Don’t Look Up and the Limits of Satire

Image courtesy of Netflix and Hyperobject Industries

In the new Netflix film, Don’t Look Up, a comet is headed towards earth. Scientists in the film say it is much like the Chicxulub asteroid, which is a bizarre way to communicate to audiences that this poses a threat akin to the the object that killed the dinosaurs. They then clarify that the asteroid is, indeed, a “planet-killer”, which makes one wonder why they even mentioned Chicxulub to begin with other than to load in some vaguely “sciencey” dialogue.

Regardless, the comet is headed towards earth with an almost one-hundred percent degree of certainty. Asteroid nomenclature matters little at that point. It is an existential threat to humanity. Our two astronomers (Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Lawrence) take it to the White House, where, after many delays, they meet President Orlean (Meryl Streep), who promptly seizes on the margin of error as proof that there is no need to worry about the earth’s impending doom.

This is when the movie lost me.

But, before I talk about why it lost me, let’s talk a little about satire and how it should work.

Satire as a Medium

The film’s screenwriters, director Adam McKay (Stepbrothers, The Big Short, Vice) & David Sirota (a journalist and speechwriter for Bernie Sanders’s 2020 presidential campaign) have spent the last week and a half celebrating their film’s immense success by complaining about critics who found fault with the film, suggesting that they are akin to climate deniers.

This is very annoying, and suggests that the filmmakers were perhaps more interested in making a didactic point about climate change than in telling a story. Satire is a difficult needle to thread. Don’t Look Up fails to balance itself. While I won’t pretend there is some rubric to producing 100% pure-grain distilled satire, I do think it’s incumbent upon the author to tell a narrative that occludes their point, at least to a degree. Otherwise you’re just writing an essay, or, in the case of Don’t Look Up, writing a film that’s about as subtle as Scary Movie.

Consider one of the most well-known satirical works ever, A Modest Proposal, by Jonathan Swift. In this piece, Swift proposes that impoverished Irish families sell their infants for meat, claiming it will address hunger, poverty, and the “number of Papists, with whom we are yearly overrun”. Swift writes here in the mode of Juvenalian satire, which is typically darkly ironic, scornful, or nihilistic. While other types of satire exist, the modern conception of satire seems largely to draw from this paradigm. 

The key thing about this piece is that it never tips its hand once. It never winks to the audience, trying to bring them in on the joke. It is entirely straight-faced and trusts that knowing readers will understand that Swift is not serious. Don’t Look Up has no such faith in its audience, and instead presents to its audience the kind of problems that climate activists face, changes them to relate to a comet, then presents them wholesale, with a vaguely smug tone to accompany it. 

At no point are we meant to take President Orlean or her cadre of sycophants seriously. When her Chief of Staff/son (Jonah Hill, carrying the film on his back) argues with our intrepid scientists, it is done from such an obviously wrong-headed view that no audience could possibly believe it as being from a real person. I’m sure the filmmakers would say that that’s just how insane it is in real life. This is fundamentally untrue, as I will discuss later.

Similarly, Mark Rylance’s tech billionaire, who appears to be some strange combination of Steve Jobs, Elon Musk, and Mark Zuckerberg, is positioned as the true actor behind the government’s inaction. This depiction is also problematic, if less so than that of the politicians. The problem with this character again stems from a lack of believability. If the audience can do nothing but laugh at the object of satire, that’s not satire at all – that’s just telling a joke.

And jokes are fine! Obviously humour is subjective, and others may have got more mileage from the film’s humour, but I think it’s telling that the best joke (an aside from Jonah Hill about dropping molly) had no satirical intent at all. If the film had been marketed more as an outright comedy than a incisive satire, maybe I would have been less annoyed with it. But it chose the latter path, and so I feel compelled to point out the specific ways in which it fails to accurately satirize climate inaction.


When criticizing the satirical intent of Don’t Look Up, it’s important to remember that both McKay and Sirota have specifically said that the film is about climate change. While I feel this is obvious, I suspect some might read it in the modern moment to be about the response to the COVID-19 pandemic and so might further miss the point. With that in mind, here’s some of the ways in which the satire fails:

The film portrays the government as hapless and ignorant to the comet’s threat

“They’re not even smart enough to be as evil as you’re giving them credit for.”

Wrong. They’re exactly smart enough.

