Waking Life: Please Think

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 21, 2005.

When I first saw Richard Linklater's Waking Life (2001) a couple of years ago, I was a bit apprehensive. Knowing that it was a tale of a young man walking through an animated dream world full of swirling colors, floating objects, and heavily philosophical conversations, I was concerned that the movie would feel contrived, like a pseudo-intellectual variant of Slacker (1991), Linklater's groundbreaking film about Austin, Texas residents, who, well, walk around and talk.

I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome. Far from contrived, Waking Life is very fluid and comfortable: Most of the animated sequences are aesthetically pleasing, and most of the vignettes seem "natural." Sure, the characters discuss ideas that could be expanded into late-night digressions and debates lasting hours; yet, Linklater manages to introduce the audience to complicated concepts in a seamless and pleasant fashion. He appears to be encouraging us just to relax, soak in the film, and perhaps meditate on it later. Of course, with DVD technology, we easily can return to the film and jump immediately to the scene(s) that we want to explore further.

Yet, despite Linklater's creative script and deft direction, there appear to be elements who argue that Waking Life is mere pretentious pap. Who is this Linklater that he spouts such lofty language in a cinematic venue? Is he not merely a non-academic version of the professorial blowhard, who sits you down and tells you "how it is"? The professor who has some overarching theory of the way the world works and who finds all other views either incomplete or totally inane? If you happen to be this professor's student, then you'd better smile, nod, and stroke his/her ego; otherwise, the tenured, untouchable tyrant surely will destroy your career, if not your entire life.

That was an exaggerated version of one audience member's response to Waking Life, when cinekklesia screened it on October 8, 2005, at the Durham, NC-based Emmaus Way. She simply found it pretentious and annoying, and her stark, vigorous response challenged me: I knew that I disagreed, but I wasn't sure why.

Fortunately, one other audience member came to the rescue. He mentioned that he felt no pretentious vibe from Waking Life because all of the characters spoke about their ideas earnestly and passionately. They really cared about them. No mere careerists—like those obsessed with publishing the groundbreaking book, speaking at the invitation-only panel that "everybody will be talking about," receiving tenure at the prestigious university—the (largely) amateur intellectuals in Linklater's imagination seek to live the life of ideas, regardless of whether they receive any accolades.

Another reason why Linklater's film survives the condemnation stemming from the unpretentious is because it lacks the self-righteous moralism plaguing other "thoughtful" films. Magnolia (1999), for instance, can be mildly overbearing, as it beats audiences over the head with its theme of forgiveness (though I have to admit that P.T. Anderson's magnum opus has grown on me as time passes, largely because of others' thought-provoking reviews). An even more excessively didactic film is Lawrence Kasdan's Grand Canyon (1991), a horrifically contrived tale of socially divergent characters who cross each others' paths, "affect" one another, and then bring some level of harmony to an otherwise alienated America. I saw this movie once, way back in high school, and I still remember feeling offended that the director assumed that I would "learn something" from his simplistic, sentimental schlock.

Linklater largely avoids this trap. His message is simple, and despite the characters' passionate elucidations, relatively subtle: "Wake up." Step outside the material realm. Think about ideas. Discuss. In one respect, the Linklater of Waking Life serves as host to a more intellectually challenging and interesting existence. He's introducing some members of his audience to new vistas and "roads less traveled" (forgive the cliché).

Yet, if Linklater is derided as pretentious, then is there any way a director can introduce Big Ideas to the slovenly masses without inviting the ridicule of the intelligentsia? Does that director have to forego earning and/or maintaining the respect of academics and other intellectuals?

Linklater's project reminds me of the tenured professor who decides to write a "popular" book. No longer fearing professional reprisals (and perhaps hoping to make some extra cash), he/she undertakes to "dumb down" the topic at hand. Such a practice almost inevitably produces scorn from a certain number of colleagues who feel their discipline cheapened by its mere contact with simple, pedestrian language. Of course, in some cases, such scorn is deserved; some popular books written by academics are overly simplistic and intellectually insulting, even to those of us without PhD's. However, is there a way for an intellectual to discuss complicated ideas in accessible language without producing pap?

This question also affects the spiritual lives of Christians, the primary audience of cinekklesia. There exist few gaps as large as that between the seminary and the congregation. Of course, such a blanket statement does not take into account individual churches that try to foster the life of the mind (a mind God gave us, after all); however, I hypothesize that American Christians generally do not challenge enough the anti-intellectualism and just plain stupidity of the culture around us. Many Christians criticize moral decay but neglect the intellectual degradation that leaves our minds flaccid. We certainly should not overly intellectualize our faith, but we also should not ignore the important role that our minds play in drawing us closer to God.

Thus, is Linklater's Waking Life pretentious? Not really. It serves an important role in American cinema (and American popular culture, more generally). Whether he cares about his reputation among the intelligentsia is perhaps unknowable (and ultimately unimportant). What matters is Linklater's intellectual passion for producing challenging films, a passion that is mirrored by the overall growth in the availability of informal, decentralized knowledge. Perhaps such growth signifies that the gap between Big Ideas and the masses is shrinking, regardless of the efforts of intellectual gatekeepers. If so, then Waking Life can claim to be one part of that larger trend.

