The Da Vinci Code: A Non-Review

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on May 20, 2006.

In 1992, then-Vice President Dan Quayle publicly criticized the title character of Murphy Brown, a sitcom about a center-left broadcast journalist and the TV show she hosted. Quayle's beef had to do with the fictional Brown's decision to bear and raise a child as a single mother, which in the VP's mind was another pop-culture attack on traditional families and the values that uphold them. Though Quayle's term in office was marked by continuous ridicule for his lack of intellectual prowess, his critique of Murphy Brown nevertheless helped to spark the current "Culture War," a social and political phenomenon that has haunted us ever since.

The latest battle revolves around Ron Howard's adaptation of the Dan Brown bestseller, The Da Vinci Code (2006). I am titling my thoughts a "non-review" because I have neither the desire nor the intention to see this movie. You might be thinking that I am one of the hordes of Christians who are (a) boycotting the film, (b) demanding that the state censor it, or (c) running out to my local bookstore to purchase one of the many anti-Da Vinci Code treatises capitalizing on the phenomenon. No, my reason is much simpler: I'm sick of the whole thing.

After months (years!) of media hype and criticism, I simply want the whole franchise to go away. My wife tells me that I should read the book or see the movie, just so I know what all the fuss is about. However, the fuss is so pervasive, loud, and penetrating that I don't need to do anything (expect metabolize) in order to experience it. I got the gist: Brown's novel claims that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a child together; thus, their physical descendants are running around the earth as we speak. Oh, and the Roman Catholic Church is covering this up. Oh, and Opus Dei is evil. I think I've covered the major points.

What bothers me much more than Dan Brown's heresy is the generally sloppy response from Christians far and wide, a response that takes far too many cues from the Culture War and Dan Quayle's playbook. My first gripe has to do with the obvious fact that there is no such thing as bad publicity. Controversy breeds notoriety, which, of course, breeds sales. While I have heard that The Da Vinci Code may prove to be a financial disappointment, it seems hard to ignore the fact that Christian leaders, particularly those in the Vatican, have given Brown et al. an inordinate amount of free publicity.

My second gripe concerns Christians' seeming inability to get out of the suffocating (and ultimately false) Culture War dichotomy that depicts "liberals" as secular, overly-intellectual, snobbish denizens of the Northeast and West Coast and "conservatives" as religious, commonsensical, plain-talking inhabitants of the Midwest and South. The Da Vinci Code (within this demographic conceptualization of the United States) is yet another attempt by the former to attack the most cherished views of the latter, while hypocritically making a lot of money in the process. One problem with this dichotomy lies in its overly rigid categorization: it presumes that all liberals are secular and that they actively want to destroy traditional values, while all conservatives will boycott both the book and the movie. I hypothesize that the reality is more complicated and includes religious liberals, who may not want to see the movie because it looks cheesy, and secular conservatives, who don't mind spending a few bucks on a religiously themed thriller (heretical or otherwise). (For a secular take on this question, check out the comments of Tim Cavanaugh and Jesse Walker, both of Reason magazine.)

Beyond the Culture War's false dichotomy is the trap that Christians fall into again and again when it comes time to engage with the world. Any artifact or event that some Christian "leader" finds offensive and chooses to condemn publicly becomes a Pavlovian call for the rest of us to protest, condemn, boycott, threaten, etc. We saw it with Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), the hubbub over Roy Moore's attempt to prevent the removal of a Ten Commandments monument from an Alabama state building, the annual brouhahas all over the country whenever Church and State collide over the decoration of town squares with Christmas (rather than "Holiday") decorations, etc. The repetitive cycle of discover-publicize-organize-protest-sue-campaign is so predictable that I sometimes think that any true conspiracy lies neither in Roman Catholic cover-ups nor in secular attempts to discredit religion, but rather, in some third party who is keeping Christians busy with meaningless pop-culture "debates" while doing something really nefarious in the background.

