The climax of The Color Purple , especially in its 2023 musical adaptation, delivers something that defines the story’s staying power: Celie, having endured years of emotional and physical abuse from Mister (Albert Johnson), finally reclaims her agency and her future.
Throughout the film, viewers see her transformation from a young woman trapped in silence, forced into submission by a patriarchal family structure and an unforgiving rural South, to a mature, independent figure capable of finding happiness and inspiring others.
Her journey is shaped by the love and support of other women, including Shug Avery, Sofia, and her sister Nettie. These relationships challenge the isolation imposed by Mister and the larger societal forces that tried to break her spirit.
Celie’s resilience is not just personal; by the film’s end, she opens her own business, claims her inheritance, and learns both self-worth and forgiveness.
The reunion with Nettie is emotionally charged. After years of separation enforced by Mister, the sisters are finally brought back together, thanks to Mister’s overdue remorse.
The reconciliation is made possible when Mister, recognizing the harm he’s caused and weighed down by his own sense of loss, sells his land to help Nettie return home. This act isn’t presented as redemption that erases his abuse; rather, it’s a late response born from guilt and awareness of consequences.
This shift in the story, seeing even Mister change, gives the ending a nuanced depth. It’s the culmination of Celie’s quest for connection, community, and peace, rather than just escape from oppression.
Addressing Controversy: Portrayals of Abuse, Race, and LGBTQ+ Themes
Since its earliest adaptations, The Color Purple has fueled intense discussion about how it depicts Black male characters, often criticized for reinforcing harmful tropes of aggression and violence.
Spielberg’s 1985 film (and even the recent adaptation) faced scrutiny for these portrayals, with some critics arguing that it lacked nuance or the perspective that a Black director might have brought.
At the same time, LGBTQ+ elements involving Celie and Shug Avery were often minimized on screen compared to Alice Walker’s novel, a decision defended as necessary to maintain a PG-13 rating but seen by many as a missed opportunity for authentic representation.
Despite these ongoing debates, the ending of the 2023 version places emphasis on forgiveness and healing beyond stereotypes.
Celie’s personal journey matters more than Mister’s late apology; the film asks audiences to focus on the emotional legacy of resilience within communities hurt by generational trauma, racism, and misogyny.
The bonds between Black women forged despite social isolation, abuse, and limited access to support become the heart of the ending, demonstrating a collective strength that outlasts individual acts of remorse.
Resilience and Hope: The Color Purple’s Ongoing Impact
As critics and audiences revisit the latest adaptation, it’s clear the story’s closing scenes strike a chord with viewers who see themselves reflected in Celie’s journey.
The Color Purple (Credit: Amazon Prime Video)
Her triumph is not simply in gaining independence but in learning how to forgive, to trust new relationships, to shed shame, and to build a home where love replaces fear.
The musical reimagining amplifies these themes, often through powerful performances and emotionally charged songs that weave optimism throughout painful memories.
Cinematherapy and film scholarship point to the healing properties of stories like The Color Purple , especially for those grappling with their own trauma and recovery.
The ending serves as a beacon for anyone who’s struggled for recognition and belonging, demonstrating how communities, especially women, can support each other through profound adversity. Even as critics debate historical accuracy or representation, the emotional resonance of Celie’s finale endures.
In every version, from page to stage to screen, The Color Purple’s ending carries meaning not just as a story of one woman’s liberation, but as a vision for collective healing and transformation. Its legacy is renewed each time survivors find hope in Celie’s hard-won peace.
Taylor Sheridan’s Wind River casts a shadow that lingers well after its credits, thanks to a bleak ending rooted in tragedy rather than triumph.
The plot reaches its emotional peak as wildlife tracker Cory Lambert and rookie FBI agent Jane Banner reconstruct the harrowing final hours of Natalie, the young Indigenous woman found frozen and battered on Wyoming’s Wind River Reservation.
