“You Two Are the Bad Guys!” Intergenerational Equity, Ecophobia, and Ecocentric Card Games in Disney’s Strange World (2022)

Abstract

Disney’s Strange World (2022) explores the themes of “energy unconscious”, “intergenerational equity”, and “ecophobia”, focusing on the legacy parents leave to their children. The film centers on three generations of men, each representing different attitudes towards nature. Jaeger Clade, the grandfather, embodies colonialist values, viewing nature as a hostile force to be conquered. His son, Searcher, an intensive farmer, sees nature as a battleground between useful beings and pests, focusing on improving society through domestication. In contrast, Ethan, Searcher’s teenage son, adopts an ecocentric perspective. His worldview is expressed through the card game Primal Outpost, where he and his friends embrace symbiosis, interconnectedness, and the rejection of the man-nature divide. Ethan is the first to recognize that their ecosystem is a living organism reminiscent of the Gaia Hypothesis, advocating for a paradigm shift that the older generations fail to grasp. The article analyzes Strange World as a cli-fi allegory, urging humanity to choose between being parasitic destroyers or symbiotic contributors to ecological recovery. The film, while offering a simplified solution to climate change, presents a comic apocalyptic vision where youth-driven hope for change challenges older, ecophobic attitudes and offers a transformative, ecotopian message.

1. Introduction

“Catch!” calls the Once-ler.

He lets something fall.

“’It’s a Truffula Seed.

It’s the last one of all!

You’re in charge of the last of the Truffula Seeds.

And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs.

Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care.

Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air.

Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack.

Then the Lorax

and all of his friends

may come back.” (Dr. Seuss 1971, n.pag)

In the famous picturebook—“a testament to the extent to which Anthropocene is already embedded in our collective conscience” (Scott 2018, p. 5)—the Once-ler bequeaths his legacy to the young protagonist, the boy “who cares a whole awful lot” (Dr. Seuss 1971, n.pag). Today, many still believe that this “wrenchingly sad” (Scott 2018, p. 5) portrait of an anthropogenic post-apocalyptic world could still convey an “empowering” message (Makhijani 2021): “the next generation has to do better than the prior”, explains Dr. Seuss Enterprises’ president Brandt, and concludes, “We are all the Lorax”.

Perhaps it is true. Perhaps our generation has witnessed the world ravaged by the Once-lers and cried out in indignation against the pollution of the air and water and the sufferings of the Bar-ba-loots, the Swomee-Swans, and the Humming Fish (Dr. Seuss 1971). Adopting an extremely effective definition formulated by Weiss in 1984, we could say that the Once-lers, with their worship of extractivism and consumerism, have squandered the “planetary trust”, which should obligate “each generation to preserve the diversity of the resource base and to pass the planet to future generations in no worse condition than it receives it” (Weiss 1984, p. 499). If so, however, we—the Loraxes—have done little beyond complaining. And now the boys “who car[e] a whole awful lot” (Dr. Seuss 1971, n.pag) are left with an impoverished “nature capital” (Mintzer and Michel 2001, p. 215) and the unfairly heavy burden of finding the “clean water” and the “fresh air” (Dr. Seuss 1971, n.pag) necessary to regenerate the Truffula forest.

The problem of environmental intergenerational equity (Weiss 1992, p. 616), introduced as early as 1972 during Stockholm’s United Nations Conference on the Human Environment—which stated that natural resources “must be safeguarded for the benefit of present and future generations” (United Nations 1973, p. 4)—looms ever more pervasively both in contemporary climate change fiction and activist movements.

Belittled as too young, inexperienced, and idealistic (Roy and Ayalon 2022), the leaders of Fridays for Future keep asking to “uproot the system” (Fridays for Future US n.d.b), advocating for climate justice and equity, demanding governments keep the rise in global temperatures below 1.5 °C compared to pre-industrial levels, and urging world leaders to listen to science and “name the crisis as a crisis” (Fopp 2024; Fridays for Future n.d.). They feel “worried, frustrated and angered, as well as anxious about the future” though not hopeless (de Moor et al. 2020, p. 4). They accuse the adults of being “greedy” and “selfish” (Roy and Ayalon 2022, p. 2), yet they are aware that they are “school children who are fighting for [their] right to a livable future”; hence, they know that the “furthest possible extent of their influence involves pressuring governments and global bodies into taking action and holding them accountable” (p. 5).

