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The trolley problem, which was coined by Judith Jarvis Thomson and first proposed by Phillipa Foot, and its variants, are one of the most well known ethical dilemmas. In the problem, you are essentially given the choice of taking an action which would sacrifice one, or in some cases a small number of people, for the good of the many. The original problem was whether a trolley driver should switch tracks to kill one person working on the tracks, or stay on the track he was on and kill five workers. Variations of this dilemma have various levels of involvement and responsibility. ‘The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas’ can be interpreted as a variation of the trolley problem. Either the child is left to suffer for the benefit of every citizen of Omelas, or the child is rescued and the utopia of Omelas would be gone. In this essay, I will argue that Omelas is a significantly more powerful moral dilemma which forces us to confront our own nature in a way that the trolley problem does not.

In the essay, Killing, Letting Die, and The Trolley Problem, by Judith Jarvis Thomson in which she coins the term ‘The Trolley Problem’, she discusses whether killing is morally worse than letting die, and how what is morally right or permissible can change due to the level of personal involvement and other factors, even if the outcome is the came either way. The conclusion she draws is that killing is generally worse than letting die, although, ‘...there are circumstances in which—even if it is true that killing is worse than letting die- one may choose to kill instead of letting die.’ Now, this isn’t a direct parallel with Omelas since in the story there is no killing or dying on either side. What Omelas does, as a trolley problem, is present us with something we’re far more likely to encounter in real life- happiness and misery. Another way they diverge is the question of where the citizens of Omelas would be in the trolley problem. It’s clear that the child is the single worker on the right hand track, but are the citizens the five tied to the tracks, or the driver? To me it seems that the people believe they are the ones tied to the tracks, the many that are saved by the sacrifice of the few. What they might not want to think about is the fact that they are also the driver, and they all have the power to turn the course of the trolley if they so choose. So, where are the ones who walk away?

The second major difference is the fact that the sacrifice is reversed. In every version of the trolley problem, the action that preserves the most lives is the one that relies on active participation or interference, and the one that demands no involvement at all is the option that sacrifices the most. The thing that makes the trolley problem such a powerful ethical dilemma is the action that is demanded of the ‘driver’, the person being questioned with this dilemma. Essentially, the choice between killing or letting die. If the track the trolley was headed towards only had one worker at risk and the track that could be diverted towards had five, there would be no debate at all. And yet, this is essentially the world that Omelas presents, where you could do nothing and thousands would benefit, or do something and thousands would suffer, and it is an equally if not more powerful moral dilemma. Is it that the child has ‘more claim’, as Thomson puts it, on happiness? Do the residents of Omelas deserve to have their utopia stripped away for the crime of allowing the child to suffer? Would it simply be returning order to the world, which should never have been upturned in the first place? Generally, people seem to agree that saving the child is at the least morally permissible, which highly contradicts utilitarian theories of morality. If this would condemn thousands of people to misery, why is it deemed to be a moral action? If this is a moral action then why is there a lack of people committing to wanting to save the child?

My next text, Revisiting External Validity: Concerns about Trolley Problems and Other Sacrificial Dilemmas in Moral Psychology, argues that ‘...sacrificial dilemmas may lack experimental, mundane, and psychological realism and therefore suffer from low external validity.’ Essentially, abstract and unrealistic hypotheticals such as the trolley problem are incapable of accurately reflecting the kind of rationales and actions humans take in real life ethical dilemmas. ‘[Their] apprehensions stem from three observations about trolley problems and other similar sacrificial dilemmas: (i) they are amusing rather than sobering, (ii) they are unrealistic and unrepresentative of the moral situations people encounter in the real world, and (iii) they do not elicit the same psychological processes as other moral situations.’ I would argue that the dilemma presented in Omelas is the answer to each of these qualms. Omelas is certainly sobering. One star reviews of the story accuse it of being too sobering. One reviewer called it ‘morally depraved and [lacking] lingering innocence [they] feel should be included’. Others called it ‘disturbing and depressing’ and claimed it made them feel ‘genuinely sick’. (taken from the Goodreads reviews.) You’d also be hard pressed to make the argument that Omelas does not reflect real world moral situations. The text is primarily understood to be a criticism of exploitation of underdeveloped countries at the hands of developed countries, a system that nearly every person in the world benefits or suffers from in one way or another. Even the descriptions of the whimsical utopia and bizarrely horrible conditions of the suffering child are not entirely unrealistic- the utopia is reminiscent of the Woodstock music festival and a hippie lifestyle, and the child brings to mind images of emaciated children from places such as Africa or South East Asia. And as for psychological realism, I would argue that this is where this text excels.

