A History of Violence: Just a Hint of Optimism

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on April 22, 2006.

Determinism and pessimism are in vogue again. Popular media are filled with stories of how we can measure our genetic predisposition to particular diseases or even behaviors. Social scientists are informing us of how—with enough data and the right methods—we can measure a person's probability of engaging in a certain act, holding a certain viewpoint, reacting to particular stimuli in certain ways. (In the field of economics, the data generally point to the conclusion that yes, we are self-interested beings who function under Pavlovian incentives.)

With the question of crime, such determinism carries particular psychological, moral, and legal weight. Given the "right" set of variables—genetic, social, or both—is one predisposed to criminal activity — so much so that "reform" is a naively optimistic goal? Sure, one can bring up individual cases of people with extremely violent records who genuinely repent and change their lives for the better. However, in a broader, sociological context, are such people mere exceptions? Is the rule far more depressing?

David Cronenberg tackles this question in A History of Violence (2005), his adaptation of the graphic novel by John Wagner and Vince Locke. Viggo Mortensen plays Tom Stall, proprietor of a small-town Indiana diner and devoted family man. When two thugs enter his establishment, hold everyone at gunpoint, and threaten to assault one of his employees, Stall fights back and kills the perpetrators. His heroic actions garner national media attention, bringing his existence to the attention of Carl Fogarty (Ed Harris), a mobster from Philadelphia. Fogarty is convinced that Stall is actually Joey Cusack, a criminal with the purported "history of violence," and he wants to bring him back to the city to, um, take care of some old business. Stall initially denies the accusation and insists that Fogarty has the wrong guy. However, in the middle of the movie, it becomes clear that Stall does have a shady past, an alternate history during which he learned the skills that allowed him to fight the thugs assailing his diner.

At this point, we can begin to despair for it seems that Cronenberg is presenting us another example of how people cannot change. Regardless of our efforts, the past creeps back, old habits reemerge, our sinful ways return to haunt us and others. The possibility of reform seems like a holdover from a more optimistic time, when we believed that it was possible to start afresh and reclaim the tabula rasa. These days, anyone and everyone can be placed in a series of genetic and socio-economic categories that seem to predict, with increasing certainty, our "outcomes" as human beings.

Yet, if we dig deeper, we see that Cronenberg is not nearly as pessimistic as he initially seems. In a recent group discussion regarding A History of Violence, cinekklesia founder Paul Marchbanks made note of Stall's previously honed skills coming out when confronted with attack; we pushed the point further and wondered whether the mere existence of those skills was morally problematic. In other words, does the mere fact that he can kill with ease make him bad? What about his motivation and intent?

For the most part, Cronenberg portrays Stall as a man desperately trying to eschew his past. He recognizes his violent history, he knows that he can kill, and he has spent years trying to channel his energies into more positive directions. For a brief moment, I suspected that Stall's small-town lifestyle and devotion to family were perhaps a facade, a necessary part of his do-it-yourself witness protection program. However, Cronenberg ultimately gives us no indication that Stall isn't sincere; as such, the director has created a highly sympathetic character for whom we wish the best.

Ultimately, A History of Violence teaches us that moral change is possible but requires both consciousness and effort. Unless we are aware of our condition and believe that we need to change, reform proves impossible. At some point in his past, Stall took a hard look in the mirror and realized that his life was morally reprehensible. On a broader level, perhaps a "hard look in the mirror" for the rest of us would involve those demographic categories and statistical probabilities into which we fall. How likely is it that we will engage in immoral or even criminal behavior? Perhaps assault and murder are not in our future but what about something like marital infidelity, a social and spiritual condition that is relatively common?

The next step, of course, is effort. Without consciousness, one sees no need to expend effort; without effort, one's consciousness proves pointless. In Stall, we see a man who has worked very hard at moral reform, who even spent time in the desert in order to fight the demons besetting his soul. Perhaps moral rectitude comes easier to some than to others, but we all need to expend some effort at righteousness — and if we are honest with ourselves, then there is always much room from improvement. (Students of psychology may see in my words hints of the Transtheoretical Model of Behavior Change, which attempts to map how people move through a series of stages—pre-contemplation, contemplation, preparation, action, and maintenance—as they attempt to modify their lifestyles.)

