One of the surprisingly insightful (and subsequently long-lived) lines from The CW’s The 100 led me into some lengthy deliberations recently: “Who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things.”
Uttered by Bellamy in season 2, this quotation has been aptly repeated in promos, “previously on” segments, and even the dialogue of later episodes, as characters remind each other of the angst-ridden lives they lead. After all, The 100 sets up each season as the clash of two civilizations, where survival is on the line and the struggle for it always leads to mass death. And each season, the remaining characters must undergo a moral reckoning, agonizing over how they can continue to live, knowing the people they’ve hurt, betrayed, or killed to get there. Nevertheless, Bellamy’s compartmentalization suggestion was never fully accepted by his fellow survivors, who have alternately succumbed to moral anguish or “I did what I had to do” emotional shutdowns.
The show itself no longer seems to accept this suggestion, either. Over the course of four seasons, this question of human nature—of what it means that we can adapt our moral compasses to the situation at hand—has had plenty of time to deepen and develop. And as the life-and-death choices have weighed down on our surviving characters, to diverse but undeniable effects, now the show is asking: can there really be a difference between “who we are” and “who we need to be to survive”? And if not, if our actions betray our true selves, do the characters’ collective choices portray human nature as inherently good or evil?
On one hand, the inevitable violence resulting from territorial disputes, resource sharing, or innocent run-ins between any two groups would seem to frame Bellamy’s line as an excuse—a lie we tell ourselves so we can avoid acknowledging our monstrous natures. For if our actions define us, then this show would suggest that we are inherently selfish, violent creatures, caring only for only our own (and our group’s) survival. Each season, we watch as (usually) good intentions meet a series of lies, distrust, fear, and plain old selfishness, inevitably escalating to a kill-or-be-killed showdown: season 1 was Skaikru [yes, just “Sky Crew” spelled fancily] vs Grounders, season 2 was Skaikru vs Mountain Men, season 3 culminated in humans vs A.L.I.E., season 4 was every tribe for themselves (in a race to find and occupy the bunker), and season 5 looks to be the newly minted Wonkru [you guessed it: “One Crew”] vs the Eligius soldiers. This doesn’t even count the numerous smaller skirmishes, executions, and/or revenge killings along the way, which alternately pit friends, enemies, families, and allies against one another. In fact, fights to the death are so common—determining everything from leadership to property rights to personal freedom—I wouldn’t bat an eye at a duel erupting over the last peanut. Point being, this show could easily be read as portraying humanity in its worst light, showing that the only way humans know to survive is to snuff out any and all threats; our very nature almost destroyed the world, and with it, our own species.
However, the show is (again, surprisingly) nuanced in its examination of the human condition. For on the other hand, people, for the most part, do not revel in this violence—it breaks them. They are guilt-ridden, horrified, tortured, or hopelessly forlorn after harming or killing their fellow humans. They are broken: think of a desolate Clarke at the beginning of season 3 (following her decision to kill all the Mountain Men), a distraught Bellamy a handful of episodes later (after participating in the midnight massacre of the Grounder protector army), or a disconsolate Jasper throughout seasons 3–4 (having never really grown accustomed to the harsh reality of life on post-apocalyptic Earth… okay, you can forget about him again). This inability to tolerate violence would suggest that humanity, at its core, is good. Malleable and corruptible, sure, but ultimately moral, with people undesirous of hurting others if they can help it; the vast majority only turn to violence to protect themselves, their loved ones, or their resources from a perceived threat. Plus, alongside all of this violence-as-a-last-resort good-intentionedness, there is an equally strong theme of the virtue of self-sacrifice. That people will time and time again give up their weapons, their land, and even their lives to save another human being, proves that the selfish instinct to survive does not outweigh humans’ capacity for selflessness and love.† (And besides, isn’t wanting to separate ourselves from “who we need to be to survive” proof in itself that we see violence and selfishness as incongruous with our self-image?)
Moreover, think of how the writers/creators chose to introduce us to the world of the show—primarily through Clarke, an idealist, at once a self-righteous whistle-blower and a prisoner, labeled a “traitor” by the powers that be. Right off the bat, we are presented with a person who tried to do what she thought was best (i.e., morally right) for her people but was overpowered by forces who thought they knew what was best. And again and again, season after season, this is the basic conflict facing our characters—a disagreement over the “right path.”