Since the 1980s, authors of disaster literature and apocalyptic fiction have embraced “pollution, greenhouse gases, and global warming” scenarios in their dystopic narratives (Bradford et al. 2008, p. 7). They have painted frightening fantasies meant to act both as “cautionary tales” (Basu et al. 2013, p. 3) and “to display—in sharp relief—the possibility of utopian change even in the darkest of circumstances”. (p. 3). The climate anxiety has spilled into the domain of animation films, where multiracial young heroines, heroes, or non-human protagonists lead rebellions against the adults’ inability or refusal to alter their business-as-usual lifestyle, often singlehandedly saving their communities and the environment. From early experiments such as FernGully: The Last Rainforest (1992) and Free Willy (1993) to more recent works such as Happy Feet (2006), Bee Movie (2007), WALL-E (2008), The Lorax (2012), Moana (2016), and Frozen II (2019) (just to name the most famous), these films align with Leyda’s concept of “cli-fi 2.0” (Leyda 2023, p. 32), in that “[b]y representing assertive young heroes whose wider circles of care include multiple generations and racial identities, these screen texts push the boundaries of cli-fi in their mediations of possible futures, while rebuffing the clichés of prior conventions” (Leyda 2023, p. 47).

With its focus on legacy and its representation of the land as a living creature, Disney’s Strange World (2022) stands out as a powerful example of modern cli-fi 2.0 animation. This study will show how Disney’s work foregrounds themes that are at the center of contemporary debate, such as intergenerational equity and the “energy unconscious” (Yaeger 2011), and, at the same time, functions as a compelling embodiment of Lovelock and Margulis’s Gaia hypothesis1 (Lovelock and Margulis 1974). Indeed, while depicting a utopian world on the verge of collapse, the film incarnates a model of “transformative utopianism” (Bradford et al. 2008, p. 2), in which the voice of the young protagonist—whose ecocentric attitude clashes with the extractivism and the ecophobia of the older generations—is not only heard by the adults but also manages to spur them to take immediate action to achieve the vital “system change” (Cannon 2019) necessary to save the planet.

2. The Film

Directed by Don Hall, Disney’s Strange World (2022) is a family saga set in a fictional isolated land, Avalonia, a society whose technological progress is powered by a vegetal energy source known as Pando. The film is ambitious and relevant to several contemporary issues like climate change, energy dependency, and the consequences of exploiting natural resources; however, despite positive reviews from both critics and audiences, Strange World is, to date, Disney’s least successful film of the 21st century, grossing only USD 73.6 million at the global box office and another USD 55 million from TV and streaming against about USD 317.4 million of total expenses (Lang 2023). The film’s combination of ecological themes and inclusivity ultimately faced significant challenges in the global marketplace due to cultural resistance and limited marketing (Glass 2022).

One of the most notable aspects of Strange World is, indeed, its commitment to embracing diversity and representation. The film portrays a multiracial, integrated society, a “utopian place free of prejudice” (Woods—visual development artist in Reyes Lancaster (Jones et al. 2022, p. 45)), led by a competent female character, Callisto Mal. However, it is the choice of Ethan Clade as the film’s protagonist, a gay teenage boy “who is freely himself without any idea that he should be anything but who he is” (p. 45), that sparked the most discussion. Ethan’s identity is not a peripheral or subtextual element, as has been the case with many of Disney’s previous LGBTQ+ characters. Instead, his “crush” (Hall 2022) for another male character, Diazo, is openly portrayed, making it the first time Disney has featured “a gay teen romance” in one of its animation films (Rude 2022).

While this representation has been celebrated by many, it also posed significant marketing and distribution challenges. The explicit depiction of Ethan’s sexuality meant that the film faced bans or restrictions in several conservative countries, particularly, but not uniquely, in regions with strong Islamic values (according to Lang (2023), the film was not released in “all the Middle East, China, Malaysia, Indonesia, Pakistan, Turkey, Vietnam, East Africa (Tanzania, Uganda, Kenya), West Africa (Nigeria, Ghana), Maldives, Nepal, and Bangladesh. The film was not submitted for theatrical release in Russia either”). Furthermore, conservative parents in other parts of the world voiced their disapproval, leading to widespread calls for boycotts. For example, a US Christian blog so warned their readers: “Christian parents, be ready. We should be aware of these films not only in a defensive way (prohibiting our kids from watching), but in a way that prompts proactive resistance to the cultural values they embody” (McCraken 2022). The controversy surrounding Strange World’s inclusivity was further exacerbated when a local incident in Florida made the headlines: in 2023, a teacher from Hernando County School District faced disciplinary action after showing the film in a fifth-grade classroom. The teacher was accused of violating Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” law, which prohibits discussion of LGBTQ+ topics in educational settings (Bekiempis 2023; Hernandez 2023; Walker 2023).