Is there not more to our faith than this? Do we not have more theologically profound issues to discuss than whether to boycott an apparently mediocre adaptation of a novel written not for serious reflection but for lazy summer vacations at the beach? Should Christians be so aligned with the perpetual outrage machine, ready to pounce at a moment's notice on the next politician, actor, or broadcaster who says something that someone somewhere finds offensive? Do we have nothing better to do, or are we demonstrating that contrary to Christ, our kingdom is of this world and our concerns are wholly temporal?

Thus, I have no plans to see The Da Vinci Code. I have no desire to support either Dan Brown or his many critics, all of whom stand to make a lot of money and achieve a lot of exposure from this latest battle in the exhausting, never-ending Culture War. Both heretics and self-righteous moralists stand to gain much from the publicity, and I am giving neither side the satisfaction of my lucre. Maybe that will serve as my own "boycott" of this whole sorry saga. Wake me up when it's over.

Looking at Women...in a Platonic Sort of Way

Paul Marchbanks, founder and coordinator of cinekklesia, recently published a fascinating review of King Kong. However, I had to disagree with his views vigorously. Here is a copy of the comments I posted:

I wholeheartedly disagree with your review on a variety of levels. The apprehension of beauty in another person can "exist independent of sexual arousal," but only for very brief moments (seconds?). Humans are intrinsically sexual beings, due both to the biological imperative to reproduce, as well as to social conditioning, which (as you point out) tends to (hyper-)sexualize all human relationships. As such, it is virtually impossible for one to linger over another's beauty without such apprehension become sexual.

Secondly, by trying to wrest feminine beauty from sexuality, you imply that there exists an abstract, almost Platonic beauty "out there." This, of course, begs the question as to what that ideal beauty is and how different women "rank" in relation to that standard. (Since you are discussing this issue in the context of King Kong, are you saying that Naomi Watts is the Platonic ideal of feminine beauty, or is she merely a close approximation?)

Ironically, by discussing beauty in such an abstract, almost disemodied, fashion, one is in danger of objectifying women as much as those who overly sexualize. If one's beauty becomes a vehicle for "transcendent" meditation, then how is that object of meditation any different from, say, a mountain or a painting?

In addition, if the apprehension of female beauty can be done in a non-sexual fashion, then would you be willing to write about male beauty in the same way? If you find Naomi Watts transcendently beautiful, then what about a man who meets some aesthetic standard? Would you ponder him? If not, then I suggest that would be due to the intrinsically sexual nature of human beauty: you, as a heterosexual male, would not find similarly "transcendent" qualities in a man because you would not be sexually attracted to him! I am not saying that I suspect you of "lingering" over Naomi Watts' beauty; rather, I am saying that your appreciative apprehension of her, clean as it might be, only exists because of humanity's underlying sexual drive. In other words, you would not have categorized Ms. Watts as an "attractive woman" had you been an asexual being. (It also should be noted that unlike the aesthetic appreciation of humans, the appreciation of, say, a landscape is usually not linked to any sexual drive.)

Thus, while I agree that it is possible to apprehend human beauty in a non-sexual manner, it is very highly improbable that such a "clean" apprehension can last more than a few seconds. You are talking of a space in human relations that is so infinitesimal that it is not worth pursuing or defending. Finally, I must dispute the claim that "our apprehension of [female beauty] can be a transcendent thing." From a Biblical standpoint, it seems that the opposite is true: "Charm is deceptive, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised" (Proverbs 31:30, NRSV).

Three Formulaic Films, Three Different Results

Why do Inside Man, Mission: Impossible III, and The Long Kiss Goodnight differ so dramatically?

(This review was published originally on cinekklesia on May 11, 2006.)

I imagine that most filmmakers would not want their movies described as "formulaic." Such a designation conjures images of Hollywood producers chatting excitedly over $30.00 salads and $6.00 glasses of sparkling water, pulling together the details of their next blockbuster: who's available to direct, whose agent will need to be contacted, who can play the love interest, what kind of "twist" the screenwriter will throw in at the end, etc. "Formulaic" connotes an absence of originality, a lack of creative vigor, a mindless cinematic repetition.

