Note: This article contains spoiler alerts about the ending of Killing Eve.
At the time of writing, it has been just over two months since the finale of Killing Eve first aired, and I am still thinking about it. The genre-defying show about the obsessive relationship between an assassin, Villanelle (played by Jodie Comer), and an MI6 agent (played by Sandra Oh) has been critically acclaimed over its four seasons. The finale concludes with the death of Villanelle after she briefly but meaningfully reconnects with Eve and then ends the mysterious criminal organization, The Twelve. Both critics and its fanbase continue to fire away at the series finale, calling it “lackluster” and “a betrayal.” Even the author of the original source material, Luke Jennings, criticized the ending.
The show has an especially loyal queer fanbase. Viewers, including myself, continue to feel angry and resentful about its ending.
What might explain how the show can have such a significant psychological impact on its audience?
True to my profession as a licensed clinical psychologist, I did my best to understand how and why I might continue to have these feelings months after the finale. As a queer and trans person of color, I had to look no further to understand these feelings. I have never been so captivated by a show about two queer women. As a 43-year-old, I had already learned to have a low bar for queer characters written in mostly heterosexual (and usually white) writers’ rooms. But Killing Eve felt different—I had become invested in the characters and more trusting in the writers. I became more hopeful that the important relationship between these two women, played by the unfailingly impressive Sandra Oh and Jodie Comer, could be captured by writers, most of whom did not have the lived experiences of queer women.
The series finale, however, threw me back into this unfortunate reality. There were two parallels that helped me articulate how I feel. First, this felt like being in a relationship where one assumed everything was fine but then was abruptly dumped without an explanation and then ghosted. The second parallel is in social justice work, when one builds a years-long, trusting relationship with an ally who really “gets it,” then that person does something racist (or homophobic or name your -ism). Both situations require a person to question everything about the relationship. Should I not have trusted the writers in the first place? How could I have missed the likely reality that they never understood queer lives and stories to begin with? Was I the stupid one for trusting them? I walked away from the finale feeling more guarded, mistrusting, and with more “armor” than usual.
Like many fans, I was not expecting a happy ending, but there are a seemingly endless number of ways an unhappy ending could have honored the characters’ queerness. After four seasons, Eve and Villanelle only get approximately five minutes of on-screen joy together before Villanelle’s death. The “bury your gays” trope has been written about by colleagues with more expertise than I, so I will focus on an area where I have more expertise—the toll on mental health.
What kind of burden might these representations take on their queer audience? I want to normalize feelings of anger, stress, exhaustion, and betrayal. If the purpose of feelings is to point to things that need our attention, what do these feelings tell us is important?
Anger might tell us that as queer people, our boundaries about our right to queer joy have been violated. Stress, a fear-based emotion, might tell us that our queerness is being challenged at least and threatened at most. Exhaustion might tell us that we have heard this story too many times before. Betrayal might suggest that we trusted the writers to tell our stories with great care, and now that trust has been broken. All of these are likely related to grieving characters and the end of a show so many of us love so dearly, but that grief is complicated by homophobia.
What, then, is the alternative? How do we cope with feeling not OK?
First, it is important to know that these feelings are normal and take time to manage. Rather than thinking about yourself with perceived deficits (“Why can’t I cope? It’s just a TV show!”), consider approaching your feelings as appropriate and understandable responses to oppression (“It’s normal to feel this way in the context of systemic and historical homophobia”). Second, ground yourself in queer-affirming media, people, and situations. Consume podcasts, read books, and watch movies that feature uplifting representations of diverse queer people. Connect with friends who feel similarly about the show and who can validate your feelings. Third, give your feelings time to resolve, and take care of yourself in the meantime. Take things one step at a time and ask for help when needed. Fourth, and this is especially true if you have just watched the finale, lower your expectations—if you aren’t feeling 100 percent, do not expect yourself to function as if you are at 100 percent capacity.
I have two hopes for my fellow queer fans of the show. My first hope is that those whose mental health has been impacted by the end of Killing Eve will both understand that their feelings are normal and that help is available when needed. My second hope is that the entertainment industry broadly and writers specifically will do better to honor the stories of queer women. For now, we will keep grieving this important show and hope to see the queer women’s stories we deserve.
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