The focus of this study, however, is not the film’s commitment to diversity or the ensuing controversies2, but instead it is its functioning as an “ecodrama” (Clarke 2022)3. Strange World seems to begin where most films would end: the storyline follows a father-son duo who dedicate their lives to finding a way to cross the impenetrable mountains that isolate their country, Avalonia, from the rest of the world. In their last expedition, the son discovers an electric plant, which he names Pando, and he envisions a future for their people fueled by this new energy source. The father, Jaeger Clade, blinded by ambition, vanishes among the peaks, while the son, Searcher, returns home to establish a technologically advanced society powered by the newfound green and renewable electricity provided by the plant. All this, in Strange World, takes place during the first 6 min. The rest of the film is about what happens 25 years later, in a society totally transformed by the easily available electric energy supplied by Pando.

According to director Don Hall, the idea for Strange World originated when he heard his “two sons, thirteen and ten at the time, and some other kids [talk] about climate change. Climate change wasn’t real, the other kids claimed. A hoax, they said. My sons countered with logic and facts, and ultimately, the argument ended with neither side convincing the other” (Jones et al. 2022, p. 8). He continues, adding, “I began to think deeply about the world I inherited from my dad, a farmer, and more important, the world my sons will inherit from me. The seed of a story was planted that day” (p. 8). From his words it appears evident that Hall’s core idea of focusing the film on the motif of “fathers, sons, and legacy” (p. 9) is intrinsically connected to the theme of climate change and to the purpose of using “entertainment to allow [Disney’s] audience to absorb complex social issues” and tell “a story that deals with humankind’s relationship with the planet” (p. 9).

3. Bringing the Energy Unconscious to the Fore

We live in an age—perhaps not for much longer—in which we can enjoy the privilege of taking fuel for granted, relying on the “touch-a-switch-and-it’s-light magic of electrical power” (Yaeger 2011, p. 309). And, as “the idea of energy has been growing increasingly abstract” (Scott 2018, p. 5), we easily—and gladly—forget that “human condition directly relates to fuel sources” (p. 7). This tendency to overlook energy’s role extends to fiction as well. But what if we concentrated our attention specifically on that aspect? In her 2011 PMLA Editor’s Column, Yaeger, inspired by Jameson’s elaboration of the concept of the “Political Unconscious” (Jameson 2007) and driven by the desire to make “energy sources a matter of urgency to literary criticism” (Yaeger 2011, p. 306), introduced the idea of the “Energy Unconscious”. She argued that “energy invisibilities may constitute different kinds of erasures” (p. 309) in narrative and that “thinking about literature through the lens of energy, especially the fuel basis of economies, means getting serious about modes of production as a force field for culture” (p. 308).

Strange World does precisely this: it foregrounds the energy source Avalonia relies on, revealing how its society is entirely dependent on the cultivation—read extraction—of its prodigious energy source. However, what begins as a utopian view of green power quickly reveals a darker reality: Pando’s “clean” electricity is actually on the verge of destroying the protagonists’ world. According to Don Hall and Qui Nguyen, cowriters of the screenplay, the story’s climactic twist was one of their earliest ideas, and it was sparked by a question: “Imagine you discovered that you’re living on the back of a living thing, and what you’re doing is harming that—what would you do?” (Hall in Radulovic 2022a). From this prompt they developed an analogy for fossil fuels: an energy source that seems to foster human technology and prosperity but, as the protagonists discover, is also irreparably damaging the environment.

In order to make the narrative structure less easily predictable, they asked themselves, “How do we disguise it and slowly reveal that it’s an environmental film?” (Hall in Edwards 2022). Enter Pando4, the “miracle plant” (Hall in Jones et al. 2022, p. 34), which produces renewable energy and whose pods (visually inspired by Brussel sprouts), unlike oil, can be used directly as batteries, do not need to be processed, do not pollute, and produce no waste. The intensive cultivation of Pando still requires regular crop dusting against parasites, but the film initially downplays this detail, and the spectator is easily (mis)led to believe in Avalonia’s utopia. Searcher’s farm is depicted as one of those “quaint, charming, and bucolic” (Jones et al. 2022, p. 28) homesteads that can be “traditionally found in the Alps” (p. 29), and the family’s portrait could not be more idyllic. Only when a strange illness begins affecting the crops, prompting the protagonists to follow the plant’s roots underground, do they discover that Pando is, in fact, a parasitic plant whose roots—gnarled, invasive, and pulsating with an ominous green electric energy—are drawing power from the vital force of a massive creature: a giant turtle on whose back Avalonian civilization has developed. Strange World thus mirrors the classic pattern of “exuberance and catastrophe” in science fiction (Buell 2012, pp. 292–93). This twist forces the protagonists to confront the consequences of their energy dependency and to take action.

