Since the dawn of satire, media literacy has been hanging on by a thread. Classical works of politically tinged literature (like the Aeneid or the Prince), once monolithically understood, have been reconsidered through a critical lens. Meanwhile, Batemen and Belfort have become idols, the Onion often inspires double takes — in the age of social media, subtext only goes as deep as our screens. Along came Leonardo DiCaprio and the creators of Don’t Look Up to hurl an asteroid at it.
I like all the individual components of this movie. The Oscar-studded cast—including Yale’s own Meryl Streep— provides comedic quips and an overwhelming tone of soul-crushing despair in the same breath. The movie’s even got some good, apparently Oscar-worthy, music. But it is ultimately torn apart by disparate visions that render the completed product a morally reprehensible endeavor, one that leaves me no choice but to deeply hate this movie.
Don’t Look Up is clearly Oscar bait, from its debut on New Year’s Eve (the last day of Oscar season) to its unparalleled cast list. But this desire to be taken seriously is undercut by its comedy. The terrifying climax—the destruction of the earth—was envisioned as a “wake up call” by the leading man, but the scene’s punch is quickly cushioned by a post-credit scene of the president being eaten by an alien. This tonal conflict ruins what could have otherwise been a drama darling or comedic classic: in trying to balance both, the film has its cake, but eats itself.
Tonal messes are one thing — or more like a dozen — but more problematic is the active moralizing the film engages in. While I like to think that audiences’ divisive response to Don’t Look Up (roughly 50% on Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic) is due to a reasoned analysis of these aforementioned issues, most discourse doesn’t separate from the movie’s politics. Liberals and conservatives see it as a reaffirmation or attack upon their worldviews, reacting respectively. The idea that “movie good, if say good thing” undermines the whole notion of subtext and critical consumption of media. But this shouldn’t be surprising, as the movie unabashedly encourages such a surface-level reading. One need only glance at cast interviews, always united by “we wanted to do some good in the world” or, “when you have an audience like this, you should use it to spread a message.” But this is not about convincing the world to take action on climate change (can anyone seriously think an insulated climate skeptic would change their mind after watching?), nor does the movie have the gall to offer applicable solutions (other than, of course, listening to the people they already tune out). Instead, Leo and co. are more invested in convincing the world that they are good guys.
In its critique of corporate media, the film inadvertently gives us the perfect lens for understanding the reputational sleight of hand latent in DiCaprio’s performance. His character, Dr. Randal, has a primary role in discovering the comet, which rockets him to celebrity status. However, this “status” corrupts him into the mouthpiece for a corporate attempt to ignore the comet’s threat, delivering press conferences and puppet shows on Sesame Street. Upon finally looking up with his own two eyes, he realizes the error of his ways, tries to warn the public, and dies alongside his family, convinced he did everything he could.
But if we watch the movie how Leo so clearly wants us to, by erasing the boundary between actor and character (both winning “sexiest man” can’t just be a joke), we see that he stands shamefully in that puppet box in real life as well. He spreads the great message of love and understanding to defeat climate change in his spare time, spending the rest at mega yacht parties, shoulder-rubbing with the exploitative elite. There’s living in a society and then there’s allowing your greed to play an active role in its demise. In this real world of ours, even this moralizing film has not earned Leo some humble yet heroic return to the dinner table, where he can hang up his coat and say I did everything I could. He merely chooses to send his character in place of him while he perches at the precipice of that redemption and plays these farcical puppet shows for the people.
Since the dawn of satire, media literacy has been hanging on by a thread. Classical works of politically tinged literature (like the Aeneid or the Prince), once monolithically understood, have been reconsidered through a critical lens. Meanwhile, Batemen and Belfort have become idols, the Onion often inspires double takes — in the age of social media, subtext only goes as deep as our screens. Along came Leonardo DiCaprio and the creators of Don’t Look Up to hurl an asteroid at it.
I like all the individual components of this movie. The Oscar-studded cast—including Yale’s own Meryl Streep— provides comedic quips and an overwhelming tone of soul-crushing despair in the same breath. The movie’s even got some good, apparently Oscar-worthy, music. But it is ultimately torn apart by disparate visions that render the completed product a morally reprehensible endeavor, one that leaves me no choice but to deeply hate this movie.
Don’t Look Up is clearly Oscar bait, from its debut on New Year’s Eve (the last day of Oscar season) to its unparalleled cast list. But this desire to be taken seriously is undercut by its comedy. The terrifying climax—the destruction of the earth—was envisioned as a “wake up call” by the leading man, but the scene’s punch is quickly cushioned by a post-credit scene of the president being eaten by an alien. This tonal conflict ruins what could have otherwise been a drama darling or comedic classic: in trying to balance both, the film has its cake, but eats itself.
Tonal messes are one thing — or more like a dozen — but more problematic is the active moralizing the film engages in. While I like to think that audiences’ divisive response to Don’t Look Up (roughly 50% on Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic) is due to a reasoned analysis of these aforementioned issues, most discourse doesn’t separate from the movie’s politics. Liberals and conservatives see it as a reaffirmation or attack upon their worldviews, reacting respectively. The idea that “movie good, if say good thing” undermines the whole notion of subtext and critical consumption of media. But this shouldn’t be surprising, as the movie unabashedly encourages such a surface-level reading. One need only glance at cast interviews, always united by “we wanted to do some good in the world” or, “when you have an audience like this, you should use it to spread a message.” But this is not about convincing the world to take action on climate change (can anyone seriously think an insulated climate skeptic would change their mind after watching?), nor does the movie have the gall to offer applicable solutions (other than, of course, listening to the people they already tune out). Instead, Leo and co. are more invested in convincing the world that they are good guys.
In its critique of corporate media, the film inadvertently gives us the perfect lens for understanding the reputational sleight of hand latent in DiCaprio’s performance. His character, Dr. Randal, has a primary role in discovering the comet, which rockets him to celebrity status. However, this “status” corrupts him into the mouthpiece for a corporate attempt to ignore the comet’s threat, delivering press conferences and puppet shows on Sesame Street. Upon finally looking up with his own two eyes, he realizes the error of his ways, tries to warn the public, and dies alongside his family, convinced he did everything he could.
But if we watch the movie how Leo so clearly wants us to, by erasing the boundary between actor and character (both winning “sexiest man” can’t just be a joke), we see that he stands shamefully in that puppet box in real life as well. He spreads the great message of love and understanding to defeat climate change in his spare time, spending the rest at mega yacht parties, shoulder-rubbing with the exploitative elite. There’s living in a society and then there’s allowing your greed to play an active role in its demise. In this real world of ours, even this moralizing film has not earned Leo some humble yet heroic return to the dinner table, where he can hang up his coat and say I did everything I could. He merely chooses to send his character in place of him while he perches at the precipice of that redemption and plays these farcical puppet shows for the people.
