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After years of waiting, the overwhelming audience reaction to the last episodes of the fifth and final season of Netflix’s Stranger Things was confusion and disappointment. But for marginalized people that felt seen by this show that claims to be by outcasts, for outcasts, it felt like a betrayal. Many plot holes aside, Stranger Things’ biggest problem is that it undermines its core anti-conformist, pro-outcast themes. And for one of the most popular shows of this century (if not ever), with an estimated budget of over $400 million for season 5 alone, that failure has some concerning implications about representation in mainstream media.
There are countless elements of this decade-long show to dissect, but this article will focus on 5 characters in season 5.
Jane "Eleven" Hopper
Since the first season, a girl with telekinetic powers called Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown) has been one of the most central, recognizable characters in Stranger Things. However, after all of the trauma El experienced in Dr. Brenner’s (Matthew Modine) lab and beyond — being treated like a science experiment, weapon, and monster; being bullied, beaten, and alienated by her peers; being hunted by the military; being forced to kill; being prevented from becoming her own person and living freely—after all of that pain, the show denies her a happy ending. Instead, she sacrifices herself to prevent the military from using her blood to generate more children with powers like hers.
Whether or not El really died in the explosion that destroyed the Upside Down is left ambiguous. Assuming she did die, that means that she never got to heal or find herself. She never got to just be El (or Jane) the person, not Eleven the superhero. She never had a proper childhood and she never got to grow up. A traumatized teenager committing suicide is anything but a good ending.
Even if El did survive and is hiking in some remote wilderness, it is not the ending she deserves. She is once again left to fend for herself, forcibly separated from her chosen family, probably forever. For a character that just wanted to be safe and loved after being traumatized and manipulated for most of her life, the decision to leave her alone and forever in hiding is not satisfying or uplifting, especially for survivors of abuse in the audience.
In an interview on Netflix Tudum, creators of the show, the Duffer brothers, justified El’s ending by claiming that she represents the “magic of childhood,” and that she had to “go away” for other characters to move on. Essentially, they reduced her to a metaphor and a plot device for other characters. First of all, the idea that people must lose the “magic of childhood” to grow up is dispiriting. Secondly, reducing a main female character's personhood like this, to me, reads a little misogynistic and also reminds me of the "women in refrigerators" trope.
My last criticism for this show’s treatment of El is that it depreciates many of her relationships, which also diminishes her personhood. One example is when El tells her boyfriend, Mike (Finn Wolfhard), that he understood her better than anyone. This scene glosses over the lies, fights, and miscommunication that riddled these characters’ relationship in seasons 3 and 4 in particular, and that he only told her he loves her when his best friend forced him—he doesn't even say it back before she sacrifices herself, which is a whole other issue. It centers El around her boyfriend and tries to retcon the stability of their relationship. It also ignores the deep bonds she has with her family and friends like Max (Sadie Sink), who encourages her to find what she likes without the male influences in her life, and Kali (Linnea Berthelsen), who understands the trauma she experienced like no other.
Kali
In episode 7 of season 2, “The Lost Sister”, one of the least popular episodes in the series and one that people tend to skip, Eleven reconnects with Kali, the eighth super-powered child of Dr. Brenner’s lab, who had escaped when she was young. At this time, Kali is hiding out in abandoned buildings with her found family of punks and outcasts who help her track down and kill people involved with Dr. Brenner’s lab. Kali consistently calls her Jane, the name her mother picked instead of the number she was labeled with, and Kali helps strengthen her powers. But El ultimately decides to return to Hawkins to save her friends.
We don’t see Kali again until episode 4 of season 5, “Sorcerer,” and the following episodes explain that the military located her, murdered her friends in front of her, and unsuccessfully attempted to use her blood to give unborn babies similar powers. Kali has been re-traumatized and sees no way for her and Jane to end the cycle of abuse and keep others safe besides committing suicide, and El eventually agrees. While Kali does have a momentary glimmer of hope in the finale, she is fatally shot by a member of the military soon after.
Throughout the last half of season 5, the show portrays her in a way that makes viewers needlessly suspicious of her. Hopper (David Harbour), El’s adoptive father and the former police chief, immediately distrusts Kali and threatens to kill her without hesitation if she makes one wrong move. It strikes me as weird to direct so much unnecessary suspicion and hostility onto one of the very few women of color in the show, especially from a cop, and it’s even weirder for her to be one of the very few characters killed.
It is also interesting to note that Kali and her group, very visibly anti-conformist characters, are limited to minor roles in a singular/few episode(s), their violent and criminal acts seem more condemned than those committed by main characters, and they are eventually killed by the military.
With both El and Kali’s endings, the message becomes that the only way to break cycles of abuse is to die or completely isolate yourself. It is cruel to survivors of abuse who need hope that they will heal, be loved and supported, and it is cruel to women and people of color who need to see themselves in characters that are more than just plot devices in other people’s stories.
Robin and Vickie
The show’s representation of queer women also turns out to be disappointing.
Robin (Maya Hawke) and Vickie’s (Amybeth McNulty) romantic relationship was set up in season 4 and became official off-screen before the events of season 5. During the first 6 episodes, I (and many others) appreciated their cute moments, Robin’s role as a queer mentor for Will (Noah Schnapp), and Vickie’s hints of characterization. I resonated with the recurring theme of queer characters using codes and signals, referencing the Enigma machine and Alan Turing (who was prosecuted for being gay), alluding to “queer coding” in media, and embodying the ways queer people have used codes and signals in everyday life to communicate safely.
But after the finale, this representation rings hollow. A little insulting, even.
