*The following is an attempted affirmation of the critical legitimacy of the recent movie Snowpiercer. Please be advised that this post contains spoilers for the film, and also discusses certain aspects of the film that assume a level of familiarity from the readers.
The present, which, as a model of Messianic time, comprises the entire history of mankind in an enormous abridgement, coincides exactly with the stature which the history of mankind has in the universe.
The present, which, as a model of Messianic time, comprises the entire history of mankind in an enormous abridgement, coincides exactly with the stature which the history of mankind has in the universe.
~Walter
Benjamin, “Theses on the Philosophy of History”
Last year, Bong Joo-ho’s Snowpiercer was released internationally (it did not arrive in the
United States until June 27, 2014) to tremendous, if not somewhat surprising,
critical and popular acclaim. The film depicts
a futuristic scenario in which a very small remainder of humanity has been
driven from the surface of the earth by climate change and forced to live out
its existence within the walls of a perpetual-motion train, which makes an
entire revolution around the earth every 365 days. However, class regulations have restricted
the poorest of civilization to the rear of the train, while the wealthiest live
in the front. The film follows a group
of insurrectionists who attempt to take control of the engine, thereby
(purportedly) improving their station within the train.
Allegorically, the film offers a smorgasbord of
figurative interpretations, a number of which are even corroborated by
characters’ dialogue (class warfare, environmentalism, imperialism, etc.). However, the train-image fails in many
respects to capture the full complexity of these interpretations – an accusation
that can be leveled at any metaphor, since figurative language necessarily
engages in abstraction regarding its
subject matter. This raises an interesting question in the case of Snowpiercer: as a figurative image that
fails on multiple levels, might it not be the case that this distinct failure
registers a more profound concern within the film, that being the problem of
abstraction itself? The train, as one
character prominently notes, is the world; but, as viewers (and some
characters) learn at the film’s conclusion, the train is most certainly not the world. This might appear as a simple case of gnostic
unveiling or revelation, but I want to suggest that the conclusion of the film
does not present a discovery of absolute truth, but the realization that truth
is always conditioned by the imposition of frames of meaning. Truth can only appear by abstracting human
perspectives into a totality. Snowpiercer acknowledges the failure of
this process.
If abstraction fails for the purposes of representation,
then we also must carry the consequences of this failure through to other
various scenarios. Here, the Marx of Grundrisse provides some clarification
through commentary on the notion of abstract labor: “This example of labour
shows strikingly how even the most abstract categories, despite their validity –
precisely because of their abstractness – for all epochs, are nevertheless, in
the specific character of this abstraction, themselves likewise a product of
historic relations, and possess their full validity only for and within these
relations” (Marx 105). Abstraction
provides necessary and helpful means of comprehending certain dynamics of historical
reality, but only within a limited framework.
Beyond these limitations, we must shift our perspective and our abstract
models. The development of Snowpiercer only masquerades as progress
– up through the train, car by car, striving for the head – before it reveals
itself as purposeless; but it is in this purposeless that its power lies. Curtis and the others may choose to revolt,
or they may choose not to. Should they
revolt, a change in power occurs, or the train meets its demise. Should they do nothing, the power structure
remains and the train goes on. No matter
which course they pursue, a polar bear still walks in the snow beyond.
The mistake to make in reacting to Snowpiercer is to read it as suggesting the impotence of revolution. Despite its bleak ending, Snowpiercer portrays revolution as
successful for the very reason that it explodes the boundaries of abstraction
within the train: the train-as-world, individuals as cogs in the machine,
everything in its proper place, etc. The
film is thus about the failure of allegory.
The film has not actually
constructed the allegory of the train; the characters who rule the train,
Wilford and Minister Mason, the educational and political institutions, impose
and perpetuate the allegory. It is their
allegory, not the filmmakers’. The film
presents allegory as cultural myth.
Revolution, then, is not a part of this allegory. Revolution, on the other hand, destroys
allegory. Here we encounter Fredric
Jameson’s dictum on the power of science fiction: “the narrative ending is the
mark of that boundary or limit beyond which thought cannot go. The merit of SF
is to dramatize this contradiction on the level of plot itself, since the
vision of future history cannot know any punctual ending of this kind, at the
same time that its novelistic expression demands some such ending” (148). In Snowpiercer,
the train marks the boundary, or limit, beyond which the thought of its
inhabitants cannot go. The allegory, or totality, of the train, performs the
function not of form, but of content.
The revolutionary kernel of the film derives from the fact that it literally blows up its own content.