By making the relationship between human condition and fuel sources “overt and explicit”, (Scott 2018, p. 7), Strange World brings our society’s energy unconscious to the fore, unmasking the process of energy extraction and making of Avalonia “the perfect allegory for our planet” (Roy Conli—producer, in Jones et al. 2022, p. 16). Indeed, the film draws a parallel between the way Avalonians are draining the ecosystem’s power through Pando roots and the way we extract the “energy stored from the photosynthesis of Carboniferous-era trees” (Scott 2018, p. 5)—alias coal—as well as the “braised biomass” made of “green algae from ancient seas” (p. 178)—alias oil. Viewed through this lens, then, Avalonia’s Pando-culture may be seen as another form of “Petroculture” (Grewe-Volpp 2020), that is, a society whose “economy, politics, and culture” (p. 273) have been shaped by a “hegemonic form of energy” (p. 273) and that now must envision “a future with more sustainable energy sources, more muscle power, and savvy technological inventions” (p. 276).

4. Screening Ecophobia: The Older Generations

In Disney’s Strange World, the portrayal of the older generations through the characters of Jaeger and Searcher Clade serves to focus attention on colonization, extractivism, and the entrenched anthropocentrism that guides the exploitation of the environment. The film’s intergenerational story is marked by differing perspectives on nature, reflecting the evolution of nature-culture frameworks, from the celebration of the “progress paradigm” (McKinley 2008, pp. 320–21) through ecophobia and apocalypticism to the espousal of the Gaia Hypothesis (Lovelock and Margulis 1974) at the end of the story. Jaeger Clade, the grandfather, represents the expansionist, colonial stance, while his son Searcher, as a farmer, embodies a modern everyman full of good intentions and unaware of his active role in destroying the planet.

Jaeger, the quintessential adventurer, is modeled on what Leyda calls the “white/father hero trope” (2023). Don Hall, the film’s director, and Jin Kim, the art director, note that Jaeger was created as the archetypal “ultimate man” and “macho” (Jones et al. 2022, pp. 14, 18), a towering figure with a strong, imposing physique, large mustache, body hair everywhere, complete with a machete, climbing ropes, and, later on, a flamethrower. The film opens with a musical sequence that presents, through a series of ‘cartoony gags’, the daring and exuberance of this character, who is visually conceived as a mix of elements from Miyazaki’s films and Franco-Belgian comics. His name, which translates to “hunter”, hints at his identity as an aggressive conqueror of the natural world, someone who views wilderness not as something to coexist with but as an adversary to be subdued.

Jaeger’s relationship with the environment seems to be directly linked with the colonial mindset described by scholars like Soper (1998) and Plumwood (1993, 2003), who argue that “the concept of colonization can be applied directly to non-human nature itself, and that the relationship between humans, or certain groups of them, and the more-than-human world might be aptly characterized as one of colonization” (Plumwood 2003, p. 52). In her seminal study on children’s fiction published in 1984, Rose associates the evolution of the boy’s adventure story genre, beginning in the latter half of the nineteenth century, with the colonial stance, “which assumed that discovering or seeing the world was the same thing as controlling it” (Rose 1984, p. 9) and that, as such, still influences modern adventure stories for children. This ideology promotes an ambivalent attitude towards nature, seeing it both as primitive and irrational yet “treacherous” (Soper 1998, p. 71), friend and foe, “a ‘virgin’ terrain ripe for penetration” (pp. 104–5), awaiting to be “tamed and tilled in agriculture” (p. 103). Seen in this light, Jaeger’s approach not only epitomizes his attempt to dominate and exploit his environment but also prefigures the actions of his son, Searcher.

Moreover, Jaeger’s view of nature reflects an attitude that Estok defines as “ecophobia” (2018, p. 1), a term identifying a psychological condition that determines a spectrum of dispositions towards the natural environment including “fear, contempt, indifference, or lack of mindfulness (or some combination of these)” (Estok 2018, p. 1). If we accept Estok’s hypothesis, that is, that ecophobia is an evolutionary survival mechanism embedded in our genes, then Jaeger’s relentless drive to dominate and antagonize elements of the natural world that he perceives as threatening appears not only perfectly plausible but even justified. First, he is convinced that Avalonia’s future—and his glory—lie beyond the “deadly peaks” (Hall 2022) that surround it; hence, he feels compelled to conquer them. Later, after penetrating inside their subterranean “labyrinth where everything’s alive” (Hall 2022), he is forced to fight against those creatures alone for 25 years. His hostility towards what he considers “mindless monsters”, then, does not come as a surprise.