Vickie is underutilized and underdeveloped outside of being Robin’s talkative girlfriend, and she is inexplicably left out of the epilogue. The only hint about the fate of their relationship is Robin’s line about “overbearing significant others.” So, like many other sapphic relationships in media, they exist mostly off-screen, as side characters, and are implied to have an unhealthy relationship that doesn’t last—or maybe it’s “up for interpretation.”
The show also uses them to propel a gay main character’s journey that falls flat by the finale.
Will Byers
Much like El, Will has always been essential; his “vanishing” is the inciting event that starts the plot and brings all of our characters together. Crucially, this character’s story—and therefore Stranger Things as a whole—is inextricably connected with his identity as a gay teenager in the 1980s. There were hints at this from the first episode of the show, when his mother, Joyce (Winona Ryder), tells Hopper that Will’s father used to call him gay slurs and insinuates that he might be the victim of a hate crime. The show continued to hint about Will’s sexuality until it was confirmed (only explicitly in interviews) after season 4 that he is gay and in love with Mike. Season 5 brings Will, his trauma, his identity, and his feelings to the forefront, but does not deliver the conclusion that Will, and the viewers that relate to him, deserve.
There are some good moments. “Sorcerer” develops Will’s self-acceptance in a unique, moving way: Robin inspires him and his childhood memories about Mike, his family, and his true self spark his latent powers. These powers then allow him to save three people at once, including Mike. In that final scene, self-acceptance is literally empowering. And audiences loved it; this episode is one of the highest-rated.
Unfortunately, the larger narrative isn’t so considerate.
For starters, Will and his family live in the Wheeler’s house during the eighteen-month timeskip, but the creators don’t explore how being so close to his best friend, whom he is in love with, affects Will.
However, they do establish that Will has not moved on from Mike with scenes like the one in episode 3, “The Turnbow Trap,” in which Will asks Robin how she knew Vickie wanted to date her and she recounts “signals” that snowballed into an “avalanche.” He clearly still wants to date Mike, and, furthermore, he is looking for signs that Mike reciprocates, which is an unexplained departure from his previous efforts to keep Mike with El at the cost of his own feelings. It was not necessary for Will to still have feelings for Mike and to ask Robin for this specific advice; this scene does not foreshadow Will’s own experience with romantic “signals” or “avalanches” leading to an on-screen relationship, so what other purpose does the scene have besides giving Will and the audience false hope?
There are many other moments that feel unnecessary or insensitive to queer people. The elaborate suggestive joke about “Dick in the washroom” from Robin, followed by Mike and Will clasping their hands over a burst pipe in said washroom, while humorous, makes gay sexuality part of the punchline, which is insidious in a show that does not also treat it sincerely. Will’s coming out scene at the end of episode 7, “The Bridge,” has also been widely ridiculed because of its awkward placement in the story and the even more awkward amount of people present, some of whom barely know him. Will suddenly describing his love for Mike as only a “Tammy” crush makes no sense to most people there and is an unrealistic and unsatisfying end to seasons of buildup. Will’s painting from season 4 that he used to confess to Mike under the guise of El, which prompts Mike to tell El he loves her, is never addressed. The show uses Will’s romantic feelings to “fix” Mike and El’s relationship (like the Cyrano trope) but neither of them learn that it was all Will; his feelings are a plot device for a straight relationship.
There is also a graphic allegory for child sexual assault surrounding Will’s abduction to the Upside Down that is not handled well. Season 5 opens with a flashback to twelve-year-old Will being restrained by vines, unconscious at first, as the villain, Vecna (Jamie Campbell Bower), touches his face and forces another vine to pump something into Will’s throat, which we know from earlier seasons connects him to the Upside Down and causes him to cough up slug-like life forms that mature into Demodogs. He was completely violated in body and mind. It is disturbing and triggering for many people, and yet some people online made homophobic jokes about it. Instead of carefully addressing what happened to him, the show recreates it with him and with other kids; repeatedly compares Will to his abuser; gives Will guilt about being “weak” enough for Vecna to use him to “infect” Hawkins and kill people—even more insensitive in the AIDS crisis context; and then has Will immediately empathize with his abuser after learning he was also traumatized as a child. This is irresponsible writing.
But at least Will’s still alive, right? He isn’t another victim of the “bury your gays” trope! The epilogue even shows him at a gay bar meeting up with an implied, unnamed boyfriend that doesn’t kiss him or say any lines!
Seriously, this is not the fulfilling ending the show thinks it is. Will’s adult life is reduced to being gay, there’s no mention of his art, and there is zero information about the man he’s with. Yearning to be loved is a big part of Will’s story, yet every other character’s romances are given more care. Self-acceptance and acceptance from others should be standard in representation—not the be-all and end-all. Queer people deserve love and deserve for their relationships to be centered in stories too—even those not marketed specifically to queer audiences.
Final Thoughts
The dissatisfaction around Stranger Things goes beyond simply wanting a good story and happy ending for all of the characters. Which characters get good storylines and happy endings, and which ones do not, conveys something– intentional or not. Women, people of color, survivors of abuse and assault, LGBTQ+ people, and people with disabilities all deserve to be represented and uplifted, and it is shameful that mainstream media is still largely failing at this.
But if one thing gives me hope, it is the passionate reaction of the creative fans that know they deserve better. The fandom made headline news with “Conformity Gate” (more accurately, “conformitygate,” which started in online communities of Will x Mike shippers and was co-opted by the broader fandom)—the theory that the finale of the show is not the true ending but one of Vecna’s distinctive illusions. The theory isn’t true, but its creativity and widespread popularity indicates that the fans demand more compelling, diverse stories and are capable of making them truly by outcasts and for outcasts.
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