Spoiler Warning: This piece discusses major plot points from ‘You’ Season 5.
Ending a TV series is a near-impossible act. Lean too hard into sentimentality, and the finale drowns in its own syrup. Stray too far from what made the show beloved, and fans revolt. For every Succession – a series that stuck its landing with precision – there’s a dozen Game of Thrones: finales so divisive they retroactively taint the legacy of what came before. ‘You,’ Netflix’s streaming sensation about bookseller-turned-serial-killer Joe Goldberg (Penn Badgley), faced an even trickier dilemma: How do you satisfyingly conclude a story about a man who has spent four seasons evading consequences? And how do you make audiences cheer for the downfall of a character they’ve been conditioned to root for?
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The Illusion Of Control
From its first season, ‘You’ has been a show about narrative – who controls it, who manipulates it, and who suffers when it’s weaponised. Joe, with his literary pretensions and obsessive voiceovers, has always cast himself as the hero of his own story. But Season 5 dismantles that delusion.
The season’s most brilliant twist isn’t just that Bronte (Madeline Brewer) is revealed to be Louise, a former student of Joe’s first victim, Beck – it’s that she outwrites him. She lures him into a trap, records his confession, and, in a moment of poetic justice, shoots him in the groin. It’s both a literal and symbolic castration – a final blow to the toxic masculinity that has fuelled Joe’s violence.
Even more satisfying? The women he’s wronged – Kate (Charlotte Ritchie), Marienne (Tati Gabrielle), Nadia (Amy-Leigh Hickman) – don’t just survive; they thrive. Kate transforms Lockwood into a nonprofit and raises Henry (Joe’s son with Love Quinn). Marienne becomes a celebrated artist. Nadia, once framed for murder, now teaches writing to trauma survivors.
The Problem Isn’t Joe – It’s Us
The finale’s most chilling moment actually has nothing to do with Joe’s arrest or his prison-cell monologue — it’s the fan mail. As Joe sits in his cell, reading letters from admirers who romanticise his crimes, the show holds up a mirror to its audience. ‘You’ has always critiqued true crime obsession, but here, it goes for the jugular: ‘Maybe the problem’s not me,’ Joe sneers. ’Maybe it’s you.’ It’s a direct challenge to viewers who’ve spent years excusing his behaviour — laughing at his quippy monologues while overlooking the bodies piling up behind him. The show’s greatest trick was making us complicit and its greatest triumph is making us confront that complicity.
A Messy, Necessary Ending
However, the final season isn’t without flaws. Some plot lines fizzle – Love Quinn’s near-erasure remains a baffling choice – and Bronte’s initial portrayal as a manic-pixie-stalker-dream-girl feels like a misfire, until the twist reframes it as calculated deception. Yet these imperfections almost work in the show’s favour. ‘You’ was never prestige TV; it was a pulpy, addictive thriller with something to say.
And what it says, loudly, is this: the cycle of abuse ends when victims reclaim the narrative. Joe spends the season trying to rewrite his past, but in the end, it’s Beck’s book – re-edited and re-released by Bronte – that becomes a bestseller. It’s Kate’s scars, worn proudly, that define her future. And it’s Henry, staring at those scars, who gets to decide what kind of man he’ll become.
Goodbye, Joe
In a cultural moment where male violence is finally being treated as the emergency it is, the finale couldn’t have arrived at a more fitting time. It’s a story about the cost of romanticising monsters — and the catharsis of watching them fall.
Penn Badgley’s performance remains a gripping study in charisma and menace, but the real stars of this season are the women who outmanoeuvre Joe at every turn. As Madeline Brewer’s Bronte puts it: ‘The fantasy of a man like you is how we cope with the reality of a man like you.’
‘You’ may not have been a perfect show, but its ending was perfect for this show. And for that, we should be grateful.
Catherine Pun
A Hong Kong native with Filipino-Chinese roots, Catherine infuses every part of her life with zest, whether she’s belting out karaoke tunes or exploring off-the-beaten-path destinations. Her downtime often includes unwinding with Netflix and indulging in a 10-step skincare routine. As the Editorial Director of Friday Club., Catherine brings her wealth of experience from major publishing houses, where she refined her craft and even authored a book. Her sharp editorial insight makes her a dynamic force, always on the lookout for the next compelling narrative.
