Wednesday, Film4, 6:40pm
The Day After Tomorrow (2004) is one of those blockbuster disaster films that hits you like an arctic blast on a mild spring day. Directed by Roland Emmerich—king of large-scale calamities with titles like Independence Day under his belt—this film imagines an uncomfortably plausible future where global warming triggers a catastrophic climate shift. With rapid weather changes leading to tornadoes, tsunamis, and snowstorms, the movie follows paleoclimatologist Jack Hall (played by Dennis Quaid) as he braves impossible odds to rescue his son Sam (Jake Gyllenhaal), who’s trapped in New York City as it freezes over. Emmerich doesn't mess around: cities are buried in ice, and the Statue of Liberty gets a bit of a cold shoulder—literally.
The film's soundtrack, composed by Harald Kloser, is a fascinating blend of ominous orchestral scores and eerie silence. Kloser’s approach—avoiding the bombastic tones you'd expect in a disaster epic—leans more toward an atmospheric chill, a sonic embodiment of the frozen hellscape unfurling onscreen. There’s a Scandinavian bleakness to it, reminiscent of John Carpenter’s The Thing soundtrack but less synth-heavy and more orchestral, giving us the sort of ambient dread that sets one’s nerves on edge. The score’s real strength lies in its patience; Kloser lets tension build up without overstaying its welcome, mirroring the relentless yet gradual descent of the world into a deep freeze.
What’s fascinating is how The Day After Tomorrow has found an unlikely second life in climate-change discourse, giving it a peculiar relevance in a genre typically built on escapism. Despite its dramatic exaggerations, it's occasionally used in classrooms and talks to discuss the potential extremities of climate crises. And for all the spectacle, the film’s quiet moments—particularly scenes of Sam and his friends huddled in the New York Public Library—are oddly resonant in our own anxious times, where the unpredictable threat of nature looms larger than ever. Kloser’s sparse score keeps these moments intimate yet daunting, like the howling wind of the North Sea heard through a poorly-insulated window—chilling, bleak, and a bit too close to home.
- Noel Chambers