The consequence of ecophobia, however, is that it can easily turn into an “irrational” fear (Estok 2018, p. 1) that “allows humanity to do bad things to the natural world”. (p. 11). According to Estok, this fear may lie at the root of both the extensive damage humans have inflicted on the environment and also their reluctance to implement those changes that are necessary to prevent the impending catastrophe. A catastrophe that in Strange World is only hinted at and then narrowly avoided but that, instead, is fully depicted in its worldwide, destructive, and irredeemable impact in the apocalyptic cli-fi The Day After Tomorrow (Emmerich 2004). The casting choices of Dennis Quaid and Jake Gyllenhaal as father and son in both films seem to evoke, in Disney’s animation, the specter of climate-induced disaster without needing to explicitly bring it again on stage.

The character of Searcher Clade, with his tighter bond with the environment and his choice to devote his life to Pando, challenges our everyday extractive practices. While Jaeger’s worldview is defined by exploration and domination, Searcher’s identity as a farmer and devoted husband and father presents him as the ideal humanist man. His greatest desire is the progress of his society, the civilization he has contributed to shape through his discovery of Pando, and he is genuinely convinced of the righteousness of his intentions.

However, Searcher’s approach still falls within the ecophobic spectrum. He views nature primarily through a utilitarian lens, distinguishing between plants and animals he can domesticate and those he deems pests to be eradicated. He and his wife, Meridian, routinely crop-dust Pando to protect it from parasites (describing this as “giving the field some extra love” (Hall 2022)), and he has no hesitation in spraying Pando dust to exterminate the underground creatures that, as he later finds out, are actually part of the giant turtle’s immune system. His role as a farmer reflects an anthropocentric utilitarianism, which focuses on taming and controlling the environment for human benefit—a mindset that, though more subtle than his father’s, still perpetuates the ingrained dualism between man and nature. Searcher can be seen as a representation of the middle generation, caught between the older generation’s colonial mindset and the newer generation’s growing awareness of ecological interdependence.

These perspectives on nature align with research on climate-related decision-making in the present time. Roy and Ayalon (2022) discuss how older generations, often holding political and economic power, tend to make decisions prioritizing immediate gains over long-term ecological consequences. This generational “myopia” (Davidson 2017) is evident in Jaeger’s unchecked adventurism and Searcher’s intensive farming practices, both of which serve their own immediate needs but inadvertently threaten the ecological balance that future generations should be able to rely upon. The dualistic logic of the domination of man over nature applies to both Jaeger and Searcher: Jaeger’s colonial mentality turns nature into an arena for his heroism, while Searcher’s farming transforms it into a battleground of productivity and pest control. In both cases, the natural world is seen as something to be utilized or fought against, not engaged with as a living entity with intrinsic value.

5. Ecocentrism at Play: The New Generation

The attitude towards the natural world of the younger generation, instead, is depicted in the film as radically different from the ecophobic/extractivist stance described above, and it mirrors what has been observed about contemporary teenagers by scholars such as Roy and Ayalon (2022), who describe this generation as “those who are expected to spend more than half of their lives adapting to climate change and whose futures are likely to be shaped significantly by irreversible environmental degradation”. They are Dr. Seuss’s boys “who car[e] a whole awful lot” (1971), with an activism driven not by choice but by necessity. Groups like Fridays for Future, Extinction Rebellion, and Climate Youth (just to name the most popular) share the common feeling that the clock is ticking and that immediate action to save the planet cannot be postponed any longer. As the screenwriters maintain, in Disney’s Strange World the character of Ethan—“a modern teenager” (Nguyen in Jones et al. 2022, p. 44)—is directly inspired by “young environmental activists” (p. 44) and, as such, represents a generational shift in environmental consciousness, embodying a deeply ecocentric worldview distinct from that of his father and grandfather.

