The Weather Man: In Defense of Mediocrity

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on June 26, 2006.

The question of mediocrity is perhaps one of the most important of our times. In an era in which we demand excellence—nay, perfection—in all aspects of our lives, we need to be reminded of the value of the mediocre, the average, the unimportant wallflower who commands neither attention nor respect. As a culture obsessed with "greatness" in wealth, beauty, athletic prowess, etc., we could use a bit of that proverbial "reality check," a reminder that most of us are, by definition, "average"—and dare I say, mediocre—in almost everything we do.[1]

Gore Verbinski's The Weather Man (2005) tackles this theme head-on, reminding us that in the vast majority of cases, the search for excellence is futile. Nicolas Cage plays David Spritz, the weather man in question, working for a Chicago-based television station and applying for an open slot on a show with both a national audience and a substantial increase in pay. However, in the midst of his professional goal-setting, Spritz must deal with a personal life that is falling apart: he wants to get back together with his ex-wife, but he flubs every attempt at showing that he's a "changed man"; his son is being slowly seduced by his former rehab counselor; his daughter is seriously obese and suffering from depression; and his father is dying of cancer. In each of his relationships, Spritz feels that he has failed in some capacity, and in one sense, The Weather Man is a record of both his attempts to right some wrongs and his realization that there are some aspects of his life that will never reach the level of excellence.

Even in a professional sense, Spritz is essentially a mediocre performer. Sure, he's a popular forecaster, but we learn that he has no degree in meteorology and that he was hired mainly for his skills in chatting it up in front of the cameras (and in doing some promotional appearances on the side). For working essentially two hours a day, he earns well over $200,000.00 annually. You might think that getting so much money for so little work would entitle Spritz to the label of "success," but he knows that his job is essentially a no-brainer, that he lacks substance beneath the smiling exterior, and that his cushy lifestyle has earned him the derision of some Chicagoland residents, who show their contempt by attacking him on the street with half-eaten fast food (a bizarre, but comical, sidebar in the movie).

More fundamentally, Spritz's job garners him no respect from his father, Robert Spritzel (Michael Caine), a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer (how many could top that?) who clearly has very little understanding of—or interest in—what his son does for a living. We learn that Spritz tries to earn his father's respect by taking a stab at the written word and penning a spy novel — an endeavor that proves to be a horrible (though comical) failure.

Besides his professional and literary shortcomings, Spritz also must deal with his moral and relational failures. While he can deal with the fact that he's an intellectual lightweight, he is more troubled by the fact that he couldn't hold his marriage together or keep his kids out of trouble. He ultimately sees these failures as stemming from a lack of virtue, and late in the movie, he remembers how he used to think that one day, he would become a man with a particular set of qualities (qualities usually exemplified in other people). However, as he crept into middle age, he realized that most of these qualities were non-existent in his life, and that he instead became a man of distinctly mediocre talents and virtues. In fact, The Weather Man's theme ultimately revolves around the acceptance of mediocrity as our natural condition.

So how does this relate to us? Is the question of mediocrity truly critical to our age? Do we need to learn how to accept, even revel, in mediocrity? Perhaps I am making a broad generalization from very limited observations, but I hypothesize that we live in an age of unreasonably high expectations, both in regards to our lifestyles (how we live, how much stuff we have) and our achievements (how many degrees we earn, what types of jobs we have, how much money we make). There appears to be no standard of acceptability or contentment; as soon as one level is reached, the drive to climb to the next immediately beckons, and we mindlessly trudge forward.

The danger in this lies not only in the stress such expectations produce but also in the utter depression, even despair, that results from any lack of success. Even if one's overall trajectory is positive, any temporary setbacks can prove emotionally devastating. 'Tis better to have low expectations, which allow us to be content with utter failure, happy with mediocre performances, and absolutely exuberant with those rare (once-in-a-lifetime?) moments of excellence. Rather than teach our children the lie that they "can be anything they want to be" or that "if they work hard, then can achieve anything," we instead should be honest, counseling them that they probably will not be super-rich or intellectually brilliant or especially attractive and that they should be content with the relatively anonymous, average, mediocre lives that they are bound to live.

