The conclusion of Driveways , Andrew Ahn’s acclaimed drama, stands out for its quietly profound approach to loss, friendship, and the power of simple gestures.
The film follows Kathy, a single mother, and her son Cody as they spend a summer clearing out a deceased relative’s home, forming an unexpected bond with Del, an aging Korean War vet living next door.
Rather than resorting to melodrama or exaggerated catharsis, the ending favors authenticity and restraint, which critics say makes it especially moving.
The closing scenes highlight what has shaped the heart of Driveways: two isolated souls, Cody and Del, choosing to connect despite generational and personal barriers. In the film’s final moments, Cody, having grown attached to Del through gentle exchanges and shared time, wishes for their families to remain neighbors.
But reality interferes. Del shares that his daughter wants him to move closer to her, meaning he must leave the house, neighborhood, and friendships he’s cherished. The movie opts against the fantasy of Del and Kathy’s family combining households, instead portraying Del’s departure with tenderness but also painful honesty.
When Cody, heartbroken, runs off, Del walks up the hill to offer comfort, a rare moment of cinematic affection filmed with remarkable sensitivity. The two walk back together, shoulder to shoulder, symbolizing the film’s belief in subtle, everyday acts of care.
In the very last scenes, Del’s quiet monologue for Cody attempts to convey life’s complexities in a speech marked by uncertainty rather than wisdom. Cody listens, suggesting that sometimes presence and empathy matter more than perfect answers.
This restrained yet powerful exchange resonated strongly with viewers who, during the pandemic, were acutely aware of what it means to miss connections and process change.
Critics and Fans Respond: Why Driveways’ Ending Feels Personal
“Driveways” found wide acclaim precisely because of its honest depiction of change and connection. Brian Dennehy’s role received significant praise, with many calling it a career-crowning performance that perfectly captured the pain and dignity of aging and letting go.
The intimacy of the final scenes, where the simplicity of Del and Cody’s farewell becomes the film’s most lasting message, invited audiences to revisit their own experiences of separation and transition.
Driveways (Credit: Maven Pictures)
Multiple writers highlighted how the film’s subdued storytelling struck a chord in 2020, when viewers watched through the lens of social distancing and isolation.
The pandemic’s backdrop made Driveways’ meditation on neighborly bonds and emotional openness much more powerful. In an era marked by forced estrangement, small acts like an elderly neighbor offering wisdom or a child reaching across generational divides became deeply important symbols.
The film seamlessly integrates themes of single parenthood, financial anxiety, and cultural difference without heavy-handed commentary. Kathy’s journey as a working mother managing the complex logistics of selling a hoarder’s house is never oversimplified.
Meanwhile, Del’s experience as a veteran and widower, and his reticence to leave his own home, grounded the film in real-world struggles that many people face but rarely see treated with such quiet respect.
Online communities and critics alike have interpreted the ending as a reflection on how real friendships emerge in unexpected places and how even fleeting connections can have a lasting impact.
The farewell scene wasn’t about loss alone; it was about acknowledging that moving forward often means carrying a piece of others with us forever.
Resonance Beyond the Screen: Driveways’ Legacy in Modern Film
As a swan song for Brian Dennehy, Driveways gained additional meaning. Dennehy delivered one of his most heartfelt performances, bringing depth and grace to a character grappling with loneliness and change.
Dennehy’s portrayal of Del, a man both strong and vulnerable, left many viewers teary-eyed, not because the film forced pathos, but because it recognized the complexity of saying goodbye.
Driveways also stands out for its choice to cast Asian-American actors as Kathy and Cody, a directorial decision that enriched the story’s universality while bringing specificity to the characters’ experience.
Andrew Ahn’s direction, grounded in nuance and empathy, turned everyday interactions, shared meals, gentle words, and silent walks into moments of genuine human connection.
The absence of dramatic music cues, the film’s naturalistic dialogue, and the careful attention to environment heighten the authenticity of the ending.
Throughout, Driveways resists manipulating viewers towards easy emotional payoffs. Instead, each gesture and word has space to land, allowing audiences to process grief, hope, and the possibility of transformation in their own ways.
By never rushing the farewell, the ending champions the idea that transitions, whether moving homes, losing loved ones, or realizing dreams, must change and are best handled with kindness and honesty. This approach, quietly radical in today’s cinematic trends, turns Driveways into a quietly revolutionary film that reframes what finales can achieve.