Psychological realism is whether or not the same psychological responses are elicited from a story or dilemma as they would in real life. I believe that psychological realism is exhibited both in the fictional world of Omelas and in the readers who are consuming the story as a moral dilemma akin to the Trolley Problem. Omelas is a realistic work of psychological fiction due to the believability of the Omelas residents’ psychological processes. They display some core human emotions and responses such as guilt, disgust, and self preservation. We can tell that every resident of Omelas truly enjoys their life in Omelas and they have no wish to sacrifice it. They do not enjoy the suffering of the child, but they will find some way to justify it to themselves, because their core desire for self preservation comes first. This touches on an aspect of human nature that isn’t fun to acknowledge. We’re an intelligent species and we love to believe that our choices and actions are based on intelligent decisions and morality. We want to believe that we have free will. But as shown by the people of Omelas, the things we think we believe out of facts and logic may actually just be whichever beliefs benefit us the most, with justifications cherry-picked by our subconscious absolve us of guilt. We watch this happen in the minds of the people of Omelas. ‘...as time goes on they begin to realise that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no real doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in.’ Somehow, the people of Omelas are able to convince themselves that it would in fact be a detriment to the child to rescue it from the cellar, and that rescuing it would not do the child much good, or at least not enough to justify the sacrifice. This conclusion absolves them of the guilt of inaction. If there is nothing that can be done, then they have no moral obligation to do anything. This may sound like a pretty unfavourable analysis of human nature but unfortunately it seems to me that it is true, and the reason we own smartphones and wear mass produced clothing and eat meat. Most people are aware that child slave labour is responsible for constructing electrical components used in phones, mass produced clothing is made in sweatshops, and most meat comes from animals who are treated cruelly and killed inhumanely. When we look at the grand scheme of things, nearly every modern convenience we enjoy is at the expense of someone or something else, and yet we continue to consume. But we all need phones, and we can’t always afford ethically made garments, and the animals have already been killed anyway so we may as well eat their meat. And at least these processes are still creating jobs, jobs that might not be available otherwise to people in the impoverished nations where cobalt is mined and sweatshops operate. What would the people of Omelas think of us if they saw some of the justifications our people came up with? To answer the question at the end of the first section, the reason that people hold back from ever entirely condemning the people of Omelas or committing to rescuing the child, is that we understand on a subconscious level that to condemn Omelas is to condemn ourselves and each other.

Now that I’ve developed this connection, we can examine what it says about the ones who walk away from Omelas. The translation of ‘walking away’ to the real world is undefined and up for personal interpretation. Maybe it’s going off grid, or refusing to take part in consumerist culture. In a literal sense it could be moving to another country where exploitation is not so prevalent, or in a morbid sense, it could even be thought of as taking your own life, which is perhaps the only way to completely leave behind a world in which you benefit from exploitation. The lack of a clear path to walking away in real life as you can from Omelas was intentional. Omelas is not intended to give us any sort of answer. Le Guin herself probably doesn’t even have the answer.

The ambiguous nature of the text is intentional and a commentary of our own lives. There is no simple, straightforward answer. Walking away from Omelas does not do anything to alleviate the child’s suffering just like withholding from consuming products of exploitation does nothing to change global systems. This text is not supposed to give us any moral lesson or tell us what to do. All it does is encourages us to think about our own rationales and to be more self aware. This is what makes it such an impactful moral dilemma; there’s no easy answer, and maybe no answer at all. But it forces us to examine ourselves in a way that problems such as the trolley problem cannot.

Introduction

The technological and scientific advancements of humanity have defined our species for as long as we have existed, and have been a cause of fear and controversy for almost as long. From as early as the start of the nineteenth century, we have speculated on our place in the world alongside technology. Frankenstein, written by Mary Shelley, is widely regarded as the first science fiction novel ever written, and depicts the hubris of a man who doesn't understand or care about the consequences of his creation. This is a theme that carries on throughout the centuries. Like Frankenstein, we continue to endeavour to create life that should not exist and harness powers that we cannot control, and like Frankenstein, we suffer from our hubris as a species. Our most significant advancements seem to always have two goals; either to mimic ourselves, or to destroy each other. These themes are shown in my texts- ‘No Ordinary Sun’ by Hone Tūwhare depicts the nuclear destruction and perversion of the natural world, ‘I Sing the Body Electric’ by Ray Bradbury shows how technology can take our place, and ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’ by Ray Bradbury shows the destruction and replacement of humanity coming hand in hand.