Quote on Religion and Modern Science

Here is an interesting quote from Matthew Henry's Commentary on the Whole Bible (1 Corinthians 2); it seems to imply that religion and modern science are ultimately incompatible: "The comparing of matters of revelation with matters of science, things supernatural with things natural and common, is going by a wrong measure. Spiritual things, when brought together, will help to illustrate one another; but, if the principles of human art and science are to be made a test of revelation, we shall certainly judge amiss concerning it, and the things contained in it."

Punch-Drunk Love: "A Community of One"

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 5, 2005.

I have heard that a sociological definition of mental illness is "a community of one." This makes sense given that those who are defined as "mentally ill" often are portrayed as "living in their own reality," apart from society-at-large. I couldn't help but think of that definition when watching Paul Thomas Anderson's Punch-Drunk Love (2002), a wonderfully quirky snapshot of not only romantic love, but of life lived in a plane of existence that parallels—but is not completely in line with—the wider "reality."

My Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary (10th ed.) defines "punch-drunk" as "suffering cerebral injury from many minute brain hemorrhages as a result of repeated head blows received in boxing" and "behaving as if punch-drunk: DAZED, CONFUSED." I must confess that I do not recall seeing this term before my encounter with Anderson's film; however, after witnessing Adam Sandler's magnificent portrayal of Barry Egan, I find the title most apropos. Egan, the proprietor of a wholesale toilet plunger business, exhibits behavior that might be catalogued under the rubric of "anger management difficulties" or described as "impulse control disorder." This is not to say that he is a generally violent or thuggish personality (a la Marlon Brando's portrayal of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire); for the most part, he is a rather mild-mannered, even timid, fellow. Nevertheless, he on occasion demonstrates strength and ferocity that simultaneously startle, amuse, and even inspire. For example, in one instance, he tears apart a public restroom (startling and amusing), and in another instance, he successfully beats up several thugs who threaten him (startling, amusing, and inspiring).

So, what makes Barry tick? Or, more importantly, what sets him off? Some feminists may not appreciate Anderson's implicit explanation: Barry's violent outbursts are the result of a malformed masculinity, a masculinity repressed by seven sisters who love him, yes, but who also treat him with condescension and ridicule (and who can't stop calling him at work in order to check up on him). Repression has a finite shelf life, and when Barry is ready to reclaim his manly self—when, in fact, he has no choice but to re-engage with his primordial, MASCULINE ESSENCE—then he explodes. Testosterone run amuck.

Okay, perhaps my psychobabble interpretation has gone too far. In fact, besides the aforementioned implication of gender essentialism, maybe Anderson doesn't have a psychological explanation for why Barry is the way he is. Anderson even pokes fun at our psycho-therapeutic culture in a memorable exchange between Barry and an in-law (after the former destroys his sister's plate glass windows): "I wanted to ask you something because you're a doctor....I don't like myself sometimes. Can you help me?" To which his in-law replies: "Barry, I'm a dentist. What kind of help do you think I could give you?"

Perhaps Anderson doesn't strive to "explain" or "teach" anything because he really just wants to tell a love story. Barry's sisters can't be all bad because one of them introduces him to Lena Leonard (Emily Watson), a sweet and charming Brit who is instantly entranced by the quirky businessman. She doesn't seem fazed by his occasional lapses in social decorum and is not put off by his unusual obsessions. For example, she doesn't consider it terribly odd that Barry has discovered an administrative glitch in a frequent flier mile promotion sponsored by Healthy Choice: "It's a marketing mistake but I'm taking advantage of it. If you were to spend $3,000, that would get you a million frequent flier miles. You would never have to pay for a ticket the rest of your life."

Lena doesn't even seem terribly unnerved at Barry's unique lexicon of romance: "I'm lookin' at your face and I just wanna smash it. I just wanna f****n' smash it with a sledgehammer and squeeze it. You're so pretty." In fact, she responds: "I want to chew your face, and I want to scoop out your eyes and I want to eat them and chew them and suck on them." Can you hear the birds sing? Do you feel an extra spring in your step? It must be love!

So, do I recommend Punch-Drunk Love? Absolutely! Despite the fact that Anderson is more famous for the critically acclaimed Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love is, in fact, the better film. As mentioned, Anderson doesn't "try too hard" with this work; rather than construct a Big Theme, he just tells a story and allows the theme to rise naturally to the surface. Anderson also demonstrates a slower, more mature aesthetic; while Magnolia is frenetic and stressful, Punch-Drunk Love moves at a relaxed pace, gently encouraging the viewer to soak in everything: the lighting, the long camera shots, the characters. Magnolia is to Punch-Drunk Love what a loud food court at the mall is to a quiet, tucked-away cafe.

In addition, don't be put off by the fact that Adam Sandler plays the lead. That probably is the first oddity most people notice when they encounter Punch-Drunk Love, but Sandler is nevertheless the most appropriate actor for the role of Barry Egan. His performance is pitch-perfect, which begs two questions: Is Anderson such a good director that he could turn a toilet-humor actor into a screen gem, if only for 90 minutes? Or, is Sandler actually a diamond-in-the-rough, whose talents have been wasted by poor cinematic circumstances? Alas, until we see Sandler in another film of Punch-Drunk Love's caliber, we may never know.

