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The Last Jedi, Dunkirk and the Death of the Hero…

One of the more interesting aspects of living through a pop culture moment is that it is often quite hard to properly assess anything from that subjective vantage point.

It is too easy to assume that this moment is the most important moment in history, to suggest that the entirety of history has been a path leading to this moment or to the moment just beyond it. There is also a clear desire to find signal in the noise, to sift through the nearly impossible volume of data that threatens to overwhelm any filter and find a pattern. As such, it is always tempted to declare particular movies as the important to this particular moment, or to find trends when none actually exist.

At the same time, there is something to be said for trying to sift through contemporary pop culture and to observe trends. In particular, to see how those trends reflect back on the world in which those films were produced and the world in which they were released. In particular, one of the more interesting aspects of Star Wars: Episode VIII – The Last Jedi and Dunkirk is a clear and conscious shift away from the conventional heroic narrative inside genres traditionally associated with such grand epic themes.

At a point in time when the political right seems to veering closer and closer to fascism, it is particularly striking to have last year’s sweeping science-fiction epic and last year’s highest profile war film both consciously rejecting the politics of the “strong man” and the “chosen one.”

The past few years have been hard on liberal democracy. There are legitimate concerns about the erosion of democratic norms inside the United States, a country that largely branded itself as a bastion of liberal democracy. The President of the United States and his staff has made several overt gestures towards fascism; targeting specific racial groups, branding the press as enemies of the people, insisting on military parades, questioning the role of the judiciary in government, complaining about peaceful protests. More than that, his supporters embrace this strongman posturing.

This is no surprise. The strong man narrative is a core component of fascism. Indeed, it could fairly be argued that a lot the President of the United States’ cult of personality is built around the narrative of him as a political strongman – the belief that he represents the will of a forgotten people, and that he will stand up aggressively to anybody who threatens their interests. Various right-wing narratives around the election of Donald Trump cast him as a mythic figure in the culture war, some last great hope for a civilisation that is (in its supporters’ perspective) in a dire situation.

However, the “strong man” narrative is not just a political myth. It is a cultural myth, one that tends to resonate through popular culture, in tales of great protagonists who are chosen by destiny to accomplish impossible tasks. Think of Frodo journeying with the one ring across Middle Earth in The Lord of the Rings, think of John Connor destined to unite humanity against a cybernetic upraising in Terminator, think of Neo whose name is very anagram of his prophecised role as the “One” in The Matrix.

These stories have always been a part of mythology and religion, but they were arguably codified into American popular culture with the success of George Lucas’ Star Wars, a film that very consciously drew upon Joseph Campbell’s The Hero of a Thousand Faces to provide a cinematic blueprint for the archetypal “hero’s journey.” The story of Luke Skywalker permeated popular culture, and many of the heroes that followed can compare their journey to his own; characters raised from seemingly normal lives by the hand of destiny in order to save civilisation.

As such, The Last Jedi offers a refreshingly frank rejection of the hero’s narrative that is such an important part of the larger Star Wars franchise, in a manner that seems refreshing and exciting. To be fair, The Last Jedi was (and is) a controversial film. It attracted a lot of criticism. Some of that criticism was valid, but a lot of it was the whining of fans reacting instinctively to the slaughter of a sacred cow; fans who balked at the film’s treatment of Luke Skywalker and its elevation of characters would would exist at the fringe of other Star Wars films.

The Last Jedi accomplishes this in a number of different ways. Most obviously, and most controversially, it reveals that the entire new trilogy is rooted in a mistake made by Luke Skywalker. In a series of flashbacks over the course of the film, Luke reveals that he made an error in judgment that led to the current crisis. It is a small mistake, a human mistake. It is completely understandable, and it is not something for which he should be condemned. However, this mistake serves to underscore the dangerous of the “chosen one” myth, the difficulty in finding people who embody such myths.

Similarly, The Last Jedi cannily subverts expectations with the reveal of Rey’s parents. Fans spent years speculating about Rey’s heritage, about her identity, about her place in the mythic cosmology of Star Wars. What was her birthright? What special niche had she carved out for herself? The Last Jedi dashes all of this speculation to reveal that Rey is not the daughter of any established characters, nor is she an “chosen one.” Rey is the daughter of two anonymous nobodies who sold their daughter for drinking money. It is a brutal twist on the conventions of these types of stories.

