The Philosophy of Christopher Nolan The Philosophy

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The Philosophy of
Christopher Nolan

The Philosophy of Popular Culture
Series Editor: Mark T. Conard, Marymount Manhattan College

The Philosophy of Popular Culture series comprises volumes that explore
the intersection of philosophy and popular culture. The works are devoted
to a subject in popular culture, such as a particular genre, filmmaker, or
television show. The essays investigate the philosophical underpinnings,
or do a philosophical analysis, of the particular topic. The books will
contain smart, jargon-free essays that illuminate texts (films and TV
shows) in popular culture, and they will introduce non-specialists to
traditional philosophical ideas and issues. The governing ideas of the
series are that texts in popular culture are worthy of philosophical
analysis and that philosophical thinking and traditional philosophical
concepts can enlighten us and enrich our everyday lives.
Titles in the Series
The Who and Philosophy, edited by Rocco J. Gennaro and Casey
Harison
The Philosophy of Documentary Film: Image, Sound, Fiction, Truth,
edited by David LaRocca
The Philosophy of Christopher Nolan, edited by Jason T. Eberl and
George A. Dunn

The Philosophy of
Christopher Nolan

Edited by

Jason T. Eberl and George A. Dunn

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Introduction

Christopher Nolan is a cinematic auteur, as a director, a writer, and a

producer. He is not, however, a philosopher in the technical sense of the
term that denotes professionals working in the academic discipline.
Nevertheless, a volume entitled The Philosophy of Christopher Nolan is
perfectly appropriate as his films—spanning nearly twenty years from
Doodlebug (1997) through Interstellar (2014) and beyond—have
provoked philosophical reflection among viewers who’ve found his films,
to quote comedian John Oliver, more than “a little vague.” In this respect,
Nolan is not all that different from the father of Western philosophy,
Socrates (d. 399 BCE), who styled himself a sort of “gadfly” whose
function was to sting his fellow Athenians out of their intellectual
complacency to ponder moral and other philosophical questions about
which they’ve often taken for granted simple, patent conclusions. There
are no simple solutions for complex problems.

Let’s consider Nolan’s oeuvre chronologically. First, in Doodlebug, he

challenges a hallmark of Western philosophy from Thomas Aquinas in
the thirteenth century through Immanuel Kant in the eighteenth century
that self-destruction is a fundamentally irrational desire. Although the
protagonist in Doodlebug may indeed be irrational for wanting to squash
himself, it’s not altogether clear that he might not have some reason for
doing so; or, at the very least, his perhaps irrational action might bespeak
a fundamental flaw of the human condition insofar as many of us willingly
engage in potentially self-destructive behaviors. Doodlebug, for better or
worse, may be the most Freudian of Nolan’s films as subconscious
motivations lead one to self-destructive behavior; but the larger
existential question of whether we have such motivations, and whether
the behavior they induce may be rational at times, unavoidably
challenges viewers’ presumptions through Nolan’s provocative imagery.

Following (1998) is Nolan’s first feature-length film and extends the

thesis of Doodlebug to the level of a man who unwittingly participates in
his own downfall. The narrative has expanded, however, to show the
audience a bit more of what motivates the pre-fallen protagonist.
Primarily, what’s at issue is a need to belong, to be involved in others’
lives as a way of affirming the validity of one’s own existence. Whether
Nolan had ever read Martin Buber (1878–1965) or not, it’s clear that he

shares Buber’s fundamental thesis that I exist fully only with respect to a
Thou who acknowledges my existence as such and vice versa. There’s
an inherent danger in such co-dependency as it may devolve into a
perverse master/slave dialectic; although, even in such a relationship,
according to Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831), the master is
just as dependent on the slave as the reverse. In the case of Cobb and
The Young Man, however, the former functions as a master manipulator
who doesn’t have any need of the latter and can easily disappear into the
crowd as if he never existed. All of which raises the question of whether
Cobb ever really existed; perhaps The Young Man is truly an extension of
the self-destructive protagonist in Doodlebug.