So, what is the overarching, albeit subtle, "theme" of Punch-Drunk Love? Ultimately, Anderson's message parallels that of Jared Hess' Napoleon Dynamite. Both movies portray men who normally would be considered marginalized, even "mentally ill," but who nevertheless inhabit rich universes of wonderment and diversity. While their habits and obsessions initially render them members of the "community of one," they eventually meet women who desire to join their community. The romantic interests of Barry Egan and Napoleon Dynamite don't try to change them but rather, seek to understand and, ultimately, love them. Such love can work wonders: As we see near the end of Punch-Drunk Love, Barry's strength no longer comes from a wellspring of repressed masculinity but rather, from his relationship with Lena: "I have a love in my life. It makes me stronger than anything you can imagine." Now if Lena can just get Barry to control that strength.

Foreign Land: The Value of Film Noir

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 27, 2005.

A while ago, I had a brief conversation with a friend regarding the relative merits of pessimistic vs. optimistic portrayals in the arts. He argued that a prevailing view among his fellow graduate students favors darker, critical, and cynical views of the human condition, while he, on the other hand, has attempted to resist such dour visions by championing a more optimistic (or at least, balanced) perspective. It's like the old complaint about journalism: Why can't we hear some good news for a change?

I have to admit, however, that I tend to side with my friend's colleagues. Positive portrayals have a tendency to be cheesy and simplistic, and such sugar-coated optimism doesn't seem necessary (or even healthy) in our relatively well-to-do society. Pessimistic, even cynical, visions help us to become grounded in the reality of the human condition, reminding us of how far we have fallen and warning us of any delusions to the contrary.

That's why I loved Walter Salles' and Daniela Thomas' Foreign Land or Terra Estrangeira (1996), a Brazilian/Portuguese film noir that is both stylish and gritty. Paco (Fernando Alves Pinto) is a 21-year-old Brazilian college student with dreams of acting. Unfortunately, near the beginning of the movie, his mother passes away, right when the country is undergoing a financial crisis. Thus, he is left both emotionally distraught and materially destitute — the prototype of the starving, depressed artist.

Paco eventually meets Ígor (Luís Melo), an antiques dealer, who recruits him to deliver a violin to Portugal. Ígor is no ordinary antiques dealer, since the violin case not only carries a Stradivarius (worth a lot by itself) but also a handful of hot diamonds. Paco agrees to serve as a "mule" in this smuggling operation because (a) he needs the money and (b) he wants to get to Europe in order to visit San Sebastián, the region in Spain where his mother was from (and where she never had an opportunity to revisit prior to her death). For Paco, visiting San Sebastián would serve as a nice, albeit vicarious, bookend to his mother's life, thus providing him with needed closure. The plan is simple: Paco arrives in Lisbon, meets with his contact at the designated hotel, makes the transfer, gets his cash, and then catches a bus to Spain.

However, as film noir (or "neo-noir" as some critics would insist), Foreign Land cannot let Paco off so easily. He waits for days in his hotel because his contact never shows up, and he later discovers that said contact (another Brazilian expat who the audience meets early in the movie) was recently killed. Paco gets hold of an address that he hopes will lead him to someone who can get the violin off his hands, and he ends up meeting Alex (Fernanda Torres), his deceased contact's girlfriend and yet another Brazilian expat who is also somehow connected with Ígor's enterprise. New bad guys enter the scene, and the rest of the movie show Paco and Alex trying to get out of their rather uncomfortable situation.

So why did I like this movie so much? First, it utilizes well the aesthetic of film noir: black-and-white cinematography, haunting and mysterious shadows, and a gritty portrayal of desperate people—in this case, young Brazilians fleeing the economic hardships of home—caught in the clutches of a violent and opportunistic underworld. Alex is the wayward woman who seeks some form of escape and redemption, and while Paco is hardly the hard-boiled private eye of classic film noir, he's not exactly innocent — he did, after all, agree to Ígor's offer. Thus, Foreign Land follows the great tradition of such films as Double Indemnity, painting a bleak, perhaps nihilistic portrayal of the human condition — a Hobbesian vision of life as "nasty, brutish, and short." (By the way, if you happen to think that I know all of this stuff about film noir off the top of my head, then you think wrong. Check out my source on the subject.)

Yet, is this not too pessimistic? Despite its aesthetic allure, isn't film noir inaccurate? Life has its good moments too, doesn't it? To put a theological spin on it: We are fallen creatures, but we still bear at least a hint of God's image, do we not? True enough. However, the value of film noir lies in its palliative effect. All of us are aware of the prevalence of the "Hollywood Ending" in our cinematic fare, the practice of ensuring that whatever tragedies befall the stars, things nevertheless work out in the end. Film noir, by focusing on the opposite extreme and offering little to no hope, recalibrates our cinematic senses and brings us back to a healthier, more realistic view of our condition. Americans are too optimistic, after all, and a little bit of cynicism (at least one part cynic per twenty parts Pollyanna) is actually healthy.

Now some of you may argue that I am falling too easily into the elitist trap of my friend's grad school colleagues. Does not the intelligentsia require that its cultural artifacts have some value beyond "mere" entertainment? What about the man (or woman) on the street, who just wants to munch on some popcorn and escape for 90 minutes? That, however, is the beauty of film noir: It is escapism. The scenarios in film noir are extreme; rarely are people so dark and nihilistic. Those of us who have the luxury to watch movies probably are not living the lives depicted in such works as Foreign Land. Film noir allows us to play the part of observer, spying into alternate worlds that challenge our relatively comfortable lives but that nevertheless allow us to return to those lives. Therein lies film noir's genius: It is both critical and escapist. It has a little something for everyone.