However, the most brutal subversion of this “chosen one” archetype is in the story focusing on Poe Dameron. Dameron is one of the most interesting characters in the new trilogy, most likely because he is played by Oscar Isaacs. Isaacs is so charming in the role that he allegedly convinced JJ Abrams not to kill off the character in the previous film. Dameron just oozes charisma, a testament to Isaacs as a performer. He is in many ways the spiritual successor to Han Solo, the member of the ensemble with the same easy screen presence as Harrison Ford.

The Last Jedi plays with this idea in the plot focusing on Poe Dameron. The resistance find themselves trapped and imperiled by the enemy, hunted through space and massacred. The mysterious General Holdo refuses to explain herself to Dameron, who was responsible for the loss of the bombing fleet and had just been demoted by General Leia. Dameron is suspicious of Holdo, with the film hinting at a number of possibilities; it might be a class thing, it might be a paranoid thing, it might even be a gender thing.

Whatever the cause, Dameron decides to take radical action. Ignoring the chain of command, Dameron sets out to embark upon a risky and roguish plan to save the fleet without the consent or knowledge of Holdo. He drafts in two aides to take on a risk mission that has virtually no chance of success, relying on innovation and improvisation. This is precisely the sort of decision that audiences associate with “strong man” heroes, characters who instinctively know better than their superiors and who are the only thing standing between an inept leadership and disaster.

(Again, there are countless examples of this trope. Think about how many feature films involve a highly trained character in a military situation who is called upon by the events of the film to “go rogue.” This is particularly common in spy movies. Despite the fact that intelligence operatives rarely have a holistic sense of the political environment or even of the unfolding situation, characters like Ethan Hawke and James Bond routinely strike out on their own. They are inevitably proven correct, and inevitably accepted back into their organisations once they have accomplished their task.)

What is unique about The Last Jedi is that Dameron’s decision to strike out on his own does not save the day. Quite the opposite. Dameron’s decision to go rogue leads to Finn recruiting a smuggler and criminal to break onto the enemy ship, who betrays the heroes at the first opportunity. (The plot is somewhat hazy on the particulars of how Dameron and Finn could provide information to the smuggler of a plan of which they were not aware, but he may have overheard something at some point.) This has catastrophic consequences, sabotaging Holdo’s plan and leading to massive casualties.

This is a brutal subversion of the narrative that audiences have been convinced to expect, but something that reinforces the realities of what it is to serve in a military. Superiors do not have to explain themselves to subordinates, and certainly don’t have to outline top secret plans to unreliable and untrustworthy officers. Hierarchies and structures exist for a reason, and acting outside of those structures in pursuit of personal morality can have catastrophic consequences.

To be fair, it is debatable just how well The Last Jedi commits to these themes. Indeed, one of the most biting criticisms of the movie is that it refuses to follow these ideas to their conclusion. Luke Skywalker is allowed redemption at the end of the film, presenting himself as the hero that everybody imagined him to be. His light sabre is recovered. Dameron and Finn are not executed for their mutiny, and are not properly held to account for all the lives that they destroyed with their reckless actions.

Still, The Last Jedi still represents a strong deconstruction of the franchise’s engagement with the “chosen one” narratives of a few elevated heroes. Indeed, the movie’s opening sequence is one of the most moving and affecting moments in the history of the franchise, a largely dialogue-free sequence that focuses on the pilots and engineers who man the space craft that are routinely blown up during the franchise’s epic space battles. This is bookended neatly with a closing scene in which the story inspires a young boy to connect with the Force.

In its own way, Dunkirk touches on similar themes. Dunkirk is a story set during the Second World War, unfolding during the Battle of Dunkirk. As with Star Wars, the Second World War provides a mythic framework that colours contemporary culture. In particular, it is a vitally important aspect of British identity. It has also been appropriated by the aggressive right-wing Brexit movie, with Nigel Farage arguing that young people should watch Dunkirk and various pro-Brexit voices appealing to the fantasy of the “Dunkirk spirit.”

Again, the mythology is easy to understand. The popular myth of Britain during the Second World War is that the nation single-handedly repelled the Nazis as “the Island Fortress.” In some accounts, it often seems like Winston Churchill held the world together by sheer force of will, a mythology reinforced by the other Dunkirk movie among the Best Picture nominees, Darkest Hour. Of course, this neglects various realities; the military support that Britain received from the United States, the sacrifices made by the Russians to hold back the Nazis.

