If We Dive into ‘Knock at the Cabin’

The space between "inside" and "outside"

In "Knock at the Cabin," the door—serving as a metaphorical "switch" in space—rigidly separates two contrasting material spaces, constantly defining the sensations of "inside" and "outside." Safe, ordered spaces are often perceived as "inward," whereas, in relative terms, scary, unknown areas are experienced as "outward."

In most parts of the film, two adults find themselves bound to chairs. With the intrusion of four strangers posing potential threats, their urgent desire to "escape from the indoors" is thwarted, rendering them immobile. Here, the "inside" and "outside" sensation undergoes a subtle reversal. The confined space within the cabin becomes fraught with anxiety and peril, making the "outside" appear comparatively safer.

On a rational and narrative level, "Knock at the Cabin" is an extreme variation of the "trolley problem." However, it's not the traditional ethical dilemma of "sacrificing one to save many" but a question of choosing to inhabit the "inside" or venture to the "outside." It's not just an abstract query but a matter of life and death.

In this regard, the imaginative dimension of physical space divides in the realm of imagination—the separation of "inside" and "outside" from the perspective of "myself," distinguishing between the raw realism of the "inside" and the imaginative dimension of the "outside." It forces "myself" to reevaluate the situation beyond the "door." What's happening outside? The question arises: How is the "outside" of "myself" formed?

Screen and cabin: beyond "myself"

Primarily, it's the realm of the unseen—the fictional. The movie portrays close-ups of faces, four strangers narrating delusional stories of the impending "world's end" to the protagonist, followed by confessions about their lives and anxieties. However, these seem evidently "unreal." To the audience, aren't their narrations an intensified fiction within fiction? Vision within the screen's "beyond" the screen—presented precisely in that manner:

On the TV, a news anchor reports "tsunamis engulfing cities, the world plagued by pandemics." Despite the film shifting the camera from beyond the TV screen to within it, forming a seemingly "realistic" visual, it still fails to convince the protagonist and the audience that beyond the cabin (or "beyond myself"), their stories, sounding like fiction or delusions, are "truly" unfolding.

But doesn't this create a kind of "division"? "I know various disasters, tsunamis, plagues, earthquakes occur daily, but... these catastrophes seem fictional to me."

Whether protagonist or audience, fictional movies or real life, we must acknowledge that we're experiencing the same "division syndrome." "I know this is the fact, but..." We're constantly affirming those "fictional facts" and "real stories." The world itself might be a grand delusion for "myself," and humanity itself might be deeply entrenched in a "division syndrome," relying on the "screen" to determine reality and falsehood.

The screen can report the truth or broadcast falsehoods, thereby utterly undermining its meaning, the meaning of the medium, and the meaning of narration. "Beyond the door," "beyond the screen," "beyond the cabin," and "beyond myself" all seemingly converge into the same issue. Is the distinction between "inside" and "outside" merely spatial? Or is it a distinction between imagination, illusion, and concept? Does empathy, compassion, and sympathy dissolve equally? Even when someone self-sacrifices before us, the reality can be conveniently excluded as "outside" ("It's their undoing").

The cracks of desire

The young girl, as the "free one," unbonded, can "enter" the cabin. She connects the inside and outside of the house, either escaping through the ducts due to her small size or playing "naïve" to hide a knife for her father's escape. In essence, she's always part of escape or aiding escape actions.

However, it's crucial to note that "escaping the cabin" isn't her desire. She cannot identify the current life-threatening crisis. She is also structuring her own "inside" and "outside," choosing to stay with her fathers, creating a more "contained" space.

"In a certain sense, 'escaping the cabin' can also be dialectically understood as 'escaping into the cabin.' It could be said that the girl is merely a tool for the desires of the 'disabled' fathers, mediating between the adult "myself" and all external worldly affairs. And when these actions touch upon gender issues, it undoubtedly intensifies the opposition between "inside" and "outside." "I" observe the "outside" through the child, and consistently, the 'division syndrome' continues: I so desire to go 'outside,' thus I can reside safely within 'inside.'

"Outside" is structured by "inside." If the "door" is seen as a switch forcibly closing off the outward desire, then the "hole" is the traumatic wound formed by desires. An incredible paradox emerges in a thrilling indoor chase scene—Dave Bautista's Leonard inexplicably "vanishes" like a ghost.

To be more precise, armed with a gun, the protagonist outside the tightly locked bathroom door hears Leonard breaking the glass window. Fearing he might escape and pose another threat by "re-entering" the cabin, the protagonist attempts to observe if Leonard is still inside the bathroom by opening the door. But together with the protagonist, we encounter a startling fact—how can a large man fit through such a small window? Where did he go? Or, more precisely, where did his physical body go?

At that moment, fleeting and brief, the movie reveals what the "surface" is—the audience desires something behind the curtain. Yet, behind the curtain, there's only the audience's "desire." We both imagine the existence of objects behind the representation and imagine the threat morphing into a disappearing ghost.

This eerie paradox that belongs to the audience emerges; we want the representation in the movie to be accurate (which makes the threat disappear, and the previous doubts, terror, and desire lured by the hole can be momentarily denied, recognized as pure fictional constructs within the movie); yet, we also want the representation in the film to be false (so that the threat can be hit, ghosts, deities, fiction, and even the impossible ghostly disappearance can all cease to "exist").

It could be said that in "Knock at the Cabin," the problem of existence has been "actualized." It's no longer a distant contemplation but "actually" impacting the present existential crisis of "myself." "I" am not choosing between "others" but must choose between "myself" — an absolute, opposing choice: "sacrifice myself, and life persists; preserve myself, and everything perishes."

When one tries to walk "outside" but finds they can't, in a certain sense, they've reached the "outside." Just as the undeniable, unrefutable traumas and choices in our lives, through the hole of desire (door, window, screen), we see the dimension of imagination beyond representation. We witness reflections that are both the persecuted world's apocalypse and the serene and beautiful life scenes.

I may not care about humanity, but it's impossible to evade my existence as a human being perpetually. At the movie's end, Andrew's divine companion Eric, as another "myself," rushes to sacrifice, "saving" the world. Yet, perhaps more deserving of celebration is that "I" managed to step out of the cabin; the boundary between "inside" and "outside" dissolved at the moment, turning into some soft intermediary, buffering the profound contradictions between "myself" and the world.