Self-identity persists as a central organizing theme in Nolan’s next

and more widely-distributed film, Memento (2000). Here, Nolan
completely disrupts the protagonist Leonard Shelby’s sense of identity
and creates a situation in which he must create meaning for his existence
—otherwise, why not squash himself as in Doodlebug. Leonard’s need to
affirm his self-identity, though, comes at the cost of sacrificing others’
identity—particularly that of Teddy or any other putative “John G.” who
happens to cross his path. Ironically, though, by eliminating Teddy,
Leonard has inadvertently created the conditions of his own existential
demise, since the narrative Teddy had helped Leonard construct is what
gave meaning to his existence. Without the telos—to use the classical
Greek term—of finding and killing John G., there’s no further purpose to
Leonard’s existence to guide his moral choices. By killing the only John
G. to whom the “facts” he’s tattooed on his body have led him, Leonard
has only succeeded in squashing his own identity and sense of purpose.

Insomnia (2002) pushes further this question of one’s moral telos by

forcing its protagonist, Will Dormer, to question his motivations in killing
his partner, who was on the verge of exposing his duplicitousness.
Eschewing the pat ethical questions of whether Dormer was justified or
not in the decisions he made, Nolan is more interested in the moral
psychology of a person who must learn how to live with the decisions
he’s made—good or bad. Is Dormer so different from the murderer Walter
Finch? Is Dormer’s death actually a release for him from his own moral
compromises? Having squashed himself morally, and in the process
ruined his reputation as a police detective who’s imprisoned dozens of
criminals who may now go free, physical death becomes not so much a
punishment for Dormer but an escape.

The Prestige (2006) takes the questions of self-identity and moral

justification raised in Nolan’s earlier films and doubles them—literally—by
crafting two protagonists, both illusionists, who use duplicity as their
stock-and-trade not only on the stage but in their personal lives as well.
At this point, Nolan is perhaps becoming a bit self-conscious as a
filmmaker, whose personal philosophy might start being reflected in the
thematic elements of the films he’s creating. Although one suspects that
Nolan wouldn’t go to the immoral extremes to which Angier goes in order
to succeed in his “transported man” illusion; nevertheless, the filmmaker
and the showman have the shared goal of mesmerizing their audience
and provoking them to consider possibilities they hitherto haven’t
imagined. Once again, self-destruction is the overarching theme as
Angier allows himself to be killed night after night in order to make his
trick work and triumph over his rival, Borden. The latter, or at least one of
them, willingly sacrifices himself so that he may gain his ultimate revenge
against Angier.

Nolan arguably reaches the apex of his skeptical approach to reality

and self-identity with Inception (2010). Far from a simple redux of the
Wachowksi Bros.’ Matrix trilogy, Nolan trades on something human
beings phenomenally experience every night: dreaming. Ever since René
Descartes’s so-called “dream argument” in the seventeenth century,
philosophers have endeavored to define epistemic criteria to differentiate
what we can trust to be real versus what may be a construction of one’s
own mind. Relatedly, moral theorists have debated the extent to which
one’s perception of reality may be more subjectively valuable than what
is truly real. Does it really matter to Dom Cobb whether the top continues
spinning at the end of the film? Having perhaps lost the ability to
distinguish dream from reality, it may not matter to Cobb anymore
whether his “real” self has been squashed, so long as he’s able to enjoy
the “reality” he most ardently desires: being home with his children, or at
least perceiving himself to be.

Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy—Batman Begins (2005), The Dark Knight

(2008), The Dark Knight Rises (2012)—revolutionized how moviegoers
perceive their comic-book superheroes. Of course, the scripts for these
films are based upon the comic books that created the morally
ambiguous characters Nolan puts on the screen. Nevertheless, the
performances Nolan drew out of Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Tom
Hardy, and others crafted a world in which the moral motivations and
personal identity struggles of both protagonists and antagonists are all
too evident and relatable to audiences. Yes, the Joker is a morally

reprehensible figure; but how difficult is it to argue with his—and Thomas
Hobbes’s (1588–1679)—characterization of human society when one
introduces “a little anarchy”? While Nolan was more peripherally involved
with Man of Steel (as a writer and producer) and Batman v Superman (as
an executive producer), viewers can nevertheless expect the same sort
of conscience-pricking moral questions that his Dark Knight films raise:
How far is one willing to go to ensure their own and their loved ones’
safety and security when confronted with injustice? Do our heroes, if truly
they be such, owe the rest of us the sacrifice of their lives, whether
literally or by sacrificing their own self-interest and chance at happiness?