Indeed, Dunkirk itself makes a point to reject any pro-Brexit reading of this retelling of the myth. Towards the end of the film, the most senior military officer declines to join the retreat. “I’m staying,” he states. “For the French.” The film closes with an extended quotation from Winston Churchill’s iconic “we will fight them on the beaches!” speech, subverting the machismo by placing it in the mouth of a traumatised soldier. While only a sample of the speech is quoted, Nolan makes a point to include the oft-omitted appeal to the United States for help.

More to the point, though, Nolan consciously and repeatedly avoids constructing Dunkirk is such away that it could be read as a standard heroic narrative. The film isn’t the story of a “chosen one” or a single heroic figure in the same way as Darkest Hour. It is appreciably different from patriotic war films like Lone Survivor and American Sniper. Its central character is so generic that his name is “Tommy”, equivalent to calling an American soldier “Joe.” He is played by Fionn Whitehead, an actor with only a handful of credits to his name. He is no star.

When Nolan does cast stars in the movie, he tends to bury them. Harry Styles does not show up until a considerable way into the film, and hardly establishes himself as a heroic lead. Tom Hardy spends most of the film with a mask over his face. Cillian Murphy plays a character named “Shivering Sailor.” Michael Caine plays a voice on the radio. There is a clear sense that the audience in Dunkirk is not being asked to latch on to any individual character as the “star” of this story, as the leading player in this drama.

Indeed, anonymity seems to be the point. The characters in Dunkirk speak so rarely that it isn’t until the final twenty minutes that anybody realises that one of the central characters cannot speak a word of English. Even the Germans are anonymous, appearing on the edge of the frame and out of focus towards the end, described as “the Enemy.” It could be argued that Dunkirk is very much a “2017 film” in the same way as its fellow Best Picture nominees like Get Out or The Shape of Water. In many ways, Dunkirk could be seen as a movie that is fundamentally about empathy.

Consciously depriving the audience of back story or exposition, the film throws the viewer into war with the characters, and asks them to feel a primitive emotional connection to them. Dunkirk takes a bunch of characters to which the audience has no pre-existing attachment, and consciously avoids developing. There are no conversations about home, no pictures of sweethearts, no flashbacks to happier times. Literally all that the audience knows about these people is that they are in an impossible situation. Dunkirk believes that human empathy is strong enough to bond the audience to them based on that fact.

It should be noted that much of Dunkirk is given over to characters running away from combat and from heroism. Even the opening scene establishes this idea. The main characters are desperate to get off the beach, no matter what. They have little regard for military structures or heroism. A more cynical movie would label them cowards, but Dunkirk finds a lot of compassion for them. Dunkirk understands that war is not a place where men become men, instead is a state of anarchy and chaos, something approaching hell.

Nolan has frequently been accused of being a “cold” and “emotionless” filmmaker, but this is a very superficial reading of his work. Indeed, Dunkirk finds empathy for the kinds of characters who would be monsters or villains in other war films; deserters, grave robbers, murderers. The Shivering Soldier is responsible for the death of a young boy whose only crime was risking everything to help him. Dunkirk does not respond with condemnation or anger. It responds with compassion and understanding. War is hell, and there is no frame of reference for it.

In fact, the movie’s non-linear storytelling structure seems to reflect this rejection of the conventional narratives of rugged individualism and heroism. The sliding time scales are perhaps the most controversial aspects of Dunkirk, as various plot lines move at different paces, the narrative jumping back and forth between various threads. This non-linear storytelling is something of a Nolan trademark; barring a quick flashback or two, The Dark Knight is the only truly linear Nolan narrative. However, in Dunkirk, it serves a thematic purpose.

Nolan’s stories are largely about the subjective experiences of the characters, the worlds that they build and inhabit. The myth cultivated by Leonard in Memento in order to avoid facing the cruel reality of his existence; the legend that Bruce builds in Batman Begins to give his life meaning and his loss purpose; the dreams through which Dom wanders in Inception. This isn’t as strong a theme in Dunkirk, because its characters are not designed to have that level of interiority. Instead, the non-linear storytelling accomplishes this.

