Purple-kissed clouds plume in the outer reaches of Hanstown Kill’s atmosphere. The sky, caught between gradients, encapsulates First Reformed’s tragic beauty, exteriorizing Reverend Ernst Toller’s (Ethan Hawke) tortured ambivalence towards the holy question: “Will God forgive us?”
Writer-director Paul Schrader’s tentative answer to that inquiry seems to be “no”, as the transgressions humans have enacted upon the Earth’s ecosystems are deemed too great to rationalize away for Toller. The film chooses to articulate the dread of that realization not through Toller’s sermons — which are rarely received by more than five people — but by the debilitating internal monologues and ceaseless self-reminders that lurk around every corner when contemplating one’s position in the grand scheme of climate change.
Toller, an ailing, solitary priest, falls into a deep existential despair following the suicide of Michael (Philip Ettinger), an radical environmentalist whom he counseled only the day before his death. Brought to the reverend by the newly pregnant Mary (Amanda Seyfried), Michael believes that bringing a child into a world set on the track of climate catastrophe is unforgivably ignorant and inhumane.
Getting back to the metaphorical cotton-candy stratosphere, the circumstances of Michael’s death grate Toller so viscerally that his desire to live wavers. He finds himself stalking around Hanstown Kill, radicalized against the morally bankrupt corporations that turn untouched land into toxic waste dumps. The scene is a tipping point for Toller. Up until this moment, he’s been looking for any reason not to use the explosive vest which he confiscated from Michael, but it seems unavoidable now.
The surroundings, littered with rusted metal and decay, become too much to bear, and Toller’s solution to the implications of industrialization crystallizes, fueled by a complete and utter loss of faith.
Climate anxiety isn’t something which fades away with the help of time. Once it takes hold, it hardly ever loosens its grip. It takes any opportunity to crawl to the surface, spewing feelings of worry, doubt, and hopelessness onto anything within range. The strength of its detriments is further compounded by personal issues, siphoning off of them and funneling everything into a vortex of nihilistic anguish that’ll tar anything that was once worth living for.
Toller copes with his crisis in a number of unhealthy ways, treating his already diseased body (late-stage stomach cancer) like a waste treatment plant for liquor, on top of lashing out at anyone who shows concern for his health. Toller’s one outlet, it seems, takes the form of a diary. He prefers to spend most of his waking hours in self-imposed isolation, but hardly ever in silence. By way of this epistolary relationship with himself, his internal thoughts buzz in the background, amplifying the haunting drone of Lustmord’s score.
By the time the film’s ending rolls around, Toller’s social tenets have all but dissolved, leaving him alienated from the place and community he once found refuge in. His church has become a glorified tourist attraction, mostly serving as a tax write-off for blood sucking billionaire CEO Ed Balq (Michael Gaston). The only thing he seems remotely interested in preserving is his blooming relationship with Mary.
Finally, Toller finds himself at a crossroads between life and death, with climate change as the backdrop. Reality seems to mock him as well as the viewer, emphasizing just how insignificant our choices might feel in regards to what will actually help catalyze significant change. First Reformed cuts to the bone, investigating the question of whether or not life is worth living with the knowledge of a possible reckoning in the not-so-distant future. The climax is deceptively optimistic on that front, ultimately leaving us with a wicked sense of uncertainty as the credits roll.
“With the forest and wolves gone, this will be a land of riches.”
What does it mean when the most graphically violent movies in Hayao Miyazaki’s mostly PG-rated filmography focus on the relationship between humans and nature? From Nausicaa to The Wind Rises, everyone’s favorite cynical, child-at-heart grandpa has no doubt been a political filmmaker from the get-go, despite the veneer of adolescent innocence glossing his work. Princess Mononoke in particular is one of his boldest statements, displaying the dangers of approaching climate change from a bipartisan perspective.
Prince Ashitaka’s (Matsuda Yôji) journey centers around a curse; one that gives him unfathomable power, but one which will consume him without the help of a cure. This terminal condition flares up depending on the sway of his feelings, increasing his bow strength to decapitation levels in moments of danger, and bubbling with contempt when in the vicinity of the forest’s most immediate threats.