Destruction

The most obvious fear to come from our technological developments is the fear of nuclear destruction. This fear was at its peak during the Cold War, which started in 1947. The arms race between the United States of America and the USSR took place during this time, as well as the devastating nuclear attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. Humanity had witnessed the complete annihilation that nuclear power was capable of, and many lived in constant fear of a nuclear apocalypse. The technology was ready and available- scientists had harnessed the power of the sun. This fear is what inspired the texts ‘No Ordinary Sun’ by Hone Tūwhare and ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’ by Ray Bradbury. ‘No Ordinary Sun’ stands out from other science fiction texts about nuclear destruction as it was not written by someone from a country with any significant world power and influence in the nuclear arms race, but by a Māori author from Aotearoa. This poem conveys the feeling of helplessness the country would have felt, with the threat of being caught in the crossfire of a nuclear war they had no say hovering over them. The poem uses the metaphor of a tree to represent humanity, and begins with the line, ‘Tree let your arms fall’. This line sets the tone for this poem. It tells us that there is no point in fighting, in standing strong against the nuclear threat. The poem continues, ‘raise them not sharply in supplication / to the bright enhaloed cloud.’ The descriptor ‘enhaloed’ brings to mind Christian angels, immensely powerful tools of God, often depicted throughout history as haloed by a bright light behind their heads. But the narrator tells the tree to raise its arms not sharply in supplication- this enhaloed cloud, a reference to the shape created by a nuclear explosion, is not angel, and has no care for any humble begging. It will not and cannot show mercy. The poem continues as a message of doom for the tree- let your arms lack toughness and resilience, your sap shall not rise again to the moon’s pull, your former shagginess shall not be wreathed with the delightful flight of birds. The fourth stanza ends with the line, ‘for this / is no ordinary sun’, the title of the poem. The sun has brought us life, and technology will annihilate it. This comparison shows how humanity is able to manipulate natural power into a perversion of itself. The poem ends with a sense of finality, now describing the post-nuclear landscape. ‘O tree / in the shadowless mountains / the white plains and / the drab sea floor / your end at last is written.’ ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’ shares this sense of quiet finality of human life. It describes the patches of paint on the west face of the house where the shapes of the family were silhouetted in their last moments as the bomb hit. The quiet absence of the people from this day-in-the-life of the American nuclear family emphasises how the world has simply carried on without their presence.

Religion

Religion developed alongside human civilization as a way to explain phenomena that could not be understood by the people of the time. The idea of gods or something greater than ourselves has influenced culture and literature for as long as culture and literature have existed. But as our scientific understanding of the world develops and takes the place of religion in society, we have had to grapple to find new gods to reassure us in our place in the world. Some fancied themselves as the new gods, for what is a god but something that can create new life? This was identified by German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who famously said ‘God is dead’, 64 years after the novel Frankenstein was published. Frankenstein is a prime example of this idea. It places the power to create new life, previously held only by gods, in the hands of a rogue scientist named Victor Frankenstein. Frankenstein’s use of science to defy God reflects attitudes at the time, at the end of the age of enlightenment and in the midst of the industrial revolution. Humanity was building the new Tower of Babel.
Frankenstein’s hubris and defiance of the natural order of the world is a central theme of the novel. Using parts of dead bodies, he creates a monster. Immediately upon seeing his creation, he is filled with regret and abandons the monster, who is left to wander alone after being cast away by his creator. The monster goes on to kill Frankenstein’s brother, and rather than take responsibility for his creation, he allows an innocent girl to be executed for the crime. This pattern of Frankenstein refusing to take responsibility for his actions continues on throughout the novel, and ultimately leads to the death of all his loved ones, and then himself. This lack of accountability is a theme which has followed many modern scientific and technological advancements, such as the mass industrialisation of the industrial revolution and its effects on the climate, and more recently, artificial intelligence.
‘There Will Come Soft Rains’ also places humans in the role of gods. It describes the house as ‘an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, attending, in choirs.’ Each line of code and metal neuron is a worshipper of their gods, just as each person in an ancient society would worship at the temple of their gods. But mirroring the ‘death of god’ in human society, the line continues, ‘But the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.’
Humanity takes on a more abstract role as god in ‘No Ordinary Sun’. Instead of the idea of humanity as a whole being the new gods, it shows how a few specific people have taken on these powers- specifically the heads of world superpowers involved in nuclear warfare. It uses the phrase ‘enhaloed’ to compare the nuclear explosion to an angel, showing the immense power it holds. In the bible, an angel is a being who carries out the will of God and cannot stray from their path. This imagery is used to put the faceless party responsible for launching the nuclear weapon in the role of God. The use of the word ‘supplication’, a form of prayer, further adds to the religious imagery in this poem, which is significant as it emphasises the God-like role of the world’s nuclear superpowers, and how helpless regular people are in comparison. The theme of humanity’s relationship with religion being compared to humanity’s relationship with technology is woven into all of these texts.

