A dystopian film is not something you watch with a light heart.
From the very beginning, a dystopian film introduces the viewer to a world that is foreign and sometimes completely absurd. It doesn’t take long before we feel tension in our bodies, together with a growing need to understand how that world works. It is deeply uncomfortable, and yet something keeps us invested in the story. Somehow, we try to understand how things came to be this way and what can be done about it.
Dystopian films inevitably bring a sense of tension and a kind of inner revolt against the violation — or complete absence — of rights that we consider fundamental. As we watch, we begin negotiating with ourselves, with our emotions, and with the very limited choices we might have in such a world. And it is not easy to imagine giving up any of those rights: freedom of movement, freedom of choice, access to education, or simply the freedom to be who we are.
Films of this kind seem to make us reconsider our values and our choices. Somehow, you end up gaining a deeper understanding of yourself: who you are, how much you can tolerate, where your limits lie, what your true values are, and who you would like to become.
Whether we do it consciously or not, when we watch a film — especially one that challenges or threatens our deepest values — we somehow become part of the story. We analyse, we rebel, we make decisions. We rarely stumble upon a dystopian film by accident; usually, we choose to watch one. But once the film begins, something deeply human in us responds.
Sooner or later, the story brings us face to face with the question of courage — and courage can lead to only one thing: change.
We see courage as a gateway to liberation, to something new, to the freedom to be who we truly are. Courage does not emerge in a world without challenges. When everything is fine, there is peace, and you are content, what need is there for courage?
Courage, however, is not the absence of fear. If there is nothing to fear, there is no need for courage. Courage begins precisely where fear is present and a choice still has to be made.
This may be one of the reasons dystopian stories affect us so deeply. They place ordinary human beings in extraordinary circumstances and force them to choose between safety and integrity, obedience and freedom, silence and action.
In David Hawkins’ Map of Consciousness, courage is placed at level 200. Below that point, the model describes states such as shame, guilt, apathy, grief, fear, desire, anger, and pride. From this perspective, each of these states represents a different relationship with our own power and our ability to act.
If we look more closely at these emotions, we can see that many of them are also used — deliberately or otherwise — as mechanisms of control over human beings. Shame, guilt, fear, apathy, anger, and even pride can keep us trapped in patterns that make change difficult.
That is why, within Hawkins’ model, the level of courage can be understood as a kind of threshold between two very different worlds.
This is what we see in dystopian films: different forms of dictatorship, regardless of their nature — political or religious. Dictatorship comes to restrict, to suffocate, to stop, to deny, to destroy our very nature.
In films of this kind, we do not necessarily see the restriction of rights happening gradually. Instead, the story may begin on an ordinary day, with ordinary people living ordinary lives, and then suddenly something changes. That is precisely why the impact on the viewer can be so powerful.
The resignation, obedience, apathy, and fear of the characters eventually create a natural sense of revolt and indignation in us. We begin to ask ourselves: What would I do in that situation? What options would I have? How did things get this far?
We find ourselves asking these questions and experiencing those emotions because we are under a kind of mild hypnotic effect. Somewhere in our minds, we know that we are watching a film, and yet it still affects us.
When the characters are faced with a radical decision involving enormous risk, we begin to see — and negotiate within ourselves — the boundaries of our own courage.
“I could do that.”
“That’s too risky.”
“I don’t know if I could go that far.”
And although we are sitting safely on our sofas, our hearts may begin to beat a little too fast while our minds search for solutions. We are negotiating with ourselves.
The screen and the story unfolding before us become a mirror of our own beliefs and values. Through that mirror, we gain clarity about who we are, what we stand for, and what we might be willing to risk in order to remain true to ourselves.
The interesting thing about dystopian films is that, even after they have shaken us out of some of our illusions, new realisations can continue to emerge for weeks after watching them. Some of those realisations stay with us.
Somewhere deep in our souls, we know that we do not have to live through every kind of misery in order to learn from it. It is enough to see how certain changes or seemingly harmless beliefs begin — and where they can ultimately lead.
This may be one of the most unsettling lessons of dystopian stories: that what eventually becomes oppressive does not always begin that way. Sometimes it starts with something that appears reasonable, necessary, harmless, or even beneficial.
A small restriction. A small compromise. A rule introduced “for the greater good.” A decision made in the name of safety.
And then another.
And another.
In dystopian films, we see how a lack of flexibility can serve to protect a system that cannot allow itself to be questioned or challenged in any form. Creativity is punished, authenticity becomes dangerous, and anything that does not conform to the norm — literally and without exception — is forbidden.
The frightening part is not necessarily the existence of such a system. It is the possibility that it can be built gradually, through small changes that people learn to accept.
And perhaps this is why dystopian films stay with us long after the screen goes dark.
They do not simply show us a frightening future.
They ask us to look at ourselves in the present.
They make us wonder which values we would defend, which compromises we would make, where our limits lie, and whether we would recognise the moment when obedience becomes surrender.
So how does it all begin?
How does an ordinary society gradually arrive at a place where creativity is dangerous, authenticity is punished, and freedom becomes something that must be earned?
Here is a story you probably already know…
The story is widely known as an anonymous fable often attributed to Dr. Copeland or Reverend Dr. Copeland, though its exact origins are disputed. Some sources trace it to an Islamic fable called The Trap by Sheikh Umar Karamah.
A mouse looked through the crack in the wall to see the farmer and his wife open a package.
“What food might this contain?” the mouse wondered. He was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap. Retreating to the farmyard, the mouse proclaimed the warning: “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!”
The chicken clucked and scratched, raised her head and said, “Mr. Mouse, I can tell this is a grave concern to you, but it is of no consequence to me. I cannot be bothered by it.”
The mouse turned to the pig and told him, “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!”
The pig sympathized, but said, “I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse, but there is nothing I can do about it but pray. Be assured you are in my prayers.”
The mouse turned to the cow and said, “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!” The cow said, “Wow, Mr. Mouse. I’m sorry for you, but it’s no skin off my nose.”
So, the mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected, to face the farmer’s mousetrap — alone.
That very night a sound was heard throughout the house — like the sound of a mousetrap catching its prey. The farmer’s wife rushed to see what was caught. In the darkness, she did not see it was a venomous snake whose tail the trap had caught. The snake bit the farmer’s wife. The farmer rushed her to the hospital, and she returned home with a fever.
Everyone knows you treat a fever with fresh chicken soup, so the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard for the soup’s main ingredient.
But his wife’s sickness continued, so friends and neighbors came to sit with her around the clock. To feed them, the farmer butchered the pig.
The farmer’s wife did not get well; she died. So many people came for her funeral, the farmer had the cow slaughtered to provide enough meat for all of them.
The mouse looked upon it all from his crack in the wall with great sadness.
So, the next time you hear someone is facing a problem and think it doesn’t concern you, remember —when one of us is threatened, we are all at risk.