Saved!: Christianity Without Christians?

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on August 16, 2005.

Brian Dannelly's Saved! (2004) is a scathing satire of contemporary American (particularly Evangelical) Christianity. I am surprised that I didn't hear more about it, particularly from Evangelical groups that normally rail against such Hollywood fare. Remember Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ, which drew heated calls for Christian boycotts, or, on the flip side, Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ, which generated millions of dollars in church-sanctioned revenue? Whenever Christianity is the subject of a film, it seems that a large number of Christian interest groups make their voices heard in favor or against (usually the latter). (The cinematic adaptation of The Da Vinci Code is already generating rhetorical heat; however, before you launch your own boycott, remember that you may be inadvertently helping the film's producers. As the cliche goes: There is no such thing as bad publicity.)

Thus, I am surprised that I didn't hear more news about this film since it is quite a biting critique. Set in a Christian high school, Saved! follows the travails of Mary (Jena Malone), a senior who discovers that her boyfriend, Dean (Chad Faust), is gay. She then receives a "vision" from "Jesus," telling her that she must do all that she can to bring Dean back to heterosexuality; thus, despite all that she has learned about shunning the nasty before marriage, she ends up sleeping with Dean and getting pregnant.

Mary's whole life is then rent asunder. She's mad at God because she thought that they had a "deal" — however, if she's pregnant and Dean's still gay, then "clearly" God didn't live up to His end of the bargain. Mary's anger and confusion alienates her from her friends, notably Hilary Faye (Mandy Moore), the local Christian prima donna that everyone loves to hate; however, she ends up developing relationships with the school's "tax collectors and sinners": Cassandra (Eva Amurri), the token Jew, and Roland (Macaulay Culkin), Hilary's wheelchair-bound brother.

The reader should note that Saved! served as cinekklesia's first selection for its monthly movie night, co-hosted with the Durham, NC-based Emmaus Way on August 13. One question raised during the post-screening discussion centered on whether viewers needed a special, insider knowledge to "get" all of the satirical references. I would argue no. Despite occasional laments about being ostracized from mainstream America, Evangelicals are actually a very powerful social and political force in the United States today. As such, I hypothesize that the probability is high that non-Evangelicals at some point in their lives encounter the language, music, and cultural references that Evangelicals take for granted. Saved! would not have been able to work as satire without broad recognition of at least some elements of the Evangelical milieu.

Thus, if Saved! is satire, then what, exactly, does it critique? On the one hand, it digs up themes as old as the Pharisees: hypocrisy, religious institutionalism devoid of substance, and the blindness of those who would purport to lead the flock. Hilary Faye serves as our 21st-Century Pharisee: conversant in all the "right" Christian language, ever striving to "serve" the Lord, but ultimately full of herself, rather than the Holy Spirit.

In addition, by focusing on teen pregnancy and homosexuality, Saved! mirrors the Evangelical obsession with all things sexual. Two thousand years after the Gnostics falsely argued that the physical body was of no consequence, Christians today perhaps err on the other extreme by obsessing about the body. While sexual ethics are certainly important, contemporary Christians' intense focus on those tenets at the expense of others (e.g., economic ethics) renders our theology shallow and unidimensional. Ironically, by condemning our culture's focus on sex, many Evangelical groups end up contributing to the body-obsessed, sex-saturated discourse. I, too, get tired of all the sex talk; thus, I certainly don't want to hear even more of it in church.

If Saved! is satire, then is it a fair one? That, of course, depends on who you ask. Any satirical work can expect the following range of reactions: On one extreme are those who "can't take a joke" and who howl cries of indignation and offense at having been mocked; on the other are those who not only agree with a given satire's message but who do not see any of its hyperbole as hyperbole — for them, the work is actually documentary, illustrating the flaws with the group/institution/ideology in question (another point raised at last Saturday's screening). It is important to note that those who agree with a satire's premise include both detractors, who relish taking pot shots at their enemies, and members/affiliates of the target group, who see the satire's message as a wake-up call for reformation.

Keeping in mind Saved!'s overall perspective (which, as far as I could discern at the end, was agnostic or secular humanist), I argue that this movie is a fair critique...as far as it goes. Its tone could have been much harsher, and Dannelly avoids overly simplistic us/them social dichotomies (e.g., Patrick, the pastor's kid, ends up befriending the outcasts). Dannelly doesn't completely reject Christianity (it doesn't appear that he's an atheist); rather, he attempts to soften it and smooth its rough edges. While I ultimately disagree with his views, I don't regard Dannelly as unfair or even antagonistic — merely critical.

