When Brit Marling and her longtime collaborator Zal Batmanglij conceived the idea for their latest series, "A Murder at the End of the World," it marked the first time that every network they pitched it to wanted to produce it. This occurred during the early stages of the pandemic, following the widespread success of "The OA," and amidst Netflix's surprising decision to cancel the series after just two seasons.
 |
| “The only thing you can do is choose people you believe in,” Brit Marling says of working in entertainment. COURTESY via Getty images |
"One thing I've realized about creating work in this industry is that if you're putting a piece of yourself and your heart on the line, you have to accept that there are larger forces at play that will influence things," says Marling. "The cancellation was a profound experience because it made me realize that the only thing you can do is choose people you believe in."
The show, which follows hacker Darby Hart (portrayed by Emma Corrin) as she finds herself at a billionaire's climate crisis retreat where attendees start dying one by one, ultimately found a home at FX. Marling felt that the executives at FX were passionate about storytelling and committed to protecting the integrity of the series. Here, she reflects on her work, which has been nominated for a Writers Guild of America (WGA) award, and the existential discussions it has sparked.
How do you seek out collaborators? It's worth noting that there were two authors in the writers' room for A Murder at the End of the World.
Before The OA, we were from the world of feature filmmaking and had never experienced being in a writer's room. We outlined the story we planned to tell, which was seven or eight hours long, so we didn't need a room to develop the story — it was almost like taking a novel and using the room to adapt it for the screen. I've always tried to find writers outside of Hollywood as well.
During The OA, I read a play by Dominic Orlando about mental illness that was incredibly beautiful and deeply felt. He was living in Minnesota and had never written anything for the screen. We called him up, and he flew in. For Murder, both Rebecca Roanhorse and Cherie Dimaline are science fiction authors who hadn't written anything for the screen. I believe it creates a really wonderful energy to bring in people who aren't cynical or trained in the politics of a writers' room and how to navigate its hierarchy. It can be more like a summer camp.
Do you ever feel disillusioned or disenchanted with your work?
Lately, I've been pondering this question, and I do sense that it's a cyclical feeling. This industry can sometimes feel like being trapped in a room with no way out — no doors, no windows, just darkness and the feeling of being stuck against the walls. But every time it reaches that point, someone breaks through a wall, carves out a window, and there's a resurgence of energy and vitality in storytelling.
For example, in the early days of streaming, there was a moment when advertising dollars didn't dictate the content; projects didn't have to sell products but could simply exist. This led to an incredible freedom in creating The OA. I believe that window has closed, but the creative energy is building up again, and someone will break through that wall once more, and we'll all rush through the new opening. I feel that creativity always finds a way — or at least I've convinced myself to think that way, because otherwise, it would be difficult to get out of bed.
Have you ever experienced a similar realization on this project?
Absolutely. There were moments when I would turn to Zal and wonder why we wrote certain scenes in such remote, harsh locations where we were constantly in blizzards. I remember rappelling down into a ravine once — if you fell, I don't think you'd make it out.
Some of the locations on this show are quite extreme, and they don't appear nearly as dangerous on film as they felt when we were there. I found myself thinking, why didn't we set this in the Maldives? (Laughs)
I imagine that creating this show, with its strong messages about the climate crisis, was both cathartic and anxiety-inducing at times.
In some ways, the process of telling this story and immersing myself in these experiences actually made me more hopeful. Through my research and interactions, I saw how people are increasingly taking responsibility, and positive changes are happening, even if they're not always in the spotlight of the news. I began to see nature as incredibly resilient and regenerative — if we humans just step back and allow it, there's immense healing potential.
We really wanted to explore how Andy's fear of the climate crisis led to his hoarding of resources and the creation of a tech fiefdom, which mirrors real-world behaviors. Many people are focusing on themselves and their immediate families, but what we really need is a shift towards building community and collective resilience. We are not powerless; we can still redefine our values and perspectives.
Since it seems like The OA is still very much alive for you, I'm curious: When did you feel like you had truly completed A Murder at the End of the World?
For me, the sense of completion usually comes after the intense promotional phase of releasing a show starts to quiet down. That's when new stories and ideas begin to emerge. I can always sense this shift because I'll wake up at three in the morning with the remnants of a dream or a new idea, and I'll rush to my laptop to jot it down before it slips away.
 |
| Brit Marling, as reclusive hacker Lee Anderson, with Emma Corrin (who plays Darby Hart) in FX’s A Murder at the End of the World. CHRIS SAUNDERS/FX |
Currently, I'm working on a feature that came to me in a similar way—it just flowed out within a week. These ideas seem to come from the unconscious mind, almost like a sudden rush of water in a flash flood. There's a rapid download of inspiration, and you're scrambling to capture it all before it fades.
Did any part of the story of A Murder at the End of the World come to you in a similar sudden wave of inspiration?
Yes, the love story between Bill and Darby came to me like that. It was like a wave that just washed over me. I never had to struggle with those sections; they flowed effortlessly. It was this feeling of being on a road trip and falling in love, experiencing the brightness and openness of your first love, all while unraveling a cold case of a serial killer. The juxtaposition of light and dark felt so natural and intuitive.
One scene that really poured out of me was when Bill leaves Darby in the car and walks out into the desert, with her eventually following him. They have a conversation about how their passion for amateur sleuthing and their love are being influenced by technology. That scene felt like it wrote itself.
