‘The End’ Review: It’s An End of the World Musical As We Know It (and It’s Not Fine) | Telluride

Stories observing the lives of the wealthy elite are ubiquitous in modern cinema. Whether the film is as daring and precise as Parasite or as obvious and unsubtle as Triangle of Sadness, it’s compelling to watch rich people misbehave, ideally getting their comeuppance in the end. Joshua Oppenheimer is no stranger to dissecting the lives of those who wield power and just how that power affects others. His form-defying documentaries, The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence, brilliantly eyed the willful ignorance of the rulers while unraveling the usual constraints of non-fiction filmmaking. Oppenheimer’s narrative feature debut, The End, finds the director stepping into a new metier, the Golden Age Musical, to consider how a wealthy family might cope with the world’s end. The result shows flashes of brilliance but, unfortunately, only exists as a shell of a musical, never coalescing into anything more than a string of big ideas.

The End begins with a reference to T.S. Eliot’s poem, “Four Quartets,” a cheeky way to recall the devastation of the world (“The houses are all gone under the sea”) while promising musical touches to follow (“The dancers are all gone under the hill”). Environmental destruction rendered the world uninhabitable a few decades ago, and within the confines of a palatial underground bunker, one family survives–the energy magnate father (Michael Shannon), the anxious former Bolshoi ballerina mother (Tilda Swinton), and their literally (and figuratively) sheltered young adult son (George McKay). They have a few live-in companions, their doctor (Lennie James), butler (Tim McInnerny), and one lucky friend (Bronagh Gallagher), but otherwise, the family’s bunker is locked down to any surviving strangers who may still be suffering in the outside world. It’s important to note that Oppenheimer and co-writer Rasmus Heisterberg don’t elect to name the characters, instead creating broad avatars for the types of people who would have the resources to survive an environmental catastrophe and those they would deem essential to keep around.

Everything changes when one day, a trespasser (Moses Ingram) winds up at their door. She’s a survivor who has lost her own family and is desperate for them to let her stay. Ingram is a breath of fresh air, imbuing her character with a sadness and a curiosity that’s present in the film’s other characters but felt more deeply through her performance specifically. She questions everything around her, acting as a stand-in for the audience observing the family’s bizarre, sheltered world. Her presence disturbs the peace (they haven’t had a visitor in twenty years) and opens up old wounds between the mother and father, as she questions why he wouldn’t let her bring her own family inside. The idea of being fearful of strangers stepping into your home is incredibly timely, especially as conservative politicians teach the wealthy ruling classes to fear the poor and the unfamiliar. What could they want? What could they take? It’s an idea ripe for discussion, but the script doesn’t address it with much nuance, instead opting for broad platitudes. 

These generic fears and observations come most frequently from the mother, who is little more than an archetype of a neurotic white Real Housewife. Swinton, with a wig that is part-Miranda July, part-Luann DeLesseps, channels this type of woman with a twitchy, comedic ease. Calling a Renoir a “trashy masterpiece,” and having an uncomfortable sex talk with her son while wearing matching periwinkle sweaters stand out as two of her best moments. However, this is nothing new for Swinton and it almost feels as if Oppenheimer has simply created an amalgamation of her pre-existing characters and performances. The father is written similarly for Michael Shannon and connected most closely with the ideas Oppenheimer brought to light in his documentaries. Shannon strongly balances the cruelty and comedy in his character especially well as he tries to deny and rewrite his involvement in the climate crisis. “Anything can cause climate change,” he tells his son, as he’s unwilling to accept responsibility for his actions. Some of the film’s darkest comedic scenes come when the son is assisting his father in writing that revisionist history, puff piece of an autobiography. Who exactly will read this book when it’s complete? The narcissistic, insecure man who created a haven for his own family after destroying the rest of the planet. There is a fantastic nugget of an idea here, but the film opts to repeat the idea throughout the film’s runtime, instead of cracking it open. 

When one thinks of an apocalyptic bunker, a small storage space with little light, a collection of canned food and safety supplies may come to mind. Production designer Jette Lehmann (Melancholia) instead crafts a space far more ornate, befitting a wealthy family capable of the destruction that caused the world’s collapse and savvy enough to find the resources to continue. Windows are absent, but the walls are covered in paintings of all styles (e.g., Impressionist, Rococo), with warm light flooding each room. The main spaces occupied by the father, mother, and son look like an old money Upper East Side dream, while the outside salt mine just beyond the walls is gray and futuristic. Oppenheimer and cinematographer Mikhail Krichman first capture the family’s MET-level art collection in close-up, recalling the beautifully painted backdrops found in Golden Age musicals and Powell and Pressburger films. Lehmann also creates a diorama of world events for the son that looks like a child’s train set, acting as a metaphor for his stunted growth. The family’s lair is beautiful, full of hidden details that add color to each character’s personality while also creating the perfect environment for a new musical that recalls the past. 

It’s a shame, then, that the songs are unmemorable, repetitive, and mostly fall flat. The music, penned by Joshua Schmidt (Adding Machine, Midwestern Gothic) and Marius DeVries, only soars in spurts. DeVries has credits on everything from Madonna’s Ray of Light to Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge! to Leos Carax’s Annette, but his involvement in La La Land stands out above the rest in connection to The End. But while the music of La La Land was also sung by singers without professional training and featured repeated motifs, the songs in The End don’t possess the same lyrical magic. It’s also in the musical numbers that the performances feel the most uneven. McKay is best in show, creating a sheltered Peter Pan and an immature rich boy who knows all. McKay displayed his excellent range earlier in the year playing three versions of a single character in Bertrand Bonello’s dystopian romance, The Beast and here he continues to flex similar muscles, but with an added musical element. His number evoking West Side Story is one of the film’s high points and a reason for another filmmaker to cast him in a musical worthy of his commitment and vocal abilities. Ingram’s voice is also beautiful, further emphasizing her character’s pain and discovery. Swinton and Shannon fare less well here as actors without the singing chops needed for a Golden Age musical. It’s not Lina Lamont territory, but their songs feel especially out of place. While a claim can be made that these choices are highly specific and intentional, that intention isn’t felt clearly enough to make that argument hold. Thus, the musical aspect feels more like a gimmick than a necessary genre exploration. 

In one of The End’s funniest scenes, the son presents the new visitor with a rose gold watch with an ostrich leather band. When she appears perplexed about why telling time is even needed anymore he encourages productivity and says, “every second of a billionaire’s time is worth $16.” That calculation won’t hold for the average viewer, but the sentiment stands. Time is valuable and The End is endless.

Grade: C

This review is from the 2024 Telluride Film Festival where The End had its world premiere. NEON will release the film theatrically in the U.S.