Thus, I highly recommend Foreign Land, though keep in mind that it's not for kids (fair warning: there's a little bit of nudity and graphic sexuality near the end). It remains faithful to the film noir aesthetic and serves as a healthy antidote to our excessively chipper American culture. If you want to escape from the cacophony of optimists trying to provide us with "positive messages," then this movie is for you!

The Forgotten: How Certain is Certitude?

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 20, 2005.

If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. That man should not think he will receive anything from the Lord; he is a double-minded man, unstable in all he does.

James 1:5-8, NIV

I was pleasantly surprised by Joseph Ruben's The Forgotten (2004). Contrary to what some may think, I am not a movie snob; I can enjoy Hollywood popcorn fare as much as anyone. (I just can't enjoy bad Hollywood fare.) While The Forgotten is by no means a work of cinematic brilliance, it's a good escape and relatively harmless fun. Save it for a Friday evening after a long, tiring week.

In our movie, Julianne Moore plays Telly Paretta, a married, well-to-do woman in New York City who is grieving the loss of her son, Sam, who died in a plane crash 14 months prior. When we meet her, it appears that she is making emotional progress, spending less time going through her late son's paraphernalia and returning to her freelance editing gig. However, when she finds out that someone, perhaps her husband Jim (Anthony Edwards), has removed all of her son's photos from the house, she has a breakdown; after all, only a heartless scoundrel would think that removing all evidence of one's deceased child is an appropriate step in the healing process. There is just one problem: Jim didn't remove those photos.

Apparently, Telly has paramnesia, which, according to The Free Dictionary, is "a distortion of memory in which fantasy and objective experience are confused" (accessed 19 September 2005). Both Jim and her psychiatrist, Jack Munce (Gary Sinise), inform Telly that her son never existed. She had a miscarriage and experienced a subsequent trauma so severe that she imagined nine years' worth of motherhood and took those imaginations for lived experience.

Sound implausible? We soon discover that Dr. Munce's diagnosis is woefully incorrect. Telly meets up with Ash Correll (Dominic West), whose daughter was killed in the same plane crash as Sam. He, too, was informed that he mistook an imaginary child for the real thing. While he initially believes his diagnosis, he begins suspecting, at Telly's encouragement, that something is afoot. When both Telly and Ash start getting chased by agents of the National Security Agency (NSA), we then confirm that the paramnesia is merely a ruse for a much larger conspiracy. Is the government conducting secret experiments on children? Are other entities, even more powerful and secretive than the NSA, involved? [Enter sinister music here.]

Yes, it's a bit silly. As I said, The Forgotten is nothing more than Hollywood popcorn fluff. However, not only can it entertain a weary mind looking for an unchallenging aesthetic experience, it also raises an interesting issue. The reason why The Forgotten has any plot at all is due to Telly's insistence that her son not only existed but that he could still be alive. Despite opposition from friends and family, despite her diagnosis from a member of the psychiatric establishment, she refuses to cave in to the majoritarian tyranny seeking to enslave her mind.

What remains vague, however, is the source of Telly's certitude. How did she know that her son was not a mere figment of imagination? How could she be so certain that everyone else was wrong? Near the end of the movie, Joseph Ruben stumbles around for an explanation. Perhaps the reason is primordial and biological: The mother-and-child bond, after all, is supposedly tough to break. Yet, how can one explain the fact that Telly seems to be the only one who continues to remember when all of the other parents accept the diagnosis of paramnesia? Maybe Telly is a special mother. Or perhaps she's the prototypical mother, the best mother, the Platonic ideal of motherhood.

Such explanations sound sloppy because they are. The Forgotten simply provides no good reason for Telly's powers of recollection or her steadfast resolve in the face of opposition. The only answer is tautological: Through sheer force of will, she believes because she wants to believe.

Unfortunately, outside of The Forgotten, such tautology proves intellectually and spiritually unsatisfying. I am not here talking about Big Matters of Faith, like belief in God, the divinity of Jesus, or the authority of Scripture. Nor am I talking about minute epistemological questions worthy of late-night undergraduate discussions ("so when a tree falls in the forest and nobody's around..."). Rather, I'm talking about those questions that fall in the middle, the questions regarding God's specific will for our lives, the ones that may not have direct, obvious answers in Scripture.

Take the aforementioned quote from James. It's pretty scary. If I pray for wisdom, then should I believe the first thing that pops into my head after I say "Amen"? If I pray for wisdom regarding how I use the resources God has given me and then immediately think of a BMW, then should I purchase a BMW? Am I merely following the Word — or am I gaming the system? (For the record, God has made it clear that my purchasing a BMW would be a very bad decision on several levels, including financial.)

On a more serious note, is any meditation on the myriad of thoughts floating around in my brain mere proof that I am a doubter, "a double-minded man, unstable in all he does"? Is any meditation on whether God "truly" is calling me to do X proof that I am just ignoring my conscience or eschewing the Holy Spirit? And how does 1 John fit into this:

Dear friends, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world. This is how you can recognize the Spirit of God: Every spirit that acknowledges that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God, but every spirit that does not acknowledge Jesus is not from God. This is the spirit of the antichrist, which you have heard is coming and even now is already in the world (4:1-3, NIV).