A lot of political oxygen is wasted on debates over the existence of climate change as an existential threat to our species. People speak about climate change in terms of “belief”, as if the Earth’s observable climate is somehow akin to faith. Activists will suggest that politicians or members of the broader are either too ignorant or too uneducated to grasp that yes, there is observable warming taking place on our planet, and that this warming is beginning to impact weather patterns (hurricanes, tornado outbreaks, heat waves, etc) across the globe.

This is the first and biggest myth about climate change, and it’s a sign of how well the denialists have reframed the debate. Outside of the true idealogues, most politicians are smart enough to read a scientific report and understand it. People like Ted Cruz and Mitch McConnell are not so blindly stupid that they can’t understand what they are told. They simply choose to read that information, then pretend that it’s not real.

This has been going on since climate change (then global warming) was first identified as a problem. In the 1980s, petrol companies Shell and Exxon both identified the existential threat of climate change, then ignored it. This is not a mystery to anybody with any ability to read the data. Denialism should not be mistaken with a kind of “climate atheism”. As Naomi Klein writes in her 2014 book This Changes Everything:

To those gathered here at the Heartland [Institute] Conference, climate change is a threat of a different sort. It isn’t about the political preferences of Republicans versus Democrats; it’s about the physical boundaries of the atmosphere and ocean. If the dire projections coming out of the IPCC are left unchallenged, and business as usual is indeed driving us straight toward civilization-threatening tipping points, then the implications are obvious: the ideological crusade incubated in think tanks like Heartland, Cato, and Heritage will have come to a screeching halt. Nor have the various attempts to soft-pedal climate actions as compatible with market logic (carbon trading, carbon offsets, monetizing nature’s “services”) fooled these true believers one bit. They know very well that ours is a global economy created by, and fully reliant upon, the burning of fossil fuels and that a dependency that foundational cannot be changed with a few gentle market mechanisms . . . their deep fear that if the free market system really has set in motion physical and chemical processes that, if allowed to continue unchecked, threaten large parts of humanity at an existential level, then their entire crusade to morally redeem capitalism has been for naught. With stakes like these, clearly greed is not so very good after all. And that is what is behind the abrupt rise in climate change denial among hardcore conservatives: they have come to understand that as soon as they admit that climate change is real, they will lose the central ideological battle of our time–whether we need to plan and manage our societies to reflect our goals and values, or whether their task can be left to the magic of the market.

(Klein, 39-40)

As Klein says, acknowledgement of climate change’s impact is existential for the capitalist project. It is not a matter of whether they are too stupid to do so. They are simply dedicated to their own survival. Portraying the bad actors in Don’t Look Up as too stupid fundamentally elides this point. After forty years of deliberate climate denialism, pretending it’s still a matter of intelligence only perpetuates this problem.

The film portrays a public unconcerned with the comet

Another case of assigning blame in the wrong place, but in a more annoying and boring way. Yes, we live in a culture obsessed with celebrity and pop culture. Yes, a lot of our media exists in shallow, banal soundbites. But to pretend that the public is somehow wrong or culpable is to shift the blame from the people who are; approximately two-thirds of the American public believe that climate change is a reality, caused by human activity, and another 60 percent, including 36 percent of self-identified Republicans, support broad climate action (the “Green New Deal”) to combat it.

The idea of an ignorant public obsessed with all the wrong things is fundamentally wrongheaded, and it assigns blame where none exists. Instead, it comes across as judgmental and elitist. People deserve the opportunity to chase oblivion, however they see fit. It does not mean they’re unconcerned with the world around them. It simply means that they need to find whatever joy they can. It does not make them worse citizens to enjoy lowbrow entertainment, nor does it mean that they cannot support the causes that matter.

There’s also just a certain level of Sideshow Bob-esque irony in using a star-studded film to draw attention to an issue while simultaneously decrying the public’s obsessions with celebrity.

Rylance’s billionaire character excuses the real culprits

Midway through the film, Rylance’s billionaire character, Peter Isherwell, is able to successfully exert enough political influence to convince President Orlean to redirect an Armageddon-style mission to destroy the comet in favour of a more elaborate mission to break up the comet and return the pieces to Earth for the purpose of harvesting its rare-earth minerals. This is one of the most salient, if unsubtle, moments of the film, serving as an allegory for the political influence exerted by the billionaire class; I’m reminded of Elon Musk’s “we’ll coup whoever we want” tweet in the wake of the 2020 Bolivian coup – no doubt Musk was thinking of all the lithium a market-friendly government would provide him.


