Moonlight’s ending lands with a subtle force that lingers well after the credits roll, resisting both easy closure and standard redemption arcs. In the film’s last act, protagonist Chiron, now appearing hardened under the moniker “Black,” arrives in Atlanta to visit Kevin, a childhood friend and his only romantic connection.
This quietly monumental encounter stands in stark contrast to Chiron’s isolated and repressed adolescence. Set against years of trauma, his journey isn’t just about romance; it’s about finally confronting the pain and defenses he’s built to survive.
Their late-night reunion unfolds through shared food, guarded conversations, and unspoken histories. Jenkins crafts every moment to suggest layers of longing and hesitancy, two men shaped by violence, rejection, and self-denial negotiating what, if anything, can be reclaimed.
The entire film, especially these final scenes, uses water and blue-tinted visuals to echo childhood vulnerability and memories of fleeting intimacy. The motif loops back to the advice Chiron received as a child: under the moonlight, Black boys turn blue, signaling both the melancholy and beauty of being seen for who you are.
As Kevin holds Chiron, the film reframes “toughness” as a brittle mask, allowing softness to take center stage for the first time in Chiron’s life.
Moonlight (Credit: Netflix)
Jenkins’ narrative structure is vital here: dividing Chiron’s life into three acts (“Little,” “Chiron,” and “Black”) reveals how trauma calcifies, yet moments of honesty can stir long-buried desires for connection and authenticity. The film suggests that even if years are lost, it’s not too late to face your truth.
But forgiveness and healing aren’t guaranteed; they remain fragile, won over in small, often wordless gestures. The last image, showing Chiron as a child on the moonlit beach, brings his story full circle, hinting that vulnerability is his ultimate act of courage.
Challenging Stereotypes: Impact on Masculinity, Black and Queer Identity
Moonlight’s closing scene has sparked debates for years, especially focused on what kind of masculinity and humanity the film portrays. Unlike more conventional endings for coming-of-age dramas, Chiron’s journey rejects a narrative of total triumph or romantic fulfillment.
Instead, the film quietly undermines harmful stereotypes that surround Black men and queer men, refusing both tragedy and easy uplift. The act of Chiron letting down his guard, even briefly, reclaims tenderness as a form of resistance and survival.
This is amplified by the societal pressure and expectations placed on young Black men, especially in communities touched by poverty, drugs, and violence. Jenkins’ script illustrates how these forces police authenticity, making Chiron’s ending all the more radical.
Critics and scholars note how Moonlight invites both viewers and Hollywood to challenge narrow, even damaging, ideas of who Black men can be and who gets to heal.
Its accolades, from the historic Best Picture Oscar to broader cultural discussion, showcase how far-reaching its impact has been: changing not just film narratives, but the ongoing conversation about representation and agency in entertainment.
By showing Chiron’s acceptance as incomplete yet honest, the ending argues that identity is not set by society, circumstance, or trauma; it’s an ongoing, often hesitant, process.
This nuance, coupled with the film’s willingness to pause and let silence do the work, is why Moonlight’s finale has become a touchstone for LGBTQ+ and Black representation in modern cinema.
Why Moonlight’s Unsettled Closure Still Shapes Hollywood and Viewers
Unlike stories that tidy up every thread, Moonlight’s conclusion masterfully leaves space for discomfort and hope to coexist. For some, Chiron’s decision to trust Kevin points to beginnings rather than endings, implying that showing up as your true self is itself monumental even if the world still judges or misunderstands.
For others, the ending’s refusal to declare “everything’s fixed” is its greatest strength: it encourages viewers to consider the ongoing nature of healing, especially for those carrying the burden of intersecting identities.
Moonlight has become a blueprint for future filmmakers intent on telling intersectional, authentic stories. It redefines cinematic success, not just by its awards, but by its enduring conversation about vulnerability, love, and the importance of being seen.
