Alright, buckle up, we're about to dive headfirst into the profound yet perplexing world of existentialist thought and its impact on modern cinema and literature. You know, existentialism—that philosophical movement that emerged in the early-to-mid-20th century—has this knack for making us question everything. Who are we? Why are we here? Is there even a purpose to any of it? Heavy stuff, right? But stick with me here, because while existentialism might sound like a fancy idea for people sitting in Parisian cafes smoking clove cigarettes, it's actually deeply embedded in many stories you already know and love. And the way it’s crept into modern films and books is not just fascinating—it's downright relatable, especially when life itself starts feeling a bit like a movie with a script nobody handed you. Imagine we're chatting about this over coffee, so let's keep it light yet packed with all the deep dives you need.
Existentialism, to put it simply, is all about tackling the big questions of freedom, choice, and the seemingly meaningless abyss we call existence. It grew popular after the World Wars, when it seemed like the world had truly lost its mind, and thinkers like Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and Albert Camus became the voices that questioned whether there was any inherent purpose to human life. Sartre put it bluntly when he said, "Man is condemned to be free" — yikes, right? He didn't mean freedom was all fun and games; he meant that without a higher power defining our purpose, we humans are stuck having to define it ourselves. Picture yourself as a character in a story where you not only have to act but also write the plot as you go along. It's liberating, sure, but also kind of terrifying, especially when there’s no director to tell you if you’re doing it right.
Now, existentialism's emphasis on freedom and the burden of choice is like the spiritual gasoline that fuels countless protagonists in modern literature. Consider The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield is the quintessential confused teen, rejecting the phoniness of the world, unsure of what to do with the seemingly pointless canvas of his life. He wanders around New York City, refusing to fit in, questioning everything—he’s a prime example of an existential hero. Or take Meursault in Camus’s The Stranger. Meursault doesn’t cry at his mother’s funeral, doesn’t believe in God, and eventually becomes one of literature’s most haunting portraits of detachment. His refusal to play along with societal norms makes him alienated, yet oddly liberated—a figure who embodies the spirit of existential thought by refusing to find meaning where it simply isn’t there.
These existentialist underpinnings are just as present in modern cinema, where directors use the medium to explore the complex emotional spectrum that emerges when people realize they’re the authors of their own fate—for better or worse. Take, for example, the works of Ingmar Bergman, one of cinema’s greatest existentialist storytellers. His 1957 film The Seventh Seal doesn’t just explore the concept of death—it invites Death to the screen, quite literally, to play chess with a disillusioned knight. Bergman’s bleak visuals and philosophical musings make you question if life has any meaning, especially in a chaotic and unpredictable world. It's not unlike waking up to yet another breaking news alert these days—you're reminded that, hey, nothing's certain and everything's kind of absurd.
Then there’s the Coen Brothers, who take existential absurdity and sprinkle a layer of dark humor over it. In No Country for Old Men, we witness Anton Chigurh, a hitman governed by a bizarre moral code, which boils down to the flip of a coin—a perfect metaphor for the randomness and unpredictability of existence itself. The Big Lebowski, another Coen classic, gives us a different take on existentialism. The Dude just wants his rug back—but life, as it often does, throws in chaos and confusion instead. It's funny, sure, but it also reflects how people struggle to find meaning in the meaningless, seeking a path amid the absurdity.
It’s impossible to talk about existential cinema without mentioning Stanley Kubrick, whose 2001: A Space Odyssey ponders human evolution, artificial intelligence, and the unknown vastness of space—the ultimate existential backdrop. Kubrick didn’t just make you question what was going on with that weird monolith; he made you question what it means to be human, and whether our existence in the universe is fundamentally insignificant. The void of space serves as the ultimate reminder of our solitude, not unlike how we sometimes feel scrolling social media late at night—a whole universe out there, yet somehow utterly isolating.