Still, I can’t help but feel like this was another softball, designed to synch up better with the film’s lame complaints about the public’s focus on all of the wrong things. Yes, we live in a world where our lives are driven by billionaires, but the tech billionaires are not explicitly the ones driving climate change. Just 100 companies are responsible for the vast majority of emissions since the 1980s. While billionaires like Isherwell are undoubtedly part of the problem, making him the sole focus lets the petrol companies off of the hook.

Closing Thoughts

I am not a climate denialist, despite my critique of the film. I think that climate change represents the single greatest threat to humanity that exists today because the solutions exist directly in opposition to capital. 

David Wallace-Wells’s The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming depicts the future we are hurtling towards with a naked bleak honesty. Naomi Klein’s This Changes Everything emphasizes the responsibility of capital for bringing us to this brink. Many other books, articles, and films have been created with the single-minded goal of confronting this crisis. In the wake of all of this, it’s hard to view Don’t Look Up as anything more than a wrong-headed and blunt approach that seems designed only to preach to the choir, with little substance when it comes to the true problems.

Satire is difficult to pull off. I think there’s a separate conversation to be had about the limits of art to affect change at all; can you think of a piece of art that brought about political change? I can’t. Better satirical films like Sorry to Bother You (on labour) or Dr. Strangelove (on nuclear war) are much more affecting, but neither of them can really be credited as having made a difference, politically speaking. Advocates will claim that a work like this “raises awareness,” as if any more awareness needs to be raised about the threat of climate change. 

The last scene of the film features politicians and billionaires fleeing the Earth in a ship bound for another planet. They are cryogenically frozen so that they might be able to start again, even as they leave the devastated Earth behind. Climate change isn’t a comet. The Earth will not be totally destroyed. Parts of the planet will still be temperate and lush, while others will suffer from famine, drought, and violent weather. The rich and powerful won’t need to leave the planet; they’ll just carve out a section for themselves so that they can continue holding court. This is perhaps the most effective scene of the film, but it comes far too late. It doesn’t land as it should because the targets were so scattershot to begin with.

Blaming the public for the actions of the powerful is not satire, nor is it effective. The solutions to climate change will come through solidarity, not smug moralizing. Don’t Look Up only serves to prevent this by assigning blame in all of the wrong places.

“Survivor Song” and the Love at the Core of Male Friendship

Courtesy of

“We will not intrude on Luis here, not for much longer. His past, particularly his regrets and recriminations, belong to him. We know enough and we will never know enough to understand what he will do next.”

Last year, I read Paul Tremblay’s Survivor Song. I consider Tremblay one of the best horror writers working now, but it is not a particularly frightening part of his latest novel that I choose to write about today. Instead, I want to take a look at a part that I fear most readers might glance past; a literal interlude in the story of the two desperate women making their way across a New England town ravaged by a super-rabies virus.

I was turned on to Tremblay by Stephen King’s Twitter recommendation of A Head Full of Ghosts, which remains one of the most frightening novels I’ve ever read. Following this, I read through Disappearance at Devil’s Rock, and The Cabin at the End of the World, both of which might be more properly described as thriller than horror. With that in mind, I was excited to hear of the release of Survivor Song, which marks a return to novel-length horror for Tremblay. I was perhaps a little trepidatious though; unlike the horrors in A Head Full of Ghosts, which deals primarily with the question of whether a young girl is possessed or deeply mentally ill, Survivor Song’s horrors are much more personal for me.

In Survivor Song, a mutant strain of the rabies virus begins to spread rapidly through small-town Massachusetts. For those who aren’t aware, rabies in its current form is already an incredibly horrific disease. Once contracted, failure to receive a vaccine will result in a virtual one-hundred percent chance of dying horribly. There are exceptions, but those number in the single digits. The catch? By the time you know you have it, you’re dead. Once the disease has gone symptomatic, there is no applying a vaccine. There is only the knowledge that you will die, likely within a matter of weeks. You will die terribly, muscles aching, afraid of water, and losing your mind.

From 2017-2019, I lived in an apartment infested with bats. While neither myself, my partner, or my cats were ever harmed, there were multiple instances of bats in the apartment. They entered through holes underneath the radiator, a gap underneath the front door, or simply scratched and squeaked in the ceiling or in the walls. Sometimes my cats would run to the door late at night, and I’d peer through the peephole, seeing the flash of brown-and-black flying erratically around.