The larger point to keep in mind regarding this or any satire is the fact that people often make the worst representatives of any belief system. This is where the Reformation doctrine of sola scriptura proves invaluable. If someone asked me for an illustration of Christianity, I don't think that I would point him/her to a particular individual, church, or Christian organization; instead, I'd point that person to the Gospels. There are plenty of Hillary Fayes in Christendom (and, to dredge up an old cliche, there's a little bit of Hilary Faye in all of us). Thus, the antidote to the ills besetting the Christian high school in Saved! may not be more Christians, but simply, Christ Himself.

Googlelicious

Of course, a sign of success is when everyone is trying to make fun of you. Here are two very funny, satirical articles about Google that have been sitting in my inbox for a while:

• Google Expands Search Empire with Life Search


• Google Announces Plan to Destroy All Information It Can't Index

What's one way to keep up with new Google-related satire? Why, through a search on Google News, of course!

Two Halves Make a Whole?

I have a new phrase that I keep telling myself: Choose your fora carefully. I like getting into virtual fights with my fellow bloggers/online writers, but it's easy to get sucked into too many frays. 'Tis better to be selective regarding the fora in which one participants. That said, my friend Paul notified me of a recent entry on Libertas, the blog devoted to "conservative thought on film." As is expected, the entry's author gets it half-right (a left-wing blogger also would have gotten it half-right — probably the other half!). Thus, to clear the air, I had to post a libertarian comment =) :

"I wholeheartedly agree that the United Nations is inefficient, ineffectual, and corrupt--and thus worthy of abolition. However, I do not agree with the implication that we should replace the collectivist interventionism of the UN with other forms of interventionism, including unilateral invasion. Jason states that the UN failed in Rwanda and would have failed in Iraq. Yet, that begs the question: Does he mean that the U.S. should have invaded Rwanda in order to stop the bloodshed? Will the U.S. invasion of Iraq prove a long-term success or an abysmal political and financial failure? I suggest that conservatives not only critique the naive, overly idealistic internationalism of the UN but also the equally naive, unilateral interventionism of our current foreign policy."

Magnolia: Already Outdated?

This review originally was posted on cinekklesia on August 13, 2005.

Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia (1999) was a mild disappointment. I remember the accolades it received when it was first released, and I know that it still enjoys both critical and commercial acclaim (it currently resides on IMDb's Top 250). Thus, when I finally got around to watching it recently, I did so with unreasonably high expectations (always a dangerous thing). Magnolia isn't bad, but it certainly is not the four-/five-star masterpiece that so many fans made it out to be; if cinekklesia used a star system, then I would give it three: a solid piece of cinematic craftsmanship but nothing life-changing. (Perhaps it deserves a spot on Bill Stevenson's list of most overrated films.)

Why was I disappointed? The reasons partially stem from the frenetic pace of Anderson's story. Set in Southern California, Magnolia follows the lives of a myriad of characters who have a connection with each other in some (often tangential) way. There is no need to recount the specifics of the plot; in fact, the plot is largely inconsequential since Anderson could have written about a myriad of characters living anywhere in the globe, engaged in any sort of endeavor. The point of Magnolia is not so much the specifics of what the characters do but rather, how they bump into—and interact with—each other.

Unfortunately, the characters are a very sad lot experiencing extreme emotional stress and existential crises. They spend a lot of time crying, screaming, analyzing how they have wasted their lives, etc. Simply put, Magnolia is exhausting. I would have had a less positive reaction to this film had it not been for Anderson's brilliant release of emotional tension about two-thirds to three-quarters of the way through; I won't give it away, but if you are one of those rare moviegoers who like spoilers, then check out this page for a hint.

So what does Magnolia have to say? At first, Anderson hints that his main theme is coincidence and destiny. Right at the beginning, before the main characters are introduced, he presents us with a couple of vignettes of uncanny events that could have been coincidental but (in Anderson's eyes) are surely not. He implies that the rest of the movie is going to serve as an exploration of how something or someone beyond the hurly burly is putting all of the pieces together, connecting us in a massive tapestry too large and complex for us to notice during the day-to-day. While he does address this issue throughout the film (as I mentioned, the entire movie follows a myriad of characters as they bump into each other), he doesn't analyze it beyond the initial vignettes, and it is unclear whether he has anything more to say about it.