This brings us to Interstellar, arguably Nolan’s most triumphant film

that encapsulates all the themes of his previous work. Personal identity?
They are us. Moral choice? The fate of loved ones versus the human
race. Epistemology? What we know versus what we don’t know in the
black depths of Gargantua. And the perfect melding of philosophy and
science: The physics and metaphysics of hyperspace and time. Nolan
also takes audiences beyond the realm of self-interest—parents are
“ghosts” of their children’s future—while also maintaining the irreducible
value of personal I/Thou relationships—hence why Dr. Mann is ultimately
a villain and Cooper a hero. Mann, along with Prof. Brand, is willing to
squash his humanity in order to save the human race “as a species.”
Cooper, through his attachment to particular others—most notably his
daughter, Murph—willingly sacrifices himself to the unknown depths of a
black hole. While Cooper doesn’t allow himself to be potentially squashed
by Gargantua’s tremendous gravity out of some existential angst, as is
apparently the case in Doodlebug, Nolan has nevertheless extended his
ever-present thesis that sometimes the end of oneself is actually a
beginning.

No one book can adequately capture the philosophical richness of

Nolan’s cinematic contribution to our collective pop culture
consciousness. We’ve strived, however, to highlight key themes that
define particular Nolan films, as well as point out broader themes that
cross throughout his work as a whole. If you haven’t watched any of
Nolan’s films referenced herein, you should do so before you’re spoiled
any further! And if you haven’t read any of the philosophers referenced
herein, you’ll be richly rewarded by investing the time to understand the
various theories that may help us discover fundamental truths about
human nature, reality, morality, and the future in store for us.

Part 1

Moral Philosophy

Chapter 1

Deceit, Desire, and Mimetic Doubling in

the Films of Christopher Nolan

George A. Dunn
Christopher Nolan directed his first film in 1997, when he was still a

student of English Literature at University College London. Nolan’s best
known films tell stories that unfold on a grand scale, but his first effort,
Doodlebug, is a mere three minutes long and takes place entirely in one
dingy room. It features what initially seems to be a lone character, a
distraught young man chasing a small object, the eponymous
“doodlebug,” as it darts frantically across the floor. In his hand, the man
wields a shoe, with which he clearly intends to deliver a lethal blow to this
thumb-sized imp.

We soon discover, however, that the doodlebug is really just a

miniature version of the man chasing it. Even more remarkably, the
pursuer is exactly mimicking every last movement of his diminutive
quarry. At last, the man corners his tiny doppelgänger and clobbers him
with the shoe, only moments after we’ve witnessed his victim perform the
very same action. We gather that the doodlebug has just flattened some
even smaller doodlebug that he had been chasing. And then, suddenly
but not entirely unexpectedly, a giant likeness of the man appears from
behind, smiling the same triumphant smile as he crashes an oversized
duplicate of the man’s own shoe down on him. Our doodlebug-slayer was
someone else’s doodlebug all along.

The film ends on a tight shot of the murder weapon, under which lies

the squashed remains of its victim. The credits roll, the screen fades to
black, but we know what’s coming next. Another, even more massive
shoe is undoubtedly poised to drop. It’s homicidal, shoe-slamming
doodlebugs all the way down—and all the way up! An infinite regress of
murderous doppelgängers stretching in both directions. What kind of
universe is this?

WHY CAN’T DOODLEBUGS GET ALONG?

The universe of Doodlebug, with its furious doppelgängers forever
whacking each other and being whacked in return, is alarmingly similar to
our own—at least if we take as our guide the brilliant literary critic and