What is most interesting about this view of morality is how closely it lines up with Biblical injunctions to righteous living. One of the most familiar passages from the New Testament stems from Ephesians (6:10-7), in which we are exhorted to "put on the breastplate of righteousness," "take the shield of faith," etc. A friend once noted how external all of these virtues seemed. We are not righteous until we have "put on the breastplate of righteousness." Moral living does not come about naturally; as Stall realized, we must become conscious of our moral condition, seek guidance from a source (the Source) outside ourselves, and expend effort at "putting on" the virtues. Moral living is hard, and we have to fight our tendency to regress.

My more realistic side wants to extend a word of caution. Perhaps the success that Stall exhibits in fighting his past is a rarity. Perhaps most violent criminals remain violent, and the vast majority of our attempts at moral improvement ultimately fail. Nevertheless, Cronenberg doesn't despair and neither should we. The first step in moral change is consciousness, which is perhaps the biggest hurdle in our returning to the straight-and-narrow.

Fantasy? Bah! Scoff!

There lately has been a small debate on cinekklesia regarding the fantasy genre, particularly as manifested in M. Night Shyamalan's Unbreakable.Below is a copy of my comments regarding Paul Marchbanks' defense of the film.

Two points:

First of all, while it is possible for fantasy to express "the struggles of [our] lives in effective, truthful metaphors," the genre usually ends up distracting me from whatever theme it wants to get across. If a director really wanted to dig deep into an aspect of the human condition, then he/she generally would be better served by a genre that more closely mimics that condition (at least in a material sense). For the most part, I am not as moved by artifacts of sci-fi/fantasy as I am by more "realistic" fare.

Second, as I mentioned in my review, I did find the first two-thirds of Unbreakable quite compelling. I did not "decline to admit" or "consciously evade" Shymalan's ideas; rather, I paid strict attention. However, when the director ventured from his brooding into superhero sloppiness, everything fell apart. Courtney is right: superhero movies generally succeed when they are campy enterprises and when their messages are simple and short (lasting only as long as the multiplex's bucket of popcorn). If Shymalan had stayed just a little closer to "reality," then he would have made a better film (and I even might have acknowledged him as the serious director he so desperately wants to be).

Unbreakable: Ironically Mediocre

This review originally was published on cinekklesia on April 5, 2006.

Based on my three-film sample of M. Night Shyamalan's oeuvre, I am sensing a downward trend (downward spiral, perhaps). I enjoyed The Sixth Sense (1999) and found it clever, creepy, even moving. However, Unbreakable (2000), the subject of this review, and Signs (2002) were disappointing, both evincing a director trying to squeeze as much aesthetic capital as possible from earlier work, but coming up embarrassingly short. As such, I have avoided The Village (2004), fearing even greater disappointment, and the previews for the upcoming Lady in the Water (2006) look silly (actually, if the Internet Movie Database's plot summary is to be believed, then Lady in the Water will not just be silly, but horrifyingly stupid).

Unbreakable is disappointing precisely because it has so much promise. In fact, the first half (even two-thirds!) of the film is quite good. Bruce Willis plays David Dunne, a security guard who mysteriously survives a devastating train wreck. In fact, he is the only one who survives, walking away from the crash literally without a scratch. Samuel L. Jackson plays Elijah Price, seemingly Dunne's opposite. Price has a rare genetic disorder that renders his bones extremely fragile — so much so that simple falls that would leave most of us with some cuts and bruises literally shatter him.

After local media report on Dunne's miraculous survival, Price leaves him a note on his van; he wants to contact him in order to confirm a metaphysical theory. If Price is unusually weak and brittle, then maybe Dunne is his polar opposite: unusually strong and able to survive what would kill most of us. In fact, Price believes that Dunne may be a superhero!

Much of Unbreakable is a process of self-discovery. Dunne first doubts—then begins to investigate—the possibility that he is a sort of uebermensch. Furthermore, Price prods him to consider whether he has a purpose greater than himself, whether he is here to help the weak, fight evil, etc.

At this point, we begin to witness what may be a disturbing theme in Unbreakable — and perhaps in Shyamalan's worldview (though I know almost nothing of the latter). In a conversation with Dunne's wife, Price notes, "It's a mediocre time....People are starting to lose hope. It's hard for many to believe that extraordinary things live inside themselves as well as others." Price's interest (nay, obsession) with Dunne stems not just from a desire to find a superhero, but from a desire to break the grip of a perceived mediocrity that supposedly stifles the greatness living just underneath the surface of humanity.