Landlords are useless under normal circumstances, of course, but legislation against the killing of bats (which, however I may have felt at the time, I understand), prevented anything other than efforts to remove and exclude them. This situation caused a great deal of anxiety for me, to the point when I still brace myself looking through the peephole at night or feel a rush of panic when one of my cats sniffs around at the base of my apartment door.

Returning to this disease in Survivor Song was therapeutic, in a sense. Seeing people confront this virus and fight for every minute of life they can get helped me recover from my own anxiety. In Survivor Song, it’s a matter of hours, not weeks, before the victims become symptomatic. The unreality of it contextualized my fear.

The book itself concerns the attack of a pregnant woman, Natalie, by a rabid man. Her husband is killed in the assault, and she is bitten. She quickly gets in contact with an old friend, Ramola, a doctor in town. Ramola meets her and ushers her to hospital, hoping to act quickly enough to prevent the virus.

I won’t spoil the rest of course, but much of the book concerns their journey and their friendship. And yet, at the core of the book, there is another friendship. It is covered in fewer pages and is not Tremblay’s focus. But there are sections of the book–interludes–that remind the reader that “this is not a fairy-tale,” even as the pages are decorated in such a way that evoke The Brothers Grimm.

One of these sections follows Luis and Josh, two friends who meet up with Natalie and Ramola midway through the book. They seem thrilled by the violence taking place around them; with mammals of all kinds susceptible to the virus, people are catching rabies from animals as innocuous as passing squirrels, who leap violently toward them, driven mad by the disease.

Luis and Josh clearly have watched The Walking Dead, describing the events as akin to a zombie apocalypse. They are excited for the adventure of a post-apocalyptic world, where society has collapsed and you are forced to make hard choices to survive. Ramola, of course, knows that, while tragic, the events are hardly apocalyptic; a virus that kills within hours is hardly likely to spread very far (conversely, part of the reason our own pandemic is so long-lasting is because it kills relatively infrequently and spreads easily), and as such, containment and protection of the survivors is the next task; not societal collapse.

Luis and Josh recognize that Natalie is hurt though, and so they band with Ramola and Natalie to help them get to help. During the course of their travel, they are attacked. While they are able to fight off their attackers, Josh is bit on the head by a dog. They part ways from Natalie and Ramola then, and this is where the interlude begins.

“You are not supposed to go back, you can’t go back, and if you attempt a return you will be forever lost.”

One thing that I think fiction often has a hard time portraying is male friendship. It exists, of course; there is certainly no shortage of fiction featuring men. But so much of it feels obligated to depict male friendship as this hyper-performative display of machismo, where men talk about what they ate or how much they can bench or who they fought or fucked. Ironically, perhaps, one of the better examples I’ve seen recently is The Sopranos, which I’m watching with my girlfriend currently. I’ve never seen it before, and while the show certainly has a reputation for all of the above, one of the things that has struck us the most is how deeply these characters care for one another. When was the last time you gave your friend a kiss on the cheek when you met up?

What Tremblay understands is that the core of male friendship is love. This is true of any friendship, of course, so this this might seem odd to read. And yet, years of conditioning have taught us to see open admittances of love between men as taboo — whether it might be some latent homophobia or simply cultural norms that have taught men to conceal their feelings, the end result is the same. How many times did Chandler and Joey embrace on Friends, only to awkwardly realize what they were doing, then separate to the hooting and hawing of the audience?

Josh has been bit on the head. It is a death sentence. Even if he had a vaccine, which he doesn’t, it’s far too late. Rabies is a virus that needs to reach the brain. It was delivered almost directly to it. Josh is a dead man riding a bicycle.

Still, he and Luis ride on.

Josh’s riding is erratic. He weaves and abruptly jerks his bike at hard angles when the road is clear. He shouts at shadows and he shouts at trees. He lists until Luis calls out his name, then he lists some more. Luis knows Josh will not be Josh for much longer. Perhaps he already isn’t Josh, or the new non-Josh is growing, metastasizing, laying claim. Regardless, Luis will follow Josh and follow him until he cannot lead anymore.