The passage of time is highly subjective. Hours can feel like minutes, under the right circumstances, and vice versa. Dunkirk reinforces this idea, suggesting that time passed much slower for the men on the beach as compared to the men in the air. These timelines provide a sense of subjective reality, how different characters process the same event in a different way. However, this idea goes even further. The passage of time serves to isolate the characters from one another. They occupy the same space, overlapping with an encountering each other along the way, but they do not share the same sense of reality.

Even if these realities brush against one another at various points – the “Shivering Sailor” encountering Tommy on the beach, the fighter planes flying over the Moonstone – it is only at the climax of Dunkirk that these individual realities really align. The film cuts between various perspectives of the same event, but they are all aligned. It is no longer three different narratives, but one single story told from three perspectives. Time is moving at the same pace for everyone. All the gears are in place.

Dunkirk argues that the events depicted in the film were only really possible when various different perspectives and viewpoints came together, when different characters allowed themselves to share the same reality with one another. Dunkirk is not the triumph of any solo act of heroism, but instead something close to an orchestral effort. Everybody came together, for one fleeting moment. It is a very firm rejection of the idea of individual heroism, to the point that Dunkirk even has certain characters criticised for playing unexpected parts in the drama, for not standing out. (“Where were you, mate?”)

(Dunkirk is somewhat even-handed in its assessment of this strange overlap. One of the smarter and least-discussed aspects of this non-linear structure is that the timelines don’t just intertwine, they also separate. The timelines move at their own paces coming out of the events. Tom Hardy’s timeline unfolds minutes or hours after the battle, while the younger soldiers’ storyline extended into the next day, all cross-cut. There is a clear sense that moments of alignment and shared experience like those at Dunkirk are few and far between.)

The Last Jedi and Dunkirk are both stories that eschew traditional and easy narratives about heroism and individualism, instead bending familiar storytelling frameworks to tell subversive and deconstructive stories. They are a welcome and timely rebuke to the familiar cultural templates of the “strong man” and “chosen one” , feeling very appropriate for the moment in which they were released.

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8 Responses

  1. In response on The Last Jedi’s commitment to the hero subversion: I’d argue that this concern is partially addressed by the theme of the younger, new cast learning not to repeat the mistakes of the previous generation. Sure Luke gets to go out a hero, but he believes what will come after him will be different. Even the the Jedi Order isn’t destroyed, Rey seems determined not to repeat the same mistakes Luke made. The same thing with Poe, who learns and internalizes what Leia was trying to teach him about playing with lives in war. Even Kylo Ren goes through a similar arc.

  2. Great article. That said, a few points about TLJ. First, I think you overestimate the extent to which Luke was a conventional hero in the Original Trilogy. Luke’s defining moment at the end of Return of the Jedi is to throw away his lightsaber and refuse to fight the bad guys. He gets electrocuted by the Emperor and his father Darth Vader saves him. That’s a pretty unconventional for a hero in Hollywood.

    For TLJ I was fine with Luke going out as a “hero” because the way he did it was true to his commitment to pacifism and his character in ROTJ. He projected an image of himself and never engaged in offensive attacks. He didn’t swoop in and save the day by defeating the bad guys. All he did was distract Kylo Ren for a few moments. In most movies, it would be the sidekick who serves as the distraction, not the hero.

    The real problem with TLJ’s depiction of Luke is that it doesn’t really do enough to set up why the character we saw in Return of the Jedi turned into the bitter old man we saw in The Last Jedi. There’s too much character development that happens off screen in between the films (and the flashback only scratches the surface).

    • I don’t know. I actually feel like the arc between the two “Jedi” films makes a great deal of sense. After all, no matter how good Luke’s training with Yoda might have been, there’s no amount of training that prepares you for being a messiah. More than that, after a moment of weakness, realising that you’ve effectively begun the whole horrific cycle all over again would be enough to drive most people into an embittered exile.