More importantly, does this clarion call to mediocrity transfer to questions of morality and virtue? In one sense, it does. While we certainly are called to nothing less than perfection (Mt. 5:48), while we are morally obligated to avoid sin, we also must be honest with ourselves and recognize that our virtue is woefully limited. A person who lives in a state of healthy mediocrity does not give up on moral improvement, but he/she also acknowledges that any moral victory comes from God alone and humbly accepts that his/her life will be marked by moral and spiritual imperfection until either death or the eschaton. While virtue and moral purity are important topics for preaching and teaching, one should not focus on them at the exclusion of grace and the humble acknowledgement that since Genesis 3, humans have been born in a position even worse than mediocre.

Thus, Gentle Reader, I encourage you to reconsider the value of mediocrity, a refreshingly honest perspective in an era obsessed with supposed excellence and greatness. We should acknowledge our mediocrity now — before other people or (circumstances) do it for us.

Note

[1]There are numerous studies on the tendency of humans to perceive themselves as above average. A dated, but nevertheless interesting, summary of this research can be found in Robert H. Frank's and Philip J. Cook's The Winner-Take-All Society (New York: The Free Press, 1995), 103-5.

Mean Creek: The Fragmented Self

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on June 19, 2006.

Ever since the Enlightenment, the "self" has been a topic of endless speculation, discussion, and debate among intellectuals. What, exactly, is this thing we call a human? Can humans truly be perceived as "individuals," as atomistic beings who can be treated as sovereign domains unto themselves? Do humans have an intrinsic, individual selfhood that can demand this sovereignty, or are we socially constructed beings whose "self" is merely a facade for the various attributes that come together and form a seemingly coherent "person"?

Jacob Aaron Estes' Mean Creek subtly examines this question of the self, how we construct it, and what happens when we encounter someone whose self doesn't cohere successfully. In the film, we meet up with Sam (Rory Culkin), a small kid who gets beaten up by George (Josh Peck). Sam's older brother, Rocky (Trevor Morgan), and his friend Marty (Scott Mechlowicz) decide that such injustice should not go unchecked; thus, they devise a scheme to invite George to a "birthday outing" in the woods in order to humiliate him (and thus, dissuade him from bullying again).

During their outing, we learn that George's identity and personality are not so easy to pin down. While at the beginning of the movie, we think that he is just some big, stupid, uncontrollable bully, we later learn that in a different context (such as a birthday outing), he can be quite amiable and even generous (he gives a present to his prior victim, Sam). We also learn that George has a learning disability — could that explain some of his aggressive behavior? Does George have a neurological condition that challenges not only his academic performance but also his social skills?

Estes takes a classic plot device—confusing audience members regarding how they "should" feel about a main character—and puts it to good use in Mean Creek. Some of the members of the conspiracy begin to have second thoughts about their plan, and they argue amongst themselves (in hushed tones, apart from George) regarding whether they should go through with it. However, when we think that the kids are going to abandon their plan, George learns the true nature of this "outing" and starts acting up again, showing his "mean" side, the side that initiated the plot in the first place. As such, events begin to unravel from there.

Whether intentionally or not, Estes presents us with a discussion of the self and implies that we are not intrinsically coherent beings, though we put up a good front. Most of the characters in the movie have an "identity" and a "personality" that seem "put together" — whether we like the character or not, we sense that there is a "whole person" there, and we can form a judgment about that person without much trouble. With George, however, we are presented with multiple identities and "presentations of self"[1] that confound us. At one point, he is a thug; at another, he is generous. He is affable in one instance but becomes cruel and rude the next. He seems like he may have some gifts and talents, but then he does something completely inept and embarrassing. We are not sure what to make of him, except to assume that his behavior is a result of some "incomplete" or "faulty" neurological development.

One could argue that George is the proverbial exception that proves the rule. Humans do have whole, coherent selves—as exhibited by the other characters in Mean Creek—and George is merely an outlier: a person who couldn't get his self together due to his disability. However, this argument ignores the very real possibility that the other characters merely do a good job of presenting coherent selves; they, too, are nothing more than a collection of socially constructed attributes. Even if one just focused on neurological characteristics (i.e., George is different not because of anything social, but simply because of his neurological disability), we are still left with an absence of self — after all, if we are just a collection of neurological attributes, then we still lack the holistic coherence, the whole-that-is-greater-than-the-sum-of-its parts, that for centuries has defined the self in Western culture.

