For years, there have been reports that billionaires have been quietly building survival bunkers around the world—vast, well-equipped hideouts where the ruling class plans to spend the apocalypse. There, they will be comfortable while the rest of us fight for resources, fight the ever-worsening elements, and slowly die. But won’t they also suffer in some way, haunted by the people and things they left behind, threatened by a hopeless future, increasingly sick of each other? That’s probably the argument made in Joshua Oppenheimer‘s special and unusual influence Enda musical that, with its strange empathy, condemns the world’s tycoons in a way that can almost be called satire.
Michael Shannon plays a former oil tycoon who flees an environmental disaster and moves his family and a handful of servants into a facility built deep inside a vast salt mine. Their abode is beautiful and ornate, filled with priceless art and elegant furnishings. He and his wife, played by Tilda Swintondevoted to raising her twenty-something son, a naive and childish man due to George MacKay. The boy was born in a bunker and only knew about the outside world in theory—he was homeschooled like any other child.
Their families and doctors (Lennie James), butler (Tim McInnerny), and friends/nanny (Bronagh Gallagher) live in a kind of strict harmony, doing chores and safe exercises without much mention of the destruction that is living upon them, nor of the sad fact that their ecosystem is also dying. But they sing about it, commenting on how strangely MacKay’s character is likely to be the end of the line. The film’s soundtrack—simple, melodic compositions by Joshua Schmidt And Marius de Vries—functions primarily as a poetic interior monologue, representing the chaos of emotions that lies beneath all strictly controlled order.
But chaos eventually came, as it often does. A stranger, due to Moses IngramSomehow she finds her way down into the caves, barely surviving the devastation of the land above. The bunker dwellers are initially wary—they mention a past incident where the housekeeper was shot by invaders; that’s why the father insisted his son practice with a gun—and seem prepared to expel this untrustworthy outsider. But then again, she’s young and female, and so there may be a lineage-promoting benefit to keeping her around. MacKay’s interest certainly seems piqued.
The issue of sex and procreation is not explicitly addressed in the film, but we feel its heavy implication. Some primal part of us sees that outcome as the only right one; life must go on. But Oppenheimer also leaves room to question that instinct. What good would it do to bring another miserable child into this place? In fact, it might be nothing short of cruel. Perhaps the vanity of this wealthy family—the notion that they, above all others, must suffer—is the vanity of an entire planet, greedy for individual needs at the expense of everything.
Oppenheimer’s film is an environmentalist film, a gentle critique of the industries and their leaders who have accelerated the destruction of our climate. We, the consumers, are also to blame, although those of us without the resources to build submarines will soon feel the consequences. End Perhaps most pitiful are the innocent children: children like MacKay’s character, who are taught all the wrong things, and children like Ingram’s character, who can do nothing but struggle and try to keep breathing through no fault of their own.
The stranger, however, has his own sins. As do most of the characters in this long, elusive film. Perhaps that is Oppenheimer’s ultimate message: you can escape the destruction, but something will always chase you. There is no real escape from humanity’s reckless failures. Oppenheimer’s documentary The act of killing There have been Indonesian serial killers who have come to terms with their wrongdoings through reenactments; perhaps End It serves as a cautionary tale to any billionaire who happens to see it: your selfishness will not save you.
That said, it’s hard to attach any distinct meaning to the film. As engaging as it is, it’s also heavy and restrained. Patience is tested as End slowly, solemnly glides through two and a half hours. The loud, head-banging issues aren’t necessarily preferable—it’s fascinating to encounter such elliptical art on a big, relevant subject. But EndThe difficult construction risks alienating viewers from its worthwhile interests.
What’s compelling throughout are the carefully crafted performances—MacKay’s study of repressed energy and Ingram’s blend of caution and gratitude are particular highlights—and the film’s myriad aesthetic charms. Though perhaps not made on a big budget, End looks like it cost a billion dollars. The film’s landscapes are richly realized, captured with the cinematographer’s coolly elegant use of light and shadow. Mikhail Krichman. The final resting place of humanity is a beautiful place, but also more terrifying and despicable because of it.
