As climate chaos continues to spin out of control, the populace has begun splitting into a few groups. In the U.S., researchers initially dubbed these groups the Six Americas. By now, it’s down to about three: Those that’d prefer to keep their heads in the sand, those desperately shouting for change, and those profiting off of inaction at the expense of our global future.
There’s plenty of sand, and if it wasn’t for his dog, you’d think Finch would happily dip his dome under the dunes. But like many Last Man on Earth stories, ranging from Harlan Ellison toto Mary Shelley and Stephen King—a dog can be worth everything once civilization has fallen.
The first script from Craig Luck and Ivor Powell isn’t the most elegant thing in the world. Finch is another isolationist survivor, a dweeby mole man engineer who made it fine on his own, thank you very much. Except now he’s dying and he’s got to leave his bunker. An early moment sees Finch reading a book titled, which I had assumed was the post-apocalyptic version of the Victorian blood-in-the-hanky until the film provedtrope, like cockroaches, will outlive society as we know it.
These built-up maybe-threats—shot and cut quite a bit sillier than the quiet moments—as opposed to the very real threats of the environment’s blazing sun and rampant tornados, mean to put us in Finch’s head: Danger lies around every corner. But from this, there isn’t space in the film for that notion to grow or breathe—nor space for Finch’s mechanical progeny to learn any differently.
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