Because revenge is a dish best served with arsenic.
Though the predictable arc of each season should be annoying by now, the genius (yeah, I said it) of The 100 is that it refuses to simplify its story to “hero vs villain.” For one, the “villains” aren’t evil; though we are meant to sympathize with Clarke and her friends, the various forces that oppose her have their own set of good intentions (at least on behalf of those they are trying to protect). Even A.L.I.E., the poor man’s Ultron-Thanos combo, believes she is following her directorate to save the human race (from overpopulation) when she releases nuclear weapons on the planet. As is the case with any good villain, A.L.I.E.’s ultimate intention to save lives was undercut by her focus on the “ends” rather than the “means.” For two, just as the villains see themselves as heroes, the heroes occasionally see themselves as villains. I have already spoken to our heroes’ angst above, but it’s worth noting that the season 2 finale presented one of the best moral dilemmas I’ve ever encountered on TV, intertwining quandaries of "to kill many for the sins of a few" and "to prioritize your life over another" with a rapidly accelerating timeline. Betrayed by the Grounders (who just wanted to save their people), and mortally threatened by the Mountain Men (who also just wanted to save their people), Clarke presses a button to kill them all (to save her people); though no one was in the right, and her hand really was forced in this scenario, Clarke goes down a guilt-spiral in season 3, wherein other characters applaud her, berate her, or covet her power as Wanheda (“Commander of Death”). As tedious as it felt to wait for Clarke to forgive herself, it did confirm that the show doesn’t shy away from the repercussions of such horrific acts.
And that’s not all it confirms. It also shows us that Clarke et al. are able to retain viewers’ sympathy because they, unlike the “villains,” at least have the decency to feel bad about the atrocities they commit. For in spite of the show’s constant reminder that “there are no good guys,” we continue to root for Clarke and her squad. In particular, both Clarke and Bellamy are compelling characters because they are still powered by hope, even through their misdeeds and brooding sabbaticals; they want to create a better world where they aren’t confronted with kill-or-be-killed scenarios on a regular basis. They want peace. They’d be happy to step out of power and just have everyone get along for once. On the flip side, we are meant to react to Octavia’s transformation to “the strong survive” mentality with growing wariness, and Murphy’s cockroach-like self-servingness with disdain (cheering for him only when he shows signs of compassion). But these characters, too, are wrapped in themes of redemption and forgiveness—paths offered to nearly every character in an otherwise gloomy scenario. In fact, I would go so far as to say that Bellamy and Octavia are the central relationship of the show; though the two are often at extreme odds, no matter how far one strays from the path of “what’s good and right,” their innate love and respect for each other reels them back in. This is in line with many dystopic or sci-fi plots, wherein apocalypse or not, writers play to the "human relationships keep us sane/happy/hopeful” theme.
But now I must refocus on the quotation that started all this, in light of the current season. Because this season, in particular, is putting Bellamy’s “who we are” statement to the test.
Fresh off another world-ending event, season 5 has essentially hit a reset button on the series. Only this time, it’s Clarke and Skaikru who are the embattled Earth survivors—and the new criminals-from-space come ready for battle. Both plot and script are engineered to allow the characters a sort of metacommentary on their past actions (and, more importantly, their regrets). Clarke, Bellamy, Kane, and Jaha frequently state their intentions to not “repeat the mistakes of their past,” referring to the acts of extreme violence and/or murder they were each involved in.
For instance, after fleeing to outer space to wait out global radiation (not the only Ark/arc our writers return to, amirite?), Bellamy’s first action upon returning to Earth was to barter with, rather than attack, the captors of his friend, Clarke (though yeah, he does so by holding 283 lives hostage, which isn’t great…). His aversion to resorting to violence is later backed up by Raven and Murphy, who (in a somewhat self-serving act) choose to awaken the 283 soldiers from cryosleep rather than kill them outright. Meanwhile, back in the bunker—which has become a microcosm of the infighting that prevailed outside—we watch Jaha use his final act to ensure that no unnecessary blood is shed after the short-lived Skaikru coup d’etat, and we see Kane refuse to fight in the “to the death” duel, as a sort of protest for peaceful conflict resolution, saying “saving my people is about more than keeping them alive” (a 180 from his outer space days, when he was floating people left and right).
