How Does Nihilistic Philosophy Influence Modern Films?

Modern films soaked in nihilism fascinate me because they don’t just wallow in despair—they turn it into something weirdly beautiful. Take 'The Batman' (2022), where Gotham’s corruption mirrors our own world’s chaos. It doesn’t offer tidy solutions, just a hero knee-deep in futility, yet still punching back. That messy persistence resonates. Even dark comedies like 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' use absurdity to say, 'Nothing matters? Cool, let’s make our own meaning.' These films don’t preach; they sit with you in the existential muck, offering companionship rather than answers.

What’s striking is how nihilism isn’t just a mood anymore—it’s a narrative tool. Directors like Yorgos Lanthimos ('The Lobster') weaponize emotional detachment to highlight how ridiculous societal rules are. The characters’ deadpan reactions to surreal horrors make you laugh until you realize you’re laughing at yourself. It’s nihilism with a wink, turning apathy into subversion. Meanwhile, A24’s indie darlings often flirt with meaninglessness to explore intimacy, like in 'A Ghost Story,' where cosmic insignificance somehow makes love feel sharper. These films don’t dismiss emotion; they frame it as brave defiance against the void.

Nihilism in film used to mean black-and-white French New Wave smokers staring into abysses. Now? It’s baked into everything. 'Rick and Morty’s' influence is undeniable—multiverse stories like 'Doctor Strange 2' borrow its 'nothing matters, so let’s wreck stuff' energy. But there’s nuance. 'The Banshees of Inisherin' turns nihilism into a quiet tragedy: a man discarding friendships because life’s too short for mediocrity. It’s brutal yet hilarious, like most modern takes. We’ve learned to coat the bitter pill in meme culture and existential humor, making the abyss feel like a shared inside joke.

As a Gen Z’er drowning in climate dread and late-stage capitalism memes, nihilistic films just get it. They’re not depressing—they’re validating. 'Don’t Look Up' nailed that vibe: screaming into the void while everyone scrolls past. It’s cathartic! Even horror leans into this now. 'Midsommar' isn’t about escaping cults; it’s about choosing your flavor of madness because sanity’s a scam anyway. TikTok edits of these scenes go viral because we all feel that simmering 'why bother?' under the surface.

But here’s the twist: nihilism in film has become weirdly hopeful. When 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' says nothing matters, it’s freeing—you can prioritize joy without cosmic pressure. Or take 'Bojack Horseman' (okay, not a film, but its influence bleeds into movies). Its famous 'the universe is a cruel void' monogram gets quoted endlessly because it ends with, 'You gotta do it anyway.' That’s the modern take: nihilism as a starting line, not a dead end.

I teach high school literature, and my students constantly drag nihilistic themes from films into class discussions. 'Fight Club' used to be their go-to, but now it’s stuff like 'Joker'—stories where society’s collapse isn’t a threat but a given. What’s interesting is how these films reframe rebellion. Older nihilistic works often felt like angry manifestos, but today’s versions are more exhausted than explosive. 'Nomadland' doesn’t rage against systems; it quietly steps outside them, finding pockets of meaning in transience.

Even blockbusters play with this. 'Avengers: Infinity War' shocked audiences by letting the villain win, underlining how control is an illusion. My students eat this up because it mirrors their reality: school shootings, unaffordable homes, algorithms dictating their futures. Nihilistic films don’t scare them—they feel like the only honest storytelling left.