Joshua Oppenheimer wanted to make a third film about the Indonesian genocide. In the first two, The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence, death squad members gleefully reenact massacres and the brother of one of the slain tests their eyesight, respectively. The killers — heroes of a nation that killed millions in the name of self-preservation — confront their self-delusions and the reality of their actions. Some change, while others don't.
When Oppenheimer's original idea to complete the trilogy, a go at the oligarchs who profited from the purge and yet remain in power, was prevented when the American-born filmmaker couldn't return to Indonesia safely, he turned his gaze else. The End is a continuation of this exploration, although on a larger scale.
A musical in the mid-century tradition with lyrics penned by Oppenheimer and music by John Schmidt, The End begins 25 years after complete environmental collapse and society's dissolution. At the bottom of a salt mine in a facelifted bunker lives a happy family. Father (Michael Shannon) was, and still is, an energy CEO. Mother (Tilda Swinton) is a self-proclaimed aesthete. Son (George MacKay) is a meek boy, born underground some 20 years ago. He knows he will inherit the earth, whatever that means. They have a butler, a doctor and a chef, each of their lives devoted to the family's well-being seemingly at their own expense. One day, Girl (Moses Ingram) appears, becoming a foil to their grotesque existence who has looked upon their works above ground and despaired. It's The Sound of Music in hell.
In and out of song, the family and their staff question Girl's presence, distrustful of someone in need who poses no disturbance other than discomfort. As Son and Girl begin a courtship, MacKay's anxious, repressed and ultimately naïve performance shines. Ingram's vocal performance at the end of phrases as she strains without breaking a note is completely raw. Girl becomes a real person through Ingram, worn by the world and guilty of sin, in contrast to Son's rat in a gilded cage.
Outside of that duo, each performance in itself is a triumph. Shannon portrays Father as well-meaning in principle but ultimately nescient, trapped within himself, like everyone in The End. He talks about civil unrest at a power plant in Indonesia, looking at images of those affected and feigning humanity. He cannot comprehend the suffering of thousands caused by his own industry; I don't know if any CEO can. Like a real leader at the end of his era, he hides away from others.
That isolationism, a specifically American tradition in which the self comes before all, eats at the mine's other inhabitants. But they're underground, in a new hell of their own creation. Characters' self-realizations and subsequent denials go on one after the other, like a roll call in a shareholder's meeting.
At a rich 148 minutes, the monotony of a life tucked away begins to wear on the audience — a good half-hour or so could have been an email. But in the big picture, on and off the screen, it's not so much an issue as it is a painful reminder of the complacency that many consider a requirement to stay alive. We, I hope, are currently in a period of collective disillusionment.
In The End, Oppenheimer understands the nature of evil, if it does exist. That acute understanding of the lies we tell ourselves and each other to preserve whatever monstrosity we created, be it to survive or instil a belief that things are better than they are, makes The End one of the most important films of the year. It's what happens if we don't change.