Silent Running (1971) and Eco-Memory

Silent Running (1971) responds to two cultures of the 1970s, a changing Hollywood and a shifting Washington atmosphere. The film’s environmental message slaps viewers in the face: If we don’t take care of our forests, they will die. As David Lichtneker puts it, “the eco message is a bit heavy handed (aided by the Joan Baez soundtrack).” Frederic Brussat, however, suggests that the film “surpasses other ecology films in its ability to stir our awareness and imaginatively create concern for the consequences of ecological neglect.” Brussat, one of the editors of the Spirituality and Health movie review section, even calls Freeman’s character a hero whose “ecological conscience is a challenge to us all.” 

The dated Baez music and didactic message, however, are not the only qualities that connect the film to its 1970s context. Created for under a million dollars, Douglas Trumbull’s Silent Running was one of the five movies with new directors authorized by Ned Tanen, producer in charge of Universal’s and Lew Wasserman’s youth division.  It was Trumbull’s directorial debut, although his special effects skills were well-respected (see 2001: A Space Odyssey [1968]).  Movie-making moved from the studio’s to the director’s hands under Tanen’s plan, with the studio taking a hands-off approach to production, a big change in Hollywood, and one reason why Trumbull could direct such a confrontational film as Silent Running (Biskind 126). Most clearly, however, the film provides an apocalyptic message that calls contemporary humanity to action—save the forests now before they are eliminated. 

In Silent Running corporations seek to wipe out all remnants of ecology for economic gain, so nostalgia comes from a more personal viewpoint, that of Freeman Lowell. For example, the opening of Silent Running recalls a past where nature thrives, where plants and animals are sympathetically depicted as “children” under the care of a human “Holy Fool” or “St. Francis of Assisi.” Opening shots show close-ups of snails, frogs, and fuzzy bunnies in a mossy forest, as well as a white-cloaked man (Bruce Dern’s character, Freeman Lowell) caring for them and then interacting with nature by swimming in a calm natural pool. Only after Freeman climbs on shore do we realize that this ecosystem is constructed and protected within a bio-dome. As shots of the dome draw further back, the dome’s location becomes clear—this dome is floating in space and surrounded by stars. In the world of Silent Running, technology is necessary to save “nature.”

Nostalgia for the nature enclosed in the dome is shattered by a loud reality in which Freeman’s colleagues drive over his plants in four-wheelers. Company logos cover the space station and even bins full of soil—Polaroid, AMF, Dow, American Airlines, NA Rockwell, and Coca Cola support this “natural” setting. Yet a voice-over claims these biosphere forests have been preserved as a way to re-foliate the Earth. The narration explains, “On this first day of a new century, we dedicate these last forests of a once beautiful nation in the hope that they will return and grace our foul earth. Until that day may God bless these forests and the great men that care for them.” As David Ingram puts it, the film combines an “uneasy … nostalgia for a seemingly lost authentic relationship between human beings and nonhuman nature, before the despoliations of modernity, with a reliance on a technological fix to solve environmental problems” (180). 

In spite of these corporate claims, only Freeman Lowell shows any nostalgia for a once-green Earth. Lowell recalls with nostalgia a time when Earth was green and ecologically diverse and laments the “dried synthetic crap” they now eat and the unchanging Earth they left behind: “On earth everywhere you go it’s seventy-five degrees. Everything’s the same. All the people are the same.” His fellow crewmen, however, celebrate Earth’s sameness since there’s “no more disease, no more poverty, [and] everyone has a job.” In fact, earlier in the film when the other crewmen are playing poker, and Lowell talks about his dreams for reestablishing the Earth’s parks and forests, one of the crewmen argues, “It’s been too long. People have other things to do now.” Lowell waxes nostalgically on a time when the Earth was green. The other crewmen—and everyone else, it seems—see nature as expendable. For them, a better Earth is as technologically controlled as their space station. Everyone looks happy in the world of Silent Running—everyone but Lowell. When the crew hears about the corporation’s plan to destroy their biospheres and put their ship back into commercial business, all but Lowell are overjoyed, since it means they’ll go home to Earth. Lowell sees only the losses they’ll all suffer: “no more beauty,” “imagination,” “frontiers.” Children will “never … be able to see the simple wonder of a leaf in their hands,” Lowell asserts. 

Lowell sees nature as so necessary and irreplaceable that he willingly kills his colleagues to protect the last dome and save the last eco-memory of a natural Earth ecosystem. For Lowell, nature is necessary, but so are human companions, so he cannot bear the guilt his crime causes him through memories. Like a bottle thrown into an ocean, Lowell thrusts the last biosphere into space. Our last view of the dome shows us Dewey in charge of its (artificially) well-lit forest. But death is the only solution for Lowell, as a tragic hero who can’t bear the memories he holds. Eco-memory and memories of human friendships merge in Silent Running, suggesting that Lowell’s ultimate solution is only partially effective.