Wastelands brought about by ecological devastation; warlords vying for limited resources through exploitation and violence; struggles to survive and make sense of life in a disposable world: there are no new ideas here. Indeed, the modern post-apocalyptic narrative is so entrenched now in our collective imagination that the world proposed by blockbusters like George Miller’s 2024 film Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is accepted without much mental impedance. With increasing global unrest, soaring inequality, and climate breakdown, the trappings of Miller’s terrifying vision seem to broach ever closer to our 21^st-century present.

Yet perhaps what is more intriguing is which lines the post-apocalyptic genre have not crossed. The general public still regards tales of the post-apocalyptic as impossible fictions—distant flights of fancies, escapist popcorn entertainment—no matter how meticulous their construction, how potent their messages. “It’s easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism,” wrote Mark Fisher in Capitalist Realism: Is The No Alternative? (2009), attributing the sentiment that undergirds his seminal work to Fredric Jameson and Slavoj Žižek. With their waning cautionary powers, apocalyptic dystopias increasingly do little to instruct. Instead, they invite spectacle and apathy, foster misreadings of what might be into what should be, stymie our collective ability to envision alternatives beyond what is presented.

In Furiosa, Miller’s deliciously absurd flourishes in world-building are all in service of that most ancient of narrative: the Fall and its aftermath, which have always been part of the human experience. Consider how the titular character is torn from her childhood home, known as the Green Place. After a Herculean struggle to return to her veritable Garden of Eden, Furiosa—played by the trio of Alyla Browne, Anya Taylor-Joy, and Charlize Theron—is rewarded with the revelation that it was destroyed long ago (and off-screen at that). The world of Mad Max necessitates this outcome, for there can be no happy homecoming for its heroine. Taken to its logical extreme, to indulge in the post-apocalyptic is to succumb to this corrosive, annihilating power. Without potential counternarratives, the post-apocalyptic imposes and reinforces upon us not a future we may potentially imagine for ourselves, but rather a monolithic vision that can only be blighted, impending, inexorable.

perhaps what is more intriguing is which lines the post-apocalyptic genre have not crossed.

“What cannot be mended must be transcended.” So wrote American author Ursula K. Le Guin in Tehanu (1990), a novel that begins with a deed of unspeakable trauma and ends with an act of literal transmutation. But what lies beyond the end of the world? Casting off the trappings accreted by the post-apocalyptic genre emerge stories of the post-post-apocalyptic. Embracing new tones and structures, the post-post-apocalyptic speaks after sufficient time has elapsed since collapse, where mere survival or disaster management is no longer the all-consuming priority. Recovery and healing of nature, culture, and individuals is occurring in earnest, as new systems, norms, and practices take root. In the post-post-apocalyptic, some severance exists to separate past calamity from present instance, making direct extrapolation from “then to now” neither instructive nor fruitful. While there may be traces from the previous world, the narrative emphasis lies not in harkening back, but rather embodying the contingencies of the present out of which the novel and unexpected can arise. Offering distance and difference in vantage, the post-post-apocalyptic allows the imaginary lens to recenter its focus on a freed moment in time, along with its sovereign, mutable future.

An unexpected example of the post-post-apocalyptic is Perfect Days, a 2023 film by Wim Wenders. Far removed from an adrenalized existence spent dodging bullets and hoarding guzzolene, Hirayama (played by Kōji Yakusho) lives out his days watching trees and cleaning toilets—albeit some futuristic versions of the latter, given the setting of contemporary Tokyo. The script by Wenders and Takuma Takasaki hints at a personal calamity years prior, leading their protagonist to break with his past and choose his current mode of hermetic living. But they intentionally do not dwell on the details. Instead, Hirayama dwells wholly in the present. Much of the film documents the intricacies of his daily routines: grabbing a canned coffee from the vending machine every morning before work; playing and replaying his finite collection of cassette tapes; patronizing the same bathhouse and restaurant day in and day out. Hirayama can thus be seen living in a post-post-apocalypse of his making, defending his boundaries of engagement with the world at large, transforming quotidian tasks of life and living into rituals of coping, appreciation, and continuation. Anti-ambition and anti-consumerist, Perfect Days seeks to shines the spotlight on a character who has actively reconciled himself with a quieter role on this earth. Here is an alternate mode of being: one intent on cultivating a more deliberate, sustainable life, honed over time to buffer the self against past traumas and future uncertainties.

Initially, such a life appears more relatable than Mad Max’s fight-or-flight philosophy; but in reality, may be more radical to enact. Whether Hirayama’s approach offers lasting contentment or serves as a durable safeguard against the whims of the world is open to interpretation. Perfect Days introduces a series of tensions that disrupt Hirayama’s carefully curated days. A curious niece drawn to stories of his eccentricity; an affluent sister unable to fathom his lowly station; an encounter with a romantic rival dying of cancer, reminding him that his own days and chances for something more are dwindling. The film ends as it begins, with Hirayama driving to work as the Tokyo sun rises. He puts on Nina Simone’s rendition of “Feeling Good,” with each line of the song—sung in generational defiance against apocalyptic despair—triggering a sweep of elation and anguish across the minute-long closeup of his face. Kōji Yakusho understands the character he inhabits has heard this song many times before. He knows that Hirayama is using it now to fortify himself once more for the day and days ahead. Here, then, the film concludes on a new beginning, with the personal journey aligning with the spirit of the post-post-apocalyptic, driven by present agency and possibilities anew. 

Featured image: Kôji Yakusho in Perfect Days (2023) / IMDb.