Josh Duhamel isn’t talking about apocalypse scenarios as distant fiction anymore—he’s treating them like a slow-moving possibility, one upgrade at a time.
Speaking about his off-the-grid cabin in rural Minnesota, Duhamel said he’s now “about 72% ready” for a potential collapse scenario, ticking up slightly from the “70%” estimate he joked about last year. The number isn’t precise, but the mindset behind it is consistent: preparation is ongoing, and the process itself is part of the appeal.
What’s changed is the threat he’s thinking about.
Zombies, he suggested, are no longer at the top of the list. Artificial intelligence is.
Duhamel described a growing concern about how advanced systems might shape the future in ways that are difficult to control. His solution isn’t high-tech defense—it’s the opposite. The cabin is designed as a place where everything can be shut off, where disconnection is the safeguard. No reliance on networks, no constant stream of information—just distance from it all if needed.
At the same time, he acknowledged the tone of that outlook, briefly questioning whether it sounded too dark before moving on.
Away from the survival talk, Duhamel is currently focused on a very different kind of project. He’s starring in and directing “Preschool,” a comedy centered on the pressure parents face trying to secure spots in elite early education programs. The premise draws directly from his own experience with his two-year-old son, turning what he described as a stressful and competitive process into something with comedic edge.
He contrasted that environment with his upbringing in North Dakota, where schooling was straightforward and local. In cities like Los Angeles, he said, the process has become far more intense, with parents pushing hard to gain early advantages for their children. The film leans into that tension, highlighting how adult ambition can reshape something as simple as preschool enrollment.
Duhamel’s personal balance between those two worlds—Hollywood and the Midwest—remains central to how he operates. He described his Minnesota cabin as a deliberate counterweight to the entertainment industry, a place where routine is stripped down to basics. Time there is quiet, physical, and repetitive—listening to the environment, being on the water, staying away from the pace of city life.
That separation, he said, feeds back into his work. Distance from the industry allows him to reset, think more clearly, and approach projects without the constant noise of trends or expectations.
Still, the isolation has limits. After a few weeks, he admits missing basic comforts—restaurants, city life, small conveniences. Winter adds another constraint, bringing cold temperatures and the risk of “cabin fever,” something he referenced with a nod to The Shining.
Even so, he made it clear the cabin isn’t a temporary retreat. It’s a place he could live full-time if needed—rugged, self-sufficient, and intentionally removed.
For his children, he sees it as a way to experience two distinct environments. One shaped by Los Angeles, the other by the slower, more physical rhythm he grew up with in North Dakota.
