Why the 'Boardwalk Empire' finale worked so well

The translation isn't perfect, but Aristotle's main point in a quote to which he's attributed is that poetry is often truer than history, for it captures the universal experience, while history is relegated to a particular time and place.


This is the theme “Boardwalk Empire” has flirted with since it debuted on HBO six years ago. A series that consistently dealt you style in addition to (and sometimes, I would argue in lieu of) substance, Terrence Winter's love song to the era that birthed organized crime in the United States consistently took license with the historical record to bring viewers an intensely personal drama.


Boardwalk struggled to recapture its central conflict after Steve Buscemi's Nucky Thompson killed his main threat, Jimmy Darmody, at the end of season 2. We were introduced to Bobby Canavale's brilliant Gyp Rosetti in season 3, then Jeffrey Wright's verbose and wily Valentin Narcisse in season 4, who quickly picked a fight with Michael Kenneth Williams' Chalky White. In the interim, Jack Huston's Richard Harrow tried and failed to establish a normal life for himself after putting that rifle in his mouth in season 2, Nelson Van Alden (Michael Shannon) bumbled his way through a stint in organized crime in Chicago and attracted the attention of Stephen Graham's Al Capone, while Gillian Darmody (Gretchen Mol) descended slowly into an opium-fueled madness that produced some of the series' finest (and creepiest) performances.


It was, to put it mildly, an oft-unfocused mess. While the backdrop of violence, sex and power-grabbing (fueled mostly by the brilliant performances of Vincent Piazza and Anatol Yusef as Charles “Lucky” Luciano and Meyer Lansky, respectivey) always kept viewers glued to the screen, the series was billed as Nucky Thompson's rise and fall from power, a theme that seemed to die along with Jimmy in that rain-soaked construction pit.


Thankfully, season 5 successfully recaptured that spirit, introducing us to a younger Nucky as he developed into the “half-gangster” we say greasin' palms and griftin' so many years ago. And in the series finale, that story arc came full circle in a climax that brilliantly thumbed its nose at history and gave us the poetic end Nucky deserved, rather than the quiet death he received in real life.


Enoch “Nucky” Johnson, the real life mogul that Nucky Thompson is based upon, lived to 85, dying of old age in Northfield, New Jersey, in 1968. Had the writers chosen to give their title character, who differed from the real Johnson in many ways, such an end, it would have been an affront to the decision to make him the source of his own fall from grace. The final moments of the series finale brilliantly blend the fatal pistol blasts from a young Tommy Darmody with the offer of Gillian to the commodore, Nucky's act of desperation for power that spawns all the events of the series. It's an ending that forms a perfect circle and the closure to Nucky's quest for power – and its convoluted telling – that only art, not life, could produce.

Why I hate listening to 'Serial' - but I won't stop

Serial, the latest podcast spin-off of This American Life hosted by producer Sarah Koenig, should be commended for what it is: An extremely well-researched, smartly edited look at an irresistible crime story.


But it lacks the context that makes its parent program such a mainstay of the public radio culture and what elevates crime reporting from a simple recitation of facts (disputed or not) to what it can and should be – a means to question our values and morals, and to shine light on how we treat those in our society who we've decided should be stripped of their rights.


Perhaps it's unfair to judge Serial at this point, just five episodes in to its first season in an endeavor that is obviously different from the Ira Glass-hosted juggernaut. But the program hinges upon your shared curiosity with Koenig, whereas the best pieces of journalism go beyond a reporter's curiosity to hit on themes of what it means to be human. It's no small coincidence that This American Life chooses themes each week, in the oft-repeated catchphrase of Glass, and brings you different stories on that theme. The effect is similar to reading the entirety of a page of a newspaper, I think. We're forced to think about how things we've learned work together and inform the world around us.


Serial is told entirely within the world of Adnan Syed, Hae Min Lee and a relatively small set of supporting characters from around Baltimore. Aside from a few brief and tantalizing clips in the episode exploring Syed and Lee's romantic relationship, issues of race, socioeconomic background and religion are largely played down for Koenig to narratively unfold her reporting. It's an addictive, yet reductive, way to tell a story, especially when you consider we're basically listening to the same pretrial occurrences each and every week, told in a different way.


I'm currently reading “Invention of Murder: How the VictoriansReveled in Death and Detection and Created Modern Crime” by Judith Flanders. The book's ambling thesis is this: As humans, we're morbidly fascinated with death, especially when it has to do with the young, love and passion. We've got all three ingredients in Serial, and while Koenig does a more-than-admirable job of presenting the tale, I can't shake the feeling – in the first five episodes at least – she's painting by numbers, following a storytelling formula that's been beaten to death in paperback fiction piling up in used book stores.



I hope she and her team prove me wrong as the podcast progresses, because I will say I am hopelessly hooked like so many others. But when I'm done listening, I feel more like I've scarfed down a fast food meal than dug in to a meaty storytelling experience.