The End of History and Poetic Salvation in Christopher Nolan: Jesse Russell’s “The Political Christopher Nolan”

The end of history endures. Not just in intellectual commentary and debate, but also in cinema. And no director has been wrestling with the implications of the end of history more than Christopher Nolan. In our age of encroaching nihilism, revolutionary discontent, and the seeming exhaustion of neoliberal capitalism, how does Nolan’s films deal with the spirit of times?

That is the question Jesse Russell is implicitly asking in his new book, The Political Christopher Nolan. Bringing Nolan’s films into dialogue with philosophy and political theory, Russell offers a brilliant reading of the blockbuster film director who not only offers his audience a visual tour-de-force but also deep intellectual contemplation through his films. Russell accepts Nolan’s invitation for intellectual contemplation and shows how Nolan is wrestling with the spirit of the times, the contours of end of history nihilism and exhausted neoliberalism, and how through this wrestling the director ultimately endorses—even if passively so—the belief that “Anglo-American liberalism [is] the most feasible vehicle for the good life.”

It is important to start off with some definitions as to what “Anglo-American liberalism” and “neoliberalism” are as these terms are often charged with political emotions that are often viewed negatively (especially by the “far-left” and “far-right”) in contemporary discourse. Liberalism, here, isn’t the mythic lie of individual rights, the rule of law, and a nominal free market economy being discovered by the brilliance of early modern (and invariably secular) political thinkers. Individual rights, the rule of law, and free enterprise economics existed long before the invention of “classical liberalism” in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Liberalism, as envisioned by Nolan in the twenty-first century, is really the political order forged and held together by technology, capital, and the security-surveillance state whose legitimacy is upheld by democratic institutions and elections. Or in another way of understanding it: Liberalism is the existing political order of the western world understood through the unitive power of science, technology, capital, and the (American) military industrial complex. This unity of science, technology, capital, and the military industrial complex in the modern age is also what is sometimes called neoliberalism.

Status-quo liberalism, however, hasn’t triumphed in the way that many believed it would in the aftermath of the Cold War and the early victories won by the United States (and its allies) during the beginning of the War on Terror. Even Francis Fukuyama, famous for his essay “The End of History?” which is often badly mispresented and mocked by shallow critics, left open the possibility for the malaise of the “Last Man” to set in without the spirited contest for political struggle with the demise of Soviet communism. Fukuyama implied, both in his essay and especially his book by the same name, that nihilism could emerge. And emerge it has.

In giving a politicized interpretation to Nolan’s films, Russell examines how Nolan began his career with Memento by wrestling with nihilism and the emptiness that modern man faces despite his persistent “desire for an ethical core” and how this cinematic dialogue with end of history nihilism produced a soft political philosophy that has opted for a defense of Anglo-American techno-scientific capitalism while equally remaining skeptical—if not otherwise hostile—toward the crass and crude utilitarian materialism that is often lurking in the background of neoliberalism. Given the bland emptiness of modern life, stripped of its symbolism and spirituality through the scientific conquest of nature, where can we look to find meaning? Further, how can political order survive without the will for sacrifice in the face of dangerous foes and impending social (even cosmic) chaos and disharmony?

Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy and Interstellar offer us the best answers to these problematic questions.

The Gotham City of the Dark Knight trilogy is “an icon of America.” But this representative icon of America is also corrupt, dark, and in the eyes of the villains in the Dark Knight trilogy, not worth saving. Gotham is so polluted it must be destroyed. To Bruce Wayne/Batman, however, Gotham is worth saving.

Here, Russell interprets the dialectic between a technologically empowered but ultimately humane Batman and the various villains of the films (Ra’s Al Ghul, the Joker, and Bane) as representing the major threats to the neoliberal order at the end of history: Ra’s Al Ghul is a reactionary, aristocratic, “Oriental” Other with a stern sense of cosmic justice; the Joker is a domestic nihilist, an anarchist who wants to destroy the illusion of order and a return to “chance” as the governing reality of life; Bane represents revolutionary populism with a seductive outsider spirit ultimately bent on destroying the establishment at large in the name of the liberation of the common mass of humanity. Against these forces Batman must rise to the challenge. How does he do this? “[Batman] must learn the arts and spirituality of the Old World but ultimately overcome and dominate it via Western rationality and technology.”

To this extent we might say that Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy represents a synthesis of Romantic and Enlightenment mentalities. Though Russell doesn’t dwell on this point, I will. Part of the Romantic rebellion against the Enlightenment was because of the belief that the triumph of science, technology, and commerce (the world of Bruce Wayne, Gotham City, and “liberalism”) would strip the world of spiritual values and lead to a crueler, more inhumane, world. Many of the Romantics looked to religion, spirituality, and the will-to-power (as a form of self-empowering spirituality) as the antidote against this sterile and mechanical evil sweeping the world. Romanticism also began the Orientalist outlook derided by Edward Said (with whom Russell dialogues in his analysis). Bruce Wayne, as Batman, however, doesn’t entirely forsake the Enlightenment project of technology, science, and commerce; instead, Bruce Wayne’s transformation into Batman is by “an appropriation of Eastern wisdom and Western technology at the service of new world humanism and an attempt at justice.” In short, Bruce Wayne embodies both the Romantic and Enlightenment spirit—he embraces a sense of spiritual strength and technological supremacy thereby fusing the two together as a potent force as he becomes Batman.

