Dragging Denouement? Pshaw! (What RoTK and Parks & Rec Taught Me About Character)

As I recently watched the Parks & Rec finale (sobbing and wailing, I confess, like Screech Powers when Maxwell Nerdstrom out-Zacked Zack Morris to win Screech's beloved pooch, Hound Dog, in a game of poker), and as I saw each and every character get his or her time in the spotlight, their sunny, funny, and emotional futures mapped out over the course of years that we won't have the good fortune to watch as they happen, I was reminded of sitting in a movie theater back in December 2003.

A much younger and, if possible, even more rakishly handsome and unbearably macho Sean sat transfixed as Peter Jackson's epic adaptation of The Lord of the Rings drew to a close...and there I continued to sit, for almost an hour, as each and every character got his or her due, their sunny, funny, and emotional futures mapped out over the course of years that we would not get to witness in cinematic splendor. For a movie that was almost universally lauded, won 11 Oscars (including Best Picture), and somehow managed to make Orlando Bloom seem like the second-biggest badass that ever was (behind Viggo Mortensen, naturally), this was the one point of critical attack. The sharp, kinetic storytelling style that had been so prevalent during the first two and two-thirds movies in the trilogy was replaced with a meandering, lackadaisical stroll through the what-came-next, making sure to honor the eight little legs that carried the story (not Shelob, people--I'm talking about the four hobbits), and the actors attached to them, for all of their blood, sweat, and tears in getting things to that point.

Would the movie have been better, from a storytelling perspective, had that final section been condensed, or perhaps even omitted entirely? Almost certainly. Would it have made for a better or more fitting conclusion to an epic series of films that, for my money, did justice to one of the greatest tales of all time? Unquestionably not. Because, for all of the clever plotting, for all of the monumental set pieces, for all of the good-versus-evil thematic struggle, the heart and soul of those movies (and of Tolkien's writing) were its characters, the unlikely heroes who, by dint of sheer dogged determination and a willingness to believe that no matter how small they were, they could make a difference, carried the story on their slender shoulders. They deserved to have their tales told in full, even if the audience was ready to move on (or, at least, ready to stand up and stretch, and maybe go pee, and possibly address a severe case of deep-vein thrombosis). As a viewer, I appreciated the Peter Jackson took that time--time well in excess of what any studio exec would think is a rational amount of time to make moviegoers sit in their seats--to honor the story's heroes.

In a similar vein, would the Parks & Rec finale have been a sharper and funnier episode more in keeping with the totality of its run had it focused on a single storyline? Absolutely. Would it have been nearly as satisfying for those of us who grew to love the residents of Pawnee over the years, no matter how narcissistic, curmudgeonly, dim-witted, health-obsessed, or smoking hot (I'm looking at you, Ethel Beavers)? Absolutely NOT. I relished every awkwardly stretched out minute, every absurd future projection, every second of screen time that Jerry/Garry/Larry soaked up. What made Parks & Rec great wasn't the super sharp writing, the whimsical plots, or the parade of guest stars, though all of those things were magnificent. What made it great were its characters, the quirky, lovable, all-too-human women and men who were just as much fun to watch sitting around talking about nothing as they were to watch driving the plot forward.

I love character-driven stories. Sure, I can appreciate the incredible craftsmanship of a sharply written and tightly plotted short story, or the mind-copulating twists of a well-conceived thriller. But, when I look back at all of my favorite stories--be they books, movies, or TV shows--they are all driven by compelling characters who, when I read the last word of their tale, or watched them ride off into the sunset, made me long for the chance to spend just a little bit more time with them (or, at least, play one more game of Cones of Dunshire with them).

My takeaway as a storyteller? It's okay, on occasion, and when you've written something of merit with memorable characters, to be a little indulgent when it comes to saying goodbye to those characters. They've earned it. And their readers/viewers have earned it.

And, if they're anything like me, they'll appreciate it.