Looks different in the daylight, huh? Like all stories, our fictional visions of what happens
after the end of our world are always in motion. Most obviously, they take on new forms based on changes
in our collective fears, transform their settings to whatever apocalypse
we deem most likely; be it nuclear annihilation, ecological catastrophe,
viral pandemics, and so on. But they also evolve not just based on what we imagine for our future,
but also based on how we feel about the present. Their progression reflects changes in what we value here and now, what we long for, and in what we believe will endure when everything else falls apart. And it is here, as I will elaborate on by using three different stories... that I feel something different is emerging, a new sentiment, a new sense of priority, of self-reflection. A new vision of our society and of ourselves that is quietly yet significantly changing the way we view and experience the apocalypse, which, as a side note, also demonstrates why now is the perfect time
for a sequel to World War Z, and yes, I’m talking about the movie here. But I’ll get back to that one towards the end. First, let’s start with: Is it everything you hoped for? Jury's still out But man, you can't deny that view. As the adaption of the beloved video game, HBO’s The Last of Us has achieved something pretty unique. For besides being a highly popular show, it is also,
at the time of writing at least, receiving a lot of praise not only for what it preserves from the original,
but also specifically for what it changes. And as such, there is an interesting evolutionary line that can be drawn between how the game first told its story back in 2013 versus how the new show does it now almost a decade later. When the game first came out, The Last of Us already felt different to similar stories that came before it. Compared to the desolate landscapes and rather bleak atmospheres found in stories like Resident Evil or The Road, both of which were explicitly named as inspirations by the developers, The Last of Us presented us with a new kind of post-apocalyptic world, one that had been trending for some time, and which still is quite popular to this day. It’s the green apocalypse, the one that feels strangely peaceful, alive, and in many ways, beautiful. In this vision of a post-societal world, nature has reclaimed the remnants of human society, now devoid of their symbolical meaning and former purpose, and reduced them back into the raw materials of the natural world. Besides capturing some of the changing sentiments regarding our relation to nature, the sense of disconnect and the longing for an environment undefined by rampant industry and thoughtless modernity, post-apocalyptic worlds like these are also appealing for offering us an escapist fantasy that I’m pretty sure everyone has entertained at some point. It’s the fantasy of a world in which we are completely freed from the complications of our modern existence, where we are not just reconnected to nature,
to the basic essentials of life in literal terms, but where we are also socially purified, in a sense. A world that doesn’t care about appearances or pretensions, a world in which we can be our truest selves again. And it is precisely in that act of stripping away what we perceive to be the unwanted, or even, the unnatural layers of our world and of ourselves, that apocalypse stories, explicitly or implicitly, also reveal something about what our human nature truly looks like. We are inherently a violent species. War, genocide, murder. The denial of our true self is the problem. Historically, this image has not exactly been a positive one. Post-apocalyptic worlds are often defined by hostility and savagery, they mark an era in which human beings can no longer trust each other, where it’s everyone for themselves and other people are a danger until proven otherwise. In short; they tend to suggest that without our existing institutions, without the rule of law, without social contracts, without any societal boundaries holding ourselves in check, by and large, this is who we’d become, that this is who we really are underneath. As I already articulated in my review of The Last of Us: Part 2, which really was a breakdown of the whole series, The Last of Us also presented us with such a world, a world turned hostile and dangerous, but it was also a story that explored how we nevertheless find love and meaning, how we still long for human connections, and how we are willing to sacrifice everything to safeguard them. I found it quite beautiful at the time, and still do, which is exactly why I’m loving the HBO adaptation so much, because it’s not only repeating that same message, but it’s actually progressing it even further and adding greater weight to it by grounding it within a more general thesis. To whomever, but probably Joel. We see this most clearly in the third episode, which marked the first significant departure from the source material. Originally, Joel and Ellie encounter Bill here, a reclusive survivalist who once loved and lost, and now believes it’s better to not love at all. In this world, that sort of shit is good for one thing; getting you killed. He’s bitter, lonely, and clearly filled with regret, an overall tragic figure that, more than anything, functions as a cautionary tale for Joel, an image of the man he too would become if were to close off his heart completely. In the show, however, we see an entirely different story. The whole episode is basically an extended flashback sequence depicting the past 20 years of Bill’s life. We see that, like in the game, he is a reclusive and cautious character, one that, on some level, maybe even welcomed the apocalypse. But then he meets Frank, Are you hurt? a man he connects with and ends up falling in love with. What?