For the philosophically literate, now aided from the insight by Russell’s superb analysis, Batman represents a new hope for, and within, the neoliberal reality: Western technological and scientific prowess with Eastern spiritual and mystical allure. So Batman doesn’t reject the neoliberal order but revitalizes it through embracing an aforesaid spiritual strength learned from the East with the powerful science and technology of the West, combined with the genteel humanism of his parents (representing western philanthropy, a sort of secularized Christian ethic of charity).

With this newfound synthesis Batman subsequently does battle on behalf of Gotham (the neoliberal order) against its enemies, both foreign (Ra’s Al Ghul) and domestic (Joker). This is both a subconscious reflection on the War on Terror (the need for the neoliberal west to deal with its vicious enemies often found in the eastern world: Ra’s Al Ghul and Bane) and nihilistic discontent from within (Joker). As Russell writes, “Bruce Wayne is representative of the American order that utilizes its high technology and its allegedly liberal credo to fight threats at home and abroad.”

But how does the Dark Knight trilogy progress and ultimately end? We must remember that Nolan is no mere utopian propagandist. Gotham City is mired in corruption, crime, and poverty. It is not a perfect city. Yet, despite these problems the viewer sees on screen, Gotham is still worth saving. The message from Nolan is that Gotham (neoliberalism) is worth reforming and ultimately saving through self-sacrifice on behalf of the many invisible good people who live ordinary lives (this is exactly what Batman tells Joker at the conclusion of The Dark Knight). That is what Batman embodies throughout the three films: sacrifice on behalf of the masses, even if the masses are not always aware or grateful because most people are just trying to live and love as most humans do.

However, more is needed than just sacrifice on behalf of the ordinary mass: hope and love is needed to bring our hero some closure and the sacrifices made meaningful. Batman is fighting for the hope that he can love—first, Rachel Dawes who dies in The Dark Knight; then, eventually, Selina Kyle (Catwoman) in The Dark Knight Rises. Thus, Robin emerges at the trilogy’s end to take up the role that Bruce Wayne has created and passed on which permits Bruce to love after his life of sacrifices made on behalf of Gotham as Batman.

“The image of the hero,” Russell writes, “must be upheld and then filled by heroes who come every generation to do good.” The passing on of the torch and the sacrifices of Batman finds hope through the possibility of love and a life of leisure now available to him. This is the implied ending when Alfred sees Bruce and Selina at a café in Italy. Thus, the endurance of the neoliberal order is in the hope of love after a life of sacrifice wherein a new, younger, generation will take up the task of reform and defense while a now aging population enjoys the fruits of their own self-sacrifices. As Russell concludes his great analysis of Nolan’s Batman films, “The Dark Knight trilogy, although entertaining various revolutionary ideas, ultimately shows the viewer there is no alternative to the capitalist world order that Gotham represents.” We might add the caveat that the neoliberal capitalist world is worth saving only because love is possible within it. Love is not a factor, we must note, in attitudes of Ra’s Al Ghul, Joker, Bane, or Talia; the worlds they represent are devoid of love and therefore worse alternatives to the admittedly bland neoliberalism of Gotham, which, although bland, still has the possibility for love within it.

The possibility of love and the hope of family life is another principal theme found in Inception and, especially, Interstellar. In Inception, Cobb’s working for the neoliberal corporate order is motivated by the hope of returning to a loving family life with his children. Even though his family (his wife, in particular) have been temporarily lost to him and the filial love he once enjoyed partly ruined by the neoliberal corporate order he serves, there remains a hope for recovery, a hope for a new beginning. This hope drives Cobb onward. It is hope found in love.

This hope for love found in family life that the Dark Knight trilogy concludes with and that Inception equally implies is what guides Interstellar from start to finish. Additionally, Interstellar continues to show the imperfect insufficiencies of a purely materialistic, utilitarian, and scientistic brand of neoliberalism. Dr. Brand and Dr. Mann, intelligent though they are (indicated by the fact that they are both PhDs), represent the crass utilitarian ethic of materialistic liberalism without humanistic love (also the prevailing worldview of most highly educated elites in the western world it must be noted). Their “Plan A” is scientism, a purely materialistic liberalism, writ large. However, Joseph Cooper and Dr. Amelia Brand represent a sacrificial love dedicated to family and, through that sacrificial love, the rest of humanity. Mind you, Joseph Cooper’s initials are J.C.

