50 Worst Movie Endings Of All-Time

It happens alarmingly often. You settle in to watch a movie — maybe it's new, or maybe it's a flick you missed back when it came out — and you're excited for it. Perhaps you paid an exorbitant amount of money to go see this movie in a theater with a box of Sour Patch Kids, or maybe you're on the couch with a big bowl of microwave popcorn in your lap. Whatever the case, you've signed up to devote the next 90 minutes (or three hours) of your life to being fully absorbed in the story that the film wants to tell. You're amped. You're ready.

And then sadly, in these cases, your optimism proves to be a mistake. An enormous misstep, a tragic miscalculation. Because sometimes, even the most awesome movie will betray you with an awful, utterly infuriating ending. 

It happens only after you've allowed yourself to get sucked in. After you're invested to see it through. And then they end it ... like that? And as the credits roll down the screen in a perfect mirror to the tears of frustration rolling down your cheeks, there's only one conclusion you can draw: Wow, that ending stunk, and the movie is ruined. From that day forward, even hearing the title of the film will make you angry, because all you'll be able to think about is how badly it concluded.

When this happens, there's only one thing left to do: place this abysmal ending alongside the many, many other terrible endings from cinema's past. These are the 50 worst endings in movie history.  

It's been almost 100 years since "The Wizard of Oz" transformed Judy Garland into something more akin to a legend than a mortal. The musical holds a sacred place in many hearts, presumably even the Tin Man's (Jack Haley). Even so, enough time has passed that we can rag on it a little, right? As a treat? Without the pitchforks? 

Listen, "The Wizard of Oz" beautifully blends the magical and the mundane, the technicolor and the monochrome, but it also features what might be the most famous instance of cinema's most loathsome narrative device — the "it was all just a dream" trope.

Obviously, Oz is not real in our world, but the fact that it's also not real in the fictional world of Victor Fleming's classic film kind of ruins the whole vibe, because the dream trope recontextualizes everything that came before as meaningless. Dreams don't matter. They just don't. Narratively, they wedge another degree of separation between the story and its audience, people who already suspended their disbelief to engage with a work of fiction, only to find out that it's even fictional within the fiction. 

Guess what else the dream trope ruins? L. Frank Baum's original story. In Baum's novel, Oz isn't just a dream, it's a literal place that Dorothy goes. The lessons she learns there matter because they actually happen to her, and even lead to a whole fantasy universe of sequels that Hollwood still hasn't tapped into. But no, Fleming's adaptation delegitimizes Dorothy's growth by saying, "Just kidding! The truth was inside you all along, Dorothy. Also? You probably have a concussion."

"The Terminator" and "Terminator 2: Judgment Day" cover a specific and captivating beat, twice over: An evil AI superintelligence will soon declare war on humans, the fate of mankind depends on one person, and both humans and machines send their own champions in the past to protect or kill said person. Brutal action ensues, and Arnold Schwarzenegger declares his intention to be back. In the end, the survivors face a future that is at least slightly more hopeful, thanks to their actions.

This hope that the dark future may somehow be avoided is the franchise's entire beating heart, especially in "Terminator 2," in which the characters risk everything to avert the apocalypse.

And then "Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines" pulls the rug from under the first two movies and confirms that humanity is absolutely destined to get wrecked, thank you very much. To make it more painful, "Terminator 3" is careful to cover familiar terrain right up until the end: the final showdown between T-850 (Arnold Schwarzenegger) and T-X (Kristanna Loken) leaves John Connor (Nick Stahl) and Kate Brewster (Claire Danes) stuck inside a nuclear shelter as Skynet eradicates mankind. This locks John into the "humanity's last champion" role, as he starts answering the panicked contact attempts that flood in.

By confirming that the apocalypse and John's role in it were predestined, "Terminator 3" renders the first two movies pointless and destroys the spark of hope they hinged on. Evidently, the protagonists of "The Terminator" and "Terminator 2" could just have sipped lemonade on a porch and watched as the machines sent to kill them kept malfunctioning.

What happened to "Terminator" movies after that? One underwhelming entry after another, from "Terminator Salvation" to "Terminator: Dark Fate."

Hollywood always jumps on new technologies. Whether it's celebrating the advent of technicolor, bringing in music and dialogue via the talkies, or turning from film projection to digital, movies love to promote new trends. In the case of "The Devil Inside," though, the 2012 horror film made a bad, bad choice to embrace technology in the most distracting way — a choice that only gets worse with age. 

