I’ve read some of the outrage about the season 6 finale of The Walking Dead—and I have to confess that I don’t feel it. I haven’t loved every episode of the series, but I loved the season finale.
I was prepared to hate it. I heard the rumors about the impending death of a major character (who didn’t?), as well as spoilers suggesting that the episode was going to end in a cliffhanger. Someone would die, and everyone was furiously wondering who it would be.
I was ready to feel angry, to feel manipulated. But instead, I watched the episode in an increasing state of captivation—and dread. And during the last thirty minutes or so, with the entrance of Negan, I was not only captivated but I felt physically sick, dread pushing on my stomach, my chest.
Now, that’s not to say that I don’t, upon calmer reflection, have some problems with the episode. It was a little contrived, to say the least, that all the major characters, one after the other, departed Alexandria in the last couple of episodes. And the little speeches before Eugene (Josh McDermitt) and Aaron (Ross Marquand) got on the bus in the finale teetered on the squirm-inducing.