Planets and sisters collide in Melancholia, a tale about the end of the world. 

Cormac McCarthy was an author that was well-read and well-regarded for years, while simultaneously forgotten anytime literary accolades were handed out. He recently received what could be construed as a long-overdue Pulitzer Prize in fiction for a book that most certainly deserved it. The author wrote for 30 years before winning a National Book Award for a minor work — and suddenly he gets two film adaptations in three years? Nice.

It was an unsuspecting Friday night when I got the text-message, “Come see 2012! It will be fantastic!”

“Questionable,” I thought to myself.

We are obsessed with our own destruction. Somehow, perhaps, we know we can’t keep cutting down rainforests, driving vehicles with single-digit MPGs or allowing Disney to keep unleashing clones of Raven and Miley upon us. How do these societal fears of worldly limits curbing our unlimited desires manifest themselves? In fiction. The big screen. Lots of CGI.