A New Hope: Final Resolutions to the Power of Science Fiction
(…or why optimism in science fiction is not all that hard to find if you’re really looking) What is it about so much of science fiction that drives writers and film-makers to grasp the pessimistic (dystopias, end of the world schemes, et. al.)? I think I’ve finally figured it out. Whether or not this is a conscious element is irrelevant, because it is almost always there, and it is perhaps the most optimistic thought, idea, concept, whatever you want to call it that might ever exist in any form of fiction you can find (and I have no illusions that this thing exists in other genres too). It is so powerful that it overwhelms when you discover it, when you see it buried underneath all the flashy images and the downright terrifying futures imagined by writers of all stripes. And if you’re like me, one of those weird folks that actually cries in movies, then it is something that drives you to tears, because it is beautiful and uplifting and tremendous in ways that you might never expect. It is an amalgam of hope and perseverance, of spirit and resolve, of so many tiny things that exist in all of us, which we take for granted or ignore so often. It doesn’t really have a name, but you can see it come to life at the moment when all hope is lost, when you think that it might just be the end of a character, or our species in general, when humanity itself seems lost to its own devices (psychological that they are, they exhibit a kind of foreboding element that is both “proper to man,” as Derrida would say, and also terrifyingly destructive to the prospect of a salvagable humanity). It’s that flash that answers the question William Adama (of Battlestar Galactica) sadly recognizes: the question of whether we deserve to exist. In an attempt to display this, I have to show by example. Maybe you cried at these moments too, or maybe you think I am being absurd, but they are moments that show us just what it is that makes mankind worth saving. We can see, in these little moment of science fiction wonder, what makes fiction and movies so powerful in our lives, and what makes science fiction so perfect at displaying the human condition at its worst and at its best, and in that moment where we know, deep down, there we really are something more than what we see every day (more than all the othering, hatred, death, destruction, mutilation, mutation, and terror that is the human). Example One (from the end of Sunshine) – the SacrificeEverything has fallen apart. The attempt to resurrect the Icarus One so the mission to restart the Sun will have two shots has failed and a psychotic Icarus One captain has stolen aboard the Icarus Two after sabotaging the airlock. One by one everyone is dying and it seems like all hope is lost. Then Kappa vents the ship, stumbles to the payload for the Icarus Two after disconnecting it to start the launch sequence, and takes a crazy space walk (or jump, rather) to manually set off the fireworks, sacrificing himself and anyone else alive to make sure it gets done, while fighting off the crazed captain. That’s it. That whole moment, with the music accompanying it. Maybe it seems trite, or silly, but in that moment I get that feeling that so much of science fiction is trying to give me: that even in the worst of times there is something redeeming about us, that our sad, pathetic little species can accomplish something so beautiful in the face of destruction and despair that everything pales before it. All that our minds can create (all that art, philosophy, intelligence, and technology) can finally come together in the face of humanity’s absolute negation (a human self that is at once all that is humanity and all that is destructive of humanity) to spark the beautiful moment of birth (a rebirth, literally, of our greatest god–the sun). Example Two (from the end of Battlestar Galactica) – the Desperate Leap (or the Other Sacrifice)Cut out the last half hour of the final episodes and imagine only the lead-up to the final battle and the battle itself, right up until the random jump to Earth (New Earth, Other Earth, whatever you want to call it). That’s where I’m looking to. The Galactica is falling apart, literally, and yet there is something in the idea of Hera, of that little half-human/half-Cylon girl that Adama can’t let go. Whether she’s the future of humanity or Cylon isn’t relevant to Adama (not really), but it is what she stands for: she’s part of the crew, part of the ragtag gang of humans, and a piece of the very soul both human and Cylon, and a man like Adama cannot let a child, an innocent, be destroyed by the terror of the second-Cylon half (the Cavals, Simons, and Dorals). So, he sacrifices half of his own heart, the Galactica, and the other half, Roslin, and anyone else willing to take the risk, to get Hera back. The whole idea is suicide, but that doesn’t matter. It’s about the greater idea: what they are sacrificing themselves for. The whole scene is astonishingly littered with what I’m trying to talk about here, this intangible thing that is optimistic even in the face of impending doom (and the Galactica is, or should be, doomed). The end is the moment when the line doesn’t dissolve, but begins to break; humans and Cylons are still separate, but it is here that we see both groups (the “good” Cylons, anyway) beginning to eat away at the line. United not just in a common goal, but in a goal to revitalize one’s soul, the merger in the fight for Hera signals an answer: humanity is worth saving. And the final second when everything is falling apart again, just when it seems