Ethan’s journey is emblematic of adolescent fiction’s focus on the “formation of subjectivity” (Bradford et al. 2008, p. 12), which constructs “narratives of personal growth or maturation, stories about relationships between the self and others and between individuals and society” (p. 12). This development is central to Ethan’s identity as he positions himself against his father’s model while feeling a pull towards becoming an explorer like Jaeger Clade, the famous grandfather he has never met. His search for identity, however, does not imply that his personality is fickle or mutable. On the contrary, as his name seems to indicate—Ethan meaning “strength” or “firmness” in Hebrew—the boy possesses solid and mature values and convictions. First, he demonstrates a clear awareness of the importance of creating meaningful, healthy relationships, dismissing his grandfather’s dated romantic advice as “toxic”. Second, his ecocentric mindset appears firmly formed early on when, as his father chides him for not clearing the field, he advocates for the weeds’ right to survival: “Father, what is a weed other than a plant growing somewhere that you find inconvenient?” (Hall 2022).

Ethan shares his set of beliefs—which envision planetary coexistence rooted in mutual respect and understanding—with his peers, and together they reinforce their common cultural values by engaging in the fantasy role-playing card game Primal Outpost. The game—which, according to visual development artist Cory Loftis, “could actually be played” (Jones et al. 2022, p. 80)—reflects the biophilic and non-violent ethos Ethan and his friends embrace5. The objective of Primal Outpost, indeed, is not to conquer or destroy but to build a sustainable civilization and live harmoniously with the environment, challenging the traditional narrative arc of good versus evil. In what seems a filler scene of the film, Ethan attempts to teach his father and grandfather how to play. However, the adults’ instinctual response is to try to destroy the creatures they perceive as threats, not realizing that even an unseemly “monster” like the “demon spider” (Hall 2022) can play a crucial role in maintaining ecological balance. Unable to see past traditional ecophobic bias, they cannot grasp a reality where “there are no bad guys”. Frustrated, Ethan bursts, “You want bad guys? Fine. You two are the bad guys!” This remark, though apparently only an emotional response, actually underscores a critical point: humanity’s hostility towards nature positions it as the planet’s true “foe”. This perspective resonates with a recurring idea of environmental movements, from the EarthFirst! eco-terrorists who considered humans as viruses (Klaus 1990) to Fridays for Future US’s recent campaign “Aliens”, which highlights how the damage inflicted by human activities such as greenhouse gases and carbon dioxide emissions, deforestation, and overfishing is “far more dangerous to the future of our planet than any aliens could ever be” (Fridays for Future US n.d.a). It also evokes broader calls for intergenerational equity where “extending human rights to non-humans and even to ecosystems” (Cannon 2019) becomes central to redefining our relationship with the natural world. Ethan’s refusal to frame nature as an adversary exemplifies this alternative worldview, recognizing that the path to sustainability is through mutual respect and balance, not domination.

The relevance of Primal Outpost in the film should not be overlooked. In their insightful study of youth activism, O’Brien et al. (2018) identify three ways in which contemporary youth are expressing dissent about climate change. Dutiful dissent, which operates within established systems without directly challenging core power structures and focuses on policy reform; disruptive dissent, actively contesting norms and policies through actions like protests and boycotts; and dangerous dissent, which envisions alternative systems, creating new structures that bypass existing frameworks. This latter form of dissent is precisely what Avalonian teenagers are exploring through Primal Outpost: they are challenging deep-seated power and economic norms and laying the groundwork for transformative change. By rejecting the ecophobic paradigms of his father and grandfather, Ethan subverts the traditional ideologies they hold dear, in effect embodying a form of everyday activism by championing the values of cooperation and respect for the ecosystem.

Recent studies on role-playing interactive games—Pokémon Go, for instance, in both its traditional trading-card version and in its more recent AR smartphone form—explore how these games may either threaten young generations’ already weak relationship with nature (Dorward et al. 2017), a phenomenon known as the “extinction of experience” (Callahan et al. 2019), or, if creatively used with conservation goals in mind, offer enormous potential for “increasing eco-literacy regarding local biodiversity, raising awareness of environmental issues” (Callahan et al. 2019) and, more importantly, increasing positive affect through virtual engagement (Fletcher 2017). As Weik von Mossner (2017) argues in her study on affective ecologies, “embodied cognition plays an important role in the simulation of social experience and moral understanding” (p. 3) and thus holds particular relevance for “theoretical and practical investigations of environmental narratives and the emotional responses they cue in readers and viewers” (p. 3). Ecotopian fiction—novels, films, animations, series, and even games—may act as an “imaginary training ground where we can habituate ourselves to experiencing more sustainable lifestyles” (Weik von Mossner 2017, p. 189). Indeed, the final outcome of Strange World, with its radical abandonment of Pando-fuel and its conversion from intensive agriculture to sustainable farming, does not appear too far from the “end of capitalism” invoked during school climate strikes (Cannon 2019) or the postdevelopment and anticonsumerist philosophies of degrowth movements, which were “launched as a challenge to continuous economic growth, with the goal of realizing a voluntary societal shrinking of production and consumption consistent with social and ecological sustainability” (O’Brien et al. 2018, p. 8).

