A paradoxical film about the nuclear era, encapsulating humanity itself as a paradox—probably the best way to (futilely) describe acclaimed filmmaker Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb—had pointed relevance at the time of its development and release amidst the escalating global crisis of the Cold War due to events such as the construction of the Berlin Wall, the Cuban Missile Crisis and the assassination of United States President John F. Kennedy. Kubrick adapted author Peter George’s 1958 thriller novel Red Alert into a satirical comedy upon finding humour in the absurdist nature of the then-lived nuclear reality. How did he manage to make a black comedy on a topic as grave as nuclear war? By not intentionally doing so, by simply telling things as they were.

At the centre of the story is a rogue general usurping the chain of command, launching a nuclear strike and ultimately ending the world by triggering a doomsday device. The film portrays realistic, though exaggerated-for-effect scenarios that highlight humanity’s inability to acknowledge its feebleness and self-serving decision-making driven by lust, insecurity and paranoia. The cinematic nightmare of a comedy captures the state of nuclear terror and human hubris in its reality-inspired dream space, compelling people to reconsider their relationship with the proverbial as well as literal bomb.

“The longer the bomb is around without anything happening, the better people do in psychologically denying its existence. It has become as abstract as the fact that we are all going to die someday,” said Kubrick in the 2017 book Reconstructing Strangelove: Inside Stanley Kubrick’s “Nightmare Comedy” by author Mick Broderick. As time passed, the threat of nuclear armageddon no longer troubled the world’s consciousness as much as it once did. From rogue robot uprisings to climate change, the world found ample distractions from the grotesque origins of nuclear deterrence. Collective denial enabled us to continue living our lives despite the looming threat of our creation possibly becoming the cause of our destruction. Popular culture even went as far as glorifying it when comics introduced superheroes created by accidents involving radioactivity. Terms like A-bomb and H-bomb started resonating as potential names of rappers and the nuclear threat was capitalised on in naming everyday objects. However, due to possible factors such as the COVID-19 pandemic, billionaires investing in isolated luxury retreats or the popularity of renowned filmmaker Christopher Nolan’s 2023 film Oppenheimer, discussions on how the world might end seem to be catching wind again and nuclear annihilation makes for a plausible case.

Embracing the paradox of the satirical nuclear age parable that is Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, British photographer Alastair Phillip Wiper seeks to open a dialogue on nuclear technology’s influence on modern culture and politics through his ongoing project How We Learned to Stop Worrying. “The title is a little tongue in cheek—as I suppose Kubrick's was—that after a period where a lot of people did stop worrying about the threat of nuclear war, it is back in focus,” the photographer tells STIR. “I changed the I to we to make the project more inclusive – I’m interested in how we as a society, react to these things. I’m not trying just to give my point of view.” The interior design of the residence screams luxury kitsch, with exaggerated patterns and over-the-top colour combinations using unusual yet expensive materials and finishes. “I think the interiors emphasise the craziness of the situation - they take the idea of being stuck in a bunker and add a layer of psychedelia to it. Not grey utilitarian walls, but ‘70s disco,” says Wiper.

Born in Germany and based in Copenhagen, Denmark, Wiper is best known for his industrial, scientific and architectural photography that often captures realities that are deemed stranger than science fiction through the lens of dark humour. “The subjects I choose to photograph are usually hard to access and have something strange about them - they may be everyday places like a sausage factory or a shoe factory, but not many people get to visit those places,” states Wiper on how he finds stories in objects and places. “I aim to reveal the humour in the machines and facilities we build, which reflect our desires, needs and fears”, he continues. For the How We Learned to Stop Worrying project, Wiper examines the term nuclear and the eccentric manifestations of its obsession, capturing nuclear age remnants such as top-secret atomic weapons testing facilities, government and private fallout shelters, life-saving medical isotopes and nuclear waste management.

Out of all the locations Wiper has covered for the project, the Underground House in Las Vegas stands out as one of the most intriguing luxury fallout shelters in the world. Built in 1978 by Jerry Henderson, founder of Avon Products, the house was designed by American architect Jay Swayze, who had previously built a few residential bunkers following the then civil defence guidelines. The house is spread across 15,000 square feet, comprising two seemingly separate structures of the main house and the guesthouse, featuring amenities such as a large artificial yard, hot tubs, a sauna, a bar, a dance floor, a grand piano, a barbeque station and a swimming pool—which Wiper was delighted to get to swim in—that make it the perfect nuclear retreat. Integration of a lighting design system that simulates daylight, an artificial landscape made from faux grass, trees and rocks and painted sceneries of the views from Henderson’s former properties around the globe create an imitation of life on the surface, a vision of what might one day be lost. 

“It felt like a movie set. It was amazing to think that in another era, this was a millionaire's dream home - I admire Jerry Hendersen for his eccentric vision,” says the photographer on his on-site experience of the house. It is unknown whether it was the constant fear of being nuked or just love for the private residence that made Henderson live in the Underground House with his wife for five years until he died in 1983, after which his wife Mary built a 'regular' residence over the subterranean structure for herself. “The house is now owned by the Church of Perpetual Life, an organisation that advocates for life extension and cryonic preservation - freezing bodies after death so they can bring people back to life in the future when science allows. Somehow it fits well with the idea of having a bunker and trying to preserve your life in a different way,” says Wiper, who also ended up documenting the cryogenic freezing facility in Arizona after speaking to its previous director and the present owner of the house, Dr. Mark Voelker.

A subterranean structure that might save one from the aftermath of a nuclear bomb—but not the bomb itself—filled with lavish amenities for comfort and kitsch interiors for amusement, despite the looming knowledge of inevitable death, is by all means placed to be among the most eccentric examples of paradoxical architecture in general, especially one to come out of the Cold War era. Wiper, through his photographs, leaves the escapist fantasy of a decorated nuclear bunker to be gawked or marvelled at by the viewer. It is then especially worth noting that it is not the photographs that bear the embellishment and the kitsch and the ornament to escape the looming end, but the subject itself. It is finally up to the viewer to decipher the meaning, explore the paradoxes and envision an end that reflects their perception of human nature. Perhaps there is comfort, freedom and relief in defying what is meant to bring us to an end. Whether the bomb drops or not, one might as well swim in the pool and learn to love it.