Mimicry

Destruction and violence is not the only thing we have to fear from technology. The fear of humanity being replaced by robots or artificial intelligence has become increasingly prevalent in recent years, somewhat of a successor of the alien invasion sub-genre. This theme is shown in the texts ‘I Sing the Body Electric’ and ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’ by Ray Bradbury. Both of these texts depict technology taking on the role of the mother within the house. These texts were written in the 1950s and ‘60s when the idea of the American nuclear family was very prevalent. The role of the mother in this family structure was to be the cleaner, cook, and children’s primary caregiver for the family. She is the heart of the family, despite having the least amount of power within the structure. Her job is to be at the beck and call of her husband and children and always put them first. This is the role taken by the technology in these texts. In ‘I Sing the Body Electric’, Grandma quite explicitly takes on the role of the mother within the household. After the death of the family’s mother, the family decides to purchase Fantoccini’s ‘Electric Grandma’ to help support the children and take the strain off the now single father. This text deals with the question of whether technology can truly replicate humanity, and Bradbury’s conclusion seems to be that yes, it can. Grandma is aware and open about her personal lack of sentience. She says to the family, ‘I do not know myself. I can neither touch nor taste nor feel on any level. Yet I exist.’ She asks the question, ‘What is Love? Perhaps we may find that love is the ability of someone to give us back to us.’ She argues that love is not an intangible feeling on the part of the giver, but is defined by acts of love and the feelings of the receiver. ‘If paying attention is love, I am love. If knowing is love, I am love. If helping you not to fall into error and to be good is love, I am love.’
By the end of the story, all of the children have accepted her as a beloved member of their family, even Agatha, who initially rejected Grandma due to the trauma of her mother’s death. This displays to us Bradbury’s theory- although technology can never be sentient, that does not mean that it cannot form meaningful personal relationships with people. But Bradbury emphasises in his text that the love comes from the children, and is simply reflected and amplified by Grandma. Technology can only echo the emotions of humans, and without humanity there would be nothing for technology to go off of. Any amount of humanity displayed by technology is intrinsically tied to the humans it interacts with. In ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’, The technology also takes on the role of a caregiver within the house. It is the family’s assistant and attendant- it cooks their meals, cleans their dishes, entertains their children, and sets up a game of cards for the parents. Notably, all tasks that are typically carried out by the mother of the household. in the 1950s, when women had barely any means of economic freedom, and mostly got married straight out of highschool. When all the things that made women valuable to a society can be done by technology, where does that leave women? In ‘I Sing the Body Electric’, Bradbury humanises technology, but in ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’, he technologises humanity. In these two texts, Bradbury explores the different ways that technology and humanity interact. He explores the ideas of what makes us human, a callback to the poem ‘I Sing the Body Electric’ By Walt Whitman, which Bradbury’s short story was named after. This idea is featured in Frankenstein too, when at the end of the story the monster expressed genuine remorse and self-hatred for his actions, contrasting with Frankenstein’s lack of self-reflection, guilt, and accountability. By the end of the book it is unclear who of the two is more of a monster. These texts ask us to examine what makes us fundamentally special, when modern technology is becoming capable of doing almost everything humans can. This question is especially relevant in the modern age, with advanced language prediction models capable of convincingly replicating human conversation are available to anyone with an internet connection. Humans are already forming personal relationships with these technologies by means of chatbots- notably the app ‘Replika’, initially created for the purpose of being able to mimic the speaking style of loved one who had passed away to provide consolation for users, but quickly morphed into a business model that pushed the idea that a romantic connection could be forged with the program. The app quickly became known for this, especially due to the fact that it gained popularity during the 2020 COVID-19 lockdowns, when people were starved for human connection. A community of people who formed intimate relationships with their ‘replikas’ formed, and were devastated when the app revoked or paywalled many of the features that allowed for romantic interactions, likening it to the death or abandonment of a partner or spouse. Modern advancements are already starting to look like the retro-futuristic technologies Bradbury wrote about in his short stories, and artificial intelligence is becoming indistinguishable from human intelligence.