Unfortunately, a meditation on such questions requires more space than a movie review can provide. Suffice it to say that The Forgotten, while entertaining, takes no interest in probing the issue of certitude. Telly believes simply believes she wants to, but such tautology meets few epistemological standards, Christian or otherwise. I welcome readers' thoughts.

Hotel Rwanda: Is Nationalism Satan's Ideology?

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 13, 2005.

A former professor once told me that one of the dangers of any ideology is its potential to become totalizing, to erase the nuances and idiosyncrasies of real human beings in an attempt to implement an overly abstract vision of the good society. She implied that this was a danger inherent with any ideology — yet, are there some "abstract visions" that are worse than others? What about nationalism, the belief that one's overriding motivation should be the advancement of his/her "nation," however that is defined? Is that not, somehow, more dangerous, more prone to violence, thuggery, and in the most extreme cases, genocide?

Terry George's Hotel Rwanda (2004) touches upon these broader questions, though its main purpose is to portray a people suffering under irrational, brutal hatred. Don Cheadle plays Paul Rusesabagina, a hotel manager in the Rwandan capital of Kigali, and a man who initially doesn't want to get involved in the political firestorm about to engulf his country. He just wants to run a world-class establishment, catering to wealthy Westerners. However, when the president of the Hutu-dominated government is killed shortly after signing a peace accord with the Tutsi rebels, the bubbling tensions between the two ethnic groups boil over into something Paul cannot ignore.

You see, Paul is Hutu, and his wife Tatiana (Sophie Okonedo), is Tutsi, which puts both of them at odds with the rising Hutu nationalism all around them. Armed Hutu militias begin massacring both Tutsi civilians and Hutu "traitors": raping and hacking in a rampage of genocidal bloodlust. Because of both his "traitorous" indifference to ethnic diversity and his status as a middle-class professional, Paul almost inevitably becomes both a mediator and rescuer. Bribing both bloodthirsty militiamen and corrupt government officials, he manages to shuttle hundreds of would-be victims into his Belgian-owned hotel. Though he never intended for his workplace to serve as a "refugee camp" (since he believed that the United Nations would intervene to stop the bloodshed), it became precisely that. The Westerners were evacuated from the country, and Paul and his fellow Rwandans were left stranded with a pathetically small cadre of U.N. peacekeepers to protect them.

On an individual level, what struck me most was Paul's courage and resourcefulness. While initially concerned with his family's welfare, he later took great risks to protect those who managed to find their way to his hotel. Though he occasionally experienced moments of emotional breakdown, he generally kept a level head, which allowed him to adjust quickly to changing circumstances and to find avenues of escape when all other roads were blocked. His strength of character and quick thinking both impressed and humbled me.

So, is nationalism the worst ideology of all the ones we humans have devised? Terry George's political criticism is reserved largely for Western nations, conventionally seen as indifferent to the fate of dying Africans (in the mid- to late-90s, critics of Western foreign policy railed against the disparity between the response to the breakdown of the former Yugoslavia—one that included sizable numbers of peacekeeping troops—and the response to African crises, such as Somalia and Rwanda); however, because he focuses on the case of Rwanda, George cannot avoid the question of nationalism.

The concept of "nation" is slippery because it is not limited to a particular country's borders, nor does it require a state. It often is linked to "ethnicity," though social scientists largely regard "nation" and "ethnicity" as separate categories. "Nation" also has a primordial aura, since it is often seen as having arisen before the modern institution of the state. In fact, a current preoccupation of modern states around the globe is the suppression of nationalist movements.

Nationalism as an ideology almost intrinsically resists states that refuse to recognize the existence and "rights" of national groups. Another professor of mine, one sympathetic to some types of nationalism, argued that such movements helped to undermine the Soviet Union and its satellite states in Eastern Europe, states which considered national groups an impediment to both "class consciousness" and the international "class struggle." (Originally from Romania, she understandably had a vested interest in movements working to overthrow strongman Nicolae Ceausescu.) However, while nationalism is a helpful tool for countering certain forms of totalitarianism, it is also a dangerous tool, fomenting civil strife and, ironically, other forms of totalitarianism. (Nazi Germany was, in part, a nationalist endeavor.) When we play with nationalism, we play with ideological fire.

While European and African cases are different (an old-fashioned, impolite term for African nationalism is "tribalism"), the basic dynamics are the same. In Rwanda, we saw a Hutu nationalism that tired of modern institutions like multi-ethnic states and internationally brokered peace treaties. The militias (and their sympathizers within the government) wanted nothing less than the eradication of a rival national group that was, somehow, "different." Even though we learn in Hotel Rwanda that there is no real difference between the two groups, that the divisions are actually a product of a caste system imposed by Belgian colonial rulers, the perception that there existed "essential" Hutu and Tutsi identities was all that mattered.

On one level, I have to agree with my professor who warned of the totalizing effects of all ideologies. Any human system of belief can be become an idol, detracting us from the Greatest Commandment (Mt 22:37-8). However, it appears that nationalism is especially pernicious as it not only detracts from the Greatest Commandment but seems to work directly against the Second (Mt. 22:39). Rather than "Love your neighbor as yourself," nationalism would counsel "Love your neighbor as yourself so long as your neighbor is of your nation. Otherwise, you may kill your neighbor if he/she gets in the way of our national greatness."

