Apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic cinema generally attempt to hold two incongruous themes together. The first theme is a depiction of the end in all of its brutal, often sensationalist, violence. The second theme is the promise that this ending will be the opportunity for ‘us’ to become the best version of who ‘we’ always already were. Films like Independence Day (1996) and The Book of Eli (2010) are respective apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic versions of this trend. More recent films have embraced a gritty realism in order to depict the near future that may emerge as the result of the intersecting crises of climate change, intensifying social divisions and growing political instability. Films such as The End We Start From (2023) initially seem devoid of the hope that characterised earlier cinema. I argue these cinematic explorations of the polycrisis harbour hidden hopes, but this poses a dilemma. At a moment where utopian depictions of the future ring hollow, this hope is directionless—it is a hope in hope itself. Taking 2073 (2024) as a particular acute example of this dilemma, I contrast polycrisis cinema with the cinema of the Cold War. I show that films from this earlier period were more willing to engage what Günther Anders calls a ‘naked apocalypse’.
Recent work from Peter Szendy, Claire Colebrook and others have explored the complex politics of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic cinema. Colebrook argues that these films, despite their diversity, return to the same themes of social reproduction and the inescapability of the world. This is clear from the early days of cinema. One of the first post-apocalyptic films, Deluge (1933), opens with the destruction of New York City and ends with the restitution of the nuclear family, civil society and an economy based on credit. In the final moments of the film, the protagonist hopes that the end is actually the chance at a new beginning, one in which human civilisation can finally get things right.More recent films such as The End We Start From do not conclude with such overt hope. In this depiction of catastrophic flooding, food shortages and climate refugee camps, we follow ‘Woman’ as she gives birth and then navigates these brutal realities with a newborn child. There are threats of sexual violence, starvation and unrelenting vulnerability. At the end of the film, Woman travels back to her London home in a canoe, only to discover that her partner has also survived. There is a stark contrast between the realities depicted—a complete collapse of the UK economy, mass starvation, a city rife with sanitation problems—and the final scene of a family embracing as they restore their home. Even though the film is incredibly bleak, it manages to smuggle in hope in its final seconds.
If The End We Start From is able to find hope in familial love, even this is missing from the dystopian future depicted in 2073. This film offers the most explicit exploration of the polycrisis. It is a science fiction docudrama constructed of interviews and news footage from the present and recent past. It offers this period as the history of a dystopian future. As the film progresses, the voice over narration asks if a different future might be possible, ending with a declaration: ‘It’s too late for me… It may not be too late for you.’
The mixed reviews of the film frequently mention its hopelessness as a problem. Sometimes this critique is mentioned alongside worries that its depiction of climate change, the rise of powerful technology companies and authoritarian political leaders is overly conspiratorial. These worries are less convincing following the early months of 2025. Moreover, they miss the film’s insistence that hope is key. The problem is that this hope has no real direction. It is important to hope and act, but what we should in and what actions should be taken are not specified.
This hope, hidden in plain sight, is in stark contrast to the films produced during the Cold War. These films confronted the apocalypse without redemption described by Anders. For Anders, the threat of nuclear warfare brings about a new, bleak eschatological possibility. This possibility is confronted by films ranging from Crack in the World (1965) to Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970) which conclude without any glimmer of hope. Cold War cinema did not shy away from showing the failure of humanity to avert the apocalypse, resulting in a future of unending suffering. This is most pronounced in realist depictions of the consequences of nuclear war, such as The War Game (1966) and Threads (1984).
This contrast between Cold War cinema and the films of the polycrisis reveal in an enduring hope that struggles to find direction. Either it returns to loci of hope, like the family, that ring hollow or places hope in hope itself. Even when films are critiqued for being overly bleak or depressing, they present hope hidden in plain sight. Such films are indicative of the failure to grapple with the new possibilities of a naked apocalypse.
Apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic cinema attempt to hold two incongruous themes together: a depiction of the end in its brutal, often sensationalist, violence and the promise that this ending will be the opportunity for ‘us’ to become the best version of who ‘we’ always already were. Recent films have embraced a gritty realism in order to depict the near future that may emerge as the result of the intersecting crises of climate change, intensifying social divisions and growing political instability. I argue these explorations of the polycrisis harbour hidden hopes, but this poses a dilemma. This hope is directionless—it is a hope in hope itself. Taking 2073 (2024) as an example of this dilemma, I contrast polycrisis cinema with the cinema of the Cold War. I show that films from this earlier period were more willing to engage what Günther Anders calls a ‘naked apocalypse’.