A massive, swirling black hole invades the theater’s screen. The camera then pulls back and rotates as a naked, hairless man emerges in the foreground of the frame. He sits upon a stool, staring into the vortex projected from his computer screen. His skin is greyed by a cavernous room with only hints of light to combat the darkness. He is a man lost in the abyss.
“Another day, another day,” he mutters as he heads into the world, leaving the vortex behind. He emerges into a techno-bizarre world which oozes neon color and shrieks with penetrating sound. Distraction emanates from every surface. Talking advertisements track across walls, soliciting people in the streets. An ad hovers overhead inviting pedestrians to worship at The Church of Batman the Redeemer.
Led by the omnipresent entity Management, the corporation Mancom looms around every corner telling the masses it holds the answers to life’s greatest questions: What do we need? Who do we love? What brings us joy? The ad ends with the company’s slogan: “Mancom, making sense of the good things in life.
Terry Gilliam’s latest dystopian, sci-fi film, The Zero Theorem, focuses on humanity’s search for the good life in the midst of the daily chaotic meaninglessness. This new vision travels the same stream as his previous films Brazil and 12 Monkeys, channeling those past worlds of chaos and absurdity. They portray modern reality just slightly off-kilter, the eccentricities of real life turned up to eleven and splattered with discontentment.
Qohen Leth (Christoph Waltz) is the naked ponderer observing this world. He works for Mancom as a computer programmer crunching “entities,” a monotonous job that resembles the PC game Minesweeper. Over-stressed and socially impaired, Qohen lives alone in an attempt to alienate himself from the world. He is hairless, usually dressed in black or gray, and afraid of human touch. He refers to himself as “we” or “us” in order to feel more connected with humankind, despite his isolation, life as empty as a black hole.
“We simply want to go home,” Qohen says to his superior at one point. His only hope is a phone call that will tell him the meaning of life, so he must work from home to wait for it. Eventually, his wish is granted, and Management sends him home to work on a new project: the zero theorem. What he doesn’t know is that this is a formula that will prove nothing is everything, that life is meaningless. His own toil now works against his search for truth and meaning.
Religious imagery is woven throughout the film, mainly in Qohen’s home, a burnt-down church where most of the film takes place. Gilliam often positions the camera so the church’s angelic figures loom over characters. A crucifix has Jesus’ head replaced by a camera, constantly haunting Qohen. Eventually, circumstances arise that suggest the icons are more benevolent than brooding. However, this doesn’t last.
But that’s the thing: nothing lasts in this world, a point reiterated throughout the film by the recurring image of the black hole troubling Qohen.
Black holes, abysses, and deep darkness all evoke a jarring sensation when encountered in art. When characters interact with them, it is usually in fear because, though they seem to contain nothingness, no one is truly certain what lies within them. These places are projections of mankind’s greatest fears. Does life has any meaning at all, or are we all just being sucked into the chaotic nothingness?
The Zero Theorem is a fine attempt to wrestle with questions that have haunted humans for ages. Gilliam’s unique style seems perfect to visualize this story about the absurdity of humans attempting to reconcile the universe’s grand mysteries. Intriguing to a point, his familiar use of Dutch angles, bizarro set design, and manic characterization ends up not feeling heightened enough. Despite its captivating content, the film falls prey to his trademark cynicism, a trait better utilized in his masterpiece Brazil. It’s not clear if Gilliam or the screenwriter Pat Rushin truly believe that Qohen (or mankind) could ever live at peace in this world despite its many paradoxes. Peering into the black hole, does an alternative to cynical solipsism exist?
The book of Ecclesiastes is written by Qohen Leth’s namesake, Qoheleth. He was a man also searching the void for an answer to combat the emptiness. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless,” he proclaims (Ecclesiastes 1:2b). Eventually he finds the answer, not in monotonous toil or temporary relief, nor in merely submitting to the void, but in the joy that the chaotic void had been tamed by a mighty Creator. God used the chaos in the beginning to create a magnificent world, and Christ reanimated the blackness by healing the void ripped in creation. Facing the black hole, humanity does have an alternative.
What do we need? Who do we love? What brings us joy? God, making sense of the good things in life.
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