Sam Esmail Didn’t Mean for Leave the World Behind to Be So Timely

Spoilers ahead for Leave the World Behind.

Sam Esmail’s work has an authorial signature the size of John Hancock’s. From the dystopian science fiction thriller Mr. Robot through Amazon’s military mystery Homecoming to his new film, Leave the World Behind, the compositions are intricately composed and lit and packed with so much information you can’t absorb it on first viewing. The camera seems unmoored from the laws of physics, traveling through doors, walls, floors, and windows and into hypothetical or subjective scenarios. Characters speak directly to the audience and sometimes seem to look straight into the lens.

Based on Rumaan Alam’s acclaimed 2020 novel, Leave the World Behind is restrained for an Esmail joint. The disquieting tale is set mainly in a country house outside of New York City, where Amanda (Julia Roberts) and Clay (Ethan Hawke) travel with their children, Archie (Charlie Evans) and Rose (Farrah Mackenzie), for a weekend getaway. On their first night there, two strangers arrive at the door: G.H. (Mahershala Ali) and his daughter, Ruth (Myha’la Herrold); they declare they are the owners of the house and ask to be let in, citing a blackout in the city. Distrust and paranoia grows between the two families, and soon they’re pummeled by increasingly surreal events, from the mysterious swarming behavior of forest deer to immense vehicular disasters. It’s a doom-spiral tale well suited to Esmail, a filmmaker so influenced by expressionistic 1970s thrillers that his work samples his favorite scores from the period. During a recent lunch at the Greenwich Hotel, he talked about the process of adapting the novel to film, the script’s eerie synchronicity with current events, and his evolving sense of how much information to give to the audience — and when and how.

Tell me about the book. When did you first encounter it, and what made you want to adapt it?
In the first year of the pandemic. Remember when we were wiping Amazon boxes and holding our breath when we walked by someone on the street? I got this book, and at the time I had been wondering what to do next because Mr. Robot had just finished. I was thinking about disaster movies because I happen to be obsessed with that genre: Towering Inferno and Earthquake and all those movies, even the Roland Emmerich ones, including The Day After Tomorrow, which is probably my favorite — even though my wife’s in it, so I’m slightly biased.

The book touched this nerve thematically because it was about how people can lose sight of their common humanity in the face of a crisis. It’s pretty relevant today given what’s going on in the world. The other thing that interested me is that this book does the inverse of what a typical disaster film does. The disaster elements tend to be the center of the story in disaster films. The characters tend to be secondary. Here, I could invert that process and be with the characters and have the disaster element exist more in the distance. That instantly felt more authentic to how humans would experience a crisis like that.

The disaster film, the pandemic film, and the zombie film are all kind of the same story. So I guess it makes sense that one part of your movie — where Amanda and G.H. and Clay and Ruth have separate conversations and you cross-cut between them — reminded me of the 1978 Dawn of the Dead: the sequence where they’re living in the barricaded top section of the zombie-infested shopping mall, experiencing this weird, sad facsimile of normal life.
Yeah! But here, the monster is unknown. Unlike Dawn of the Dead or most of those disaster films, you’re explicitly told, and the characters are explicitly told, “Here’s what’s going to happen.” Then you’re waiting for the story where the characters are going to somehow interrupt this process and overcome it. Here, we’re never told exactly what the threat is. The idea is it’s the not knowing that’s keeping everyone on edge, up until the ending.

Now I will say this: You came into my head when I was working on it, because when we’ve talked about paranoid thrillers before, you’ve noted that one of the hallmarks of the ending is: The system wins. Our heroes don’t overcome. And often they don’t get the answers they want. It’s just like in life. We’re going to have to face ambiguity and kind of live with it. The ending has to leave you with that sense of paranoia. It has to provoke that sense of you not knowing the answers and “what did I just witness? Am I unsafe now?” I feel it every time I watch The Parallax View, right up until now — and I really watch it annually at this point. I need a minute after I finish that film.

You gave the audience more at the end of the movie than the novel.
I did.

Why?
In a literary medium, you can be more abstract, because when you’re reading something, the imagination is left up to you. It’s more expected that it’s going to be open to interpretation. Whereas in a film, audiences need a little bit more hand-holding when it comes to some answers. Now, at the same time, I didn’t want to pull punches and I wanted to embrace the tone of the ending of the book — which is a question mark. It is meant to provoke conversation; it is not meant to tie everything up. I don’t think the film does that. But I wanted to give a little more, because I do think in the cinematic medium, you can go too far with abstraction.
 
In the end, we see Amanda and Ruth in the forest, looking at something, and then the camera rises up through the trees and we see a mushroom cloud over New York, then another explosion, and what sounds like gunfire. It’s obvious some type of war is occurring, but we don’t know exactly what that is. Am I right? 
Yes. You’re shown a glimpse of what’s happening, but you don’t necessarily know what will happen after that or what is causing that exactly. I think that channeled the right sort of questions and provocations that I wanted to put in the movie.