This search for greatness, coupled with the superhero motif, can serve as a dangerous meme in social and political thought. Price presumes that everyone is like him, losing hope in a "mediocre" age, searching for a figure to rescue us, give us purpose, provide leadership. He seems to dismiss everyday life as a chore, even a distraction, from his quest for greatness. This devaluing of the banal, the average, the mediocre, can lead to cruel or stupid acts — after all, if the herd is just an impediment to greatness (and if greatness is the highest good), then eradicating a few steer is completely justified, even necessary. (At the end, we see that Price takes this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion.)

To be fair, Shyamalan backs away from Price's methods and offers a sort of corrective at the end. However, he doesn't back away from the notion of Dunne as a superhero, from the metaphysical bipolarity between Dunne and Price, and from the value of Dunne's newfound identity as an uebermensch. In fact, as Dunne starts to become accustomed to his superhero skin, the rest of his life (namely, his strained relationship with his wife and son) starts to fall into place.

There of course lies an unintended irony beneath all of this. In criticizing mediocrity, Shyamalan makes a mediocre film! I wrote earlier that the first half to two-thirds of the movie was actually quite good, and I stand by that claim. I would go so far as to say that Shyamalan presents an intriguing, philosophically sophisticated perspective regarding (of all things) comic books. However, when Dunne starts testing his superhero powers, the movie takes a turn for the silly. We no longer see a depressed man desperately seeking purpose and identity (and finding it!). Rather, Shyamalan turns Dunne into a silly, clumsy superhero caricature. Rather than raise the comic book to a new philosophical level for an audience that might be skeptical, Shyamalan ends up regressing to a wide-eyed, juvenile fascination with superheroes beating up the "bad guys," saving the weak and innocent, and mesmerizing a stupefied and gullible public ("Who was that masked man?").

Since it appears that The Sixth Sense was an aberration in a largely uninteresting (and overrated) career, Shyamalan perhaps should step back and take stock of the value of the banal, the mediocre, and the everyday — in other words, the lives that most of us lead. I've written elsewhere on the danger of "greatness" in a political context; that kind of sentiment can lead to the worst excesses, as political leaders take cruel, authoritarian measures to achieve collectivist glory. Yet, the search for greatness on an individual level can have negative consequences, as well. Besides the obvious moral danger of idolatry and self-aggrandizement, the search for greatness can leave one perpetually unsatisfied and frustrated. High expectations can lead to high disappointment, whereas low expectations, if met, can lead to satisfaction — and if exceeded, can even lead to happiness!

Thus, even though Shyamalan holds Price somewhat accountable at the end, he does not go far enough. He should have renounced completely Price's search for worldly, human-centered greatness and should have portrayed to the audience the value of the mediocre life. I suggest that Shyamalan lead by example, recognizing the mediocrity of his own work and stopping his incessant drive to be clever and "meaningful." Maybe he next should try his hand at a light romantic comedy, the pure embodiment of cinematic mediocrity.

The 40 Year-Old Virgin: Virginity, Singleness, Weirdness

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on March 28, 2006.

On Christmas Day, 2005, after opening presents and hanging out at my sister-in-law's house, my wife and I drove to her mother and step-father's place, just a few minutes away. After the recent busyness, we all were looking forward to a quiet and pleasant evening of cinematic entertainment. My brother-in-law had loaned them a copy of Judd Apatow's The 40 Year-Old Virgin (2005), promising that it was most hilarious. Figuring that I never would spend my own money to see this film (and yes, harboring a secret curiosity as to its content), I plopped down on the couch and proceeded to enter the world of junior-high toilet humor.

If you're interested in mixing the sacred with the profane, if you like dissonant experiences, then do what I did and watch The 40 Year-Old Virgin on one of the Church calendar's holiest days. If you're not interested in dissonance (and if you don't ever plan to watch this film), then let me just confirm your worst suspicions: it is extremely bawdy, coarse, and, well, funny (again, in that junior-high sort of way). Steve Carell plays Andy, an employee at a "big box" electronics store (a la Best Buy, Circuit City, etc.), who is the middle-age virgin in question. One night, during a poker game with his work buddies, he inadvertently indicates that he has lived a full four decades without doing the nasty. It's not that he hasn't tried, mind you; it just seems that every "opportunity" ended up in failure, usually due to some clumsy move on his part.