In her ecofeminist study of young adult fiction, Curry (2013) observes that such stories, especially those depicting “radically ruptured post-apocalyptic societies” (p. 1), “attempt to develop a sustainable ethic of care that can encompass such ‘feminised’ peoples and spatialities, including nonhumans and the environment” (p. 1). In Strange World, Ethan’s stance encourages the audience to recognize that young adults “occupying that threshold preceding integration into adult systems of social and political responsibility are in an especially privileged position to engender change” (Curry 2013, p. 197) and that, for this reason, their voice should be heard and heeded.

6. Conclusions: From Aliens to Symbionts

In Strange World, Disney takes the viewer on a journey that unfolds from within a vast, interconnected living organism. The colorful “junglelike landscape” (Jones et al. 2022, p. 87) reproduces the organs of a gigantic body, with a bronchial system—the “Windy Jungle” (p. 93)—characterized by pink and magenta mangrove-like breathing trees, an acid-yellow and green “Burning Sea” (p. 97) (which represents the stomach), and a “Petrified Cave” (p. 108) where the creature’s heart is trapped in Pando’s mortal clutch. As the protagonists venture beneath the mountains and into the underground to follow Pando’s roots, they encounter a complex ecosystem of life forms, whose colors and shapes are meant to convey the “under-the-sea feel” of marine organisms (p. 142). Some of these creatures are indifferent, while others are aggressively hostile. However, the characters eventually come to understand that these “monsters” (p. 142) represent the immune system of the enormous being that hosts them and that they are fighting to eliminate the parasitic plant that human intensive cultivation has unwittingly strengthened, making it dangerous to the ecosystem. This immersive exploration climaxes when the protagonists escape the organism’s body and discover its full form: an enormous turtle carrying the mountains, forests, and the entire civilization of Avalonia on its back. This image draws from the Algonquian and Iroquoian legend of Turtle Island, “an icon of life itself” (Robinson and Filice 2018), which supports the world.

Together with its mythological roots, this portrayal also clearly recalls the Gaia Hypothesis developed by James Lovelock and Lynn Margulis in the early 1970s. According to this hypothesis, “the total ensemble of living organisms which constitute the biosphere can act as a single entity” (Lovelock and Margulis 1974, p. 3) to sustain environmental homeostasis. As Lovelock and Margulis suggest, Gaia functions like an adaptive control system, balancing atmospheric and ecological conditions to support life. Sagan and Margulis further described Gaia as the “nexus and nest” (Sagan and Margulis 1993, p. 350) of all global life, claiming that the “planetary surface [should be] seen as body rather than place” (p. 350). Soon after the film’s release, Marder criticized this depiction, asserting that it privileges the organized animal form—where all parts “serv[e] the needs of the whole” (Marder 2022)—over the “uncontrollable, exuberant, anarchic proliferation of plants”, thereby promoting a fascist “totalitarian logic extending all the way to biology” (Marder 2022). However, through its integrated portrayal of life on our planet, Strange World transforms Earth’s ecosystem into a living character, embodying in a tangible, visible creature the urgency of humanity’s critical choice: to continue acting as a parasitic force that harms its host or to embrace a symbiotic relationship that protects its existence.

In Strange World, the generational divide in understanding environmental crisis is starkly portrayed through the characters’ interactions within Primal Outpost. In the scene already mentioned above, Ethan repeatedly asserts that there are “no bad guys” in the game, a notion that the adults Jaeger and Searcher dismiss with a meta-filmic comment: “What kind of game has no bad guys?/That’s just poor storytelling” (Hall 2022). Their reaction reveals a mindset rooted in ecophobia, which insists on the antagonism between man and nature. In her 1986 essay, Le Guin (2019, p. 728) describes this kind of narrative as the “killer’s story”, the one that focuses on “bashing, thrusting, raping, killing”, and on a hero who needs “a stage or a pedestal or a pinnacle” (p. 729)—a man just like Jaeger’s Clade, whose burning ambition is to conquer Avalonia’s unsurmountable peaks. The older generation, accustomed to narratives defined by clear conflicts of good versus evil and zero-sum games, simply “don’t get this game” (Hall 2022). For Ethan, instead, Primal Outpost’s design is intuitive, mirroring his worldview of interconnectedness and symbiosis—“In layers of history, layers of biology, layers of naturecultures, complexity is the name of our game” says Haraway (2008, p. 16).

