To my estimation, the most devastating moment in Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer, arguably the director's magnus opus, isn't the apocalyptic euphoria of atomic detonation. Rather, it's the quietly explosive confrontation between J. Robert Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy) and sitting U.S. President Truman (Gary Oldman, in a cameo appearance).
After Oppenheimer voices his opposition against the militarization of atomic energy — effectively warning against entering Cold War with Soviet Russia — Truman, who had welcomed Oppenheimer with pleasantries, is now visibly irked. The decorated physicist is clearly haunted by his role in the Manhattan Project, which has resulted in the abject devastation of an estimated 246,000 Japanese. With the war over, Oppenheimer seeks to make amends on behalf of himself, on behalf of science, on behalf of whatever god might ever bother to listen to him, while in the political arena Oppenheimer's many past Communist Party ties are now against him.
When Oppenheimer expresses remorse in the Oval Office, saying to Truman, "I have blood on my hands," the sarcastic president reaches for his handkerchief. Upon leaving the room, Oppenheimer hears a mocking Truman belt out: "Don't let that crybaby back in here."
Despite his sterling reputation as a true 21st century Hollywood auteur, I believe Nolan's body of work to be tremendously misunderstood. While surface appearances of his movies are typically steely and icy, cool to the touch via Nolan's devotion to mathematical patterns, there lie vast dimensions of compulsive compassion. Like energy waves that convince atoms that matter is solid, Nolan's sense of empathy and love for mankind and interest in its sustained well-being are as tiny as molecules, but ever present as the crucial forces that bond his work together.
It is beyond Oppenheimer. It is in Tenet, his sci-fi James Bond homage that ultimately posits we already have the strength and resolve in ourselves to see our better future. It is in Dunkirk, a harrowing war drama with a ticking clock whose abundance of darkness invites the little glimmers of hope to shine even brighter. It is in Inception, a story fueled by one man's need to get back home and absolve himself of guilt, the key to which lies in convincing another man that his distant father loved him so much that he ought to make something of himself. It is spread throughout his Dark Knight trilogy, a good old-fashioned tale of heroism driven by a search for justice. It is especially in Interstellar, a movie marinated in Nolan's own wishes for humanity's survival across the stars, propelled by love as the most powerful thing in the known universe. Nolan's other films — Following, Memento, Insomnia, The Prestige, and more — have fainter traces of the director's sensitivity, but it's not hard to parse through them all to find them.
Nolan just may be the most crucial director to help us understand our immediate uncertainty. Our world is infinitely colder and more cynical than it's felt in years. We will have to put on a strong face if we wish to survive a second Trump term. I don't believe Nolan intended to draw parallels between Truman (an FDR Democrat with a remarkable record for civil rights and national health care reform) and modern figures like Trump, a careless fascist — nor has Christopher Nolan ever expressed his explicit political stances. Anyone looking to figure the director's politics out are left to infer in his movies, which zig-zag all over the political spectrum. But it's hard to ignore what Nolan's interpretation of Oppenheimer and Truman's meeting represents: an instructive lesson on what it will take to keep our principles in the face of hostile leadership.
