How Chil­dren of Men took us through the look­ing glass

Despite being set in the not-too dis­tant future, Alfon­so Cuarón’s Chil­dren of Men pul­sates with con­tem­po­rary sen­si­bil­i­ties. Con­cerns over immi­gra­tion and the per­sis­tent rise of nation­al­ism fit rather too com­fort­ably into the dom­i­nant 2016 nar­ra­tive. Indeed, the demise of West­ern soci­ety looms large, if apoc­ryphal­ly, over neolib­er­al and right-wing pol­i­tics. But like all excel­lent dystopias, Cuaron’s work goes beyond sheer imi­ta­tion and extend­ed metaphors. Instead, the film makes an arched attempt to at least ask what it means to be human.

The film’s recur­ring nar­ra­tive beat is that of refugees, or ​“fugees” as they are dis­parag­ing­ly called. While thank­ful­ly the wide­spread pseu­do-Nazi intern­ment camps fea­tured in the film do not exist today, immi­grants have become soci­etal fall-guys, at least accord­ing to the dis­course spout­ed by the Brex­it cam­paign in the UK and Don­ald Trump in the US. With­out wish­ing to put too fine a point on it, the refugees in Chil­dren of Men are as cul­pa­ble for the film’s infer­til­i­ty cri­sis as the Mex­i­can migrants of 2016 who are symp­to­matic of America’s sup­posed need to become ​‘great again’.

In Cuarón’s con­struct­ed world, where death has become com­mer­cialised and the heart of a func­tion­ing soci­ety – the abil­i­ty to nat­u­ral­ly repro­duce – has been ripped out, we are pre­sent­ed with a dystopi­an future which now feels eeri­ly pre­scient. In Lon­don 2027the air is heavy with smog, the pol­lu­tion of the Under­ground hav­ing found its way to street lev­el. The tonal shift when Theo (Clive Owen) leaves the city for Jasper’s (Michael Caine) retreat is tan­gi­ble. In a desat­u­rat­ed film, the nat­ur­al puri­ty of the coun­try­side is strik­ing. Only the dead, burn­ing hors­es drag you back into the hor­ri­fy­ing dystopia. Back in the city, peo­ple are vis­i­bly para­noid about the immi­nent threat of ter­ror­ism. The film’s open­ing sal­vo is a stun­ning sin­gle take in which Theo averts a blast in a café. Whether it be flash backs to the days of the IRA, ⁹⁄₁₁, or events in France over the past 12 months, audi­ences today hard­ly need sus­pend their dis­be­lief in order to buy into the film’s dra­mat­ic stakes.

Socio-eco­nom­ic class divi­sions sharp­en into a clear demar­ca­tion between rich and poor. The ​‘busy mid­dle’ is no more. The rich live with­in the con­fines of a bour­geois soci­ety which would make Karl Marx wince, while those worst off live in a qua­si-Vic­to­ri­an slum. The palace which has become of Bat­tersea Pow­er Sta­tion rep­re­sents the pin­na­cle of high soci­ety, but also a nuanced debate over what peo­ple have to live for now. Inter­est­ing­ly, both Cuarón’s con­cep­tion and the Tate Mod­ern are derelict fac­to­ries remod­elled into pan­theons of art and cul­ture. Here­in, Theo’s friend has col­lect­ed the cul­tur­al genome of the human race. Michelangelo’s ​‘David’ stands proud­ly, while the pair eat din­ner sat across from Picasso’s ​‘Guer­ni­ca’. Theo acer­bical­ly states that no one will even be around to enjoy such opu­lence in 50 years – but isn’t that pre­cise­ly the point? Devoid of the abil­i­ty of child­birth then isn’t human­i­ty judged by what it can cre­ate? Unsur­pris­ing­ly, the film doesn’t offer any con­crete answers.

The direc­tor Alexan­der Mack­endrick once said that movies are all about direct­ing the viewer’s atten­tion, and Cuarón’s instinc­tive film­mak­ing does just that. His cam­era lends a hyper-real­ism that plants you in the mid­dle of the action. When sta­tion­ary, he employs a shot-reverse-shot dynam­ic to place you direct­ly between the pro­tag­o­nists. This per­sis­tent attempt to scale the fourth wall is part of a con­cert­ed effort to make the film feel as authen­tic as pos­si­ble. Dur­ing the extend­ed sin­gle take (actu­al­ly a num­ber of sep­a­rate shots neat­ly fused togeth­er with CGI) at the film’s cli­max, as Theo and Kee’s boat bobs up and down against the back­drop of a dust-strewn sky, the longevi­ty of the scene extends the nar­ra­tive. The film may have end­ed, but the sto­ry has only just begun.