Tara takes her place beside Jax as his Queen, swearing she'll never leave him, because he is hers. After watching her fight all season to keep him — from the club, from Clay, from Gemma, from the life he swore he would protect their children from — it just felt right. Gemma is the last to enter, if only to see if her plans have come to full-fruition (not without covering her tracks first, of course), and I think to come to terms with it in her own way. She sees that her son has risen to take up his father's mantel, and Tara as its new matriarch. The shot of Jax and Tara, Tara behind him, holding him close, is perfect. Fading from color to sepia tones as Tara and Gemma lock eyes over Jax, changing into the old photo of John Teller and Gemma at the club's inception some thirty years earlier.

The King is dead. Long live the King.

I still get goosebumps just thinking about it.

So, yeah, Kurt Sutter. You did good. You did real good. I can't wait to see what you come up with for next year, even if I'm pretty sure my heart can't take it.

(As an aside, Gemma is still my Queen. Just saying. I want to be her when I grow up, Machiavellian scheming and all.)