Why Do Filmmakers Reference Overman Nietzsche In Movies?

You can see Nietzsche's 'Übermensch' cropping up in anime so often that it almost becomes a cozy inside joke among late-night watchers — and I love spotting it. For me, the clearest pattern is the arc where a character refuses the shackles of conventional morality and decides to create their own values. Think of 'Death Note': Light's trajectory reads like a warped parody of self-overcoming. He wants to impose a new moral order, convinced his will is superior; that arrogance mirrors the danger of misreading the 'Übermensch' as a license for tyranny rather than self-mastery. On a brighter note, shows like 'Gurren Lagann' celebrate the positive side of Nietzsche — the ecstatic will to power and joyful creation of meaning. Kamina and Simon push past limits, reinvent themselves, and shape their world through sheer ambition and belief. 'Berserk' complicates this: Griffith's sublime charisma and ruthless ambition are Übermensch-ish on the surface but remind me how Nietzsche’s idea can be twisted into something monstrous when empathy is sacrificed. I end up watching scenes differently now: when a protagonist dismantles old rules or literally rewrites reality, I ask whether they're engaging in honest self-overcoming or just playing god. It's a neat lens that makes rewatching 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' and 'Fullmetal Alchemist' way more fun — you catch philosophical breadcrumbs between the action beats, and it sparks great debates with friends over ramen.

My bookshelf is cluttered with characters who tried to become more than human, and that collision of stories taught me how the 'overman' idea shows up in modern fiction. Nietzsche's original notion of the Übermensch was about creating new values and overcoming the limitations of existing morals — not about brute force or domination. In novels, comics, anime, and films this gets translated into characters who refuse to accept the rules they're given: they reinvent themselves, reinvent society, or are driven by a vision that puts them above ordinary law and sympathy. A lot of contemporary portrayals split into two flavors. One is aspirational: protagonists who push beyond self-imposed limits, emphasize self-mastery, and change the world through creativity or courage. The other is cautionary: characters who declare themselves superior and become tyrants or tragic figures, because their 'higher' values crush the humanity around them. Think of the cold, utilitarian genius who justifies sacrifice, or the charismatic leader whose charisma masks cruelty. Stories like 'Watchmen' and 'Death Note' riff on this by showing how power and moral revaluation warp people. Even more mythic works—'Dune' or 'Berserk'—play with the idea that becoming an overman can demand monstrous choices. What I love about modern takes is how writers use the trope to ask messy questions: who gets to remake morality, and what does it cost? Sometimes the overman is heroic, sometimes monstrous, often both. If you're reading for this theme, watch for characters who rewrite rules, shoulder isolation, or insist on a future that discards the past—and notice whether the story rewards or punishes them. That tension is where the best discussions live, and it keeps me coming back to the shelf at midnight.

Lately I've been playing with the idea of folding Nietzsche's overman into fanfiction, and it's surprisingly fun when handled with care. For me the key is treating the overman as a thematic tool, not a banner to rally under. That means using the concept to ask hard questions in-story: what does self-overcoming look like for a character who grew up with trauma? How does striving for autonomy clash with community responsibilities? I like to start with a short epigraph from 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' to set the mood, then immediately cut to the messy human consequences—failed experiments, moral blind spots, or the loneliness of someone who refuses conventional norms. Showing mistakes and costs keeps things honest and prevents the story from slipping into purity or superiority narratives. Ethically, I also pay attention to tags, content warnings, and context. If a scene flirts with elitism or violence, I flag it and frame it through critical perspectives in the narration: have other characters challenge the protagonist's reasoning; include historical context about how Nietzsche's ideas were misused; or show the emotional fallout when ideals meet real people. I sometimes blend in voices from other philosophers or literature—an unreliable narrator quoting 'Beyond Good and Evil', or a mentor who reads 'The Birth of Tragedy' aloud—to create dialogue rather than dogma. That keeps the piece exploratory. In short, make it reflective, not prescriptive, and let your characters suffer, learn, and contradict themselves—because that’s where interesting ethical exploration lives.

Okay, quick confession: I get a little giddy hunting down legit merch, so this question made me smile. If you want legally produced items that feature 'Overman Nietzsche' iconography, the safest bet is official licensed merchandise sold through the series' rights holders or their authorized retailers. That includes things like scale figures, model kits, art prints, t-shirts, enamel pins, posters, phone cases, and special edition Blu-rays/DVDs that reproduce the mecha art or logo under license. Official product pages will typically carry copyright notices (© or ®) and list the production company, studio, or licensee—those little lines are your best proof that something’s aboveboard. Another solid route is licensed collaborations and limited-run collabs with trusted brands: think apparel lines, premium watch or bag collaborations, and sanctioned convention exclusives run by the licensor. Licensed video game tie-ins, tabletop releases, and soundtrack albums also legally use the iconography when they're produced under contract. On the flip side, be wary of mass-market knockoffs and unauthorized reproductions on generic marketplaces; they often lack the copyright markings and come from sellers who won’t provide licensing info. If you want to create or sell something yourself, you either need explicit permission from the IP owner or to stick to wholly original designs inspired by themes rather than copying specific visual elements. In Japan there's also a large doujin culture where fan goods circulate—it's culturally tolerated in many circles but still technically derivative unless the rights holder permits it. Personally I browse official store feeds and collector forums, check packaging for © lines, and avoid anything that looks too bootleggy. It keeps my shelves legit and my conscience clear.