Perhaps that is because Anderson really just wants to talk about forgiveness. If there is one message that Magnolia beats over the viewer's head, it is this:

1. People are bad.


2. People treat each other badly.


3. Our lives are disrupted, even ruined, by the bad things we have done to others and vice versa.


4. We need others' forgiveness, and we need to forgive others.

That's basically it. There's nothing wrong with that, and in a forum such as cinekklesia, forgiveness is a theme we should discuss. However, I didn't find Anderson's presentation particularly insightful or noteworthy. Rather, it was bland, producing in me nothing more than a slight nod.

So why did this movie generate so much buzz? I mentioned this perplexity to my wife and, ever the sociologist, she recommended that I ask myself why a movie about forgiveness would produce such a strong reaction from viewers. What is noteworthy about the theme of forgiveness in a particular time and place?

I hypothesize that, unfortunately, we see forgiveness as a luxury, an act to perform when our basic needs have been met, when all of our ducks are in a row. When Magnolia was first released, the United States was still living the 1990's dot-com dream. Our public life was full of stories about new companies, new gadgets, new ways of communication and entertainment. The U.S. was relatively secure, and our biggest political crisis revolved around whether President Clinton lied about fellatio. (Let's face it: when a nation's biggest news story concerns whether a politician got frisky with an intern, it is clear that our public life is pretty easy — even inconsequential.) It was into this environment that Magnolia was released. Americans were doing well, so we had time to be introspective, engage in a bit of navel-gazing, and consider letting go of the past and forgiving our enemies. When life is going well, a little psyho-babble catharsis is allowed.

The question now, of course, is whether Magnolia's message would resonate just as loudly, if it were released today. Our current public discourse doesn't have much patience for wimpy ideas like forgiveness and reconciliation. We either want to exact revenge on enemies abroad or political foes at home. (Whether the United States is as socially and politically "divided" as it appears is, of course, an empirical question. However, I find that the rhetoric of our social and political elites is often filled with pettiness, hatred, and vitriol.) Because so many groups feel they have so much to lose if America's social and political life doesn't go "their way," forgiveness is no longer seen as a realistic course of action. Today's social and political climate encourages conflict, rather than reconciliation (or, at the least, just letting others be).

In truth, of course, forgiveness is not a luxury. For the Christian, it is both a requirement and a spiritual necessity. We constantly must interrogate our zeitgeist to see whether it lives up to the timeless truth of Christ; as such, if we live in an era in which forgiveness is rare, then we need to be even more mindful of our obligation to forgive. Perhaps Magnolia is not an outdated film but rather, a timeless one. Perhaps I just need to step out of the zeitgeist more often!

Maria Full of Grace: Free Trade Now!

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 3, 2005.

Is free trade moral? In other words, is free trade not just a good idea from an economic perspective—since it allows different countries to profit from their comparative advantage—but is it also a moral necessity? Is the hindrance of trade morally problematic?

One would be hard pressed to find an absolute moral case for free trade, a deontological argument stating that free trade is a universal moral good that should be upheld, regardless of specific consequences (e.g., domestic job loss). However, one could argue that from the standpoint of utility, free trade generally improves the lot of the many, and to restrict it would be to deny large groups of people an increase in their standard of living. While a utilitarian argument may not convince a deontologist of any absolute, intrinsic, and/or universal validity in free trade, it may go a long way towards convincing everyday people, who (I hypothesize) hold both deontological and consequentialist views.

Joshua Marston's Maria Full of Grace (2004)—largely a portrayal of a young woman's struggle to better her economic lot—touches upon the hot button issues within free trade: namely, what counts as "legitimate" trade and the often unintended consequences of regulatory action.

Catalina Sandino Moreno plays María Álvarez, a young Colombian woman who works at a large, industrial flower farm, "dethorning" roses that are exported to the United States. We soon learn that life in her small, sleepy town has become a drag. María feels trapped financially because a large chunk of her income supports her sister, who is caring for an out-of-wedlock baby; she finds out that she, too, has recently become pregnant; and her boyfriend, though offering to marry her and make everything "legit," is not the most stand-up guy in town.

After enduring a humiliating episode at the hands of her supervisor, María quits the flower farm and makes plans to find a better job in Bogotá. A new acquaintance, Franklin (John Álex Toro), offers her a ride to the big city and on the way, he mentions that he's got an opportunity: Perhaps María would be interested in working as a drug "mule," transporting cocaine to the United States. However, this is no ordinary smuggling gig: Drug mules actually ingest plastic-coated, grape-sized pellets of cocaine, fly to the United States, and (assuming they don't get caught) excrete the contents for the cartel's US distributors.

