Despair is rarely more oppressive or more acute than when we cannot hope for a future. Alfonso Cuarón’s film Children of Men, based on a novel by P.D. James, explores this condition in perhaps its most primal aspect. In the film, humanity has stopped being able to conceive children for nearly two decades. The aftermath of this inexplicable condition has bred widespread distress, civil collapse, and the emergence of oppressive authoritarian regimes.
Clive Owen plays Theo, a former activist and current administrative drone whose listless, monotonous life is upended when his ex-wife Julian (Julianne Moore) recruits him to escort a refugee named Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey) out of the UK. The stakes escalate dramatically when Julian is killed in an escape attempt and Theo learns that Kee is pregnant. The landscape ahead of them is bleak, populated by the ruins of a once hopeful and thriving world. Into this desolation, amid the rubble of loss and regret, a child is born.
As Theo and Kee progress towards the intentionally ambiguous “Human Project”, Theo moves through progressive moments of loss. Significant sacrifices like those of Theo’s friend Jasper (Michael Caine) and Kee’s midwife Miriam (Pam Ferris) are the most prominent, but Theo also loses his smaller familiarities like his cigarettes and whiskey when he prepares Kee to deliver her daughter. We also learn that, before the events of the film, Theo and Julian lost their son to a pandemic. As more and more of him is shed away, Theo focuses entirely upon the protection of Kee and her daughter, echoing the biblical person of John the Baptist, who prepared the ministry of Jesus and claimed, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30 KJV)
Cuarón brings us through this journey visually with impressively staged “single-shot” takes, sometimes ranging from 4 to 6 minutes each. Only occasionally enhanced by computer generated edit-hiding, these extended sequences reinforce the impression of long passages of time where chaos and turmoil swirl around our characters without relief. This not only enhances suspense, but it also visually expresses the experiences of our characters.
Meanwhile, competing agendas seek to leverage the newborn child for power and political influence or for individual profit, perceiving this exceptional human life as little more than a commodity. As the surrounding aesthetic is saturated in muted blues and grays, we see the demystification that has permeated these individual mindsets. Then, in arguably the film’s most compelling sequence, Theo and Kee and the baby must make their way out of a desolated building where the British army and the revolutionaries are blitzing each other with guns and artillery. As they exit the building, the fighters all stand in awe, mesmerized by the child as the three make their way out of the warzone unharmed. The soldiers all stand aside like waters parting, reintroducing to us the wonder and reverence which had been absent for so long. In that moment, however temporarily, hope and peace are restored.
Cuarón leaves us with one final visual note of hope: a glimmer of possibility at the end of an exhausting and oppressive journey. As Theo, possibly on the verge of death, reaches the rendezvous point, we see a boat approaching with the word “TOMORROW” painted on its side. Kee tells him that she will name her daughter after Theo’s son. And in that small confession, with possibility literally on the horizon, the future is given life.
What is lost remains lost, and change is not immediate. Hope is as fragile and vulnerable as a newborn baby. But when we are willing to see beyond the conditions around us, to glimpse the possibilities tucked away in unexpected corners, we can sometimes find both the strength and the resilience to hope again. — Reed Lackey (2025)
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