The first time I watched the series without any background information or trailers, those early love scenes felt timeless, almost like they could be from the twenties or the sixties. It was actually jarring when I realized it was set in current times because they were arguing about smartphones.
Their love story has a timeless quality partly because of the setting in the Badlands and the iconic imagery of an American road trip. When we watch a first-love story, we often project our own experiences onto it, remembering our first fights or heartbreaks. We wanted their story to feel mythic, but achieving that can be challenging, so it's rewarding to hear that it resonated that way. Emma Corrin and Harris Dickinson are such incredible actors; they truly found something special together on screen every day.
Did the characters change at all once Emma and Harris were cast? How does the version we see onscreen differ from the original script?
Many of the characters I've written, I've written with the intention of playing them myself, which can affect how I approach the writing. I don't always give myself the same freedom to explore when writing for myself—I tend to hold back. When Zal and I made Sound of My Voice together, the character I played was quite cruel and intense, and while I know I have that capacity within me, I don't often tap into it.
For this project, I knew I didn't want to play the lead because I wanted to focus more on directing. Initially, we were trying to imagine different actors in the roles, but then I read something about how writing with a specific actor in mind can lead you to rely too much on their charisma, assuming they'll elevate the material. When we met Emma for the first time, we were struck by her preternatural gravitas and depth, especially for someone so young.
As you prepared to release the show, did you have any specific expectations or hopes for what success would mean? What aspects of a series' life feel fulfilling to you?
What's fascinating about this question is that defining success in this industry has become increasingly complex. No one really knows what constitutes success anymore. The financial model is broken, and even the most successful shows don't always match up financially. We don't even know how many people need to watch something on a platform like Hulu for it to be considered successful. It's a challenging environment, but also liberating because it forces you to ask yourself, what does success mean to you personally?
People often refer to The OA as a cult show, which I find amusing because it had such a large audience initially, with tens of millions of viewers. But for me, with this new show, success is more about the emotional impact. When you mentioned earlier that you went into a screening with no expectations and were so captivated that you kept watching, that's incredibly fulfilling to hear. If something can truly move and affect people, then I feel like we've done our job.
Fans seem eager to discuss your work. What pressure do you feel to engage in that feedback loop?
I might not be the best at that kind of engagement, especially compared to some of my younger peers. I don't have the most natural relationship with social media. However, I do feel the genuine love that people have for the shows, and that part feels authentic and heartfelt. The fans of The OA who ask for more of the show do so with such sincerity, and we want to honor that. If the stars align and circumstances in the industry allow for it, we would absolutely continue the story. Perhaps that can happen in the future. I don't mind people continuing to ask for more.
I'll admit that I'm somewhat shy, so while I enjoy one-on-one conversations, I'm not as adept at other aspects of fandom, and I wish I were better at it.
Ultimately, it's probably protecting me. I'm sure we've both seen people, especially in this industry, who struggle to separate online validation from real-world interactions. It's a slippery slope.
I have a friend who's a talented writer and faced backlash online for something controversial they wrote. They were overwhelmed, but it's interesting how it's like a portal—you can just close your laptop and it's as if it never happened. It's not like you walk into a grocery store and everyone recognizes you as the person who wrote that essay.
In the digital world, a small number of voices can seem like a huge crowd in the town square, screaming and throwing vegetables. And I don't know how to create art that won't upset at least 10% of the audience. The only art I'm interested in making is often too subversive, feminist, or critical of the system not to provoke some part of the audience to question it, which we experience a lot.
Are you a superfan of anything?
I have a couple of random fandoms. One is ER, the medical show from the nineties. My partner and I were in a rural part of Kansas with not much to do at night, so he suggested we watch ER, as he used to watch it with his mom. I had never seen it before, and we ended up binge-watching the first season.
I became a huge fan, even though it sounds silly to say because it was such a massive hit. Another long-term fandom of mine is Hayao Miyazaki. Whenever there are retrospectives of his work, I'll drive through Santa Monica traffic just to attend.
I recently saw Maura Tierney in a coffee shop, and it was the most excited I've been in a long time.
I totally relate to that feeling. I can see a big movie star and feel nothing, but then get really starstruck over something so specific. When I admire someone's work, I often write them a little note and slip it to them. I never know how to express my appreciation without it feeling like I'm seeking something from the encounter.
For example, I once wrote Alejandro González Iñárritu a note on a paper tablecloth covered in mustard stains from a sandwich while at Cannes.
Do you think it’s possible for people to become very wealthy and still remain good individuals? Is there such a thing as an ethical billionaire?
I don’t think I could provide a definitive answer, but I can share my current thoughts on this. I recall reading an essay in college about Marilyn Monroe and the concept of situational narcissism. The essay argued that extreme fame makes genuine human encounters nearly impossible due to how everyone treats you. It changes your relationship with the world, and to some extent, it's not entirely your fault.
I feel similarly about individuals with billions of dollars. They possess an enormous share of the world’s resources, and every interaction they have is influenced by their immense power over others. While I would like to believe that some individuals use their wealth to make meaningful contributions to society, the reality is often different. I don’t think it’s possible to maintain one’s full humanity when wielding such extreme power.
0 Comments