There are few punchlines with the same bite as an authoritarian dystopia. It’s effectiveness grows tenfold when you mix in Batman.
One of the most effective ways to disengage the very real notions of a society devoid of any agency is to laugh at it. Despite the horrors rife within one of the most famous examples of dystopia, Oceania of 1984, George Orwell was keen to the power of irony. One instance of the novel details Tom Parsons, whose undying allegiance to Big Brother inadvertently compels him to mutter “down with Big Brother” in his sleep, yielding his arrest and demise at the hands of his own children. Despite an intense desire to conform, the quirks of an individual tend to always work against the influence of a systemic regime. Even when an authority seems to push a false, curated idea of exception like within Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, the façade quickly comes apart at the seams (usually at the detriment of the protagonist) when actual exception rises to the surface. While these and other dystopian examinations are sharp, few dissect overwhelming authority through the lens of a figure utterly prescribed to the society quite like Phil Lord and Christopher Miller’s The LEGO Movie.
Though the Lego film franchise pulls inspiration from stop-motion animation, they were primarily made through CGI. Please consider viewing some of its influences during your cinematic voyage.
Touting one of the most recognizable IPs buffered by one of the most relentlessly catchy songs of 2014, The LEGO Movie sincerely realizes the role of an individual against the backdrop of a dystopia. Additionally, the film takes an affirmative stance against expectation and oscillation in favor of one’s own gambit at possible failure and creative genius. Amid it all, however, is a figure who is genuinely content with the simple allocations his system provides, even with the certainty of a perpetual and stagnant existence. Yet as The LEGO Movie contends, even self-assumed compliance can falter with the injection of understanding.
Like the vast majority of dystopian works, The LEGO Movie wears the rubric of its system on its plastic arm piece. The film traces Emmet (Chris Pratt), a constructor minifigure high on the parameters of his life. Finding fulfillment in the literal instructions covering everything from enjoying breakfast to greeting his neighborhood, Emmet finds little need to diverge. Instead, he finds this conformity spreads infectious happiness. If the city operates off of this collective glee, he feels there is no need for any kind of tangential musing. Almost identically to Sam Lowry of Brazil, however, Emmet is influenced by a greater sense of intimacy. The notion to work against his rather agreeable dystopia isn’t catalyzed by the appropriately deemed “Piece of Resistance,” but instead his compulsion to Wyldstyle (Elizabeth Banks). Ironically, Emmet’s compulsion to connect with others, a function he is very much designed to fulfill as a LEGO figurine, is also grounds for subversion.
Emmet is contrasted by Lord Business (Will Ferrell), the sole proprietor of The LEGO Movie’s dystopian authority. Unlike the disembodied icons such as Big Brother, Lord Business’ presence makes the notion of a dystopia more accessible. Similar to Emmet’s motivations in early sequences of the film, he too is compelled by a sense of conformity and, perhaps even more so, consistency. Whereas the notion of failure is distant to Emmet until much later down his path towards agency, Lord Business is violently defensive against anything momentary and unintentional. In essence, Lord Business represents the struggle between utility and creativity. For instance, he is not opposed to art and joy, as he proudly projects the film’s central tune, “Everything is Awesome,” throughout his world in some iteration or another. What he cannot tolerate is the fluidity of purpose.
The inconsistency of purpose and meaning, not unlike an aimless child assembling an amorphous, LEGO gargantuan, is the ultimate bane of the film’s dystopia. This notion is not obvious at the film’s onset or even made apparent when Emmet is first accepted into the coalition of Master Builders. The opposite is true actually, as the sorcerer Vitruvius (Morgan Freeman) suggests Emmet is “the one” foretold in an ancient destiny. Prophecy, despite often wielded against abusive systems of authority in heroic fiction, are still dependent on a foundation of form. Though maybe a bit more illustrious, a heroic destiny isn’t much different than Emmet’s instructions for enjoying television. It is, more or less, a tangent of the branch the dystopia finds itself snagged. The true rebuke of the system, and thus the dystopia, comes from forgoing any notion of pre-destination. When the purpose is static, it inevitably grows stagnant. Over time, the dystopia can do little more than cling to its decaying cause and force the perpetual, like with a coveted bottle of hobby glue.
Despite its cartoonish demeanor, The LEGO Movie seeks to venture beyond the apathetic precedent
established by most dystopian media in its climax. After Emmet’s team of
builders successfully infiltrate Lord Business’ lair, a battle ensues. At its culmination,
Emmet and the “piece of resistance” are hurled into the abyss, where Emmit sees
his world for what it is: A literal playset and the source of much contention
between a lifelong hobbyist and his inquisitive son. Through the child and his
father’s argument, he effectively ascends to a new level of understanding. Upon
his return to his universe, he is able to jar Lord Business into an epiphany:
Authority is not an agent in of itself, but instead operates on the collective
belief of those maintaining it. Likewise, Lord Business’ dependence upon instruction,
even if he is enforcing them, is a detriment to his own agency. Thus, the
system of authority he operates is a defensive impulse crippling his ability to
obtain true gratification. Thus, if Lord Business is truly seeking an impact,
he cannot reasonably expect instruction or societal stasis to bring him
anywhere close to it.
With regard to dystopia, The LEGO Movie offers both a reevaluation of its composition, as well as a unique interpretation of its demise. Just as a brick-covered cityscape can be assembled, so to can it be torn apart and rebuilt into something different, like a Millennium Falcon with ostrich legs.