- I was never afraid before you showed up. At this point, if you played the game, you might have been feeling the dread of a coming tragedy. For in the game, we only see Frank when he has hanged himself after what apparently was a lifetime of misery. But whenever the show feels like its heading in that direction, like when the love scene cuts to one in which they are fighting, or when, for a moment, it seems that Bill is the one who doesn’t make it until Joel and Ellie’s arrival, things keep turning out fine, and slowly but surely, we come to realize that they are in fact happy, that they have a life together that, while not being completely devoid of obstacles, is fulfilling, meaningful, and overall worth living. And on top of that, they get to play it out until the end. I've had... more good days with you than with anyone else.
Just give me one more good day. Aside from the significance of having a queer romance that is not defined by trauma or tragedy, the immediate consequence of this change to the original is that it transforms what initially was a cautionary tale for Joel into an aspirational one. Because instead of being about a tragic closing of the heart, Bill’s journey here is one of healing, one of opening up, which is arguably Joel’s main struggle as a character too. But more generally, and this, I think, is the real evolution from game to show, it suggests that the bond that eventually forms between Joel and Ellie is not an outlier, that it’s not as rare of a thing as it feels like in the game, but is something that is in fact happening more than we think,
that it’s ordinary even. And in doing so, it more clearly subverts that cynical image of human nature that is so often implicitly conveyed in post-apocalyptic stories into a much more hopeful and humanistic one. It demonstrates that, regardless of our circumstances, there will always be human beings finding each other, loving each other,
and quietly living out fulfilling lives together. I'm old. I'm satisfied. And you were my purpose. There’s more to talk about here, but first, let’s check out another great show
that too many people haven’t seen yet. If you’re a fan of The Last of Us, then this is the show you’re watching next. Station Eleven is a post-apocalyptic mini-series taking place 20 years after a global pandemic caused the collapse of our civilization, which might not sound all that original on paper, but I promise you, it’s something special, and deserves way more attention than it’s been given. I won’t spoil any significant details for those who haven’t watched it yet, but I do want to offer some general context, which might actually help you appreciate the show even more, because the story does take some unexpected turns that I initially struggled to fully connect with. But I can tell you, once it grabs you, it won’t let go. The first episode starts off on familiar territory; we get a brief glimpse of the post-apocalyptic world that will soon be upon us, another green apocalypse, it looks like, a world reclaimed by nature. And we then go back to outbreak day, where we get to know a few characters and see the fear and panic that slowly creeps over them as a new virus causes the world to start crumbling around them. But then, in the second episode, the story seems to take a wildly different direction. Instead of a world turned primal, fearful and individualistic, we come to know the Travelling Symphony, a surprisingly warm and inviting theater group that travels between different communities to perform the plays of Shakespeare. There are some other storylines that intersect with this one, and that go back and forth between past and present, but given that they are also tied to some mysteries that make the show really enticing I won’t go into those. What matters for our discussion here is the more general image of humanity that the show presents, and how it diverges from the one we so often see in post-apocalyptic stories. My name's Sarah. I'm safe. In Station Eleven, even though society has collapsed, the concept of humanity still feels familiar, it still feels ordinary, almost. This is not to say that the show, and the characters within it, are naïve about the potential dangers of a world without governing institutions, there still is wariness of suspicious strangers,
and there still are conflicts with other groups. But just like the way we go about our daily lives in the real world, this awareness of potential danger generally exists on the periphery. It’s not something that defines our entire worldview, nor is it our default reaction every time we encounter another human being. The show does a great job at communicating this very simple truth, the truth that most of us know ourselves to be decent, conscientious human beings who’d rather do good than harm, and who recognize that it’s generally easier and smarter to help each other and to form alliances, rather than to provoke hostility and to put your life at risk. And so, it makes it only natural that we tend to assume the same about others. And I think that means something, that