A Potted History of the End of the World: Representation of the Apocalypse in Culture
How has the apocalypse been represented in the arts throughout history, and what does culture tell us about the current state of our fears?
Visions of the apocalypse have a long history amongst humanity’s cultural offerings. The Cambridge English Dictionary defines “apocalypse” as “a very serious event resulting in great destruction or change”, noting that in the Bible the apocalypse represents “the total destruction of and end of the world”.
Those of us with somewhat blurry memories of childhood Sunday school most likely remember the story of Noah’s apocalyptic ark surviving a world-ending flood; we may even have more disconcerting memories of the apocalyptic plagues that befell biblical Egypt. From the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the Book of Revelation in the Christian tradition, to Jewish accounts in/of the Books of Daniel and Exodus, or the first Book of Enoch, to Qur’anic and Buddhist accounts featuring plagues and world-shattering earthquakes, notions of the ultimate devastation of society have long featured in religious texts.
However, the apocalypse has by no means remained the sole preserve of religion. Representations of disaster and the collapse of civilisation have been a mainstay of art, literature and cinema for centuries. Mary Shelley’s 1826 novel The Last Man has been put forward as the first recognisably modern apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic novel, following survivors of a global pandemic. From the 19th century onwards, due to the congruent secularisation and scientific advancement of society, we can see a broadening in the character and causes of the apocalypse presented in art.
In addition to the established religious presentations of catastrophic climatic events such as floods, perishing crops and rivers of blood, or divinely instigated plagues, humanity has added: nuclear or other technological warfare (John Wyndham’s The Chrysalids [novel, 1955]); viruses and other pandemics, whether realistic (Contagion [film, 2011], heightened (28 Days and 28 Weeks Later [films, 2002 and 2007], (Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake series [novels, 2003 onwards]) , or verging on the magical or supernatural (World War Z [novel, film, 2006 and 2013], I am Legend [book and film, 1954 and 2007]; Sweet Tooth [comic and TV series, 2009 and 2021); destruction by artificial intelligence or vengeful machine (The Terminator series [film, 1984 onwards], The Matrix series [film, 1999 onwards); technological failure (E.M. Forster’s The Machine Stops [short story, 1909]; Sam Boush’s All Systems Down [novel, 2018]); alien invasion or decimation (H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds [novel, 1897, later radio serial, film and more], A Quiet Place [film, 2018]); astrophysical collision or other disruption (Armageddon [film, 1998], Deep Impact [film, 1998], Greenland [film, 2020]).
These are just some of the most common or major themes, leaving aside the more obscure or esoteric scenarios, such as changes to the moon’s orbit (Moonfall, [film, coming in 2022], plant, animal or human mutations or genetic engineering (The Happening [film, 2008], John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids [novel, 1951], Naomi Alderman’s The Power [novel, 2017]), or any combination of the above, such as the recent Netflix offering Love and Monsters [film, 2020].
Environmental destruction remains a perennial theme, only now instead of being the result of humanity displeasing vengeful deities or as a punishment for sin, cataclysmic climatic changes are the product of manmade climate change and destruction of the natural world. Think recent blockbusters including The Day After Tomorrow [2004] or earlier iterations such as Waterworld [1995].
Aside from the evolution of causes to reflect new technology or scientific understandings of our impact on the world, there is often a striking consistency in both the themes of the apocalypse and its presentation. Some works explore the immediate reaction to impending or ongoing disaster as the established structures of civilisation break down, often through the vehicle of individual protagonists and their close network’s attempts to survive, or through a network of individual stories to capture a global scope or a ‘behind the scenes’ view of attempts by governments and other powerful actors to maintain some semblance of control.
Alternatively, other works show the aftermath of such cataclysmic events and the post-apocalyptic social structures scrabbled together by humanity’s remnants. Such works provide a vehicle to explore both human nature once the trappings of society are removed, and our capacity for survival. This can sometimes be simplistic or repetitive – for instance, with the perennial inclusion of tropes such as an opposing, usually violently menacing group of survivors or a totalitarian or despotic post-apocalyptic regime – but arguably in light of human history this is due to the large grain of truth in these portrayals. This aspect of culture is arguably unique in its ability, stemming from its focus on ultimate disaster and adversity, to consistently explore both the best and most selfless human impulses – the survivor battling his way across a country to rescue his family, astronauts sacrificing themselves to save the Earth – and the worst - mercenary and violent competition for remaining resources, pillaging or subjugation of other survivors and so forth.
One additional common thread to my mind, featured in apocalyptic art and culture, barring those works that deal with the sheer bad luck of an asteroid collision or an alien invasion (i.e. being demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass in the more tongue-in-cheek imaginings in Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy [novel, 1979]) is that they often function as an examination of mankind’s hubris and a warning of how we often sow the seeds of our own destruction. This reflects the current preoccupations of society: the deeply religious Middle Ages being focused on sin and subsequent divine judgment; the horrors of war following the devastating conflicts of the twentieth century, or environmental destruction as climate change has become increasingly apparent in the twenty-first. However, they do this at one remove: we can view the apocalypse safely from the comfort of our cinemas, or our reading chairs or games consoles and divorce them from our present reality to a degree.
What will be interesting about where apocalyptic fiction goes now is how it will be addressed when reality appears itself to mimic an apocalyptic narrative. Most days in the last couple of years you could switch on the TV or open the newspaper and see images or headlines more reminiscent of apocalyptic films in scenes of terrifying forest fires; floods, rocketing virus numbers and eerily deserted lockdown streets. When it feels as though the apocalypse is here, will we still have the appetite to watch it on film or read about it in our spare time? How will we view it when it now feels so imminent? The apocalypse in fiction may either fade away as we seek nostalgia and comfort to escape from dire reality, or it may assume an even greater importance and urgency as we stare down the barrel of an uncertain future.
This article was submitted anonymously.
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