"The Devil Inside" concerns itself with Isabella Rossi (Fernanda Andrade), daughter of a woman accused of murdering three people during an exorcism. Years later, Isabella seeks out her mother in the asylum where she has been incarcerated for decades, presumably processed by multiple demons, to film a documentary. The film ends with Isabella's own possible posession, the likely death of her filmmaking compatriots ... and a title card telling audiences to go to www.TheRossiFiles.com.

This was dumb enough when the movie came out. Keep this in mind: Smartphones were in their infancy, and browsing the web from your phone was a nascent technology back in 2012. That meant audiences would have to go all the way home to look up the film's website, which offered no additional information about Isabella's fate at all — just clips from the movie which no longer work after the sunsetting of Adobe Flash, general information about exorcisms, and a chat forum that allowed audience members to troll each other about their belief in exorcisms. Critics unsurprisingly torched "The Devil Inside," which went on to have the third best January opening at the time – and the biggest second-week slide.

In the 2020s, this ending is even worse, because that website stopped functioning in 2013. Today, you can only view it (if you want to) via the Wayback Machine.

"Hancock" is a lesson in how an almost-great movie can spiral out of control with a bad plot twist.

For the first two-thirds of the film, audiences can't help but be engaged by the titular superhero's (Will Smith) detached, self-destructive lifestyle, and his attempts to improve his public image with the help of PR expert Ray Embrey (Jason Bateman) could've easily carried the movie to the finish line — or even set up a fun film series, frankly. The film's darker original screenplay, titled "Tonight, He Comes," earned accolades — and a spot on the 2005 Black List — for a reason, and even if it changed quite a bit in its journey from disturbing psychodrama to PG-13 summer tentpole, the first section of the finished film was smart, fun, and engaging. However, the script's original ending, which involved Hancock brutally murdering an entire police department, was never going to fly in theaters — and evidently, the filmmakers didn't know what to replace it with, resulting in a plot twist nobody liked.

Specifically, "Hancock" goes from great to mediocre with the revelation that the amnesic Hancock and, conveniently enough, Ray's wife Mary (Charlize Theron) are ancient soulmates and last representatives of a borderline divine species. Yes, there's a cool fight. But come on, the movie didn't need any of that overcomplicated mythology stuff, and the sudden tone shift is so jarring the movie never recovers.

Then, the cherry on top is the movie's final scene, where Hancock inadvertently destroys Ray's life: as a perceived favor to his friend, the superhero paints Ray's heart-themed business logo on the surface of the Moon. The countless-gallons-of-paint gesture is clearly intended to be heartwarming, but imagine something like that happening in reality. The Outer Space Treaty specifically forbids damaging space objects, and since the damage in question is Ray's logo, the government (along with everyone else who now has to look at that damn heart every night) will want a word with the guy. Thanks for the legal nightmare, Hancock.

Unless you want to avoid offending the citrus fruit family, it's safe to call "The Snowman" a lemon. On paper, the movie had every chance to succeed. It had a creepy serial killer with a visually captivating modus operandi and a weird fascination with the protagonist. A colorful cast of characters were played by some of the finest actors in the business. Director Tomas Alfredson was a proven master of both thrill ("Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy") and chill ("Let the Right One In"). What could go wrong?

Everything. "The Snowman" faced a rushed production and money troubles that crippled the film, turning what could have been a "Se7en"-level crime thriller into a faceplant. Nothing fails harder than the ending, though. In Jo Nesbø's novel, the Norwegian detective confronts the killer in Oslo's iconic Holmenkollen ski-jumping tower and survives the ordeal with a highly specific speed handcuffing trick he recently learned and has been practicing as stress relief. The location and the trick are both inserted in the story early on, so their presence in the grand finale feels as natural as it is exciting.

In the movie, the killer (Jonas Karlsson) shoots Harry Hole (Michael Fassbender), leaving the hero lying wounded on a frozen lake. Then, the killer walks towards the hero, at which point Hole quickly notes that the murderer's mommy issues were actually daddy issues all along. With some extremely half-hearted telegraphing, the ice breaks under the Snowman and he just ... drowns, like he was actively trying to get underwater as quickly as possible. That's it. Game over.

This was probably riddled with symbolism at some point in the production. In the finished movie, however, the scene is mostly impressive because even after all the disappointments throughout its duration, "The Snowman" still finds a way to give the viewer one last anticlimax.

M. Night Shyamalan's "Signs" ambitiously attempts to convince us that life's arbitrary, often tragic occurrences all happen for a reason. But they don't, and it doesn't.

It's not just that intelligent aliens who are mortally averse to water (or demons who are averse to holy water, as one interpretation suggests) decide to raid a planet whose atmosphere is lousy with the stuff. There's plenty in the film that could (albeit loosely) justify all this with the old stand-by of, "well it's not literal, so, it's fine." At least, it would be, if the ending upheld such a metaphor.