In literature, the existentialist antihero is a classic figure that keeps resurfacing. These characters aren’t traditional good guys or moral beacons. Instead, they’re deeply flawed individuals who face impossible choices with their own warped sense of morality. Think about Tony Soprano, who’s not exactly a role model, but who’s wrestling with his place in the universe, his family, and the business that surrounds him. He’s a mob boss seeking therapy, grappling with the meaning of his actions and the authenticity of the world around him. Or Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, who spirals into delusion, believing his actions—no matter how violent—might somehow provide purpose or clarity in a morally bankrupt New York City.
One major trope in both existential literature and cinema is the sense of being "trapped." Sartre's play No Exit famously declares that "hell is other people," and that claustrophobic, psychologically draining atmosphere reappears in many modern narratives. Think about Birdman, where Michael Keaton’s character is imprisoned by his own ego, or No Country for Old Men, where characters seem bound by fate, forever chasing or running, unable to escape the nihilism that surrounds them. This concept of inescapability isn’t just physical—it's deeply psychological, echoing that gnawing feeling we sometimes get that we’re running a treadmill with no real destination.
Dystopian fiction often plays right into existential fears. The genre amplifies the bleakness of human existence and questions our fundamental place in the universe. In The Road by Cormac McCarthy, we follow a father and son across a post-apocalyptic wasteland, devoid of hope and society. Here, existentialism isn’t just a thought experiment—it’s an all-consuming struggle for meaning when all systems of value and civilization are gone. It asks readers, "What would you hold onto if the world crumbled tomorrow?" And in Blade Runner, Ridley Scott invites us to ponder the existential crisis of a replicant—a being caught between the role of a product and the desire to be a real, feeling entity. Are we defined by our memories, our actions, or something deeper? The line between artificial and authentic blurs, leading us to wonder—is there any real difference when it comes to finding meaning?
But it’s not all doom and gloom—existentialism also has this weirdly comforting side. It’s about embracing the absurd and deciding to live despite the lack of inherent meaning. In Groundhog Day, Bill Murray’s character Phil Connors is stuck reliving the same day over and over, which, at first, leads to despair and cynicism. But he eventually realizes that if there's no inherent meaning, then he can choose how he lives—he can become a better person, one choice at a time. This is Camus' notion of embracing the absurd—deciding that, while life might be void of objective meaning, we can still live meaningfully by creating our own values and purpose.
Modern filmmakers and writers continue to weave existentialist questions into their stories, from Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, where the protagonist endlessly tries to construct a meaningful life by recreating it through art, to Rick and Morty, where cosmic nihilism is served with a side of humor. The show reminds us that the universe might be vast and indifferent, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find joy in the absurdity. Morty tells us, "Nobody exists on purpose. Nobody belongs anywhere. Everybody's gonna die. Come watch TV." It’s the ultimate shrug in the face of existential dread, inviting viewers to laugh rather than crumble under the weight of it all.
So why does existentialism still matter in today’s stories? In an age of unprecedented connectivity yet pervasive loneliness, where it seems like everyone is either searching for validation or purpose, existentialist themes are more relevant than ever. The questions these stories ask—about freedom, purpose, choice, and absurdity—mirror the very questions we ask ourselves as we navigate the complexities of modern life. Sartre said, "Existence precedes essence," meaning we are not born with a predetermined purpose. Instead, we have to define ourselves through our actions. And isn't that just what we see every time a protagonist stands at a crossroad, questioning what step to take next?
In conclusion, existentialism has shaped the way stories are told—whether it's the chaotic musings of antiheroes, the absurdity of a meaningless task, or the grandiosity of a quest to find individual purpose. It’s a philosophy that pulls no punches, forces us to face the void, and challenges us to make something out of nothing. And whether it’s Holden Caulfield wandering through New York, the Dude trying to get his rug back, or Phil Connors learning to be a better man, existentialism teaches us that while life might not have an inherent script, it’s up to each of us to write our own part—one flawed, beautiful, terrifying scene at a time.
Got thoughts on the weighty, cinematic void that is existentialism? Feel free to share them! And if you enjoyed this existential wander, stick around—there’s plenty more where that came from. After all, we’re all in this strange, absurd journey together.
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