Yet, despite the "template" nature of formulaic films, they often differ dramatically in quality. It's almost like a basketball game: the rules are stable, and the action is repetitive—it's just ten players dribbling, passing, shooting, and blocking over and over—but the quality of the game varies immensely, depending on who's playing and who's coaching. The same dynamic applies in formulaic movies: good writing, acting, and directing are essential in determining whether a movie will be an enjoyable popcorn blockbuster or utter garbage. A formulaic movie doesn't have to be deep (most aren't), but it shouldn't waste the viewer's time either.

I recently have watched three formulaic films—Spike Lee's Inside Man (2006), J.J. Abrams' Mission: Impossible III (2006), and Renny Harlin's The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996)—and I found their varying levels of quality instructive. Our first question: what makes them formulaic?

• Inside Man is about a bank heist and hostage taking that hold a lot more than meets the eye. However, despite the "twist" at the end, the movie uses a lot of conventional motifs: wise-cracking detective, conflict between law enforcement and bank executive who wants to hide "delicate" information, and clever cat-and-mouse tactics on the part of the hostage takers. Yet, despite all of the convention, I found Inside Man fresh, exciting, and altogether enjoyable.
  
  


• Mission: Impossible III is even more conventional: U.S. secret agent, weapons dealer with heart of stone, kidnapped significant other, explosions, cool gadgets, explosions, computer geek providing IT support from headquarters, shootouts, explosions....It was nowhere near as good as Inside Man, but still worth matinee prices — though evening prices might be hard to justify.
  
  


• The Long Kiss Goodnight is both conventional and stupid. An amnesic woman who was found lying on a beach eight years prior builds a new life as a small-town schoolteacher. During the course of the movie, she discovers that she was a super-secret agent in her past and subsequently tries to "come in from the cold." The world has changed during the past eight years, however, and her former bosses want her dead. Torture, shootouts, explosions. Awful writing, awful acting, awful directing.

In order to make a formulaic movie at the level of Inside Man, one needs decent writing. A formulaic plot does not necessitate contrived dialogue. The skilled screenwriter can take the boring template that is handed to him/her and add some fresh, witty repartee.

• In Inside Man, Russell Gewirtz peppers his script with well-timed, believable wisecracks and zingers that break the tension of the hostage-taking. We're not talking Oscar Wilde-caliber writing, but Gewirtz nevertheless gives us alternating doses of humor and anxiety to hold our attention for the full two hours.
  
  


• Mission: Impossible III's script is nowhere at the level of Inside Man, but it is tolerable and certainly doesn't fail to meet (low) expectations. Alex Kurtzman, Roberto Orci, and J.J. Abrams gave Tom Cruise the right amount of dialogue to match his mediocre acting. Besides, it is perhaps unfair to judge this film by its script since the dialogue is interrupted constantly by gunfire, chases, and explosions.
  
  


• If I were not a libertarian, then I would insist that Shane Black be incarcerated for writing The Long Kiss Goodnight. He clearly does not know how to add clever dialogue to a formulaic plot. In fact, he breaks one of the basic rules of creative writing: show, don't tell — just in case we miss the fact that the spy-turned-teacher-turned-spy is undergoing an identity crisis, Black essentially has his characters describe their feelings to the audience. In addition, unlike Inside Man's banter, the "humor" in The Long Kiss Goodnight is mind-numbingly flat — appropriate for a middle-school student's creative writing assignment, perhaps, but not for a professional script.

Without a decent script, the best actors cannot salvage a sinking movie, and our three films exemplify this harsh reality with stinging clarity:

• Because they have a tightly written storyline to work with, the cast members of Inside Man don't have to stretch to make their characters believable. Denzel Washington does a good job of playing the wisecracking police detective, while Clive Owens holds his own as a thuggish hostage-taker harboring a clever secret. Jodie Foster's character (a discrete private investigator for the rich and famous) comes across as a little contrived, but the overall strength of the script renders her character a mild annoyance at worst.
  