But again: it doesn't. We're asked to believe that a former baseball player would not instinctively grab the baseball bat he's standing next to when a giant alien is standing across from him, holding his beloved nephew in its arms. We're further asked to believe that had his sister-in-law not died in a gruesome, highly-specific way, said baseball player's brother (Mel Gibson's disillusioned former priest, Graham) wouldn't have "seen" the bat on the wall, and known to tell him to "swing away" at the alien. Oh, and we're asked to believe that said nephew has asthma, and Graham's daughter has a water hang-up, so they can fend-off the alien-demon monsters.

If you walk this metaphor back, you have to accept that the real premise of the film is: people lost their faith, so (non-literal) inner demons (literally) attack earth and can only be defeated by people regaining faith. But for Graham to so, so easily come to the conclusion the there is a divine plan, he'd have to have been secretly holding onto his faith all along. In which case, there would be no invasion, and the ending still doesn't work.

Remember back when the world waited with breathless anticipation to see Liam Neeson punch wolves in the snow with those brutal glass knuckles? 

"The Grey" had a phenomenal trailer. Following the success of "Taken," if a funny look was thrown his way, you could be sure that Neeson was going to rearrange whatever face it came from, and audiences were there for it. In the preview for Joe Carnahan's bleak-looking survival movie — that had Neeson and a bunch of worn-down roughnecks facing the harsh elements of the Alaskan terrain — the final tease showed him looking right down at the camera while wrapping broken bottles around his fists. It was the perfect hook to get people in theaters.

What we didn't know, sadly, was that this wasn't just the last shot of the trailer. It was the last shot of "The Grey." And then it cut to black. 

The marketing team of "The Grey" had the nerve to hype up a moment that we were never going to get. Audiences had paid good money to see Neeson give nature a whooping, and instead, we got him lunging at the screen like the last cheap scare of a horror movie. Now, marketing aside, "The Grey" is an entertaining watch. It didn't need to be sold on something we were never going to get. Instead, a decent Neeson movie became a disappointing one, made worse when it dared to give us a post-credit scene, tepidly showing the aftermath of the battle we'd been robbed of. People went to watch Neeson become the leader of the pack, but in the end, for "The Grey," all we saw was red.

Barry Allen's first solo run at the big screen proved one of the most polarizing superhero flicks to date. Despite the likes of Tom Cruise praising "The Flash," it received a far more mixed reception from audiences. Whether you love or hate "The Flash," though, the ending directly contradicts the entire message of the movie.

Let's rewind (or shall we say, time travel?) back to the beginning, to understand what's wrong here. The main plot of "The Flash" involves Barry (Ezra Miller) traveling to the past to prevent his mother's death. When he returns to the present, it creates a new reality. Not a good one, either: putting aside that Bruce Wayne looks way different, General Zod (Michael Shannon) destroys the Earth, over and over, as another version of Barry (Miller) continually rewinds time in a terrible, endless loop. 

Because of what went wrong, Barry learns a valuable lesson: you can't change the past. So, Barry goes back one final time to correct his past correction, ensuring that his mother will die. It's a powerful moment. 

Except then the movie undercuts it so fiercely that you feel whiplash. Moments later, Barry again changes the past, making another slight adjustment so that his father's face is on a security camera, acquitting him of his wife's murder. In a movie where the entire lesson is that people shouldn't try to change the past, Barry changes it anyway. Sure, in the film, this seemingly does nothing worse than turn Ben Affleck's Batman into George Clooney, but it could've just as easily led to a million nightmarish possibilities.  Barry doesn't learn anything. He's still selfishly jeopardizing existence so that he can help his parents. But "The Flash" obviously isn't interested in having a coherent theme.

Peter Jackson's Middle-earth prowess is fearsome. The man's shelves are crowded with Tolkien-related Oscars. Most of his films end on a strong note, too, like Frodo and Sam heading for Mordor in "The Fellowship of the Ring" or Sam arriving at Bag End in "The Return of the King." But there's one Jackson film that ends badly — very badly. How badly? Well, it handily makes the cut for the top 50 worst movie endings of all-time, so there's your answer. We're talking about "The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug."

Caught in the dreaded "middle chapter of a trilogy" trap, this movie doesn't know what it's doing or where it's going from beginning to end. It's filled with added material, turning it into an extended slog. There is both added story from other Tolkien books, and the writers' own much less inspired imaginations — and the ending definitely falls in the category of the latter.

