A House of Dynamite provokes the fear of manmade doomsday

If you are a fan of archaeological history, you know how cataclysm works, the human race has faced its doomsday several times already. Most were wiped out, some survived and bore the torch of civilisation.

Yet where is the syllable civil in civilisation? It’s all about competition, consumption, war, conflict, possession, wanting more and more, and it never ends. Humans were never happy, never satisfied, let alone settled.

Sounds exorbitantly pessimistic? But how do you feel even if it is 50 per cent true that humans are responsible for their own doom, through pollution, the making of unimaginably lethal weapons, the arrogance to play with nature’s order?

Kathryn Bigelow’s new Netflix outing, A House of Dynamite, brings forward the same question of manmade evil that can annihilate all life from Earth.

It is a nuclear panic thriller set against the feverish backdrop of an unidentified ICBM launch, written by Noah Oppenheim and directed with Bigelow’s familiar procedural precision.

The premise is pure nightmare fuel. One morning, Washington learns that a missile is headed for Chicago, its origin unknown. Command centres scramble, radar screens light up, and the chain of command frays under the weight of indecision.

The twist — and the film’s formal conceit — is that this 19 minutes window before possible annihilation is replayed three times from three different perspectives: that of a White House officer, the STRATCOM command, and finally the President himself. It is a bold structure in theory, a kind of nuclear Rashomon.

In practice, though, the tension dissipates with every retelling. The same dialogue and procedural steps recur like déjà vu, but without the revelation that might justify the repetition.

However, the machinery feels curiously inert. For all its talk of DEFCON levels and interception failures, the film lacks immediacy. The editing moves briskly but without rhythm; scenes that should feel claustrophobic instead feel airless.

The performances are disciplined but bloodless. Idris Elba’s president is a study in gravitas, but the script gives him little to do beyond frowning meaningfully at screens.

Rebecca Ferguson, introduced as a capable White House officer, vanishes halfway through the film, taking with her the last trace of emotional resonance. Her expression, in those fleeting moments, might bring tears to your eyes — especially when you recall your own child’s face amid catastrophe.

Because of the storyline’s narrow focus, you’ll miss the usual presence of Jared Harris and Tracy Letts, both trapped in loops of military jargon. It is as if the film itself has succumbed to bureaucratic paralysis — frozen by its own decorum.

A brief exchange about the ethics of retaliation hints at something deeper, the idea that America’s nuclear posture is itself a kind of psychological warfare, a “house of dynamite” we all inhabit. But the film never quite trusts its own metaphor. Instead, it circles back to screens, systems, and codes, mistaking procedure for drama.

Morally, A House of Dynamite resonates in a chilling way. It reminds us that no weapon, however “defensive,” remains neutral. Every act of technological genius can just as easily become an instrument of extinction. The film is less about an incoming missile than about the arrogance that built it, the belief that control and destruction can coexist safely in human hands.

What makes A House of Dynamite exceptional is its refusal to offer any sense of closure. The missile’s impact is never shown, nor is the President’s final decision. The omission is deliberate, the film ends on the edge of action, forcing viewers to confront the unbearable uncertainty that defines nuclear deterrence.

In the end, A House of Dynamite leaves its audience shaken not by explosions, but by silence — the kind that lingers after realising how thin the line is between civilisation and annihilation.