What's Up With America's Apocalypse Obsession?
Photo Credit: mikelehen at Flickr
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This weekend marked the release of Ice Age: Continental Drift, the fourth entry in the popular Ice Age series, which follows a collection of cute Ice Age-era mammals (Sid the sloth, Manny and Ellie the wooly mammoths, Diego the saber-toothed tiger) as they enjoy adventures across their frozen world.
Throughout the franchise, they’ve faced a super-sped-up version of a changing global environment: The Meltdown was the sequel, and Continental Drift’s precursor was subtitled Dawn of the Dinosaurs. This new Ice Age movie looks at the characters’ travails with plate tectonics, as the seven continents spread out, destroying habitats and entire families, emitting pools of oil into the ocean (which kills a shark in the trailer), and creating extreme weather patterns that look less like animation and more like our future. The song used in the trailer is a cover of REM’s disaffected apocalypse anthem, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” which details said end disaster by end disaster with the eye of a film director: “That’s great, it starts with an earthquake, birds, snakes, and aeroplanes....”
Obviously the Ice Age franchise isn’t exactly accurate—it likely took millions of years for the continents to break apart, and the last major ice age happened long after Pangea split. But the concept is quite interesting; it’s presenting geological catastrophe in a strangely happy light, in a film made for children. When a giant, terrifying fissure erupts in the earth, separating a family of giraffes as they look on in comical horror, we are supposed to laugh. And yet, in an astronomically hot summer setting off some of the most extreme weather patterns on earth since we began recording such things, earth change jokes seem like a type of auto-schadenfreude—or gallows humor at least, as we plow into an uncharted future that ain’t lookin too rosy.
Why are we so fixated on doomsday? Certainly the year helps: if you believe end-of-world enthusiasts and a few tourists here and there, the Mayans predicted the demise of humankind (or something) will come on December 21, 2012, the day when their operative calendar ended. The theory has been debunked by scientists, archaeologists and the ancient Mayans themselves, but that hasn’t stopped the culture from going crazy at the prospect. A spate of 2012 documentaries has recently popped up on Netflix, most of which were originally aired on cable television in the late aughties, as well as this year’s new National Geographic series, “Doomsday Preppers,” which focuses upon people who are convinced the end is nigh.
The 2012 myth has intrigued the fictional world, as well: last year, Melancholia, the latest film from Danish director Lars von Trier used it as its backdrop, and during the 2012 Superbowl there was even an ad that borrowed the conceit to sell Chevrolets. Barring a handful of people running Mayan apocalypse Web sites, there is a strange, smirking subtext to those who cite 2012, an overarching sense of cynicism that seems almost gleeful that we could be destined for our comeuppance. Maybe it’s simply because everyone believes that they will be among the handful of survivors, but humanity really seems to hate itself—which is fortuitous, since we will probably be responsible for our own demise.
When films like the (totally awesome) sci-fi number 2012 depict John Cusack navigating an escape plane while the earth literally rips apart below—a close but much darker parallel to that giraffe scene in Ice Age—we are utterly transfixed. Not just because of the awesome special effects, but because we transpose ourselves upon his character, the sole survivors while everyone else croaks. Because there’s the rub: everyone figures that doomsday is everyone else’s fault. That is how we end up with people who preach about the destruction of the environment, but leave the lights on. For further analysis, here’s the late comedian George Carlin, American treasure, on the end of the world: