The End

In 2012, Joshua Oppenheimer co-directed (with Anonymous, to keep the second filmmaker from being murdered) my personal pick for greatest documentary ever made. He won the Oscar two years later for The Look of Silence, a sequel of sorts, but The Act of Killing is unlike anything else ever made and will stay with me until I die.

That’s not the only reason I was excited about The End, Oppenheimer’s narrative feature directing debut. There’s also Tilda Swinton and Michael Shannon, two of the greatest living actors. It’s a musical, but I won’t hold that against it.

Don’t think Wicked. The End is not dazzling song and dance numbers boasting stellar vocals set to catchy tunes you’ll be humming after the credits roll. The somber choreography and overlapping vocals feels a bit more inspired by Sondheim, and the setting is anything but dazzling.

George MacKay plays Son. He was born in the underground bunker Mother (Swinton) and Father (Shannon) evacuated to with Butler (Tim McInnerny), Doctor (Lennie James) and Friend (Bronagh Gallagher) sometime before climate change irreversibly destroyed the planet. They arrange and rearrange the masterpieces of the artworld that crowd their walls, swim to keep healthy, and practice emergency drills. Meanwhile Son is helping Father write his autobiography, that of the brave philanthropic energy tycoon who is definitely not to blame for the fall of mankind.

And there is fragile, manufactured, numb peace among them underground. Until Girl (Moses Ingram), an outsider, a survivor of the disasters that have claimed nearly everyone on the planet, makes her way to their compound.

With the influence of the outsider, each member of the little community reflects on what they’ve ignored for years: the little inconsistencies, the fictionalizations, the lies they tell themselves and each other to get numb. To forgive themselves of what a person is willing to do to someone else to survive.

It’s a clever conceit artfully executed. Each performance is beautiful. James and Gallagher are especially powerful in smaller roles. Oppenheimer’s script, co-written with Rasmus Heisterberg, quietly unveils each self-serving, nearly innocent sin that becomes the inescapable rot that ruins a civilization.

Aside from one devastatingly absurd number showcasing Shannon, the music doesn’t add a lot. Swinton’s not much of a singer (well, at least we’ve found the one thing she isn’t good at), which makes the songs a little harder to bear.

In the end, The End is a bold, admirable film that’s sometimes too obvious, a bit too long, and a tad gimmicky to meet its aspirations.