Interstellar, according to Russell, represents the supersession of the era of competitive nation-states—the end of history ideal. Nation-states still exist but without the jingoism and competition which previously defined them. Nevertheless, America remains the “superpower” in a world that is dying. How is this dying world saved? Not through science, but through love. As I’ve written in parallel agreement with Russell concerning Interstellar though from a more theological perspective:

Interstellar pits two worlds against each other: the world of love that transcends space and time and the world of science that has no understanding of love because love is not a number that can be measured. Moreover, the world of love is passionate and emotional. This drives a dagger into the empty hearts of those men and women of science who conceive a limited world of mere numbers and lines. Cooper’s world is in a deadly wrestling match with Dr. Brand and Dr. Mann’s world and only one can win.

Cooper’s act of sacrificial love which allows him to act as the intermediary between the two worlds brings about the salvation of humanity on Earth as they journey, in a ship (reminiscent of an ark) to the new world of life faraway in the heavens. Love, not science and technology, is the force that will divinize man and allow him to look up to the stars and behold the good things that the heavens hold. Love, Interstellar reminds us, is what makes us human and ultimately saves us.

For Russell, Interstellar’s message, in its political context, entails “a message of hope and endurance and the ability for America to overcome its twenty-first century decline and ultimately overcome space and time” through “love,” and more specifically, “filial love.” While I’m inclined to interpret the film more philosophically and theologically than Russell does, he is perfectly aware of the “message of love” promoted in Interstellar even if it is through a politicized lens, “Interstellar is a catastrophe film set during a period of (relative) quiet in American history, but it is also a film about the triumph of a new America tutored by a reinforced message of love.” This is very important for viewers to recognize since I was reminded, when reading Russell’s analysis of Interstellar, of a conversation with a colleague of mine who was incapable of recognizing or even conceding the message of love in the film and only saw a positivistic (and ultimately utilitarian) endorsement of the power of “science” in the film even though the scientism of Dr. Brand and Dr. Mann jeopardizes the future of humanity every step of the way and science is redeemed through the love manifested by Cooper.

America must become a country “tutored” by “love” to help resurrect the dying world. Interstellar, like the rest of Nolan’s films, accepts the neoliberal order as a given but our eminent director is no utopian—the neoliberal order can either go down the path of scientistic utilitarianism (which consistently leads to death in the film) or the humane and humanistic love of Cooper (which leads to renewal and resurrection). The rest of the world depends on America’s choice—either to be Dr. Brand and Dr. Mann or Cooper and Amelia. Let us choose Cooper and Amelia where love can beneficially utilize the goods of science and technology and not Dr. Brand and Dr. Mann whose utilitarian and social-Darwinian evolutionism threatens the very heart of humanity.

“Nolan’s films present Anglo-American liberalism as being the most feasible vehicle for the good life the characters in his films desire (but perhaps never find). This order is threatened by the reactionary past of the ‘Old World,’ which demands adherence to a strict moral code and violent suppression of dissidence…As imperfect and flawed as Anglo-American liberalism is, in his films, Christopher Nolan ultimately depicts America as the last, best hope for world.” We can say, with Russell’s guiding eyes, that Nolan’s films carry within them traces of American Exceptionalism. But this exceptionalism is not the blinding and sometimes callous ra-ra-ra patriotism verging on insular nationalism. Rather, the last best hope for the world within the American order is to be found in “the sacrificing hero [who] is ultimately humane and generous as opposed [to] domineering and cruel.” Further, “This hero is motivated by love of family and country.” What is needed to make life in the neoliberal order worthwhile? The sacrificial and loving, compassionate, hero. What’s hopeful is that anyone can be this sacrificial and loving hero!

I might extend a concluding note as someone who also loves Nolan just as much as our author does. Nolan is an artist, a poet, whose artistry and poetry is composed through the directorial camera. An implicit part of Nolan’s political-poetic cinematography, if we wish to call it that, is that artistry and poetry will redeem the admittedly dull neoliberal world (“do not go gentle into that goodnight,” after all). It is in the neoliberal world where poetry has its greatest opportunity to flourish—flourish without fear of censorship, oversight, regulation, or restriction. Not all poetry is created equal, though. Nolan endorses the ancient poetic wisdom of the sacrificial hero rather than the poetic Übermensch of self-creating values (certainly Dr. Mann is the closest representation of this type of modernist monster in Nolan’s films). In the contest for poetic redemption, Nolan endorses the traditional view of poetic salvation shared by luminaries like Saint Augustine, Dante, Milton, Wordsworth, Eliot, Lewis, and Tolkien.

Jesse Russell does an admirable job in interpreting Nolan’s films through a political lens. He does an equally superb job in highlighting the role of love within the neoliberal paradigm that defines many of Nolan’s best and most mature films. Any lover of Nolan’s cinematic brilliance will be enriched by Russell’s book. One’s only regret is that this book does not yet have an analysis of Nolan’s Oppenheimer. We patiently wait, then, for what Russell might have to say about that film.

The Political Christopher Nolan: Liberalism and the Anglo-American Vision
By Jesse Russell
Lanham: Lexington Books, 2023; 152pp

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