In the film, G.H. talks about this idea of using electronic disruption and untraceable propaganda to drive a population crazy so they turn against each other. That’s not in the book. Where did that come from?
Well, it goes back to the theme of the book that I loved — and it was done in the microcosm, mostly between Amanda and G.H. — about how a crisis leads to infighting and mistrust. It ultimately becomes a cautionary tale. In the moments when we need to come together the most, we actually do the opposite, and what does that say about humanity? What does that mean for people? I wanted to parallel that in a cinematic way, and I wanted to show that the world, the plan that’s going on around them, this unknown monster, is feeding off of this specific anxiety: that in the face of crisis or confusion, we’re just gonna end up turning guns on each other.

TikTok is a Chinese-owned company that has been accused of sowing political discord in the U.S., and in this movie, China’s mentioned as a possible bad actor in this scenario. And you also have a scene where Clay is being pursued by a plane that drops leaflets written in Persian that say “Death to America.” Aren’t you playing with dynamite putting stuff like this in there? And second, watching it now, there are certain resonances here with the conversation around the current war in Gaza and America’s role in it. How is it possible that you could be so of-the-moment when you made this movie, what, a year ago? 
Well, to your latter point, I don’t know. This happened to me with Mr. Robot, where we’d film a story line and then weeks later it would happen in real life! I don’t have an answer to that. When we premiered at AFI Fest in October, I just thought that moment with “Death to America,” when Archie is translating that leaflet, was going to fall like a lead balloon. It was not something I planned for, and it’s also certainly not something I want to take credit for or be associated with.

At the same time, when you are going to embrace a film about the potential downfall of society, you don’t want to pull punches. We could talk about politics on a separate occasion. It’s really about the human side of it. What happens when we are giving into our worst instincts about race, class, xenophobia? What is that part of humanity that makes us triggered and starts to divide us? That’s what I wanted to explore. I’m never afraid of using real-life fears and anxieties. Now again, I had no plans on overlapping with reality, and I still hope to God we don’t with this film!

In the movie, there’s a reference to a reactor meltdown in New Jersey —
[Laughs] You caught that!

Which is the location of a similar event on Mr. Robot. Does this mean this movie is part of the Mr. Robot expanded universe?
I hate using that phrase! But I’ll say that whenever I write anything — well, I like my world, and I figure, “Why not just keep it all in the family?”

I wanted to talk about the style of the film. You’re acrobatic with the camera, you’re thinking of inventive ways to show us things, but it seems like you state everything very plainly — even when the camera’s tilted 90 degrees and flying through houses and things. You’ve sort of pared something down, in your way?
Yeah, I don’t know if restraint is the right word. I had the same crew — same cinematographer, same production designer, composer, sound-design team. But in contrast with Mr. Robot or even Homecoming, where we felt more gonzo or experimental, when we started filming Leave the World Behind, I was like “Okay, we’ve tested everything, we’ve pulled out all the tricks. Now let’s use all of that to come together and tell this story in its essential form. What does the movie want to be?” I don’t know if that’s just maturity, or if this story just didn’t call for all those things I did before.

Even when you’re doing extreme things, it feels like it’s thematically correct. Like the way the camera moves through architecture: It feels like a demonic presence is invading the space. Like in The Shining.
That was a huge influence. I love big camera moves, especially when it’s relaying something the audience doesn’t know. It’s like what you’re saying: It’s almost as if the movie’s a little possessed, and you’re the demon looking down at those people. It’s that great shot in Rear Window: Jimmy Stewart’s asleep and the camera’s moving, and then you’re looking across the street seeing the thing he’s not seeing, and then you realize, “Wait a minute — who am I? What am I? What’s happening? Who’s seeing it? Am I the one seeing it?” It’s very unsettling.

You call it demonic, but it’s within you. Ever since I saw that film as a kid, I’ve always loved the idea of a camera being its own sort of person.

Interesting that I came into this conversation thinking of it as a paranoid thriller, and you opened by calling it a disaster film, and now we’re talking about horror. 
I’m so excited whenever I watch a movie and I can’t quite pin it down. It’s the sensation I felt with Get Out, which I’d argue is a paranoid thriller but some would say is a horror film. Some would also say it’s a dark comedy. You really can’t know. I love being untethered to any expectation you might have of what’s going to happen next. That’s the combination you’re always looking for. An undefinable tone helps with that.

You do a thing repeatedly in this movie, and you also did it a lot in Mr. Robot, where you show someone noticing something and then staring at it, and you stay on the character staring at it for quite a long time before you actually show the thing they’re looking at. Why do you like to do those types of scenes?
Have you ever watched the documentary Visions of Light?

Which part of it?
The part with cinematographer William A. Fraker, about shooting Rosemary’s Baby.

You mean the phone shot, with Ruth Gordon sitting on the bed, where she’s mostly blocked by the doorframe?
Yeah — that always stuck with me, and what Fraker says is true. You watch that scene, and everyone in the audience starts doing this [leans to one side, as if trying to peer around a door frame]. You want to know. You want to see her face. You want to know what she’s saying. When you can get an audience to physically react in that way — that’s why I love oners. You’re so limited in the frame, there’s no cutting, and you get that sensation that this is all there is — you’re looking at every corner to make out what’s going to happen, or what’s around the corner. When you can get an audience physically engaged like that, it’s the best feeling. It’s so crucial for suspense too. It’s like pulling a rubber band. You just keep pulling it and pulling it and there’s that sensation that it will never snap.