If you're curious about the whole Overman thing and want something readable without the academic fog, start with readable collections and approachable introductions rather than diving straight into aphorisms. I’d recommend beginning with 'The Portable Nietzsche' edited and translated by Walter Kaufmann — it gives you a curated set of texts (including bits from 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra', 'Beyond Good and Evil', and 'The Gay Science') and Kaufmann’s introductions are super helpful for a modern reader. Pair that with 'Nietzsche: A Very Short Introduction' by Michael Tanner for a tight, clear orientation on Nietzsche’s life, themes, and common misunderstandings. If you like visuals, 'Introducing Nietzsche' by Richard Appignanesi and Oscar Zarate is a comic-style primer that makes the big ideas, including the Übermensch, feel less intimidating. After those, read 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' itself — but pick a good translation (Kaufmann or R. J. Hollingdale are trustworthy). And if you want a deeper companion to the philosophy side, Walter Kaufmann’s 'Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist' unpacks Nietzsche’s language and historical context in a readable way. My trick: read small Zarathustra sections, jot down striking lines, and then flip to Kaufmann or Tanner to see how scholars interpret them. That keeps the poetic thrill alive while grounding you in clearer meanings and prevents common misreadings of the Overman.

Honestly, I get a little giddy thinking about how novelists have taken Nietzsche’s idea of the overman and put it through so many narrative refractors. At its core the overman is about self-overcoming, the creation of values, and the rejection of herd morality — but modern writers rarely present that as a cool, blinding ideal anymore. Instead, they remix it: sometimes as satire, sometimes as a bleak warning, sometimes as an experiment in posthuman possibility. Take the satirical and horror-tinged route: authors like Bret Easton Ellis in 'American Psycho' or Chuck Palahniuk in 'Fight Club' almost riff on the overman by showing the dark flipside of someone who rejects social norms. Patrick Bateman and Tyler Durden both try to forge new values through violent, nihilistic acts, and the novels force readers to ask whether self-creation without empathy becomes monstrous. Then you have graphic-novel authors who explore Nietzschean themes visually — 'Watchmen' and 'V for Vendetta' give us characters who assume godlike power to remake society, which raises the classic Nietzschean tension: who gets to decide new values, and at what cost? On the sci-fi side, writers like Charles Stross in 'Accelerando' or Greg Egan in 'Permutation City' push the idea forward into posthumanism: the overman becomes a literal technological transcendence, a mind uploaded or genetically engineered to outrun human limits. Other novelists respond with critique; Cormac McCarthy’s 'Blood Meridian' or even Margaret Atwood’s 'Oryx and Crake' present figures who look like creators or superior beings but whose projects produce horror or emptiness. Across forms, modern novels often treat Nietzsche’s overman not as a blueprint but as a question mark — a way to interrogate power, ethics, and what it means to remake oneself or the world. For me, the best treatments keep that moral tension alive rather than turning the overman into a one-note idol.

I'm always tickled when philosophical ideas turn up in manga, and Nietzsche's notion of the Übermensch and related themes (will to power, revaluation of values, death of God, eternal recurrence) pop up more than you'd think. For me, a few titles stand out as deliberate or organic reworkings of those motifs. 'Berserk' is the big one I always bring up: Guts and Griffith play contrasting roles in a story about ambition, transcendence, and what you sacrifice to become 'more than human.' Griffith's drive to remake the world in his image screams a Nietzschean will to power, and the Gut's relentless struggle interrogates what it means to assert one’s own values after the old gods and orders collapse. Then there's 'Death Note' — Light's attempt to become a judge and creator of morality is textbook Übermensch hubris, while L and others force a re-examination of right and wrong. On a different wavelength, 'Akira' and 'Blame!' explore post-human evolution and the terrifying possibilities of surpassing humanity through power or technology. 'Devilman' and 'Fist of the North Star' channel more visceral ideas of a new kind of humanity emerging through violence and sacrifice. For subtler takes, 'Vinland Saga' wrestles with revaluating resentment and the possibility of creating freedom-based values, while 'Pluto' and 'Monster' probe what 'humanity' and moral responsibility mean when the old certainties crumble. If you like psychological twists, 'Homunculus' and 'Parasyte' offer inner-transformation angles that echo Nietzsche's focus on self-overcoming. If you want a reading plan: start with one overt dark fantasy like 'Berserk', then contrast it with a cerebral thriller like 'Death Note' and a post-human sci-fi like 'Akira'. It makes the recurring Nietzschean threads jump out, and you'll have fun arguing on forums afterward.

When music and philosophy tangle in my head, the soundtrack I reach for most is the one from 'Berserk' — especially the 1997 series material and Susumu Hirasawa's later contributions. There's something about Hirasawa's mix of electronic pulses, ritualistic chanting, and fractured melodies that feels like a soundtrack for someone trying to break every chain around them. Nietzsche's idea of the Übermensch isn't just brute strength; it's an aesthetic, a reinvention of values after catastrophe. Hirasawa's tracks sound like that reinvention — beautiful, impulsive, and weirdly triumphant in a landscape that has been burned down. I often put on 'Forces' or the darker, more ambient pieces when I'm sketching characters or revisiting themes of self-overcoming in fiction. The music frames struggle as something almost sacred: pain becomes a forge, solitude becomes discipline. Compared to more orchestral or cinematic scores, this OST feels intimate and abrasive at once, which to me maps onto Nietzsche's push to create meaning in the aftermath of nihilism. If you want a soundtrack that smells of scorched earth and possibility, 'Berserk' is the place to start; others like 'Akira' or 'Ghost in the Shell' lean into the apocalyptic and the metaphysical, but Hirasawa nails that raw, trembling insistence to become more than you were. Honestly, sometimes I play it while reading passages from 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' and laugh at how perfectly a synth stab can underline Zarathustra's contempt for the herd — it's music that makes you want to stop apologizing for your ambitions.