  


• As is the case with Mission Impossible's script, said movie's acting does not fail to meet (low) expectations. Every single character is a prop, serving the will of the action and the gadgetry. Yes, Phillip Seymour Hoffman is probably the best prop out of the bunch, but he's still a prop; we know that he accepted this assignment both for the money and for the opportunity to work on a less demanding project. Ving Rhames, of course, was just playing the role he gets hired to play in every project — when you've seen one Ving Rhames performance....
  
  


• The horrible acting in The Long Kiss Goodnight was both amusing and embarrassing. I felt bad for Geena Davis and Samuel L. Jackson since they probably did the best they could, given Shane Black's execrable writing. Nevertheless, Davis' portrayal of the teacher-spy is so choppy and immature that it reminds one of the embarrassing performances in high-school drama class — actually, no, those performances are usually better.

The reason why the director of a formulaic movie has to concern him/herself with at least tolerable writing and acting is because he/she is making a bargain with the audience. Provide a fun, smooth script with decent actors, and the masses will suspend their disbelief, no matter how improbable the story and/or action sequences.

• While Inside Man isn't an action movie, it certainly can be described as improbable. Sure, exceedingly clever, jaw-dropping heists do happen in "real life," but they are rare — so much so that news accounts often describe them as "coming out of a movie." Nevertheless, because all of the other elements of Inside Man worked so well, the audience is willing to cut Spike Lee some slack and let him spin his tale.
  
  


• Mission: Impossible III is, of course, all about action. Yet, while the script and acting were peripheral, they also were tolerable. Thus, they did not distract me from J.J. Abrams' main point — i.e., blowing up stuff. As I said, it's well worth matinee prices.
  
  


• The Long Kiss Goodnight is full of highly improbable action sequences, and since the script and acting were abysmal, I was not willing to deal with Renny Harlin — he did not provide me with pleasurable entertainment, so I was not willing to suspend my disbelief.

So there you have it, Hollywood. If you want to make a good formulaic film, then make sure that you include some witty and fresh dialogue, which facilitates decent acting, which then motivates audience members to sit back, munch on some popcorn, and ignore the fact that the probability of the protagonist surviving that particular crash/fall/firefight is one-in-a-billion. The final scores for our three formulaic films:

• Inside Man - 3 stars out of 4


• Mission: Impossible III - 2 stars out of 4


• The Long Kiss Goodnight - 1/2 star out of 4 (and I'm being generous)

The Final Cut: Speaking Ill (or Well) of the Dead

This review was published orginally on cinekklesia on May 2, 2006.

Many Christians decry situational ethics, the school of thought which argues that the morality of one's action should be judged based on the situation in which the person finds him- or herself. The anonymous contributors at Wikipedia remind us that situational ethics should not be confused with moral relativism, since the former does not deny the existence of universal moral truths — rather, the fullness of those truths are complicated (not eradicated) by the situations in which we find ourselves.

Even though situational ethics might escape the charge of moral relativism, it is easy to see why it still comes up for special scrutiny (and criticism). It seems to present an overly convenient method of justification — any situation can be made "complicated," and anybody can demand that outside parties judge one's actions "in context." While situational ethics is not the same as moral relativism, the differences between the two seem to measure a hair's breadth, especially in their practical manifestations.

Yet, we all practice situational ethics, and when we look at specific, real-world cases (situations?), I doubt that we would want to live in a universe in which such ethics were completely unavailable. How about the case in which a small child presents us with an object that he/she created in art class and asks us what we think? Most likely, the piece is bad in some way (technically sloppy, aesthetically immature) because, well, a small child created it! Do we critique it harshly? Do we say that the child needs to spend a lot more time developing his/her craft, studying nuances of color, shading, and texture? Of course not. We tell the kid that the work is "very nice" and move on.

What about the case in which someone attending a lecture makes a rambling comment during the Q&A, demonstrating an ignorance of the most basic facts or an inability to analyze? Should the speaker call the audience member to account and tell him/her that the comment is asinine, meaningless, and narcissistic (a point on which the rest of the audience would agree)? Or, should the speaker be gracious, salvage what he/she can from the comment, and generate a meaningful response that edifies everyone?