You also do a thing where you show spectacular events from a distance, or otherwise film them to convey how people are seeing or experiencing them. You see G.H. running away from the crashing plane before you know what he’s running from.
Let’s talk about the visceral experience of watching a film. If you’re up close with any sort of set piece, whether it’s a plane, oil tanker, whatever it is, that’s a rush you can get as an audience member — that you’re part of the action. But it feels facile to me, almost superficial. You’re giving them a joyride. What to me is more horrifying is if you’re running while this thing in the distance is getting bigger and bigger and coming at you. That’s a different, visceral reaction, and to me a more human reaction, because that’s what our characters are going through. It’s less of a roller coaster and more of a grounded character journey.

Denzel Washington was originally going to play G.H., but it ended up being Mahershala Ali. What’s the story?
We had some scheduling conflicts and we had to move on. But Mahershala was great because I always pictured G.H. as a Hitchcockian archetype. The prototype was Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock’s films. He’s an Everyman. They’re not five steps ahead, like a superhero, but they’re half a step ahead. They’re savvy enough to size up any situation. Mahershala has that. He is so magnetic and charming but deeply grounded and genuine. There are moments in close-ups where you can really sense the fear in his eyes without him doing too much.

This is the second time you’ve worked with Julia Roberts, right?
Well, technically the third, if you want to count Castle, because I produced that.

She’s doing different work for you than I think she’s done for other people. It’s straight-up character acting, divested from Julia Roberts the icon.
I only met Julia, what, five years ago? The Julia I know wants to challenge herself and mix things up. When I read the book, I immediately thought of her, not because she reminds me of Amanda — she’s nothing like Amanda — but I knew it would take that America’s Sweetheart persona that she has and flip it on its ear.

She’s a bit of a Karen in this.
Only somebody like Julia can channel the humanity of a Karen. And you really need that, otherwise the movie wouldn’t work. What better performer to do that than the world’s biggest movie star?

We know Ethan Hawke is a fearless actor, but I was still shocked by the extent to which he figuratively showed his ass in this performance. 
What Ethan pulled off was pretty much a magic trick. Typically in a disaster film, the patriarch is the hero. He’s the one who knows how to pull it all together, and Clay is the opposite of that. But it’s crazy because even though he fails his family and himself countless times, he’s someone you can relate to, not in spite of, but because of all of that. That’s something Ethan was able to do in a vulnerable way.

He’s a very philosophically minded guy. Did he have any thoughts on this story? 
Oh yeah, we spoke about it a lot. I remember asking him, “What is the tone of this movie? I can’t think of another film like it.” He thought about it for a while. He came back the next day and said, “Have you ever seen the film Fearless?”

I love that film. Thirty years old, as of this year.
I’d never seen it, and I saw it and I fell in love with it. I thought there was something about that film tonally that I connected with for this film. It had these big, epic sequences. There’s a plane crash! But really, it was just so human.

Do you think Clay slept with his students?
No. I don’t think he’s “That Guy,” as Ruth would say. He likes the attention, but I don’t think he crosses the line.

What caused Archie’s teeth to fall out?  
I want to be careful how I answer this. I think it’s a nightmare. I think the movie’s a nightmare, and I think that, in nightmares, things happen that are inexplicable.

I’ve had nightmares about losing my teeth.
I have too. Weird, isn’t it?
 
Did the finale of Friends figure into the novel or did you add that?
There was a reference to Friends in the book, but the through-line of wanting to see the finale — that was me.

Why Friends?
It’s such an iconic show globally, not just here in the United States. And it crosses generations now because it had this resurgence, I don’t know, five years ago on streaming. There’s a line that Ruth says to Amanda. She’s talking about Friends and describes it as nostalgic for a time that never existed. I think about that in terms of that show, because it is seeing things through rose-colored glasses, and sometimes we need that even though it was never true. But I also love that it messes with our memories, where we think, “Maybe it was that way back then, 30 years ago,” even though deep down we know it wasn’t. All of that felt right for Rose’s journey. She just wanted to grasp at something that felt pure to her, and she couldn’t get it with her family. In a way, these were her real friends. And I had to give her a happy ending. Paranoid thrillers are so brutal with their endings! I had to give some small sense of hope to Rose.

Not that this was necessarily in the forefront in your mind, but: Between the wall of vinyl records at G.H.’s house and the DVD vault in the basement of the neighbor’s house, this movie is the best argument for ownership of physical media that I’ve seen in a while.
One hundred percent! And let me tell you, friend — that was in the forefront of my mind! And here’s something intentional about that, though I don’t think the Netflix folks have noticed it: In the very end, you see Rose’s thumb hovering over the remote, and it goes past the Netflix button to hit “play” on the DVD player.

What are you telling us there?
If an event like the one we depict in this movie actually happens, Netflix isn’t gonna help out with your escapism. It’s gonna have to be physical media.