This tension between generations mirrors the broader ecological crisis we face, where many continue to cling to the old framework of struggle and sacrifice, typical of the tragic apocalyptic scenarios that have been part of our cultural tradition since the dawn of time. Garrard explains that tragic apocalyptic narratives, with their “counterposition of good and evil (friends and enemies)” (2004, p. 87), lead to feelings of helplessness and disengagement “since action is likely to seem merely gestural in the face of eschatological history” (p. 87). In this context, the repeated emphasis on “doom and gloom” messages (Arnold 2018)—prominent in both news and climate fiction—is paralyzing and discourages people from believing in their capacity to effect change. This is based on the psychological distinction between an internal and external locus of control (Kollmuss and Agyeman 2002, p. 243): people with an external locus of control feel powerless in the face of vast, abstract crises like climate change and, consequently, are less likely to take meaningful action, as they believe themselves to be deprived of agency.

Just after the story’s climax, when Ethan and Searcher have seen the turtle and attempt to explain what they have discovered to the others—in primis Avalonia’s leader, Callisto Mal—the film briefly seems to adhere to the structure of tragic apocalypse. For about ten minutes, Callisto resists, even imprisoning the Clades, refusing to accept the evidence and alter course, “I don’t know what you think you saw. But we came down here to save Pando. That plan hasn’t changed” (Hall 2022)—a dynamic embodied by leaders all over the world that we, unfortunately, are still witnessing today. However, when finally facing the evident reality of the organism’s existence and the way Pando is draining its life, Callisto, along with the rest of the crew, accepts the truth and rises to the new challenge of leading her people through a period of drastic sacrifices.

Strange World depicts a society where everyone, across generations, contributes to the common effort, suggesting that meaningful environmental change cannot be achieved by one age group alone but requires a unified commitment. The film’s ending reinforces its message by fast-forwarding to a year later, when Avalonia is transitioning to sustainable practices such as wind power and diversified agriculture. This solar-punk vision (McIntosh 2023; Norton-Kertson 2023) highlights the potential for systemic change when leaders and citizens work together. Meanwhile, Ethan and his friends take on roles as symbionts, no longer seen as alien threats by the immune system but instead accepted as active contributors to the ecosystem’s recovery. Their practical activism and volunteer work inside the turtle’s organism embody a regenerative relationship that sustains both Avalonia and the natural world. Granted, with its “quick fix”, the film grossly simplifies the transition—omitting complex issues like economic upheaval or societal resistance—but the message remains impactful: as Roy and Ayalon (2022) effectively summarize, “to address climate change today, it is the current older generations that are expected to make sacrifices for a future of which they will not be a part”.

This symbiotic turn in Strange World contrasts with the “doom and gloom” messages (Arnold 2018) and the “shock tactics” (McKinley 2008) that paralyze or overwhelm the public, while ultimately foregrounding a narrative of hope. The shift away from tragic apocalypticism towards what Garrard calls a “comic apocalypse” (Garrard 2004) acknowledges human fallibility while celebrating the potential for corrective action, engendering an internal locus of control (Kollmuss and Agyeman 2002) that motivates rather than discourages. As Arnold (2018) points out, even though “the solution part of the story” may not be “as dramatic” and “smacks of advocacy”, it is precisely what we need right now: a sense of agency coupled with a sense of urgency because, as Nairn (2019) showed in her study on the collectivization of hope and despair, “[h]ope can act as a catalyst for individuals and collectives to pursue social change” (p. 438). Indeed, if the environmental crisis is also “a crisis of representation” (Kerridge and Sammells 1998, p. 4), then, as Weik von Mossner convincingly maintains, “[w]hat we might really need is more critical ecotopias that imagine the way from here to there, eliciting not only desire for a more just and sustainable world, but also the hope that we can achieve it” (Weik von Mossner 2017).

Hope should be the new byword for the future, and fantastic fiction like Strange World can play an important role in providing humanity with “stories that articulate visions of hope for the biosphere” (Oziewicz et al. 2022). In presenting a Gaia-like world, the film underscores that today’s human community is facing a choice: to be parasitic destroyers or to become symbiotic allies in a fragile web of life. By envisioning this scenario within a framework of comic, rather than tragic, apocalypse, Strange World succeeds in cultivating a narrative of hope, urging its audience to recognize that our choices today may indeed shape a better future, perhaps not for ourselves but for the younger generations and the diverse life forms with which we share this planet. Indeed, as Ethan concludes his letter to his father at the end of the film, we need to convince ourselves that “the best legacy we can leave is making a present worth opening tomorrow” (Hall 2022).