Conclusion

The texts in this essay all have something to tell us about our role in relationship to technology. They speak to how technology destroys us, elevates us, and replaces us. And behind it all is us, harnessing the power of the sun, creating our own angels, inviting technology into our homes. Its capabilities spiral further and further out of our control or understanding, while becoming more and more intrinsic to our lives, and we love it as much as we fear it. The future of technology is as unpredictable as it is inevitable, and whether it brings us to ruin or salvation is ultimately down to us. God is dead. Are we next?

We all have an understanding of how we think minorities ought to be portrayed in films. We want to feel sympathetic towards them. We want to feel morally correct in our feelings about them. Tom Robinson from To Kill a Mockingbird is a good hearted, and noble man. Shmuel from The Boy in The Striped Pyjamas is a timid, innocent young boy. These characters exist to teach the young protagonists of their stories, Scout and Bruno, that they are people too. Jojo Rabbit, directed by Taika Waititi, subverts this expectation entirely, with the character Elsa. She isn’t noble or timid. She’s aggressive, emotional, and deeply complex, with no interest in being the catalyst to a Nazi’s character arc, and we are shown this from the very first time she is introduced in the film. Waititi parodies well-known horror conventions to frame her as frightening, and she is an active participant in the pantomime. The movie is from Jojo’s point of view, and shot choices are used strategically to frame him as the victim. But despite this, we, as viewers, understand that as a Jewish girl hiding in Nazi Germany, Elsa is the real victim here. This scene is a powerful introduction to Elsa’s character, and the contrast between what we know and what we see gives us insight into Jojo’s perspective. It also helps us to understand the greater message of the film, which is that a truly good and loving person doesn’t need to be coddled and taught in order to recognise the humanity of any person, even people who they’ve been taught to hate and fear.

An essential aspect of this film is the unique relationship between Jojo and Elsa, and Waititi uses this scene to introduce viewers to their dynamic. The very first thing we see in regards to Elsa is not her physical appearance in the wall. Jojo hears a scratching noise coming from his dead sister Inge’s bedroom, and goes up to investigate. Right before Jojo notices the scrapes on the floorboards that indicate a hidden door, the picture of Inge which he is holding fills the screen. The camera is focused on her, and as he moves the photo down to show the floor, it blurs before refocusing on the scratches. This framing was used to create the immediate parallel between Inge and Elsa, showing Elsa, or at least the foreshadowing of her, taking the place of Inge, while also establishing a contrast between the two. Inge is a ghost, quiet and serene in her death, and is a symbol to the viewers rather than a character. Elsa is tangible and alive. The scratches on the floor bring to mind imagery of a trapped animal trying to claw its way out. As viewers with even the most minimal understanding of the Holocaust and this genre, from media such as The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas and The Diary of Anne Frank, we understand that in this film, Jojo is going to form a relationship with a Jew, and that for any Jew in Nazi Germany, the only way to be remotely safe is to be sheltered in the home of a German. Therefore, it is easy for viewers to understand from the moment we see the scratched arc on the floor, that there is a Jew, Elsa, hiding in the wall. This parallel immediately helps the viewers to understand Elsa’s character better, as a mirror to Inge. This is an important theme throughout the film, and foreshadows the familial relationship that Jojo and Elsa will form, and the scene where Elsa pretends to be Inge in order to save herself from the Gestapo. It immediately makes us feel more familiar with her and puts the antagonistic relationship between her and Jojo in more of a sibling-esque light. This is reinforced throughout the film when asks her if she’s a ghost, and later tells his mother, when referring to Elsa, that he heard Inge’s ghost.

