Emptiness Is What’s Used

How a minor character in Children of Men showed us the perfect vessel for fascism.

by Karlo Yeager Rodriguez

Science fiction and fantasy films tend to be fairly unsubtle in their depiction of authoritarianism. The focus is so often on true believers in the infallibility of the State — men and women who hide their own imperfect flesh in masks or armor, the better to embody the Great Machine of the society they serve.

Think of Darth Vader with his stylized death’s head, or Immortan Joe squeezing into a plastic breastplate, molded to make his sagging and sore-ridden bulk appear untouched by age. Film must efficiently convey morality and so flattens morality into the visual simplicity of white hats vs. black hats.

This is a useful narrative device, but it does nothing to explain how authoritarianism is given room to grow. If it’s so easy to identify the baddies, how did anyone let them gain power?

Granted, entertainment media by its very definition is not an effective at inspiring activism. At best, it can make audiences aware, which has its uses. However by using grotesque or heavy-handed imagery, authoritarianism is made other–something possible in other cultures or civilizations, but never “here”. Even in popular media that shows governmental bodies becoming authoritarian or fascistic (Man In the High Castle or Captain America: The Winter Soldier are two recent examples), the push comes from external factors invading, and not from within.

By using grotesque or heavy-handed imagery, authoritarianism is made other—something possible in other cultures or civilizations, but never “here.”

A notable exception to this narrative frame is the 2006 film, Children of Men. Adapted from the P. D. James book of the same name, a fertility crisis has triggered an almost worldwide collapse. “Only Britain Soldiers On,” televised PSAs trumpet, reassuring the populace that the caged immigrants they likely see at train stations are all for the greater good. Our protagonist, Theo, knows how best to avert his gaze from these reminders of what his comfort costs others. It’s not until after he’s recruited to transport Kee, a pregnant refugee, to help find a cure for infertility, that Theo is forced to come face-to-face with what Britain’s become

Enter Syd, the Bexhill Internment Camp guard from Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men. Played with affable menace by Peter Mullan, the audience doesn’t need to guess at Syd’s political leanings. The film lampshades it by having Theo repeat the pass-phrase his friend Jake set up: “You’re a fascist pig”. Syd’s transport vehicle looms over Theo. The anti-personnel gun swivels to keep Theo in its sights as Syd barks orders over the speakers. Theo is made to repeat himself several times as Syd jumps out of the vehicle and advances upon him brandishing a baton. It’s not until Theo flinches away that Syd laughs, takes weed Jake sent as payment and agrees to help.

Driving them to the internment camp, Syd jokes, “Usually, there’s people trying to get out of Bexhill, not in.” He also speaks of himself in the third person: “Syd doesn’t know why you want to get in. Syd doesn’t want to know. Syd doesn’t care.”

Usually, this affectation is played for laughs, but here Cuarón is showing us something fundamental about Syd – and by extension, about the actual soldiers of fascism. By choosing him as the face of a faceless authoritarian and eliminationist state, Syd must view himself as merely the narrator of the violence he must visit upon other human beings. He is a Jungian shadow to Theo’s cousin Nigel, a high-ranking government official no doubt devoted to preserving marble busts and artwork of the “Western canon” in what he calls the Ark of the Arts.

Nigel’s quest to preserve humanity’s artwork fills him up, gives the rest of his life meaning. When Theo asks what happens after, when humanity’s gone, Nigel shrugs and says, “I don’t think about it.”

Instead of collecting objets d’art, however, Syd gets high and watches the telly with his ailing Mum. Because Syd’s a secondary character, it’s only ever hinted what he does with Jasper’s weed. He confides that he prefers Jasper’s product over what he could find at the camp because it’s safer and purer.

As social creatures we are willing to believe Syd can be reached, and ache to create solidarity with him based on shared humanity.

My read is that Syd self-medicates to continue not knowing or caring. Being a good son, he might share some with his Mum, who–Syd mentions–is dying of cancer, while they both watch the telly. The small details, such as Syd mentioning spending the evening watching shows with his mother after a long day of dropping refugees off at the internment camp, hint that it’s unlikely he’s married. How could he be when he can only love Mother Britain?

These are all small character details which play on our sympathies. We want Syd to make a good-guy turn and help Theo and Kee instead of threatening to turn them both in to his higher-ups for a reward.

This is what makes Syd all the more terrifying: as social creatures we are willing to believe he can be reached, and ache to create solidarity with him based on shared humanity.

The long tradition of authoritarian villains in genre films has prepared us to defy stereotypical oppressors and their foot soldiers – people like Darth Vader and Immortan Joe, who hide their identity behind a distinctive and dehumanizing uniform, armor, or mask.

Unfortunately, that’s the easy part.

The hard part is when it’s someone like Syd, whose mask is his own face — and behind it, nothing.

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