Most of the final moments of that film are filled with an extended fight sequence inside the Lonely Mountain where Thorin and Company fight Smaug the Golden (something that never comes even close to happening in the book). The too-clever-by-half Dwarves literally fire up some ancient forges, melt a lake of gold, and try to drown Smaug in it. Only after this, does the now-literal Golden Dragon fly off toward Lake-town, where Bard the Bowman waits for him with his Black Arrow.

The worst part? We don't even get that incredible, climactic showdown, which is very much from the books. Why? Because it's saved for — get this — the opening sequence of the final film. Between the horrible pacing and ludicrous added material, the "Desolation of Smaug" ending is just the worst.

"Frailty" is one of the most overlooked and interesting movies in Matthew McConaughey's filmography. The horror-thriller sees him play Fenton Meiks, who visits a police station and reveals the dark history of his family. Basically, his father (Bill Paxton, who also directed the film) and brother, Adam (Jeremy Sumpter), murdered sinners in the name of God when he was growing up, and they punished him for not getting with the cause. Now, according to Fenton, Adam has become the "God's Hand" serial killer.

To be clear, "Frailty" is actually an extremely well-made, compelling film. It tells a terrifying tale about the horrors of religious fundamentalism ... that is, until the ending explains that McConaughey's character, revealed to actually be Adam, was the one helping his old man all along — and he's already killed the real Fenton. What's more, it turns out that God actually has been helping out with the murderous crusade from the heavens. This divine intervention is proven when Adam's face is hidden from police station security tapes when he shows up to kill FBI Agent Wesley Doyle (Powers Boothe).

Narratively speaking, the big twist in "Frailty" is as excellent as the rest of the film. The problem is that when you stop to think about it, it's also dangerous and irresponsible.

The ending of "Frailty" comes across as an endorsement of religiously motivated murder. This is problematic because countless real-life killers, such as the Yorkshire Ripper, believed they were on a divine crusade when they committed their atrocities. There's an argument to be made that "Frailty" makes God the villain, and that the ending should be viewed in that light, but it's far too ambiguous with its messaging to know that for sure. The filmmakers probably didn't intend to present a harmful message, but it can be too easily read that way, and that's why it must go down as one of the worst conclusions in movie history.

"Blade Runner" remains one of the most praised science fiction movies in cinematic history ... in no small part thanks to the ending we know today, which ends with the chilling implication that Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) is a replicant, due to the presence of the infamous origami unicorn. This plot twist raises intriguing questions about the separation between "real" humans and "artificial" ones, considering how Deckard has been stripped of much of his identity, due to being forced to hunt down androids. 

The ending is so great, in fact, that it's easy to forget it's not the one that audiences originally saw in theaters. Lucky we have director's cuts, huh?

Anyone who saw "Blade Runner" when it first came out in 1982 was treated to an unbearably sappy Hollywoodized ending where Deckard drives off into the unknown with Rachael (Sean Young). It's accompanied by narration from Deckard, saying how Rachael lived longer than other replicants because of ... reasons, implying the two lived happily ever after. There are no hidden meanings. No ruminations on the nature of humanity. Just an attempt to tie everything up in a neat little bow, throwing away all the stuff that makes the preceding film so interesting. 

From early on in development, the ending of "Blade Runner" was plagued by studio interference as producers tried to ram through a happy ending, so it's no surprise that they got their wish in the theatrical cut. While Deckard still leaves with Rachael in the director's cut, it's unclear how long they stayed together or if they even made it out of Los Angeles alive. Their fate is ambiguous, uncomfortable, and raises questions rather than giving answers, like all the best science fiction. And without that director's cut fixing the theatrical ending, it's compelling to wonder if "Blade Runner" would be as influential as it's proven to be today. 

In 2023, Warner Bros. announced that it was making a sequel to the iconic 2007 Will Smith film "I Am Legend." Simultaneously, writer Akiva Goldsman revealed that — to bring Smith back — the new film would negate the theatrical ending of the movie, in favor of the alternate ending. 

That says a lot about how bad the original ending was.

In "I Am Legend," Robert Neville (Smith) is hit with the bleak bullet of self-sacrifice. He goes headfirst into battle with the mutated creatures he's been outnumbered by for years, saves the cure, and is remembered as a "legend" for saving the human race. The big problem? This completely rejects the entire point upon which the book — and the title "I Am Legend" — is based. Frankly, the movie's ending is the opposite of the book.

Listen, we don't want to be those "it's so much better in the book" people, but Richard Matheson's original novel has one of the best science fiction endings in history: in the book, when Neville is finally captured, he comes to realize that the monsters he's sought to eradicate have built a functioning new society, and he has become the very thing he's been trying to defeat. The last of his kind, Neville accepts that the world now belongs to a new superior species, and that humans are a thing of the past. "A new terror born in death," Nevill says. "A new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend." 