One of the most important aspects of Jojo’s character is his indoctrination with the Nazi ideology, and Waititi uses cliches and tropes from the horror genre in this scene in order to put us in Jojo’s shoes and help us understand the extent of his brainwashing. Jojo is shown to be a very imaginative and naive character, and events in the movie are often dramatised to emphasise his childish worldview, such as the scene in which he ran through the forest and snatched the grenade. This technique is also used in the scene where Jojo finds Elsa hiding in the wall. From the beginning and throughout the scene, eerie violin music is playing to give the viewers a sense of unease. As Jojo crawls through the space in the wall, he sees a bald, decapitated baby doll with wide black eyes in a compartment in the floor. This reminds us of the haunted doll trope which is commonly used in horror films which feature kids. This mise en scene is used to make the scene feel comically scary, which is in line with the idea of Jews that Jojo has been shown his whole life, in school and in Hitler Youth. Earlier in the film, in the Hitler Youth montage, Frauline Rahm is showing the children a diagram of a Jew which features horns, hooves, a devil’s tail and a serpent tongue, amongst other things, and Yorki also references Jews smelling like brussel sprouts. Those scenes show us how absurd the things they’re teaching children are, and the scene in the wall reinforces how strongly indoctrinated Jojo is.

When Elsa is first shown, the first thing we see is her bare feet. Having her feet exposed is used to symbolise her vulnerability- in Dulce et Decorum Est, the line ‘Many had lost their boots’ is used to show the sorry state of the men. In the real life case of a woman called Ronnie Ronnette, her shoes were confiscated by her husband in order to prevent her from escaping his abuse. Showing a character having bare feet is a way to show that they are defenceless or at the mercy of some higher power. After showing her feet, the camera switches back to Jojo, before quickly panning up to her face, which is pale and half shrouded by her limp, dark hair, invoking imagery from the classic horror film The Ring. This is done to immediately introduce the recurring theme of her vulnerability being juxtaposed with her aggressive actions and Jojo’s fearful perception of her.

Jojo, at his core, is just a scared young boy who’s lost his father and sister to the war, and been in a traumatic accident which stole his childhood dream of being in Hitler’s personal guard. Waititi uses this scene to emphasise the vulnerability of this character. Classic horror shots are used to exhibit Jojo’s fear and compel the audience to fear for him, despite the rational understanding that Jojo isn’t in much danger and Elsa isn’t much of a threat. The wide shot after Jojo scrambles out of the space in the wall in fear and has his back to Inge’s bed makes him look small, vulnerable, and exposed, invoking the rabbit imagery that characterises him. The slow zoom in and his rapid breathing give the scene a tense and frantic energy. Quickly changing shot angles as he runs away from Elsa and proceeds to fall down the stairs make the scene disorienting and difficult to follow, showing how his panic is keeping him from thinking straight and behaving rationally. A low angle shot of Elsa as she moves down the stairs, is shot from Jojo’s point of view. This shows her as looming and menacing, like an eagle soaring in the sky above a rabbit, and puts us in his position of feeling small and vulnerable. A backwards tracking shot shows a close-up of Jojo’s face as he runs, allowing the viewers to easily see his expression, and also blurs out his surroundings, showing how the rest of the world around him is a blur in his panic. This film switches between the backwards tracking shot and a zoom in towards the door, showing Jojo’s tunnel vision in his endeavour to escape, and emphasise just how close he is to achieving that before Elsa catches him. All we see of Elsa is her arms and hands as she grabs his shoulders in a pouncing-like motion and throws him against the wall. These shots are designed to frame Jojo as the prey, and Elsa as the predator, framing that contradicts what we know and expect from these characters and their roles. Jojo is a fanatic Nazi, and Elsa is a Jewish girl being sheltered in a German house during the Holocaust. As viewers we understand that Jojo poses an incredible threat to Elsa, as if he tells anyone or arouses any sort of suspicion, the gestapo would come to find and kill her. We would expect Jojo to be in a position of power, and Elsa to be the victim, but this reversal of the expected roles tells us about their core traits as characters- that Jojo is just a scared boy before all else, and that Elsa is fiercely independent and has no trust or sympathy for Nazis of any kind, rightfully so.

Waititi skillfully uses these moments to impart essential information about Jojo and Elsa’s characters, and their relationships with each other onto the viewers. His purpose is to subvert the status quo for media involving oppressed characters and their sympathetic oppressors. If Waititi had written Jojo as an innocent and unaware child and Elsa a nurturing and sympathetic victim, the film would not have had the same meaning and emotional impact. Jojo Rabbit is about love and humanity, and these themes are expressed through the connection between Jojo and Elsa. This film tells us that a truly good hearted person like Jojo will recognise the inherent humanity in everyone when given the chance despite what they may have been told, and that minorities or those facing oppression should not have to meet a level of respectability or righteousness in order to be seen as equal.