These are just two examples of how most of us (including the most ardent moral universalists) appreciate a little of bit tact (read: polite deceit) if it can save everyone pain and embarrassment. Perhaps a fully developed situational ethic ultimately proves destructive; however, a "lite" situational ethic might be socially (and even morally) necessary. Trouble is, how do we distinguish the two?

Omar Naim tackles this question a bit in The Final Cut (2004). This movie packs a lot of themes into its one-and-a-half hours, but one of its central concerns focuses on the dead and how we (should) remember them. Robin Williams plays Alan Hakman, a technician ("cutter") skilled at editing the entirety of one's life into a 90-minute home movie for friends and relatives to view post-mortem. This life "footage" is retrieved from a neurological implant that the deceased received before birth. (In the universe of The Final Cut, parents who think it would be grand to have everything their child sees recorded for posterity can purchase the implant while the child is in utero.) Hakman is considered one of the best cutters in the business, particularly because of his skill in editing all of the nasty bits out of one's life.

During the movie, Hakman runs into a former colleague, Fletcher (Jim Caviezel), who has left his initial profession and joined the ranks of anti-cutter activists. The activists' list of grievances is quite long and includes invasion of privacy, parents' pre-natal interference in the future autonomy of their children, and whitewashing: the erasure of evidence regarding immoral, even criminal, activity.

Hakman, of course, sees his role differently. He is doing what the rest of us have done for centuries: creating an artifact—like a painting, photo album, or home movie—that captures the "best" of us, leaving out the naughty bits that we don't want the world to see. Besides, after one passes away, what is the point in dragging out his/her crimes into the light? What good will it do? The person can't be prosecuted. Speaking ill of the dead ultimately harms only the living, the friends and family who just want "closure" and to remember the good times.

What is most intriguing about this issue is the fact that we (at least those of us in Western cultures) don't have clear guidelines regarding how to speak about the dead. In one sense, we consider it impolite to criticize those who have passed away, but that taboo seems to correlate with time: the closer we are to the actual death of the person, the more tasteless it is to critique. However, once a certain, indeterminate, amount of time passes, then we can begin the process of biography and "truth-telling," of examining the impact (good and bad) of the deceased's life on the rest of us.

Yet, my description of this process is too clean relative to what we actually do. History and biography are messy, politically charged activities. Some figures are so polarizing that either (a) their demise brings about immediate celebration or (b) they remain sacred cows long after the coffin is laid to rest. To choose two obvious examples: most history textbooks state (or strongly imply) that Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin were bad men who—to put it in the mildest terms possible—instituted bad public policy. However, neo-Nazis certainly take offense at any demonization of their Führer, and one still can see Russians nostalgically holding pictures of Uncle Joe whenever yearning for "better times."

So, what is the movie's take on all this? Ultimately, The Final Cut doesn't give us any guidelines regarding when we can take apart and interrogate a dead person's legacy. It only warns us of the dangers of whitewashing, of destroying the evidence necessary for truth-telling.

On a theological level, we also don't have much guidance. Clearly, the Bible doesn't eschew our speaking ill of the dead; from Adam and Eve's disobedience to Judas' betrayal to Pontius Pilate's cowardice, we have spoken ill of the dead for centuries. The truth hurts, after all, and we might as well learn from it. However, the call to love our neighbor forces us to eschew a sweeping, overt exposure of the truth in all circumstances, at all costs. When facing grieving family and friends, is the best course of action to remind everyone that the man or woman in the coffin wasn't without blemish? Doesn't love dictate discretion and wisdom? Doesn't love "[keep] no record of wrongs" (1 Cor. 13:5, NIV)?

Our choice here is not whether we should praise or condemn situational ethics, but to see whether our particular courses of action cohere with the demands of Scripture. God calls us to righteousness, love, and wisdom; wisdom demands discretion that is borne of experience. Is that situational ethics, or is it maturity (see 1 Cor. 13:11)?