Driveways has built its reputation not on spectacle, but on reminding us that small kindnesses and real conversations can shape lives long after doors have closed.
Its natural, understated ending isn’t just a narrative choice; it’s a statement about how stories and the people in them matter most in the details, not the grand gestures.
David Lowery’s A Ghost Story has sparked lasting debate about how we cope with loss, find closure, and consider our place in the universe. The movie’s closing moments, defined by the ghost’s struggle to access his wife M’s hidden note, capture a vivid metaphor for emotional release.
As C, the protagonist, spends years, sometimes centuries, trapped within the walls of his former home, his inability to reach the note reflects his unresolved connection to the past.
He becomes less a threat than a witness to life’s constant renewal, unable to interact, simply observing the succession of new families and inevitable urban development.
The narrative’s heart centers on M leaving behind a note in a crack before painting over it, a ritual she adopted as a child to anchor herself emotionally when moving homes. For C, the ghost, retrieving this note is not merely about curiosity; it’s about acceptance.
Critics have highlighted how his haunting becomes a cycle, looping endlessly until the pivotal moment when he finally snatches the note before the paint dries, reads it, and instantly vanishes.
The story’s cyclical structure, a haunting within a haunting, grounds its message: closure is only possible when that final connection is made, regardless of how many lifetimes it might take.
The existential questions raised at the film’s raucous house party, where a guest ponders the futility of legacy and memory as time eventually eclipses all, further underscore the poignancy of C’s ordeal.
His journey navigates the loneliness of grieving and the sensory echoes left behind by lost love, perfectly illustrated by the prolonged scenes of isolation and muted longing.
Breaking the Loop: Time, Memory, and Moving Forward
One of A Ghost Story’s boldest moves is its depiction of time as nonlinear; C’s ghost endures decades, even centuries, as the home changes hands, collapses, and is reborn as a skyscraper.
These leaps reveal him not as a menacing spirit but as a memory bound by unresolved grief, his own identity slipping away until only longing remains. The film circles back to C’s life and death, then jolts into the past as settlers first claim the land, tracing a haunting that transcends any single incarnation of a home or relationship.
Director David Lowery describes the finale as emblematic of different versions of the same spirit, one innocent and lost, one gaining understanding and purpose. The image of two ghosts overlapping in the same space becomes a powerful visual metaphor, expressing how trauma and memory persist in layers.
Only by finally grasping M’s note does C break the cycle, a symbol of moving through grief rather than being bound by it.
A Ghost Story (Credit: Amazon Prime Video)
The content of the note is never revealed to viewers, and this omission has ignited discussion online and among critics; its meaning is intentionally private, a nod to the deeply personal nature of closure and letting go.
Questions about legacy, creative output, and whether anything we leave behind truly matters are mirrored in C’s journey. The abrupt end to his haunting sheet simply collapsing as he reads the message signals that personal acceptance outweighs any broader existential resolution.
Grief, Echoes, and Enduring Questions: Why Viewers Can’t Forget
The slow, minimalist pacing of A Ghost Story makes the ending feel both haunting and freeing. The ghost’s journey through time and recurring attempts to reach the note reflect universal struggles with grief, unfinished business, and what it means to move on.
The film’s sparse dialogue, evocative imagery, and lingering shots contribute to a mood of contemplation rarely seen in mainstream cinema. Individual reactions to the ending vary; some viewers find it cathartic, while others see it as a stark reminder that comfort isn’t always possible in every story of loss.
Online reviews and analyses have praised the film for shifting ghost stories away from horror and towards a more philosophical meditation on existence, love, and the remnants we leave behind. It questions whether grief ever truly ends or transforms into echoes that shape all future connections.
By leaving the note’s contents secret, the story invites audiences to bring their own experiences to C’s moment of release, reminding viewers that meaning and closure are always personal and complicated.
Across film sites and critic reviews, Lowery’s work is often classified as arthouse for its patient, subtle approach, but there’s a universal appeal in its depiction of time, memory, and letting go.
The closing scene, where the ghost disappears after reading the long-sought message, provides as much emotional release for the viewer as for its spectral protagonist, demonstrating that stories about ghosts may have more to say about wounds, healing, and hope than about supernatural mysteries.