it says something important about how we fundamentally view and interact with each other, and again, Station Eleven really seems to believe that too. There is no rescue mission. We are safe. Through its multiple interconnected storylines, there is an understanding that develops about the way that, at its core, humanity will always be what it already is. It reminds us that people seeking each other out, that people trusting each other, connecting with each other, letting their guards down and building communities together is not something that only occurs under the right conditions, but is in fact a cornerstone of who we are, and something that we’ll continue to do in spite of circumstances. Not only because it might actually improve our chances of survival by offering us more safety and security than we would have as individuals, but also because it provides us with the foundational elements that we want, that we need, to truly begin living a meaningful and fulfilling life. Because as one character also remarks: Survival is insufficient. To really bring this home, there’s one more show that we really need to talk about: If you’re a fan of The Last of Us, actually, if you still haven’t seen The Leftovers, just go watch it right now. Trust me. And by right now I mean right after this video, because again, I’ll keep the discussion spoiler-free and will only talk about
very general contextual elements. Perhaps the most interesting thing about The Leftovers is that it technically isn’t a post-apocalyptic story, not like the previous stories anyways. The story takes place 3 years after what is now known as the “sudden departure;” the unexplained vanishing of 2% of the world’s population. Now, you might be thinking, as I initially did; 2%, that’s not that much. It’s tragic for sure, but not exactly a world-ending cataclysm. And indeed, on first glance, it looks like the world is still there. People still have jobs, they still have cars and houses. There still is a government, there’s rule of law. But even though everything seems fine on the surface, as the show goes on, it nevertheless becomes clear
that something is fundamentally broken, that even though the world was left intact,
humanity was not. There is no moving on. There is no happiness. "What's next"? What's fucking next? Nothing is next! Nothing! It's almost like an inverted apocalypse, one that left people with all the means to live, but took away the essence of what made those lives meaningful and fulfilling. Took away their loved ones, their connections. Took away their sense of safety and security, their sense of meaning and purpose, and reduced their lives to ones of mere survival. But once again, we are reminded here that survival is not enough. In fact, as the story unfolds, The Leftovers seems to go even further by arguing that mere survival isn’t just not enough, it is quite literally impossible. At the end of the first episode, we see a pack of now ownerless dogs that have turned feral. They are not our dogs, not anymore. It feels like that primal image of how we so often see ourselves in a post-apocalyptic world. And yet, when it comes to the human beings in the show, it becomes clear that there’s something different about them. They’ve certainly been given every reason to fall into despair, to cast aside their humanity. And to be fair, some do. But overall, we see the vast majority of them continuing on in spite of their suffering, see them trying to get up again and again despite repeatedly stumbling and falling, despite being in constant pain. We see them act as if there is hope even when there doesn’t seem to be any, even when they themselves do not seem to believe there is any. No matter what, they just seem to keep going. Like a moth to a flame, they keep searching for something more, for connection, for meaning, anything to lift them out of survival, to make them feel human again. And it is precisely in that act of what feels like an almost instinctive stubbornness, that we come to understand the fatal flaw in that apocalyptic image of ourselves, come to understand why that pack of feral dogs is exactly what we could never become. What The Leftovers shows us, perhaps more than anything, is that there seems to be a fundamental resilience, a built-in resistance, sometimes even against our own judgement,
against our own will, that prevents us from truly surrendering ourselves,
from truly giving up that which makes us human. Hope. It's your weakness. You want it gone because you don't deserve it. You do deserve hope. We tend to see apocalypse stories as being about things falling apart,
and in large part, this is true. But they also are, and arguably always have been, about what it means to rebuild, to start over anew. And here too, we can discern a subtle shift. Because whereas hope in the apocalypse was often shown as a rather undefined and fragile promise at the end of a long, dark journey, in the stories we’ve been discussing here, it’s no longer being vaguely hinted at, but more actively engaged with. I know I don’t seem like the type.