In 2004, between the release of Snowpiercer and its source text, the French graphic novel Le Transperceneige (1982), China
Miéville published the final installment of his Bas-Lag Trilogy, Iron Council; a fantasy novel that also
dramatizes revolutionary potential around the central image of a perpetual
train. Eerily similar to Joo-ho’s
adaptation of Le Transperceneige, Miéville’s
fictional train is constructed by Weather Wrightby (the engineer in Snowpiercer is named Wilford), a
monomaniacal capitalist and imperialist who is also driven by notions that his
project is sanctioned by divine will. On
Joo-ho’s apocalyptic train, a cult of personality has even developed around
Wilford, who is practically revered by many of those on board. In both texts – Iron Council and Snowpiercer
– the train appears as a mythological and religious bastion, a world-in-itself,
providing solidarity and totality for fantasies of imperialist dominion. While Miéville’s text presents a more nuanced
and thoughtful consideration of revolution, novel and film both insist upon the
ultimate purposelessness of revolution.
Revolution cannot be circumscribed by allegory because revolution’s very
instinct is to resist allegory, and to destroy it if possible. Thus, beyond the train there can be no
absolute justification of human existence, ethics, or meaning.
The purposelessness of revolution in Snowpiercer manifests in the locked but mute gazes of Yona and the
polar bear. In Iron Council, the purposelessness of revolution is summed up by insurrectionist
leader Ann-Hari: “‘We were something real, and we came in our time, and we made
our decision, and it was not yours. Whether we were right or wrong, it was our history’” (552). Any absolute purpose, in both Iron Council and Snowpiercer, exists only within the context of the train, in the
abstraction of allegory. As Ann-Hari
tells Judah Low, right and wrong make no difference, and there can
be no ethical imperative beyond the immanent demand of the present. The revolutionary leader Curtis registers a
similar notion in Snowpiercer in his
revelatory concluding speech: “‘You know what I hate about myself? I know what people taste like. I know that babies taste best.’” This is why, in the heat of pitched battle,
Curtis does not return to save a threatened friend, but leaves him to be
slaughtered by the enemy. To return is
to forsake the moment of revolution for the ethics of comradery; but revolution
can abide no absolute ethics.
This anti-ethical approach may seem difficult to accept when
viewers, along with Curtis, learn the fate of the missing children, who have been
taken from the rear of the train to play an integral role in keeping the train
moving. Of course, Curtis must feel an
ethical obligation to save the child; and indeed, within the context of the
train, it makes sense to remove the child – a fundamental component of the
train’s perpetual motion – from his debased station amidst the gears. But it makes no sense whatsoever to do so
outside the confines of the train, amidst the cold wastes of the wider world. Any apparently absolute justification for
revolution, whether it be ethics, personal morality, equality, etc. dissolves
once the characters step foot beyond the train.
The revolutionary impetus finds no rationale in reality, no
justification or purpose.
The imperative of revolution can only be to demand
something else, to demand the impossible; in the words of Arthur C. Clarke, the
“only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way
past them into the impossible.” For
Curtis, as for the insurrectionists in Iron
Council, the train presents the limits of the possible, but simultaneously
provides the impetus for pushing beyond into the impossible. There is no
absolute purpose to this impetus except within the train; there is no absolute
purpose to revolution except within the abstraction that is also its making. The very movement of revolution is to destroy
the possibility of its own absolute purpose.
Snowpiercer
concludes prior to the resurrection of human societal forms because to
represent these forms would be to reinstate the abstract order of allegory – the
new Eden on Ice, a utopian fantasy in the snow.
The film concludes with the ambiguous gaze between (as far as we know)
the only adult survivor and a polar bear because here we encounter a profound
depth of inaccessibility: the animal other.
The bear, although it proves that life has survived beyond the train,
offers no consolation or guarantee. It
only stares, in apparent indifference, at what has been for humans a historical
event, but the bear does not see history in the making. The bear sees only another animal.
Revolution, as we learn in the film’s conclusion, is the
ultimate sacrificial narrative because it sacrifices its own existence as
narrative. It evacuates itself of its
own meaning, its drive is to destroy the purpose of its existence. Like the train, revolution is propelled
internally, but it seeks to disassemble the means of propulsion. Its mind is beyond the walls, occupying the
impossible aether, aware that it thrives on only a momentary purpose. True revolution, if it is successful, enjoys
no holidays of remembrance. True
revolution, if it is successful, forgets that it ever happened. The possibility of this radical success
remains, to this day, purely speculative; the achievement of great science
fiction has been attempting to capture the envisioned reality of this
speculation.