The film stands as proof that cinematic quiet can be revolutionary; if it’s honest, it will echo for years beyond a character’s final embrace.
Nearly a decade after its award-winning release, Manchester by the Sea continues to provoke deep reflection for its stark, realistic portrayal of unresolved grief.
The ending, far from giving the audience traditional closure, presents Lee Chandler as a man weighed down by a tragedy that defines his existence rather than liberates him from it.
Tasked with caring for his nephew Patrick after the sudden death of his brother Joe, Lee’s return to Manchester is less a homecoming and more a reluctant confrontation with past trauma.
The wounds from the accidental death of his children haunt every step, and Lee is open about his inability to simply “beat it,” despite growing moments of connection with Patrick.
Critics have called the film an unvarnished character study, noting how Kenneth Lonergan’s direction avoids romanticizing Lee’s pain or forcing him into a redemptive arc.
Instead, viewers see a man with deep affection for Patrick but also honest limits: Lee cannot raise Patrick in Manchester, believing he’s unfit for family life in a place saturated with memories. This isn’t a failure of love or character, but the reality of someone who bears trauma too heavy to simply wish away.
The nuanced performances, particularly by Casey Affleck, heighten this sense of authenticity. Affleck’s portrayal earned widespread critical acclaim and an Academy Award and is often compared to the raw intensity of classic cinema icons.
Yet while some expected a Hollywood-style transformation, the closing scenes with Lee and Patrick fishing on Joe’s boat invite viewers to find beauty in acceptance, rather than easy answers. Their quiet bond, forged through shared grief, is seen by many reviewers as the film’s true source of hope.
Deconstructing the Criticism: Did Manchester by the Sea Go Too Far or Not Far Enough?
Much of the discussion around the film’s conclusion questions whether Lonergan’s direction is too uncompromising for mainstream audiences. Some critics argue that Lee Chandler’s journey could have benefited from greater catharsis, perhaps a symbolic act of redemption or a renewed commitment to his nephew.
Yet others counter that the film’s refusal to provide manufactured closure makes it memorable and powerful, with its honesty striking a chord in an era of polished, formulaic endings.
Manchester by the Sea (Credit: Netflix)
The film has also sparked debate about its representation of working-class Massachusetts life. While praised for its authentic dialogue and setting, some have questioned whether the film too neatly packages the struggles of grief and socio-economic reality, pointing to the backgrounds of its creators as outsiders to the community they depict.
Despite these criticisms, local audiences largely embraced the chance to see their world portrayed on screen, even if imperfectly, as the movie poured real attention into everyday interactions and unspoken pain.
The absence of a post-credits scene or extended epilogue keeps the final note subdued, reinforcing Lonergan’s intention to let Lee’s story rest in ongoing uncertainty. Instead of resolving every emotional thread, the film asks viewers to accept the imperfect nature of healing and the burden of memory that doesn’t dissipate with time.
Acceptance as the True Victory: What Manchester by the Sea Leaves Behind
If Manchester by the Sea has anything definitive to say through its ending, it’s that sometimes, survival itself is a victory. Lee’s confession to Patrick that he “can’t beat it” shifts the narrative emphasis from overcoming trauma to learning how to coexist with it.
Their moment on Joe’s boat isn’t so much a triumphant return to innocence as it is an unspoken understanding: they don’t have to solve every wound to keep moving forward.
This refusal to force closure has influenced subsequent films dealing with loss, as reviewers continue citing Manchester by the Sea as a reference point for honest storytelling.
The film’s emotional accuracy, attention to dialogue, and everyday moments have solidified its reputation beyond mere critical success; it’s become a touchstone for authentic drama and for audiences seeking stories that mirror life’s complexity rather than sidestep it.
In the end, the film leaves Lee Chandler’s future open yet faintly less hopeless. The possibility that good things might lie ahead is quietly present, symbolized by the shared boat ride, a reminder that healing can mean simply staying afloat together, not reaching shore in a rush.