Clearly, it's dangerous work. If just one of the pellets breaks in the abdomen, then the mule most likely dies. In addition, US Customs officials are fully aware of the practice, so getting caught is a very real possibility (in fact, we learn that drug cartels routinely send several mules per flight, just in case one or more run afoul of the law). Finally, the cartels keep close tabs on how many pellets they send per mule; if just one is missing, then dire consequences are sure to follow.

Maria Full of Grace does an excellent job of portraying the tension surrounding such a dangerous line of work, as well as the tragic consequences when something does go awry. This movie is not for the faint of heart. However, what does it have to do with trade?

On one level, we have a tendency to separate issues of free trade (which we catalogue under "business," "commerce," and "economics") and narcotics (which we catalogue under "border control," "crime," and "law enforcement"). However, they fundamentally fall under the same rubric: One can look at the criminalization of narcotics as simply another barrier to the free exchange of goods and services between voluntary actors, similar to import taxes and quotas.

Secondly, state regulations of all kinds often produce unintended (and even harmful) consequences. One doesn't have to be a libertarian to recognize the ill effects of drug criminalization: restricted supply leading to increased prices...which creates incentives for organized crime to enter the market...which exacerbates the violent conflict between criminals and law enforcement (or which facilitates corruption within law enforcement), etc. Maria Full of Grace presents just one example of the harmful, unintended consequences of state action: The large profits stemming from drug criminalization incentivizes all parties involved, from cartel bosses to street-level mules and pushers, to take huge risks, especially if they come from poor backgrounds and see narcotics as the only way to improve their lot.

A simple (simplistic?) response, of course, is just to remind everyone that the sale and possession of narcotics is illegal and to say that those who take their chances in a dangerous, illicit trade have only themselves to blame, if something goes awry. That's true as far it goes, and I certainly am not advocating that we ignore Paul's words in Romans 13 regarding obedience to state authority (though his words need to be read alongside Biblical reminders regarding the limits of human authority [Daniel 3; Acts 5:17-42]). However, the majority of those reading this review are not living under anything resembling the Roman Empire; we theoretically live in a representative regime and have the right to change or repeal laws, including those regarding narcotics.

Thus, we come back to our original question. Defending an absolute moral "right" to engage in trade (including the trade of narcotics) is a very difficult task. Because they are so abstract, absolute rights are hard to grasp in any material way, and it's easy for detractors to poke holes in any attempt to create a philosophical argument for such rights. (In addition, I cannot recall any explicit discussion in the Bible regarding the morality of trade.) However, a practical, or utilitarian, argument is much more plausible because it's more concrete. One can see the material benefits of trade, and proponents can explain in "real" terms how the benefits of trade outweigh its costs (or, in the case of drugs, how the costs of criminalization outweigh its benefits).

So, should Christians write to their local representative and demand that the state "legalize it"? One is not morally obligated to do so, partially because no inherent right to possess and/or sell drugs exists. However, I would encourage my fellow Christians to take another look at this issue from a practical perspective and to ask ourselves whether our current "War on Drugs" does more harm than good. Such cost-benefit analysis may seem cold, but if we are honest with ourselves, then we would recognize that we make such calculations every day under our (theoretically) representative government and market economy. At some level, we are all utilitarians. If a Christian rejects this method of social/political interaction, then he/she is advocating nothing less than theocracy — an issue beyond the scope of this review!

Fight! Fight!

Anybody who has looked at my blog knows that it now basically serves as a repository of my previously posted cinekklesia reviews. I eventually may return to writing about topics other than movies, but in the meantime, check out the debate that was started by Rebecca Stevenson's review of Saved!. Feel free to chime in. Paul Marchbanks, cinekklesia's founder and coordinator, is trying to encourage more conversation surrounding the reviews.

The Assassination of Richard Nixon: I Was Here

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on July 27, 2005.

When I was in high school, one of my English teachers relayed to my class the way an author viewed the purpose of writing: as a purely existential act, equivalent to scrawling "I was here" on a restroom stall. For that author, writing was an act of existential desperation, a method of leaving a mark on the world so that somebody would take note. Simply put, humans don't want to be forgotten; we want the world to know that we "did something."

That sentiment, in a nutshell, describes the thrust of Niels Mueller's The Assassination of Richard Nixon (2004), a sad and haunting tale of a man desperately seeking meaning, truth, and simple recognition from others. Inspired by the true story of Samuel J. Bicke (masterfully portrayal by Sean Penn)—a salesman who plans, attempts, and botches an assassination against the 37th POTUS—Mueller's film explores not only our need for the acknowledgement of others but also how we achieve that acknowledgement through action, legal or otherwise.