We know how this story ends. As Tremblay reminds us, this is not a fairy-tale. But, even as he insists it is a song, the story takes on aspects of fairy-tale. Luis and Josh leave the road, travelling into the woods. Perhaps emulating Michonne in The Walking Dead, Luis ties up Josh on a lead, wrapping a bandanna around his dying friend’s mouth to prevent him from biting. His friend’s mind is not yet gone, and so Josh acquiesces to this. They walk together through the woods, unable to ride any further. From the trees emerge all manner of mammals, driven mad by the virus; squirrels and rabbits and bats and bigger animals still, all homing in on the two friends.

Courtesy of Image Comics.

Even though his friend has already been bit, and even though he is already doomed to die, Luis will not let them have him. He wields the makeshift staff he carries like a trained warrior, snapping away at legions of creatures which swarm them.

“The teens more than endure the tiny terrors, they revel as though there never was and never will be a sweeter time, a greater moment. If not an apotheosis, this is them at their best, and they laugh and they boast and they shout and they live and they know there is no future.”

There is a surreality to this part. The thought of suburban teens expertly wielding a staff to fight off hordes of rabid animals is almost silly when you envision it. But Tremblay makes it work. This is not a fairy-tale, he reminds us. This is a song. It has no happy ending.

Surreality can only be stretched so far. The animals soon grow to be too much. They overwhelm Luis, and Josh pushes him to the ground. He shields his friend with his body, giving him everything that he has left. The bats rip and tear and bite and yet he does not leave his friend.

When at last it is over, they rise and come to a clearing. A rock with a split in it sits at its centre, which fans of Tremblay might recognize. It is here that the inevitable happens.

“Josh stops walking. He turns, and he has turned. This is the reveal of Zombie Josh, the zombie teen wth red coyote eyes, lips a ragged drawn curtain, foam and saliva faulting from his gagged mouth. Luis cannot help but stare at his friend’s teeth, as though he’d never really seen them before, seen them for what they can be. Hands still tied together, Zombie Josh rushes at Luis. Thus begins a dance that will last into the night. Luis will not hurt Zombie Josh, even though he’’s seen all the movies and knows all the rules. Instead, he will duck and he will dodge and he will sidestep and he will run.”

Luis refuses to hurt Josh, but he also refuses to leave him. They dance like this until the virus in Josh’s head rages through him, removing his ability to fight and bite. Josh is tired, and sits back against the rock. He no longer is conscious. His body is barely functioning. It is here that he will die.

And what does Luis do? What happens next is something I’ve never experienced in any kind of zombie or zombie-adjacent fiction. It is utterly novel and incredibly perfect and impossibly tragic. I will not summarize it, for it deserves to be read:

“Luis slips his hands under Josh’s head and ties the gag. The sopping wet bandanna slides easily out of his slack mouth. . . Luis rolls up his right sleeve.  . . Placing a thumb on Josh’s chin, Luis pulls down the lower jaw, opening the mouth. He takes the thumb away. Josh’s face and body tremors, but he doesn’t wake and his mouth stays open. Luis places the soft underside of his forearm into Josh’s mouth, the inside of which is as hot and damp as a sauna. Luis positions his left palm under Josh’s chin and pushes, closing the mouth, forcing his friend’s teeth against his skin. It hurts, but he doesn’t know if the teeth have broken through yet. He pushes harder and Josh convulses, perhaps because the body’s main airway is being blocked. There is still a spark of life within the engine. His jaws contract once, and hard.”

Suicide in post-apocalyptic fiction is nothing new, and it’s true that this is a suicide of sorts. And yet, it doesn’t read that way. It reads as an act of love; the desire from one friend to another to not let him travel into the dark alone. Instead of leaving his friend, or facing the now-clichéd moment of agony as he’s forced to kill his former friend, Luis chooses something different. His choice is made all the more powerful by the fact he cannot let himself be bit; he has to force the empty vessel of his friend to do it. It is his friend who sends him on his way.

Tremblay understands horror, because he understands what scares us. Certainly Survivor Song scared me in a way that most horror doesn’t, reminding me of some of the darkest moments in my own life. But Tremblay also understands that horror is not horror when there is no humanity. How many people, realistically, are afraid when Jason Voorhees machetes another interchangeable horny teen? We don’t root for the teen. We root for Jason. We want to see what he does. Like any work of art, the best horror compels the audience to care. If we care about art, then we can be moved, whether it is to tears or to screams.

It is this same gift that allows Tremblay to capture the love at the heart of male friendship. It is something that I wish more writers understood. We care about Luis and Josh because we’ve all been the stupid kid, wondering how we’d do in the zombie apocalypse. But more than that, we know what it is to love our friends.