What a way to go, right? Shame the film didn't go anywhere near it.

Go back a few years, and it's surprising to remember how much everybody loved David Gordon Green's 2018 "Halloween" requel. Well-received for its grit and realism, it also ended with a climax that seemed to finally shut the door on the iconic rivalry between Michael Myers and Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) in a satisfying fashion. Unfortunately, Green and his co-writer Danny McBride had to make a sequel, and it's hard to grasp what they hoped to achieve with "Halloween Kills."  No scene depicts this fact more nakedly than the totally absurd ending. 

As a story, "Halloween Kills" is all about vigilantes and mob justice. Naturally, this concludes with Michael being killed by a group of Haddonfield townsfolk, which seems to bring these themes full-circle. Except ... well, the movie keeps going. And after being absolutely ruined by dozens of vigilantes, Myers somehow gets up, and he kills them all.

Myers' supernatural resurrection utterly betrays the good work the previous movie did to bring the "Halloween" series back to its roots, and it can't help but lower the stakes for a franchise's once-promising, short-lived return to form. This ending doesn't just squander all the goodwill from the previous movie: it taints its predecessor for good. Furthermore, if Michael Myers is supernatural again, why bother to retcon all of the previous sequels out of existence in the first place?

Finally, the last scene in the movie, in which Karen (Judy Greer) is murdered seemingly for shock value, is just a total whiff. Cut to Laurie Strode in the hospital, looking just as miserable and disappointed as the viewers.

Based on the iconic Hong Kong crime-drama flick "Infernal Affairs," Martin Scorsese's blockbuster "The Departed" transports audiences to the gritty streets of Boston, a city filled with violence, corruption, and betrayal. Armed with an all-timer cast (Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg, Jack Nicholson), "The Departed" did the impossible: win ol' Marty his first Best Director Oscar. The win was certainly justified — it's one of Scorsese's most accessible films and features an incredible sense of momentum and escalating stakes, leading to one of the crispest and most justified final moments in his career

... but then, there's the ending.

Sure, yes, the film wraps up the only way it could, with Sergeant Dignam (Wahlberg) shooting Sergeant Sullivan (Damon) in the face, reiterating that rats can never escape. It's a cold finale, one that expertly hammers home the film's themes about betrayal and how deep distrust and corruption are embedded within institutions. After that, though, the camera pans up over Dignam's lifeless body to show a rat scurrying across his balcony. Get it? It is because the film is filled with rats!

It's an extremely obvious visual acknowledgment of the film's themes, one that leaves you laughing at Scorsese's lack of faith in the audience. Ending the film on Dingam's body would have been perfect and haunting. Instead, Scorsese jokingly diminishes the weight of his own film by emphasizing how rats run amuck in Boston. The ending is absolutely stupid, and the outcry that's resulted from it is nothing short of perfect. One fan even launched a Kickstarter campaign to have the rat digitally erased from the film's ending, though Warner Bros. immediately shot it down. Alas, fans of Scorsese have no choice but to enjoy the ratty ending of "The Departed."

Many of the movies on this list got here because their endings are disconnected from the rest of the film or because they fumbled their final moments. But none leave audiences feeling so thoroughly disgusted as the ending of "Sucker Punch," Zack Snyder's 2011 attempt at feminist filmmaking.

The film follows Emily Browning as Babydoll, a young woman imprisoned in a psychiatric institution. Snyder's depredations flow like black oil from the outset. Babydoll is here because her stepfather, who abused her and killed her mother, had her committed. The men who run the place abuse their detainees in equal measure. Babydoll finds out they intend to lobotomize her and sell her into sexual slavery. Amid this, Babydoll slips into fantasy worlds of her own construction where she can be a warrior, and back in the real world, she plans her escape. What is Snyder's "feminist" message here? That women can only escape the depravities of patriarchy in their dreams? It's easy to see why the movie landed like a wet blanket. The experience of watching "Sucker Punch" is voyeuristic and unpleasant, abusing the viewer almost as much as it does its characters.

But the ending is where Snyder really twists the knife. Strapped to the operating table for her lobotomy and faced with the doctor (Jon Hamm) who is going to assault her and steal her very consciousness, Babydoll's only escape is into her fantasy world. As the New York Times put it, "Mr. Snyder's pretense [is] that this fantasia of misogyny is really a feminist fable of empowerment."

If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual assault, help is available. Visit the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network website or contact RAINN's National Helpline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).

"What if I end up all alone?" "What if my life has no meaning?" "How desperate can I be?" These are all the questions Jim (Chris Pratt) reckons with when he's awoken 90 years before his colony ship arrives on a new planet due to a malfunction. Doomed to die alone, the lead character in "Passengers" wrestles with boredom, anxiety, and depression, and even contemplates suicide as he zooms through space all alone, with only an android (Michael Sheen) by his side.

