The power of redemption: Remaking masculinity in Children of Men

The year is 2027, and the world is going to shit. In order to prevent total government collapse, London has become a fascist police state, rounding up illegal immigrants by the truckload while attempting to hold back armed rebel groups. As if this weren't grim enough, it turns out that no children have been born in eighteen years. The gritty premise of Alfonso Cuaron's newest film is a far cry from the irreverant sexual escapades of his acclaimed 2001 film, Y Tu Mama Tambien. Like Y Tu Mama, however, Children of Men affirms fundamental values of human existence, in a deeply compelling story about the power of hope and salvation.

The film centers around Theo (Clive Owen), who "lost his faith by chance" when his son died. A former radical, he is now completely disillusioned with his life and the world in general. When his former lover-turned quasi-terrorist revolutionary Julian (Julianne Moore) entrusts him with the mission of delivering a miraculously pregnant immigrant woman to safety, he rediscovers a sense of purpose and meaning to his own life.

Cuaron's critique of current anti-immigration policy is less than subtle (vans transporting illegal immigrants to camps are marked "Homeland Security") yet he also refrains from idealizing the revolutionaries, who come across as no less fascist than the government.

So who are the true heroes of the film? Is it Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey), the woman whose baby represents hope for the future of mankind? Not exactly. Like so many mother figures, her main purpose is a symbolic one; it is her womb that promises to deliver salvation to the world, and her identity that drives home Cuaron's views on the value of immigration (is it an accident that her name is a homonym for "key"?). Despite the centrality of her role, never is the audience asked to identify with her as an individual.

The film may be set against the backdrop of Third World upheaval, but the plot in fact centers on a crisis of white masculinity. Theo is the very picture of emasculation; sitting in his white collar office surrounded by crying women he looks utterly disgusted with himself. In contrast to the masculine images of the police, the rebels, and even Baby Diego, Theo is passive, almost inert. His furtive swigs of whiskey are about the only thing that get him through the day.

In a complete gender reversal of the kidnapping scenario, it is Julian who kidnaps Theo. Julian exhibits all the traditionally masculine qualities that Theo so conspicuously lacks: aggression, self confidence, control. Yet this positionality is untenable; she is destroyed by her (male) comrades. Her character does play an important role in terms of enabling Theo to regain his masculinity, however. Much to Kee's disbelief, Julian recounts stories of Theo's virile activist past. Imagining Theo as a masculine subject requires his (hetero)sexualization via his relationship with Julian. Yet the power Julian wields also bars Theo from assuming a similar position, until the void created by Julian's death provides the impetus for him to act.

David Savran argues that what he terms "reflexive sadomasochism" came to characterize a new form of white masculinity in the 1990s. As white men embraced a discourse of victimization, they redefined masculinity in terms of the ability to "take it like a man". In Theo's final scene, he reveals to Kee that he is mortally wounded. Ironically, his own victimization demonstrates his masculinity; the fact that he was able to stoically sustain the wound shows that he has finally proved his manhood.

Theo's interpellation into the role of Kee's protector and guardian reinstates the patriarchal relationship he gave up when he lost his family. But this relationship is based less on power than on sacrifice. In accepting this role, Theo finally has something to live for. Of course, the flip side of the coin is that he also has something to die for. Hope for the future is represented not by the baby itself, but by the heroic acts done on its behalf. In this sense, the sacrifice of Theo's life for the future of humanity thus suggests the possibility of redemption not only for him, but for the world as a whole.

In many ways Children of Men is an emblematic film for the Left. Indeed, its critique of social policy and affirmation of diversity appeal directly to the prevailing strain of leftist thought. Most convincing, however, is its commitment to reproductive futurism and a politics of sacrifice (more on this here). Cutler points out that the anti-war movement embraces the rhetoric of sacrifice even as they protest the sacrifice of soldiers and civilians. Children of Men provides a humanistic alternative to war, yet that alternative is grounded in a narrative of white male victimization and sacrifice. The crisis of white masculinity is thus resolved through the very same tropes that have traditionally defined femininity and womanhood. Good luck with that, guys.