While other ideologies certainly can work against the love of neighbor, nationalism is the one most readily available to large swaths of the world: populations seeking to overthrow corrupt, centralized governments or looking for scapegoats (i.e., other national groups) to blame for their woes. As Hotel Rwanda reminds us, nationalism can degenerate easily into violence and even genocide. 'Tis better to avoid it altogether.

Moog and Modulations: Cinema for the Ear - Meditations on Techno

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 6, 2005.

Robert Moog died a couple of weeks ago. To many of you, that statement doesn't mean much. To those who love, follow, and study techno and electronic music, however, the aforementioned news undoubtedly generated a bit of shock and sadness. Moog (rhymes with "rogue") was the inventor of the synthesizer, not the first electronic instrument ever made but probably the most important, affecting all of us, whether we consider ourselves fans of techno or not.

I definitely come at this subject from an external perspective. While I usually like techno when I hear it, I am no aficionado; as such, I recently rented two short documentaries, which I hoped would serve as an introduction: Hans Fjellestad's Moog (2004) and Iara Lee's Modulations: Cinema for the Ear (1998). As documentaries, both proved disappointing; however, they did allow me to reflect on electronic music more than I normally would, and they also provoked me to question whether I really liked techno as much as I thought.

If any one person could embody interdisciplinary and collaborative work, it would have to be Robert Moog. Trained as an engineer, Moog not only changed the face of music with his invention, but he also interacted a lot with actual musicians. By all accounts, he defied stereotypes of the conservative, nerdy, 1960s engineer, building big machines for Uncle Sam and Corporate America; instead, he was a mildly eccentric fellow with a deep appreciation for the musical arts and a great respect for musicians. Though he wasn't "artsy" (he never considered himself a musician), he spent a lot of time listening to what musicians wanted. With what kinds of sounds did they want to experiment? How did they actually use the synthesizer in performance? Some of the most interesting points in the documentary are found in Moog's conversations with techno musicians — some of whom are raucous, others more thoughtful. (You have to admire an engineer who, as an elderly man, would attend a Nine Inch Nails concert to see how his invention was being used.)

What I found most interesting to learn was the great variety of techno/electronic music available today. I was surprised to discover that I disliked a lot of it, but that merely demonstrated the maturity of the genre: There exist so many variations of "techno" that the category itself is too limiting and perhaps artificial (much like "classical").

Fjellestad's documentary also provides good footage of how techno is actually performed in public. It's an odd experience. Unlike a symphony orchestra seated in a semi-circle or a rock band with singers and guitarists moving around a stage, techno musicians largely stand at stationary locations and spend their time tapping on computer keyboards and fiddling with lots of knobs. (One of the drawbacks of the early Moog synthesizers was the fact that it was full of knobs — and thus, extremely ugly.) Watching a techno band perform is like watching power plant employees without the lab coats. Not a captivating sight.

The major drawback to Moog is its "insider" feel (Fjellestad is himself a techno musician). It seems made for those who already know a fair amount about techno and who just want to watch Moog interact with others "in the business." My wife said that this documentary didn't feel particularly holistic, and I would have to agree: Fjellestad didn't incorporate enough historical context and discussion of how radically the synthesizer altered our definitions of "music" and "performance." As such, Fjellestad's project, while nominally interesting, ultimately falls flat.

Unfortunately, Iara Lee's Modulations doesn't fare much better. While it does provide more background—describing the early pioneers of Twentieth Century avant-garde music (namely, John Cage); the first bona fide techno group, Kraftwerk; and the 1970s Detroit club scene that helped to launch electronica into the mainstream—it nevertheless suffers from too much self-congratulation and a pace that is meant to appeal to our attention-deficit culture.

Lee interviews lots of techno musicians, producers, and DJs, and it's clear that the documentary wants viewers to remember how new and revolutionary this music is. However, while techno is recent and important, it is just one genre among many, and as I discovered while watching Moog, the maturation of any genre means that some of its representative works will be bad. In other words, techno is special, but it's not that special, and fans would do well to conduct an occasional reality check.

As mentioned, the pace of Modulations is relatively fast. On the one hand, this makes sense, given the subject matter (techno is famous, after all, for pushing the boundaries of "beats per minute"); on the other hand, such pacing and editing indulges our culture's disinterest in pause, concentration, and reflection. (Perhaps I'm just getting old and cranky, but I'm mystified at the multitasking proclivities of the Echo Boomers / Generation Y's / Millennials — choose your favorite media-driven cliché.) Modulations both mimics and encourages this trend a bit much, and upon finishing the movie, I had an intense desire to do something decidedly pre-techno and "unitask," like read a book.

Perhaps in line with its fast pace is Modulations' very interesting and frank discussion of hedonism and mindlessness. The image of techno is inextricably connected with rave culture, and the musicians and DJs in the documentary note that one primary function of the music is catharsis, a release not only from daily responsibility but even consciousness. It is important to note, however, that while one can make an empirical connection between techno and hedonism, it is far from a necessary one. In other words, it is possible to enjoy techno without overly indulging one's senses.

While disappointing, both Moog and Modulations still serve as relatively helpful introductions to the world of techno and electronic music. They also reminded one of the value of aesthetic choice. If one lived in a world in which techno was the only musical genre available, then his/her mind (and "tastes") would grow dull; however, the ability to experience classical, jazz, techno—and everything in between—allows one to keep the senses sharp. If nothing else, techno is valuable because it keeps music interesting. Now, if they would just get rid of those ugly knobs....