- No, you do. As human beings, we are fated, it seems, to want more than survival. We want to feel seen and understood, we want to feel safe and connected, we want to feel like we have something or someone to be alive for, because without it, as we’ve seen, that’s when we truly fall into despair, that’s when survival truly becomes meaningless, purposeless, that’s when we truly face the apocalypse. Do you want to feel this way? No. And so, in this context, the essence of our post-apocalyptic struggle is as much internal as it is external, meaning that hope isn’t simply given to us from the outside, but something that we ourselves also have to work for from within. You’re charged with that day zero pain. It’s like you never left. I just know that when I wake up, I’ve lost something. Most obviously, it requires us to trust others, to put our faith in people. But the real effort goes deeper than that. Because just as we’d want others to demonstrate their inner selves, their humanity, to us, so too do we have to reveal ours. In other words, if we want to connect with the humanity of others, we first have to connect with our own, which can be just as difficult and confrontational. On this note, on more than one occasion, Station Eleven employs its performative art, which is shown here not just as make-belief or entertainment, but as cathartic and transformative. As such, its theater stage functions as a beautiful metaphor for the ways in which our human experience stands apart from the world of mere survival. It shows how we long for and can bring about safe environments where we are allowed to make ourselves vulnerable, where we can work through our emotions,
through our pain and traumas, and where we are given space to heal, to reconnect with ourselves,
and to become human again. Because that’s when we open the door to a life
that feels fulfilling, meaningful, a life where can be part of a community, where we can show affection and receive it from others, where we can experience love and joy and bring beauty into this world. That’s when we can finally be our truest selves. That’s what matters, making things. Paying attention to things... it's how we show love. As these stories remind us, this won’t always be easy,
and we won’t always succeed, but in the end, slowly but surely,
this is how we step outside of survival and into life. This is how we hold back the apocalypse,
one good day at the time. Take a look around you, mr. Lane. Each and everyone of these people are here because they serve a purpose. The last question I want to ask here is, given how apocalypse stories have already been evolving, where can they go next? How could they further progress the themes and ideas we’ve been discussing so far? Well, for that, I think now would be the perfect time to talk about World War Z again, which I did in a companion video that you can watch right now exclusively on Nebula, the sponsor of today’s video. In this full-length discussion, I imagine a sequel to World War Z that uses the 10 years that have passed since the first movie to build a bridge to the events of the original book, and to use the best parts of both to construct a compelling new setting from which the apocalypse genre can move forward, and from which it can incorporate new perspectives on a grander scale: the book was highly popular for its socio-political storytelling, for having an apocalyptic zombie story that isn’t just focused on individual behavior as we see in most survival stories, but that also pays attention to institutional structures; to governments, organizations and social infrastructures, and how these can significantly affect the circumstantial context that, in large part, shapes individual behavior. You can use the link in the description below, to go straight to this exclusive video, and get direct access to Nebula for a discounted price. For those who don’t know yet, Nebula is our creator-owned streaming platform where you can enjoy all of our works without ads or sponsored segments, watch bonus videos and Original Nebula productions from your favorite creators, and where you can now get instant access to Nebula Classes, which is the place to learn directly from creators, including myself, as I went all way to New York to produce my own Nebula class titled How To Analyze Stories and Enrich Your Own, which teaches you everything I know about finding the deeper meanings in your favorite stories, and which to me stands as the perfect example of how Nebula elevates its creators, and of how valuable it is to support platforms like these, because honestly, I couldn’t have made this on my own. Anyways, I could go on about how great Nebula is, but I don’t do want to waste time that you could have been using to watch the companion video to this essay, because really, I think it progresses the discussion into an interesting, speculative direction, and I’m pretty sure everyone would enjoy a vision of a World War Z movie that is actually faithful to the spirit of the original book. So just follow the link below, claim your personalized discount,
and we’ll continue this conversation on Nebula.