      • My concern is less about whether it makes sense and more about the fact that a lot of the character development happens offscreen. I actually quite like the idea of Luke failing and wrote an article about it:

        http://www.legendariummedia.com/2018/01/09/the-last-jedi-and-me/

        However, TLJ ends up TELLING the audience about Luke’s character arc rather than SHOWING it. The Original Trilogy was quite good at showing the most important character development for the major characters on screen. We saw Luke go from A to B to C in the films and go through what felt like a complete arc. In the Sequels though it feels like we’re seeing Luke at point Z without seeing the intervening steps. The flashbacks obviously help, but for people who were deeply invested in the character Luke we saw in ROTJ, it still seems like a bit of a leap going from C to Z, leaving viewers to fill in too many gaps.

        I wonder if part of the problem is we never really learn that much about Luke’s relationship with Ben Solo. Luke simply says “I saw darkness,” which is a bit vague. Would that really be enough to make Luke Skywalker falter? It might have been more effective if Luke had a specific vision about Ben killing Han or some more compelling reason to be tempted to kill Ben.

        Then again, Rian Johnson was working off what JJ Abrams did in TFA, and I’m not really sure what else he could have done to flesh out the character arc, aside from more exposition or flashbacks. I suspect Lucasfilm will release a bunch of tie-in novels or even a TV show explaining what happened to Luke after ROTJ, and that might help flesh out the character development a bit more.

  3. Well goddamnit. I was in the middle of writing a review for a comic book, then I stumble upon this, which brings up issues that I just have to respond to and shelf by review temporarily.

    The past few years have been hard on liberal democracy. There are legitimate concerns about the erosion of democratic norms inside the United States, a country that largely branded itself as a bastion of liberal democracy. The President of the United States and his staff has made several overt gestures towards fascism; targeting specific racial groups, branding the press as enemies of the people, insisting on military parades, questioning the role of the judiciary in government, complaining about peaceful protests. More than that, his supporters embrace this strongman posturing.

    A country that largely branded itself as a bastion of liberal democracy? First of all, what school were you raised in? Second, be careful with the use of the word liberal. Both left-wingers and right-wingers tend to misuse the term. If anything, I’d say the country largely branded itself on “Democracy.”

    Also, regarding the President and staff making “overt gestures” towards:

    * fascism: I doubt that very much. You don’t know the meaning of fascism if you think that’s what he’s doing. Besides, I could argue the same thing about left-wingers who silence and suppress free speech on university campuses around the country (especially California). That’s closer to fascism than anything the President has done during his term.

    * targeting specific racial groups: they deserve it. They break the law. Unless you care to show an example that indicates otherwise. Besides, left-wingers certainly think right-wingers deserve to be targeted (specifically, white male right-wing conservatives) just for existing.

    * branding the press as enemies of the people: They certainly lie enough to be considered enemies of the people. Plus the alternative press (ie youtubers, bloggers, etc.) also get targeted by left-wingers who tend to control most mainstream outlets, including Youtube, Facebook, and Twitter. Nevermind basic news channels. You know, trying to dismantle the competition. Maybe if the press was more truthful and less biased about what they reported I would have a problem with it. Plus the president makes some good points off and on.

    * insisting on military parades: I think we can find common ground on that subject.

    * questioning the role of the judiciary in government: I would too after seeing the conflicts of interest that’s been going on, not to mention how they seem too strong individually. One judge can stop any and every executive order or new law being implemented? I think it should be more difficult than that. Like, I don’t know, 5-10 judges?

    * complaining about peaceful protests: Complaining about it is one thing, using force to stop it is another (ANTIFA, Berkley mayor and police).

    The strong man narrative is a core component of fascism.

    Oh fuck off. You could say the same thing about a strong woman narrative. And I don’t recall the whole strong man thing being a component of fascism in the past, at least not prior to 2006. A component of fascism is biased propoganda that tells half-truths at best.

    Various right-wing narratives around the election of Donald Trump cast him as a mythic figure in the culture war, some last great hope for a civilisation that is (in its supporters’ perspective) in a dire situation.

    Yeah, like the left-wing narrative for Hillary Clinton? Hell, like the left-wing narrative for anything anti-Trump?