Balseros: Does Place Matter?

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on September 1, 2005.

After meditating a bit on the documentary Balseros (2002), co-directed by Carlos Bosch and José María Doménech, I realized that I was drawn back to Paul Marchbanks' review of House of Sand and Fog. In the latter, Paul presents us with two dilemmas: (1) whether one should privilege geography/community over career when making life decisions and (2) whether it is more proper to settle down or remain itinerant. He asks for some advice, and my words here serve as a long-delayed response.

First, some background. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, the Cuban economy went into a tailspin, having lost its principal benefactor. Many Cubans were desperate to leave the island, and in 1994, Fidel Castro announced that his government would not stop anybody who wanted to emigrate. Thus, thousands of Cubans built makeshift rafts—often by tearing apart their homes for the raw material—and embarked on the dangerous 90-mile journey to Florida.

Balseros (literally, "rafters") traces the stories of several Cubans who successfully emigrated, as well as the families they left behind. The filmmakers begin in Cuba during the exodus, and we are witness to carnivalesque scenes of throngs of people crowding and cheering the brave souls carrying their boats from their makeshift "shipyards" to the beach. We get a little background information on each of our protagonists, including their reasons for emigrating (some want to reunite with relatives in the U.S., others just want to provide a better life for their kin). As with many migrants who attempt to sail to Florida, the subjects of Balseros were intercepted by the U.S. Coast Guard and sent to the U.S. Naval Base at Guantánamo (well-known these days for decidedly different reasons). Even though they had to wait in Guantánamo for several months, the emigrants eventually received admission and were relocated in various states around the country.

The real power behind this documentary lies in its long-term approach. The filmmakers allowed their subjects to settle down, and then they returned several years later for follow-up visits and interviews. This helped them to avoid overly romanticized views of emigration, achieving the "American Dream," etc. The subjects of Balseros had very different experiences and—for lack of a better term—success rates. It is important to note that the most poignant and heartbreaking scenes involve not the subjects' financial situations, but rather, their family dynamics. One family was reunited and grew stronger as a result of the emigration; others broke apart, whether because of adultery or other negative circumstances.

What struck me most about the subjects was how little their experience changed them. Sure, their lives were altered radically by the emigration, but their personalities, motivations, and idiosyncrasies remained largely intact. What I found particularly sobering was the implication that people actually do not change substantially after a certain point in life; it is almost as though each of us reaches a chronological barrier after which we no longer become, but just are. Perhaps old dogs really can't learn new tricks.

This leads us back to the theme of place and the questions that Paul Marchbanks raised several weeks ago. While the old boundaries of geography have been decimated by technology—a phenomenon with tremendous practical effect on our lives—the really important question is whether "place" changes us on a fundamental level. It seems that if we are conscious enough of who we are (or at least of our habits and motivations), then place has a relatively minor effect on us. At some point in our human development, we learn to critique, modify, or abandon places before they can affect us. As mentioned, despite the major practical changes wrought on the lives of the emigrants in Balseros, they remained fundamentally the same people.

Thus, if place doesn't matter, then should we worry about privileging career over geography (or vice versa)? It seems that instead, we should be concerned about our motivations, which affect both the kinds of jobs we want to obtain and the kinds of places we want to inhabit. One can choose either a job or a location for selfish, shallow reasons that avoid the call of God. On the flip side, one can choose a job that in some way, large or small, furthers the Kingdom; one also can choose to live in an area (perhaps a poor neighborhood or country) so as to be ready to love and serve one's neighbor. Perhaps my response to Paul seems indecisive, but that's my point: We shouldn't get hung up on career vs. place but rather, focus on the state of our motivation.

(It is, of course, helpful to remind ourselves that the job-vs.-location anxiety—one which my wife and I experience—is a product of wealth and privilege. Being relatively sure of finding a job, regardless of location, allows one to indulge in such thinking. The subjects of Balseros, experiencing the brunt of Cuba's economic meltdown, didn't have much of a choice. Yes, they could have chosen to stay at home, but they knew that any significant opportunity to escape poverty was found 90 miles to the north.)

My sentiments remain the same in regards to the question of settling vs. moving. I, too, have wondered whether the itinerant life is somehow more noble; after all, if Jesus and the Twelve had no "permanent address," then is the middle class preoccupation with finding a good neighborhood or town (usually for the purpose of raising children) problematic? Again, the important issue is motivation. While many of the concerns of middle class Americans are problematic, they are not intrinsically so (e.g., if one has a child, it's not necessarily wrong to look for a good school district). In addition, those with itinerant lifestyles do not necessarily move around for selfless reasons; some folks are easily "bored," and their constant movement reflects a general lack of focus or commitment.

I highly recommend that those reading my words watch Balseros. For most Americans, it is a healthy reminder of the relative wealth that we enjoy and the lengths that some will go for a sliver of it. More importantly, it reminds us that at some point in our lives, place and geography become ephemeral, even immaterial. The real choice that we must make lies not between two points on a map but between this world and the next.

Ghost World: The End of Alienation?

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on August 23, 2005.

Perhaps the sweltering mid-August heat has me thinking about the upcoming autumn, high school, and teenage alienation. Perhaps I merely procrastinated in reordering my NetFlix queue. In any case, shortly after viewing Brian Dannelly's take on Christian adolescence in Saved!, I again plunged into the abyss of the teenage mind via Terry Zwigoff's Ghost World (2000), a bittersweet tale of love, disaffection, and the ingredients that make up relationships.