When we encounter Bicke, circa 1974, we see a man trying to piece his life back together. Separated from his wife and estranged from his three children, Bicke is determined to do it right this time. He takes a job as an office furniture salesman and initially tries hard to follow the training and advice of his slick, Dale Carnegie-inspired manager. He wants to do a good job, bring in extra money, and support his family. He's ashamed that his wife has to take a job waiting tables in a disreputable establishment, where "they make her" wear skimpy outfits and where she has to put with up with the advances of inebriated patrons.

Unfortunately, Bicke isn't cut out to be a salesman. He's a little too...nice. Rather than try to make as much profit and commission as possible, he's more interested in everyone getting a "fair" deal: the vendor gets a little bit of profit, the buyer gets a little bit of savings (through a lower mark-up), and everyone goes home happy. During the course of the movie, we learn that the office furniture gig wasn't Bicke's first attempt at sales; he earlier worked in his brother's tire store and became estranged from the family business when he wasn't willing to sell at a 30 percent mark-up.

Bicke's unwillingness to play by the rules of stereotypical salesmanship leaves him feeling alienated from the world around him. He wonders why he simply can't earn an "honest" living without following a crooked system of exchange. He can't understand why he doesn't get any basic respect and understanding from his boss, his estranged family, or even his best friend, Bonny Simmons (Don Cheadle), who, as a working-class Black man, "should" be outraged at capitalist America. (Simmons has a more realistic view of what one has to do to put food on the table.)

As Bicke becomes more alienated, he develops a "clearer" vision of what the Problem is. America (and perhaps the world) is in the grips of an elusive, amorphous, yet powerful THEY. They won't allow a man to make a living without resorting to lies and deception. They objectify women. They have taken away the American Dream while maintaining its facade.

While Bicke doesn't develop a clear, stepwise ideology, he is nevertheless convinced that he is living under an oppressive yoke and that he must take action. For example, after seeing a member of the Black Panthers speak on television, he makes his way to the local party office and tries to convince the staff and volunteers that he, like them, is suffering from the same injustices. After one of them tells Bicke that he is not "in the same boat" as Black America because he, as a white man, "own(s) the boat," our alienated salesman still wants to contribute to the cause and makes a donation of $107.00($422.36 in 2005 dollars for all you econ buffs).

Bicke's determination to take action culminates in his plan to assassinate Richard Nixon. If They are oppressing him, and if Tricky Dick is the leader of this amorphous cabal controlling the world, then it stands to reason that the boldest political statement he—one of the "little guys"—can make is to kill the leader. In our post-9/11 world, this logic sounds eerily like one of the justifications of contemporary terrorism: if the United States is the sole hegemon in the world, then the boldest political statement one can make is to strike that hegemon wherever it resides. (Our salesman's plan to crash a commercial jet into the White House provides another eerie parallel to contemporary events.)

While Bicke's plot has superficially political motives, his real impetus is existential. He feels that the America of 1974 has eradicated his interpersonal relationships, his ability to make an honest living, and most of all, his dignity. He feels trapped in a mundane, mediocre world foisted upon him by elites; he is a tiny speck of dust in an uncaring, meaningless universe. Rather than live and die quietly, shuffling off to anonymity, Bicke decides to fight back, to leave his mark on the world, to scrawl his name on that great restroom stall of history.

Unfortunately, what Bicke fails to recognize is the intrinsic meaninglessness of action itself. While he may feel that his life lacks purpose, taking action—no matter how bold—will not lead necessarily to a higher level of existence. He may feel better with something to do, with a goal to attain. However, with no connection to a transcendent reality, his actions eventually tumble back into the same meaningless morass from which he desperately wants to escape. As the Apostle Paul reminds us, actions that are devoid of eternal substance (God's love) come to nothing (1 Cor. 13:1-3).

At the end of the movie, I felt bad for Samuel Bicke. While I didn't agree with his assessment of capitalist exchange—or his perception that it was impossible to find "honest" work—I sensed that he was a straightforward guy who saw his life options slowly crumbling between his fingers. He wasn't "crazy" as some viewers might perceive him; he was just looking for some shred of purpose and respect in a world that seemed oblivious to simple decency. Unfortunately, when he couldn't find any meaningful alternative to his circumstances, he sought refuge and hope in violent action, a decision that led to tragedy.