Given this show’s penchant for sound bites, plenty of new quips have been introduced to convey this self-aware, remorseful tone for the series. A prime example is Abby’s “We will survive... but we'll wish we hadn't," which perpetuates the survivor’s guilt carried by pretty much everyone at this point. On the same wavelength is Bellamy telling Octavia (who are again at odds), “We’re all guilty,” which she shrugs off with “I didn’t come here for a philosophy lesson.” Perhaps the clearest, and harshest, exhibition of this season’s propensity for self-reflection is this exchange between Abby and Kane:
KANE: What have we done?
ABBY: What we had to do to survive.
KANE: How many times are we gonna tell ourselves that?
ABBY: It’s the truth.
KANE: That’s just what we say to justify the horror we inflict on one another.
Here, Kane not only directly contradicts Bellamy’s “who we are…” line, but frames it as a justification, a way to shrug off our accountability, our culpability, in the decisions we made. This season, Bellamy himself is taking responsibility for his past deeds, saying at one point, “We all have things to answer for. Things that shouldn’t be forgiven, but are. Because we did them for our people. For our family.” He is owning his past intentions and the resulting consequences, forgiving those who wronged him, and asking others to do the same. Point being, The 100 has thrown Bellamy’s season 2 line to the wind; the characters can no longer pretend that being who they needed to be to survive hasn’t affected who they are. They may have hardened themselves or given in to denial for a while, but now their past regrets have led to them to want future redemption. Their new test is not only to forgive each other and themselves for past sins, but to find nonviolent solutions to their present problems. And they will be tested, since the Eligius crew are armed, trained, and have no such qualms about using violence to attain their goals. Our “let’s be better” survivors must navigate that ever-familiar rock-and-a-hard-place spot between the Eligius threat and that of “Fight or die, that’s all there is” Octavia and her army of ever-territorial Grounders.
So though this season, like all others before it, seems to be headed toward a winner-take-all war, I’m hopeful that we’ll see our survivors figure out a resolution that makes them feel like the “good guys” again. There are, after all, plenty of issues in a post-apocalyptic setting that should unite the survivors, rather than divide them (lookin’ at you, season 6!). If there’s any hope for the humans left on Earth, it’s that they stop thinking of themselves as survivors and start thinking of themselves as people; they must now decide who they want to be, and what they are willing to do or sacrifice to retain their sense of morality… And besides, shouldn’t the Sky People know what taking the high ground looks like by now?
†The 100 also seems to put forth the idea that morality is a privilege. The Grounders, for whom life is plagued with danger and uncertainty, have long relied on physical strength and general unscrupulousness to survive; it is particularly telling that the final words of comfort to the dying are “your fight is over.” In contrast, the Ark-dwellers, who admittedly have their own resource scarcity and death penalty issues, still live in relative peace, with the comforts of post-modern medicine, advanced technology, and, you know, indoor plumbing and the like. Once they return to Earth, however, that isolated peace is shattered, the rules of society rendered meaningless; they (and their sense of morality) must contend with this new, threatening world. In such a world where morality can get you killed, evolution would favor those that, shall we say, "ask questions later."
*Not to suggest these shows are anywhere near the same quality level, but Westworld is another show that explores human morality, fabricating a world where people can be their true selves, and suggesting that the core of humanity is quite depraved in terms of sex and violence, and in general, power and ego. There are, of course, a million more themes going on in Westworld, but it shares this "who are we when society’s not watching" vibe, though of course in Westworld, there's no real threat of death (at least not until season 2...). In both shows, some people are able to enact violence much more easily than others, while another small group points out the moral conundrum of it all, and the consequences we are effecting onto the world and ourselves. But can you imagine placing Clarke or Bellamy in Westworld? They'd be like, "you do this for fun?! The City of Light doesn’t seem so bad now!”
*Update: Naturally, the episode that aired just after I finished this post, "Acceptable Losses," was the first to have characters directly address their intention to "break the cycle" of war and death that has plagued them since season 1. Though peace-seeking Clarke for some reason tried to defend her past actions, saying, "Desperation has a way of making the unimaginable a necessity," the latter half of the season seems poised to follow through on the rest of my predictions. So, you know, 10 points to Gryffindor.
*Update 2: ...Oh well, there's always next season.