Enid (Thora Birch) and Rebecca (Scarlett Johansson) are two young women who have just graduated from the clutches of high school (well, okay, Enid finds out that she has to take a lame art class over the summer) and who are itching to taste the fruits of adulthood. They're eschewing the conformist mundanity of college for a life of independence and creativity. Granted, they're going to have to work retail, but they'll be able to share an apartment and finally do their own thing (which, for Enid, involves sketching her life's activities in a sort of visual journal).

Enid and Rebecca also have a penchant for playing mean practical jokes. In particular, they target Seymour (Steve Buscemi), who has placed a personal ad in the local independent weekly in order to track down a woman he briefly met. Since Seymour indicated in the ad that he was the guy wearing the "green cardigan," Enid and Rebecca figure that he must be, well, a dork. Thus, Enid calls him, pretending to be the woman in question, in order to get a laugh at poor Seymour's expense.

Yet, what starts out as a joke turns out to be an unusual love story. Even though Seymour is twice Enid's age, they develop a bond based on their perceived alienation from society-at-large. Seymour feels that he can't relate well to others, so he retreats into the world of old, collectible blues records. Enid finds herself intrigued by Seymour's collection, and being a bit of a pop culture maven herself (e.g., she uses Don Knotts as the subject of an art class project), she can relate to Seymour's perspective.

Relationships, romantic or otherwise, that develop out of alienation are a common milieu in cinema, particularly in high school films. (Thanks to Tim Conder for recently elucidating this point.) Just take a look at the friendship between the title character and Pedro in Napoleon Dynamite or the camaraderie among the outcasts in Saved!. In one sense, the alienation theme is common because audiences love underdogs; when outsiders work together to defeat the establishment (even—or especially—at the high school level), we cheer. In another sense, it is perhaps easier for a screenwriter to develop relationships among the disaffected because they already have something in common; if commonalities make up relationships, then disaffection can work as well as, say, sports or music, to bring people together.

Yet, does alienation follow the same pattern, regardless of place or time? Do majority groups around the world alienate minorities or outcasts in the same way? I hypothesize that there are general methods in which elites ostracize others: gossip, mockery, denigration, and at worst, dehumanization. However, does alienation work the same across time? This is a trickier question because it appears that high-tech, post-industrial societies, such as ours, have instigated two trends: (1) a decentralization of popular culture and (2) greater opportunities for previously alienated individuals to find each other.

If today's huge number of cultural options (as described by anthropologist Grant McCracken and writer/editor Nick Gillespie, among others) denigrates what previously had been considered "mainstream" or "popular" culture, then "alienated" groups no longer should feel "left out." If, for example, we all can eschew "pop" radio in favor of online broad/podcasts, personalized playlists on ultra-convenient MP3 players, or even the local college station, then any notion of a "cultural center" fades. Much to the chagrin, even horror, of traditionalists, we each can determine what "counts" in our own microculture. We don't have to feel alienated — after all, what, exactly, could alienate us?

This, however, may be too optimistic. While it is true that those with marginalized views, tastes, and methods of social interaction have more niches to explore and more opportunities today for personal development—away from the glare of a disapproving mainstream—we humans still have an uncanny way of making the "other" (forgive the academic cliche) feel bad. Seymour has been able to retreat into his world of collectible records and even has developed a network of relationships with like-minded folks; however, he still feels like a social outcast and loser. Enid, seemingly secure in her identity as an artsy, rebellious young adult with little empathy for the victims of her practical hijinks, ends up showing us that she's just a lonely soul lookin' for love.

Yet, at this point, let's remember the second cultural trend of post-industrial societies: greater opportunities for previously alienated individuals to find each other. While Seymour and Enid stumble into each others' lives through decidedly low-tech means, we nevertheless live in an age in which people with similar interests, whether "mainstream" or not, can find each other through technology. The mere existence of cinekklesia and the fact that we receive comments/feedback from a variety of folks around the country is testament to that. Thus, even if I feel alienated from my immediate neighbors, I still can interact and develop relationships with others of like mind. Thus, while Ghost World has a downbeat ending, I still felt heartened by watching this unlikely encounter between two socially disaffected people who are somehow not disaffected by each other.

So, should Christians care about these social trends? Churches seem to waver constantly between welcoming the stranger and the outcast on the one hand and maintaining theological standards—which end up alienating somebody—on the other. What is most interesting, however, is the fact that outcasts of all stripes can find a church home. An American can choose from a veritable menu of churches, based on theological perspectives, musical preferences, and, sadly, social inclinations (read: race and class). It is practically impossible to speak of a single "church culture" in the U.S., even among Evangelicals currently enjoying a dominant position in American life.

Of course, the splits within Christendom are fundamentally the result of sin, but so are the flaws within any given denomination / Christian organization. Martin Luther was forced to choose between supporting a corrupted Christian unity (Medieval Catholicism) on the one hand and following both Scripture and conscience on the other. We know how that story turned out, and we today are reaping the benefits of being allowed to exit a "mainstream" culture—religious or otherwise—that we find morally problematic. Sometimes we become alienated because we're doing the right thing, and perhaps it's good that—in the post-industrial West, at least—we don't have to remain outcasts for too long.