After a considerable amount of time in solitude, Jim awakens Aurora (Jennifer Lawrence), a woman he's drawn to, and lies to her — claiming that a malfunction in the ship woke her up. Eventually, a romance blossoms between the two, but their "love" takes a turn for the worse when Aurora finds out the truth about Jim's actions. Following a generic, action-packed third act that sees the duo trying to save the ship, Aurora refuses to return to hibernation (there's only one pod) because she wants to spend the rest of her life with Jim.

While "Passengers" isn't perfect, it boasts two brilliant things: an intriguing premise and damn good chemistry between its leads. Because the first act of "Passengers" is so invested in answering some of life's biggest anxieties and explicitly features Jim debating his actions, it's a shame that the film wraps up with Aurora essentially giving him a slap on the wrist. A cheesy, convenient ending, "Passengers" throws away its intriguing questions about morality and loneliness by diminishing Jim's appalling and selfish behavior, which removes Aurora's agency. 

This just wasn't the right movie to tack a happy ending onto, because the connection between both characters will always be troubled. Aurora should've returned to hibernation. 

"Pixels" tells the story of a group of arcade gamers, led by Sam Brenner (Adam Sandler), who must band together to thwart an alien invasion of Earth. The invaders also happen to adopt the appearance and characteristics of legendary arcade creatures like Pac-Man and Donkey Kong, which explains why the world's chief defenders are underdog gamers who are superior to the military. The premise of "Pixels" echoes '80s sci-fi classics like "The Last Starfighter," and the movie had the potential to be a similar type of feel-good fantasy adventure. Unfortunately, "Pixels" is one big missed opportunity that's brought further down by an ending that's downright gross. 

The closing moments see the friendly alien Q*bert take on the form of Ludlow Lamonsoff's (Josh Gad) crush — an avatar named Lady Lisa (Ashley Benson) from a fictional game called "Dojo Quest" — and make out with him as a reward for helping save the world. Afterward, Q*bert returns to its natural form and has babies with Gad's creepy character. Yikes indeed.

Throughout the film, it's revealed that Lamonsoff has a disturbing fascination with Lisa. Instead of giving him an arc that allows him to grow beyond this infantile obsession, though, the "Pixels" ending enables a toxic wish-fulfillment fantasy and rejects the entire notion of individual agency. What's more, the scene is played as a throwaway gag for meaningless laughs. Granted, it's true that no one ever expected "Pixels" to be a serious movie, but a conclusion that's this creepy deserves to be challenged, right?

Q*bert is a beloved character among gamers, but that legacy is diminished here. Instead, "Pixels" makes the character a baby-making factory for entitled nerds.

Based on the title of Zack Snyder's lumbering beast of a sequel to "Man of Steel," you can tell it's going to be a slog before it even begins. Never has the prospect of seeing the two most iconic characters in superhero history duke it out been so bleak. As for the ending of "Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice," it's like watching someone fall down an infinitely long flight of stairs: every time you think the film has hit rock bottom, it just keeps getting worse.

First, there's Martha-gate. The fight that earned the movie its name is called off because both characters' moms have the same first name. Then Superman (Henry Cavill) teams up with Batman (Ben Affleck), so Lex Luthor (Jesse Eisenberg) triggers his backup plan and unleashes a monster. It's supposed to be the fearsome Doomsday, but it looks more like Abomination from "The Incredible Hulk" if the VFX artists had given up halfway through rendering. After a pointless fight made visually unintelligible by Snyder's desaturated color palette, Superman sacrifices himself to kill Doomsday with a Kryptonite spear. Yet instead of being the tragic moment it's meant to be, audiences are left wondering why Wonder Woman didn't just use the spear instead. Plot contrivances wouldn't matter as much in a good movie, but in one as bankrupt as this, they're the only thing left to focus on.

Anyway, Superman isn't dead. Not only because he's too powerful to die, but because this bastardized take on "The Death of Superman" signals his resurrection like a lighthouse with heavy-handed Christ metaphors. In retrospect, Warner Bros. should have called off its DCEU the second it saw "Batman v Superman" in the editing bay.

When acclaimed playwright and director Martin McDonagh returned for his third feature film, hopes were high. McDonagh's movies explore a very particular form of despair through a comedic lens, and he had assembled a cast led by Frances McDormand and Sam Rockwell.