    As for the rest of the article, that’s all just one way of interpreting each of the films. And film is art, and art is by its very nature subjective in terms of how one interprets it and/or finds entertainment/value in it. You could say that The Last Jedi exists to be a subversion to expectations and the “strong man” narrative, and I wouldn’t disagree with that. But it also exists to make a feminist message, and an anti-white-supremacy message. And these messages as well as the “subversion” element come at the expense of huge leaps in logic, plot holes, and contradictions with not just the original trilogy, but with episode VII as well. Don’t think that just because the film points out that Luke is a fallible character (no one ever denied that, especially with mistakes he made in each of the original trilogy films) and destroys the “legend” image of him means it does so flawlessly. Fans don’t throw a hissy fit over this decision just because it destroys the “strong man” trope (a term I find questionable, but I’ll go with it for now in this post). They have legit grievances beyond that, that likely don’t even include that trope. Many had similar grievances regarding Ellen Ripley in Alien 3, but even then at least the film kept her true-to-character.

    Also, if they wanted to subvert the “chosen one” trope, they should’ve avoided setting up their own “chosen one” trope via Rey, who so far is set up as someone more infallible and flawless than Luke ever was.

    Superiors do not have to explain themselves to subordinates, and certainly don’t have to outline top secret plans to unreliable and untrustworthy officers. Hierarchies and structures exist for a reason, and acting outside of those structures in pursuit of personal morality can have catastrophic consequences.

    Funny that you should make that point when your first few paragraphs seem to argue against that very thing. In any case, an alternate point can be made for that scenario. That transparency has a point and purpose in predicaments like this, such as maintaining a level of trust, quelling urges to rebel against authority, etc. That the leader was wrong not to reveal the information and thus leading to this chain of events, which could’ve been avoided if even a partial element of the plan was revealed, or even just stating that there is a plan, that there is an end-goal. Or that there’s fault to be had on both sides.

    I’ll leave the reply at that, as it’s likely more than long enough.

    • Just in reply to your comment “liberal democracy” is technical and descriptive term for what the United States is. It does not suggest any left-wing bias. The United States was a “liberal democracy” under Reagan and Bush, for example.

      As per The Oxford English Dictionary:

      “A democratic system of government in which individual rights and freedoms are officially recognized and protected, and the exercise of political power is limited by the rule of law.”

      As per the examples cited in the article – from wanting to use the law to silence the press to demanding military parades to praised the way repressive regimes ban peaceful protest to suggesting anti-racist protestors are equivalent to Nazis – make it clear that Trump has little respect for these cornerstones.

      • Ok, fair enough on the liberal democracy thing.

        As for silencing the press, please. It’s more along the lines of making sure the press isn’t feeding people bullshit. For instance, he hasn’t really bashed on Fox News much, or Breitbart, yet those mainstream media outlets he bashes (or promotes silencing, according to you) do the exact same thing to not just Fox News and Breitbart, but to virtually anyone who disagrees with far-left agendas on social media (as I’ve stated earlier regarding various Youtube channels and Twitter/Facebook accounts, which is why there’s a surge in alternatives to those like Minds.com, Gab.ai, and Bitchute, assuming those sites don’t eventually get blocked by your ISP). Personally, I don’t mind seeing any news institution burn to the ground if a high enough percentage of what they run is false news and propaganda. They should be reporting facts, not pushing agendas. This applies to all of them, including Fox.

        As for praising regimes that ban peaceful protests, there really isn’t much that can be done about that. Saudi Arabia sucks, has sucked for a long time, but they’re one of the few allies (loose term) in the Middle East that allow the U.S. to have any sort of foothold there. When discussing the status of the Middle East and the U.S.’s relationship with the countries within it, it’s always a complicated thing that can’t be spelled out simply within a single sentence. That being said, I don’t condone much of Saudi Arabia’s policies.

        Besides, if you want to consider the REAL problems this country has, you may want to look at alternative news sources, including those you are taught to disagree with. They’re not always wrong, and at worst allows for some greater perspective and understanding as to why people see things the way they do. Problems such as how many illegal immigrants get away with crime (or have very minor consequences for their crimes), the high crime rate in various cities, how conservatives aren’t allowed anywhere near as many films/shows as democrats do (and the stories on how some of them get shut down), the state of the schools, the false propaganda of feminists and blacklivesmatter (which is causing more harm than good), the silencing of speakers with alternative viewpoints, illegal voting, among other things. And how all of them slowly but surely led to this division in America, and how it all encourages many to shout/shut the opposition down rather than trying to reason with them. Rearing children to have very low tolerance levels and making them intolerant in the process.

        Without each generation raising another to be more wise, mature, fit, and intelligent as the last, what hope is there for the country to improve?

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