One of the fuzzier concepts floating around the cloud of pop psychology that has descended upon America in the last decade —like some wizard's curse of stupefaction — is that of "closure." A term lifted from Gestalt psychology by way of grief counseling, its popular meaning has become merely the period at the end of the sentence, the actions taken or feelings resolved that allow trauma and grief to be done with, and for life to move on. As Americans are fond of telling each other, "Get over it."

But real life is not as neat and tidily resolved as a Hollywood movie. Try telling an Iraq war vet with post-traumatic stress, or a child molested by his parish priest that there's some magic way to "close" this pain in their lives. Things such as "treatment" or "justice" are possible; so is coping. But closure is an illusion. All processes are ongoing, all past experience — both wonderful and terrible — echoes on in our present.

Maybe it is the fault of movies that we have this unrealistic expectation of closure. Take a look at some Euro or art movies and you'll find many examples of ambiguous endings where the viewer is left to wonder how things turn out. Hollywood producers would rather eat a bowl of steamy dog mess than ever let that happen in a movie. (See the notorious battle over the ending of "Blade Runner," for one example.)