How do you feel when a movie ends without a clear resolution? Does it leave you unsettled, or make the experience more thought-provoking? There’s nothing quite like the anticipation of a climactic moment — only for the screen to cut to black, leaving you hanging, questioning everything or more confused than ever. For some, it sparks endless debate; for others, it’s frustrating. And then there’s that undeniable urge to rewind, searching for a clue you might have missed, a hidden detail that changes everything. Was Mulholland Drive (2001) a dream, an illusion or something in between? Was Teddy Daniels actually insane in Shutter Island (2010), or was he being silenced for knowing too much? Ambiguous endings excite, frustrate and spark endless debate among viewers. But why do they keep drawing us in? Why do we find ourselves returning to them, almost as if we can’t get enough?
For years, filmmakers have toyed with ambiguity, but today’s audiences seem more drawn to it than ever. In an era of discussion threads, fan theories and hour-long YouTube breakdowns, ambiguous endings have emerged as a unique storytelling technique — one that mirrors the complexity of reality while challenging viewers to piece together their conclusions. Everyone has their own interpretation, and even some of my favorite movies still leave me wondering how they were truly meant to end. Were they ever meant to have a definitive conclusion? Or was it always the director’s intention for us to decide for ourselves? Instead of tying everything up neatly, ambiguous endings spark widespread discussion and constant reevaluation. One of the key reasons they have gained popularity is their ability to engage audiences on a psychological level. Renowned filmmakers like David Lynch and Christopher Nolan craft their stories in a way that invites viewers to actively participate. By leaving out crucial pieces of the narrative they turn audiences into detectives, piecing together the mystery on their own. Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001) perfectly exemplifies this, drawing viewers into its maze of shifting identities, cryptic symbolism and surreal storytelling. Without a clear resolution, the film invites audiences to speculate, interpret and debate what really unfolds. But ambiguity isn’t just about solving a puzzle — it also creates emotional resonance. Life itself is uncertain and complex, full of contradictions, mysteries and unanswered questions — much like these films. When movies embrace this complexity, they often feel more authentic and more emotionally powerful.
Ambiguous endings mirror the way we experience reality, where not everything wraps up neatly, leaving these stories lingering in our minds long after the credits roll. This lingering effect also fuels the rewatch factor, drawing audiences back to uncover hidden details, unnoticed foreshadowing or subtle visual cues. You know that feeling when a movie ends, and you just need to sit down and process what you saw? The first time, you’re left wondering what on earth happened. The second, third or fourth time, you start picking up on details you missed. Take The Shining (1980), for example — Jack Nicholson’s character appears in a 1921 photograph at the Overlook Hotel. Does this mean he was always part of the hotel’s history, or is he trapped in a never-ending loop? The film never explicitly answers the question, fueling speculation and making us believe there’s more to an ending than just closure. Ambiguous endings keep us engaged because they refuse to give us straight answers. They demand thought, interpretation, patience and perhaps even the urge to rewatch. Beyond that, these films reflect the uncertainties of life itself — the lingering question of what comes next. Maybe that’s what makes films with ambiguous endings so captivating. It’s not just a storytelling device; it lingers in the air, leaving us with an unresolved, almost haunting feeling. After watching, some may obsess over finding a definitive answer. But maybe the true meaning isn’t in the film itself, but in the questions it sparks — questions that might connect to something much bigger, something we may never fully grasp.
Mikayla Tetteh-Martey is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at mkt62@cornell.edu