Upon release, "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri" divided critics. There were those who didn't care for it, and those who apparently hadn't watched all the way to the end. The plot follows McDormand as a bereaved and aggrieved mother in a small rural town, out for justice in the wake of her daughter's unsolved murder. Meanwhile, Rockwell plays a two-bit cop with a drinking problem and a penchant for racist brutality, a shocking inclusion with parallels all too close to reality. But not only does the film ultimately give him a sudden change of heart and absolution for his racism that feels completely unearned, it finishes with him coming to McDormand's character for a team-up. 

The backlash to the film's handling of racism was swift, though heavily debated. There are great moments throughout, but it falls apart at the end: having overheard a man talking about committing a similar crime as the one that's gone unsolved, Rockwell's cop gets his DNA, but it turns out not to be a match. Nonetheless, he and McDormand's character head out with the intention of finding and killing the man. Roll credits. 

McDonagh loves unlikeable characters, but this is a bridge too far. There's no sympathy left to be found for either of the leads, so whatever they end up doing after the credits roll, audiences are simply glad the movie is over.

The "Fifty Shades" films, adapted from E.L. James' sensationally popular series of novels, aren't exactly art. We all know it. This doesn't change the fact that the ending of "Fifty Shades Freed," the third and final film in the sexually-charged cinematic trilogy, builds up to a truly weird ending that feels at once painfully appropriate and completely out of place.

"Fifty Shades Freed" and its predecessor, "Fifty Shades Darker," share one antagonist working against the central couple of Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson) and Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan) — the subtly named Jack Hyde (Eric Johnson). After Ana and Christian get married, they discover that Jack is stalking them, and to make matters more complicated, Ana is pregnant (Christian handles this well: he storms out and refuses to speak to his wife). At some point, Jack kidnaps Christian's adoptive sister Mia (Rita Ora) and holds her ransom for millions of dollars. A bunch of nonsense follows that ends in Jack's arrest and Ana being hospitalized, at which point it turns out that Christian and Hyde were in the same foster home as children (?!).

So how does this conclude? Well, we're treated to one final scene with Ana and Christian in the latter's "playroom" — which is immediately followed by a scene of Christian and Ana playing joyfully with their children. We'd call it whiplash, but the word "whip" feels a bit on the nose here.

Nancy Meyers' body of work is characterized by a few things. Cozy-looking turtlenecks. The most beautiful kitchens you've ever seen. Most importantly, a lot of her movies feature an older person reclaiming their life and their youth — and in 2003's "Something's Gotta Give," that person is playwright Erica Barry (Diane Keaton). After meeting Harry Sanborn (Jack Nicholson) because he's dating her young daughter Marin Klein (Amanda Peet), it seems impossible that Erica and Harry could ever end up together, primarily because of the whole "he dated her daughter" thing. They do have a dalliance, though, which thankfully ends when Erica gets together with Harry's doctor Julian Sands (Keanu Reeves).

Let's put this in perspective for a moment. Erica has two choices. She can date Harry, a geriatric womanizer who only dates younger women and who suffers from a serious heart condition. Alternately, Erica can date Julian, a young, handsome doctor who's obsessed with her and who whisks her away to Paris to celebrate her birthday.

Harry flies to Paris just to rudely interrupt their vacation, and stunningly, Erica leaves Julian and ... picks Harry? This choice still feels so egregious, to this day, that when Keaton and Reeves presented during the 2020 Academy Awards, their crackling chemistry reminded the entire world that Erica made the wrong call.

Historical fiction tends to take a few liberties with its source material. And that's fine, considering how real life is often less dramatic or otherwise compelling than scripted cinema ... but it starts becoming a problem when the liberties trend in a certain direction. Take Disney's "Pocahontas," for example. The animated film is visually stunning and musically breathtaking, but so jarringly disjointed from actual history that it might as well be willful revisionism. Technically, it's based on the very real experiences of a very real Native American girl whose life changed for the worse when European colonizers did their whole colonizing thing. You wouldn't know any of that from the film, though, especially from its ending.

Through the power of love, Pocahontas (Irene Bedard, Judy Kuhn) convinces Chief Powhatan (Russell Means), her father, to not kill John Smith (Mel Gibson) or any other colonizers. Speaking of which, the Europeans with guns witness this display of peace and decide to stop committing genocide. Since Governor Ratcliffe (David Ogden Stiers) is a sore loser, he tries to assassinate Powhatan. John jumps in the way and catches the bullet in his side, where there's totally a bleeding and visible wound. It's not pretend at all. Then Pocahontas says goodbye because the newly enlightened Europeans pack up a freshly bandaged John and dip.

Sure, the ending is hokey, but that's not why it's awful. It's awful because Disney omitted well-documented atrocities to make it hokey. Conscientious viewers aren't comfortable with a swelling orchestral rendition of "Colors of the Wind" while Pocahontas watches her age-appropriate lover leave when the reality is that the real girl was definitely a child who was almost definitely kidnapped from her people. It's not historical fiction. It's a historical lie.