Piecing together evidence, they follow a path that leads straight to Matt, Natalie’s boyfriend, and his oilfield co-workers. The tension, simmering throughout the narrative, snaps with a flashback revealing a horrific sequence of abuse: Matt’s drunken colleagues, led by the unpredictable guard Pete, violently assault Natalie and murder Matt.
In the aftermath, Natalie flees barefoot into the wilderness, fighting for her life with only the freezing, indifferent wild as company. She doesn’t make it her footprints fade, and her body is found long after hope should have died.
The climax unfolds with a shootout at the oil company site. Jane Banner, outnumbered and injured, joins Cory and local tribal Chief Ben Shoyo in a standoff that costs Shoyo and several others their lives.
Only Pete escapes into the endless snow, believing he can outrun consequences. Cory, driven by the pain of losing his own daughter similarly, tracks Pete into the wild, forcing him to “survive” as Natalie did without gear or warmth.
There’s no cinematic revenge here; only a chilling reframing as Pete collapses, defeated by the same elements that claimed Natalie. Sheridan’s choice refuses cathartic vengeance; justice is cold and incomplete, the land’s brutality mirrored in human action.
The final moments steer away from forgiveness or closure. Instead, viewers watch Cory and Martin, Natalie’s grieving father, share a wordless connection. Two men, one Indigenous and one white, both robbed of their daughters, sit in silent recognition of loss that can’t be avenged by violence or solved by arrests.
Aftershocks: The Message Behind the Misery in Wind River
What sets Wind River apart isn’t just its stark depiction of violence, but its deliberate refusal to provide easy answers. Taylor Sheridan anchors his story in real statistics: as the end title starkly notes, no federal database records missing Native American women.
This fact propels the film from crime thriller territory into social commentary, pointedly exposing the systemic neglect endured by Native communities.
Reviewers and commentators have acknowledged the film’s efforts to spotlight the plight of Indigenous women, yet some critique its framing for amplifying a persistent “white savior” narrative.
Cory Lambert, a non-Native character, is made the agent of final justice , sidelining Indigenous voices even when the story’s heart beats with Native tragedy. The motif repeats in Jane Banner, a young, out-of-depth FBI agent reliant on local expertise and goodwill to confront an environment she’s ill-equipped to face.
This artistic choice remains divisive. Some viewers see Cory’s character as a bridge to wider audiences, while others find his role emblematic of the very erasure and power imbalance the film wants to interrogate.
The balance between drawing attention to urgent social issues and overstepping into appropriation is precarious, evidenced by critical essays and Indigenous commentators who highlight both the significance and the dangers of letting outsider perspectives dominate stories of Native loss.
Wind River (Credit: Netflix)
Sheridan’s personal response to these controversies was significant: after the Weinstein scandal, given the film’s original ties to the Weinstein Company, he pledged his royalties to a Native American women’s resource group, channeling financial support into activism.
According to reports from the National Indigenous Women’s Resource Center, this donation has funded community outreach, policy development, and support for grassroots organizers tackling sexual violence on reservations.
It’s an unusual but concrete step toward real-world accountability, showing how a story’s impact can ripple far beyond its final fade-out.
Legacies of Grief: Why Wind River’s Ending Won’t Let Go
Wind River’s chilling conclusion is a deliberate gut punch. The focus remains on loss, unresolved pain, and the likelihood that Natalie’s story is all too common. The reservation, both majestic and unforgiving, becomes a character itself, holding its secrets and survivors with equal disregard.
Instead of tying things up, the film watches its characters absorb a truth: justice is sometimes only survival, and acknowledgment of loss is the hardest victory to claim.
As statistics in the closing title so bluntly reveal, countless Indigenous women have vanished without names or numbers, left off government lists and mainstream media headlines. The final shots linger not because everything is righted, but because so much is left unsaid and undone.
The pain remains, not as a narrative device, but as an urgent call for broader awareness and action, one that demands viewers remember long after the cold wind has stilled.