The village oracle tells Ashitaka: “Something sinister waits in the lands to the West. If you journey there and search for evil with eyes unclouded, you might find a way to lift the curse.” Considering the history of Western imperialism in Japan, it would be a disservice to dismiss the underlying political commentary in this as simple coincidence. The film’s timely release came only a week after the Kyoto Protocol’s adoption in 1997; an international treaty that represented the first ever large-scale agreement towards reducing individual nations’ greenhouse gas emissions. The bill preceded today’s Paris Agreement, and was something which George W. Bush’s administration aimed to torpedo in 2001.
An outspoken environmentalist himself, Miyazaki has incorporated the need for a harmonious relationship between humans and nature as a foundational theme within the emotional fibers of his works. Films like Castle in the Sky and Howl’s Moving Castle plant seeds of human conflict within the peace his imagined settings emanate — often crescendoing in fires and wars among nature’s delicate sanctuaries.
Born out of the violence that Lady Eboshi (Tanaka Yûko) dictates, the curse symbolizes the forest’s rage and hunger for retribution against the Ironworks as well as the malicious imperial forces seeking to decimate its circle of life. But, despite the emperor’s intention to behead the Deer God in the quest for immortality, Ashitaka remains firmly in the center of the film’s political spectrum, sticking to his way of seeing the issue with “unclouded eyes”.
The prince sees for himself the community that Eboshi has fostered, and the people she has helped provide fulfilling lives for. He also sees Eboshi’s long-term goal to slash-and-burn the trees and their inhabitants, yet ends up being unable to prevent that disaster. Instead, he remains unbiased to a fault, playing both sides and forcing himself into a reactive position, rather than preemptively addressing the destruction which industry guarantees.
Where Ashitaka hopes for a respectful balance between industry and environment, Miyazaki wishes for a total re-evaluation of human motivation. Something like what San (Ishida Yuriko) says to Ashitaka after miraculously salvaging the Deer God’s head: “I love you Ashitaka. But I’ll never forgive the human race.”
A mixture of suffering and rage is sewn into every thread of Princess Mononoke’s world — from the dying forest spirits to the war-torn countryside — Miyazaki crafts a setting that finds an innate toxicity in our relationship with nature, where the planet is burdened with the bulk of the physical and emotional labor. As a result of humans’ technological advancement and seemingly endless plundering of the environment’s resources, Miyazaki imagines a different world with San’s statement, one where people take the side of the forest.
“Every act of preservation is a form of creation…It’s how we participate in creation”
These two tales of cursed fate within the skeleton of environmental collapse find common ground in the cancers actively ravaging their protagonist’s bodies. Much like the effect of the Earth’s diagnosis on its residents, Toller and Ashitaka are similarly reminded of our fickle, ephemeral existence. The looming promise of death compels them to act with haste, so that they might make even a fraction of an impact before their bodies give way.
In Ashitaka’s case, after learning of his curse, the immediate reaction is to do whatever possible to preserve his own body and soul. His will to live outranks the grim odds stacked against him, and he doesn’t miss a beat after learning the news, wholly skipping over the first four stages of grief, straight to acceptance.
The prince wields the ink-blot mark on his wrist as an altruistic sword and shield, manipulating his terminal status into a tool for larger social and environmental change. The thought of someone so ready to accept the reality of their mortality does veer towards idealistic, but the film’s core sentiment still stands: there is always meaning to be found in the act of helping others.
That said, it’s not always possible to help both sides. While Ashitaka acts out of concern for others in addition to his own issues, putting Reverend Toller in comparison reveals what ultimately boils down to one man’s narcissistic impulses. From the self-imposed isolation, to the lack of personal fulfillment, to the desperate grasps for a shred of control, Toller’s selfishness stems from a denial of his own radical mediocrity.
Ostensibly, he acted out of concern for the environment, co-opting Michael’s cause as his own, but his true motivation arose from overwhelming insecurity. Climate change is not solely an existential issue, but one which deeply wounds our individual spiritual interiors as a byproduct of its process. Toller is smited by it, leaving him void, without purpose or hope.
Ashitaka is too naive in his approach, but that’s just where things stood in ‘97 — there was still plenty of time to change the course of history. In the twenty years that passed between the film’s respective releases, only a marginal amount of meaningful change has occurred. While Toller’s actions can be seen as too radical, they’re reflective of the frustrations held about the current climate situation and the dark future ahead if nothing changes. There’s no happy medium here, either. But, we shouldn’t have to wait for signs of individual death to become invested in our collective health. If that’s the case, the Nightwalker might never find its head.