Unlike much of director David Fincher's work, the only question "Alien 3" leaves most viewers with is: "How?"

As in, how — out of all the scrapped scripts that went into making this film — is this the story we got? After "Aliens" upped the ante by giving us Xenomorphs, plural, the team behind "Alien 3" must have asked, "What's scarier than several deadly, acid-bleeding aliens in a confined space?" And somehow, the answer they ultimately ran with was "aliens plus horrible men who 'can't help themselves' thanks to their genetic makeup."

That's it. That's the premise.

It's not only that the film kills off Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), or even that it gives us no one to root for except a doomed protagonist whose fate we learn early on. It's also that its ending isn't surprising or intelligent enough to repaint, justify, or give real meaning to its Misogynists Gone Pious premise. The film sacrifices the groundbreaking thematic interests of its predecessors in exchange for another Woman Dies for Man's Sins spectacle, all while undermining the character that makes the overarching narrative compelling in the first place. "Alien 3" gives us an inexplicably weak, dependent Ripley who needs prison pastor Leonard Dillon (Charles S. Dutton) to save and motivate her on numerous occasions, then renders her previous against-all-odds victories moot.

There's a reason that Fincher famously disowned this movie, and it's not the Weyland-Yutani henchman who bursts in, in goggles and a poncho, looking like a Project Runway challenge gone awry. In an effort to give us something new, "Alien 3" gives us the same toxic tropes: bad men who get to be extra bad (because grim, futuristic setting), and a "Strong Female Character" defined only in relief of — and by her actions in response to — those men. 

If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual assault, help is available. Visit the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network website or contact RAINN's National Helpline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).

"Splice" is a movie with some interesting ideas, but the execution fails to live up to that potential. Vicenzo Natali's sci-fi horror stars Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley as Clive and Elsa, a pair of scientists whose successful splicing experiments have led to some major breakthroughs in their profession. However, their attempt to create a human-animal hybrid goes disastrously wrong, leading to the birth of a gruesome creature. Cue moments of bestiality, murder, and an ending that's so wrongheaded it leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

In short, "Splice" ends with Elsa being sexually assaulted and impregnated by the monstrosity she and Clive create through questionable scientific means. She ultimately decides to keep the offspring in exchange for a paycheck so that her company can perform experiments after it's born, and that's it. It's a gross ending that sensationalizes sexual assault for the sake of shocking entertainment. What's more, it's dismissive of the horror and trauma faced by survivors. Perhaps the filmmakers were trying to issue a warning about unchecked scientific development. Maybe they were commenting on the exploitative nature of corporate America. Instead, the ending just comes across as tacky, mean-spirited, confusing, and thoughtless.

"Splice" could have been a thought-provoking sci-fi movie about science gone awry. It could even have been a fun schlocky monster movie about a creature causing havoc. However, it tries to be both, ends up being neither, and the ending punctuates the whole frustrating experience.

If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual assault, help is available. Visit the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network website or contact RAINN's National Helpline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).

Widely beloved for an infectious energy, lovable lead, and heartfelt depiction of an ever-evolving, constantly in-flux America, "Forrest Gump" is the definition of Hollywood royalty. But the cinematic package sort of collapses when you dig deeper into the ending, which turns Gump (Tom Hanks) into a mockery — something the film initially seems adamant against. 

The picture wants you to empathize with Gump, harshly depicting the cruelty and emotional abuse he's had to deal with throughout his life because of his developmental disability. As the film progresses, we see Forrest grow, learn from the diverse perspectives around him, and achieve a sense of self-actualization and confidence. That explicitly happens after his brief romantic night with Jenny (Robin Wright), whom he's been in a situationship with since childhood. Instead of showing Forrest come to terms with the manipulation he's been forced to deal with, director Robert Zemeckis has Gump return to Jenny and accept her as his spouse. 

Yes, Forrest finally got the girl, but at the cost of his own self-respect: Jenny treats Forrest poorly throughout the film, consistently taking advantage of his naivete and sincerity, and it doesn't make sense to have Forrest go through his whole running-through-America arc and not acknowledge her faults. 

After all, he had three years to ruminate on how Jenny just wasn't right for him. Instead, Forrest accepts Jenny and marries her, without paying attention to his own needs and sense of self. What's worse is that Jenny knows that Forrest would never say no to her, which makes their "romance" all the more disturbing and sad. It would have been better to have Forrest acknowledge his love for Jenny but choose to move on, but still help her in her final days as what she always was: a friend.