I watched “2012.” It’s doing great at the Beijing box office. A big-budget Hollywood movie in which China saves the day. (”Finally,” says the guy seated behind me.) You should have heard the audiences reaction when the People’s Liberation Army helicopter lands and the soldier says, “Welcome to the People’s Republic of China.”
Classic.
What did I think? For a disaster film, I wasn’t expecting much from the story. I knew going into it that it was a movie meant to evoke my deepest, evolutionary instinct for survival. Nothing more. But surprisingly, I felt that the story did a good job of balancing special effects and character development. Weaving a father’s attempt to rebuilt his relationship with his ex-wife and children with the end of the world works for me. At least John Cusack made it work. And the narrative did a descent job of connecting all the characters in a way that was relatively believable. At least better than “G.I. Joe” did.
It wasn’t a complex story. But it did its job.
There was one part I took issue with, however: the end. The line that interrupted my trance-like engagement with the film was when the scientist said to Mr. Helmsly, “Good news, the water is receding faster than we thought” (or something like that). Good news? How could any news be good news just a month after six billion people have died? Understandably, people were happy to see the sunshine, but they seemed to be in denial about the depth of the situation.
Having lived through at least one traumatic event, 9/11, the characters’ reaction struck me as unrealistic. To be fair, if anyone actually could manage to survive such a catastrophe – especially after escaping through the narrowest of odds – then maybe their luck would hold out and a happy ending would be in order. But it’s not the events that made it seem unbelievable to me, it was how the characters reacted.
Anything can happen in a story, and if the characters react in a believable way, then it can be believed by the audience. But in reality, you would be looking at blanket post-traumatic stress syndrome. People would be plagued by nightmares, unable to sleep. Fear would turn to sadness and later, anger. Paid passengers might be unwilling to share their rations. All semblance of functioning society could break down, resulting in martial law. And there would certainly be power struggles on the bridges. “You were the prime minister of Canada, but Canada no longer exists,” would say the skipper. “This is my boat, and I’m in charge now.”
Okay, that might sound like a worst-case scenario. But I thought I would write my own alternative ending to see one other direction the film might have taken. Here goes:
Bridge of the American ship
Scientist: “Sir, we’re receiving updated sensor readings on the screen now.”
Mr. Anheuser: “What, you’re telling me the North Pole is now in Wisconsin?”
Scientist: “Actually, that’s the South Pole.”
Mr. Helmsly: “Let me see that.” (He grabs hold of the monitor.)
Mr. Anheuser: “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Mr. Helmsly: “The water, it’s not receding as I had predicted.”
Scientist: “It seems that the crustal displacement didn’t just affect the inhabited continents. Here, (he points to the screen) Antarctica was impacted by a warm-water super tsunami.”
Mr. Helmsly: “Melting it right away.”
Mr. Anheuser: (turning to Mr. Helmsly) “All of your timelines have turned out to be wrong!”
Mr. Helmsly: (shakes his head) “I never thought this would happen, a century of climate change in a matter of minutes.”
Mr. Anheuser: ”How inconvenient.”
The men turn their gaze toward the window of the bridge. Outside, there is only water on the horizon.
Mr. Helmsly’s quarters – one month later
Laura Wilson: (Reading from Jackson Curtis’ book, “Farewell Atlantis”) “‘…and we all found out we’re related to someone in Wisconsin. The end.’ It is a good book.”
Mr. Helmsly: “I thought so too, before all this.”
Laura Wilson: “Adrian, look how far we made it. The worst is over. Soon, we’ll be able to start a new life in a new land … together.”
Mr. Helmsly’s back is turned to Laura Wilson. In his hand, he holds a picture of his father. He starts to cry.
Mr. Helmsly: “Sure we will, sure we will.”
The deck of the American ship – 10 years later
A man sits alone on the deck of the ark. He has a beard and is wearing ragged clothes and his hair is long, resembling the late radio prophet Charlie Frost. The man crouches over a piece of paper. As the camera gets closer, we see it is Jackson Curtis.
He writes in tiny characters on the last blank corner of paper. His writing device is a pencil that has been sharpened down to the very end. His hands tremble as he attempts to write with the little bit of lead remaining between his index finger and thumb. Suddenly it breaks, and the last usable splinter of pencil begins to roll off the side of the ship. He desperately lunges for it but is too late.
We see the sliver of pencil lead fall past the side of the ship. In slow motion, it passes the many layers of decks that are open on the side of the hull. We see the interior of the ship turned into a shanty town. Half-starved people trying to eke out a living, whole families crammed into animal cages, and the survivors rioting against the ship’s crew.
Jackson: (voice-over as the pencil falls) “In the old world, the world that is forever beneath us, this book was supposed to have a happy ending. That’s what I gleaned from those who said my last book was too optimistic. The characters escaped earthquakes and tsunamis, they beat insurmountable odds. They survived with their lives. But this book will not have a happy ending, not yet, because there is no ending is in sight.”
The camera zooms out and we see the ship surrounded by nothing but water. Then the whole planet, which is covered in ocean. But the camera spins around and we see another side of the Earth with a small, green, Wisconsin-shaped continent – halfway around the world from the ship (and seemingly unknown to the passengers).
The end.