His buddies, ever looking out for his best interests, then attempt to set up new opportunities for one-night stands, all of which fail. However, this doesn't mean that Andy isn't interested in romantic engagements with members of the opposite sex; during the course of the movie, he meets and falls in love with Trish (Catherine Keener), a clerk from a store across street. She is a single mom in her 40s, and Andy is desperate to hide the fact of his virginity from her, lest she think him a loser.

The relationship between Andy and Trish ends up altering slightly the tone of The 40 Year-Old Virgin by presenting us with contrasting views of relationships. Right up to the credits, Andy is shown as a gentleman — clumsy and socially naive, perhaps, but nevertheless a gentleman. His buddies, on the other hand, hold immature, degrading views of women and sexuality (though by the end of the film, they "repent" a little bit and take a cue from Andy's perspective).

Keep in mind that Andy and Trish's relationship alters the movie slightly. The majority of The 40 Year-Old Virgin is still a bawdy romp, and I cannot recommend it to anyone, especially in such an esteemed forum as cinekklesia. In addition, while the movie ultimately vindicates Andy as the "better man," he nevertheless bears the brunt of most of the jokes. Besides his virginity, the movie makes fun of the fact that he engages in activities stereotypically associated with men who have, well, never grown up: he collects old action figures (in their original packaging, of course), paints figurines of fantasy characters, and plays video games. (He also walks around his apartment, playing his tuba, presumably reliving his days in high school band.) If he were ten years younger, we would expect him to be living with his parents, reading comic books, and attending Star Trek conventions.

Thus, The 40 Year-Old Virgin attempts to make a strong correlation between Andy's sexual status and his hobbies. The only element we're missing is the causal explanation: is Andy a virgin because he has never grown up and maintains the interests of a 13-year-old, or has his virginity somehow stunted his emotional development (i.e., if he had just "done it," would he have graduated to more mature pursuits of a "masculine" variety, like football or automobile repair)? This supposition, whether intentional or not, seems to mirror our culture's perception of sexuality not as an act of intimacy between two people who love and remain committed to each other, but rather, as a necessary part of one's intellectual and emotional development. In other words, without having sex, one is not fully adult; if one remains a virgin at 40, then he/she deserves both pity and derision.

All of this may sound like old news to American Christians, who have been reminded repeatedly about the evils of "The Media's" treatment of sexuality. From the blunt sex-outside-of-marriage-is-wrong-so-don't-do-it messages to the more genteel "celebrations" of the "special gift" that deserves honor rather than degradation, we are awash in talk about sex and the improper portrayals thereof. However, if we just dig a little deeper into our own perceptions of virginity, singleness, and family, I hypothesize that we would find our views closer to The 40 Year-Old Virgin's than we would like to admit.

If there is one topic on which American Christians, especially Evangelicals, obsess, it is the family. This obsession facilitates a culture in which "married with children" serves as the default status — to be unmarried after a certain age denotes something "wrong." Sure, the single middle-aged are not banned from church life, but I suggest that those of us who are married ponder the single man's/woman's status a little longer than we should: Why aren't they married? Are they odd? Are they even trying to meet someone? This is not mere conjecture: anecdotally, I remember two instances in which fellow Christians (one of whom was a pastor) mocked the single middle-aged, implying that they were creepy and socially inept. This simplistic and cruel sentiment is simply unacceptable in a Church that should be more concerned with spreading the Gospel than obsessing over one's marital status.

Christians would do well to re-read Paul's advice in 1 Corinthians 7:25-40, which begins, "Now about virgins: I have no command from the Lord, but I give a judgment as one who by the Lord's mercy is trustworthy" (v. 25, NIV). He goes on to advise Christians not to change their marital status or to focus on the matters of this world for "the time is short" (v. 29). Rather, we should maintain our focus on God — so much so that Paul advises believers not to marry since marriage serves to disrupt that focus (vv. 32-35). Of course, others remind us repeatedly that Paul was not making a command but rather, offering advice and suggestion. This is true. However, if "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness..." (2 Ti 3:16), then do not Paul's words in 1 Corinthians have something to say to us? Reminding us, perhaps, that family life is not the ultimate goal of existence? Provoking us to consider whether our spouses and children have become idols, whether "family" itself has morphed into an idol?

Imagine that! Perhaps we can wrest something edifying from The 40 Year-Old Virgin after all!