Apocalyptic Musical The End Is Compellingly Out of Tune

It’s not entirely surprising that The End, the narrative debut from documentarian Joshua Oppenheimer, is couched in visual and sonic theatricality. While it’s certainly a far cry from his previous doc features about the mass-killings of communists in Indonesia circa 1965, The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence, The End similarly investigates performance as self-affirming delusion. Instead of watching the perpetrators of genocide reenact their brutal murders, The End evokes Golden Age musicals as it follows a family far too wealthy to have personally bloodied their own hands, but who nonetheless orchestrated the demise of countless innocents through their involvement in the fossil fuel industry. As the rest of society smolders in the wake of an environmental apocalypse, these privileged few reside in a lavish underground bunker, where the walls are crowded with priceless artworks and the filtered air carries stifled resentment.

“The houses are all gone under the sea,” begins the T.S. Eliot quote that opens The End. “The dancers are all gone under the hill.” Mother (Tilda Swinton) was once a ballerina herself, who Father (Michael Shannon) and Son (standout George MacKay) routinely praise for having performed at the famed Bolshoi Theater many years ago. It’s been 25 years since they retreated underground; in fact, 20-year-old Son has only ever known the painstakingly-decorated bunker, filled with Impressionist paintings and a gorgeous piano that no one ever plays.

Mackay plays an ignorant savant, someone who has studied pivotal moments in American history through a lens of naïve idealism. He commemorates major historical moments through their inclusion in a sprawling diorama, one which bafflingly employs the Hollywood sign as the backdrop for a Civil War battleground. Even the expressions of the figures that populate the landscape are enveloped in revisionist denial, as the Chinese laborers who died building the transcontinental railroad are painted with eerie smiling faces. Hot off of playing another entitled manchild in Bertrand Bonello’s transcendent The Beast, MacKay carries the bulk of the film on his back. Swinton, in turn, emits a checked-out aura that goes beyond her character’s evasive attitude, her commitment to the bit on par with the lackluster mousy brown wig halfheartedly slapped on her head.

The lack of character names goes beyond the immediate family; all of the characters are identified by their singular roles in the household. There’s Doctor (Lennie James), whose main medical task seems to be prescribing sleeping aids for everyone’s incessant nightmares; agreeable Butler (Tim McInnerny), who oft tends to Father’s demands; and Friend (Bronagh Gallagher), who’s specified to be Mother’s closest companion and the only loved one who was allowed in the bunker when the end times first unfolded (she has since taken on the duties of a glorified maid, helping hang infinite portraits and provide a well of emotional support for the stunted and sheltered Son). Interestingly, the only names ever uttered are those of relatives who were abandoned outside of the desolate salt mine that houses the underground shelter. Son gently speaks the name of his mother’s sister—which he only discovered by snooping through an old tablet—and Friend continues to profess love for her child who supposedly died before the apocalypse.

The fact that half of the bunker’s residents are effectively live-in staff is, bizarrely, hardly a point of tension—but then again, there is actually very little action in Oppenheimer’s film, which inevitably veers into tedium during its 148-minute runtime. The only genuine thrill occurs when a Girl (Moses Ingram) manages to make her way into the mine, having followed the distinct smoke produced by its inhabitants. She recounts the harrowing trek she made through the scorched, unviable earth while the rest of the tribe debate over whether she should be allowed to stay. Mother argues against her assimilation, likely because if they allow her to stay, how can they excuse their exclusion of loved ones during their initial descent? Father and Friend are less hostile, perhaps both latently realizing that Son could use some healthier companionship than his mother’s. While the outsider’s presence begins to poke holes in the group’s collective fallacy, it’s clear that ugly grudges and harsh truths were always at risk of breaking through, much like the cracks that consistently appear on the bunker’s walls; plaster and forced smiles can only patch things up for so long.

Compared to Oppenheimer’s previous efforts, The End shies away from direct confrontation of the actions and individuals responsible for our escalating climate crisis, beyond references to Father’s Indonesian foreign interests. The queasiness of exploring what the elite survivors of apocalypse would prioritize the preservation of—mostly Western “masterpieces” and their own reputations—never blooms into fuller consequences.

The End’s major downfall, aside from being overlong and ideologically tepid, is that its musical numbers are dull and discordant. Despite its stage-influenced production design and a single fleeting tap-dance sequence, the lyrics penned by Oppenheimer and music composed by Joshua Schmidt don’t capture the songwriting finesse of the Golden Age they so desperately wish to emulate. Each character, except for Doctor and Butler, have their own solo performance—wherein individual traumas are exorcised in order to maintain their utopian illusion—though harmonized phrases convey far more about the fantasy they’re forced to project. “Together our future is brighter,” they sing, teeth bared in grins that could easily give way to grimaces. If Oppenheimer is interested in the contrast of escapist performance with the corrupt fabric of our reality, he should have focused more on constructing a catchy tune. (In the press notes, he cites The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, Gene Kelly and Busby Berkeley as references; The End possesses nothing of their constructed charm).

Still, the enduring brilliance and tangible impact of his previous features, as well as the ambition of this one, makes it hard to dismiss The End outright, particularly because it was originally conceived as another companion film to The Act of Killing. Considered a persona non grata in Indonesia, Oppenheimer had to abandon a documentary project about a family of Indonesian oil tycoons (agents of “serious political violence”) who were interested in buying a bunker of their own. Even if the project’s roots lie in exposing those complicit in the destruction of lives, lands and liberties, The End never conjures a compelling enough thesis to justify its multiple massive missteps.

Director: Joshua Oppenheimer
Writers: Joshua Oppenheimer, Rasmus Heisterberg
Stars: Tilda Swinton, Michael Shannon, George Mackay, Moses Ingram, Bronagh Gallagher, Lennie James, Tim McInnerny
Release Date: September 11, 2024 (TIFF)

Natalia Keogan is a freelance writer and editor with a concerted focus on independent film. Her interviews and criticism have appeared in Filmmaker Magazine, Reverse Shot, Backstage Magazine, SlashFilm, Blood Knife and Daily Grindhouse, among others. She lives in Queens, New York with her large orange cat. Find her on Twitter @nataliakeogan