Some may criticize this viewpoint and argue that the denial of a coherent self is also a denial of the soul. However, can we not acknowledge that we are creatures of attributes, both social and biological, and that we consciously and unconsciously combine these attributes in our "presentation of self"? Does not the soul, the deepest entity that communes with God, exist in some sense (or in some cases) apart from the myriad ways in which we present ourselves to the world? Is not the denial of coherence also an acknowledgement that we are incomplete creatures who are struggling to find that True Self but who fall woefully short? Is not our supposed coherence merely an attempt to convince ourselves and others that we "have it together," while we secretly know that any catastrophe (or even minor event) can unhinge our carefully constructed identity?

Thus, perhaps the "self" is merely a false coherence, a facade that should be examined with skepticism by Christians. This is not to deny that we each can have a individual relationship with God; however, we also should acknowledge that we are heavily conditioned by biological and social forces, and much of the way we perceive the world is not the result of honest, autonomous investigation, but rather, of our neurological limitations, cultural prejudices, and socio-economic status. In one sense, the reason why the other characters in Mean Creek found George so confusing (and repulsive) is not because he was so different but because his self-presentation (his performance) was so flawed — and thus, so revealing.

Note

[1]This term is borrowed from the title of Erving Goffman's most famous work, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. I have never read this book, nor have I read Goffman's other works, nor do I claim that this review in any way coheres with his ideas. Nevertheless, I suspect that this review has been informed unconsciously by at least some of Goffman's theories since I am married to a sociologist who has studied them. In any case, all responsibility for this review rests with me alone.

Lord of War: Against Militarism

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on June 12, 2006.

In the summer of 1994, after my first year in college, I interned for Peace Action, an activist organization that advocated, well, peace. At that time, I was a social anarchist (I now am a libertarian), and I was highly critical of the massive role that militarism played in U.S. foreign policy. Interestingly enough, while social anarchists and libertarians often maintain very different perspectives regarding capitalism, they hold relatively coherent views on militarism, agreeing that the U.S. military is too large, that U.S. foreign policy is too interventionist, and that military culture and "consciousness" are too pervasive in our society.

While at Peace Action, I took an interest in international arms trafficking and conducted some research into the small arms trade; thus, it was no surprise that Andrew Niccol's Lord of War (2005) would spark my curiosity. On one level, this film is a study of an international arms dealer named Yuri Orlov (Nicolas Cage); the challenges he faces in trying to run guns while maintaining a "normal" family life; and the cat-and-mouse games he plays with Jack Valentine (Ethan Hawke), a by-the-book Interpol agent who's constantly on his trail. Niccol creates a composite figure in Orlov—who he portrays as the most prolific arms dealer in the world—in order to cover as many conflicts as possible (and to demonstrate the reach of the global arms trade). We see Orlov smuggling weapons out of the Ukraine right after the fall of the Soviet Union, smuggling weapons into Colombia via ship (with phony international registration, of course), and dealing with African thugs in the trade of the now-infamous "blood" or "conflict" diamonds.

Orlov is a conflicted man: on the one hand, he's very good at what he does, and Lord of War charts his rise from an amateur in the global arms circuit to a multimillionaire with both his own fleet of jets and the discrete, de facto backing of the U.S. government. On the other hand, he is not oblivious to the material outcomes of his trade: his guns help to prop up dictators, maim and kill civilians, and maintain horrendous levels of violence in conflict zones around the world. While he tries to convince himself that he merely is selling a means of self-defense, that his job is not to take sides in fights that are not "his," it nevertheless becomes clear that at some deep level, he knows what he is doing is wrong.

Overall, I enjoyed Lord of War, though parts of it felt a bit too polished (it reminded me of Hotel Rwanda, another fine film that nevertheless had a little too much of that didactic "Hollywood message"). However, neither Lord of War nor Hotel Rwanda had the heavy-handed preachiness of Crash, and they both highlighted issues that do not get much play in mainstream cinema; for those reasons, both films deserve your attention.

Apart from criticizing the global arms trade, Niccol leaves viewers with a sobering message: even if one player, such as Orlov, were to leave the field, there would be plenty more to take his place. As long as individuals and groups want to kill each other for any number of reasons, there shall be weapons producers and distributors willing to take orders. In short, the arms trade, whether domestic or international, is impossible to stop, and laws and regulations to the contrary are largely ineffectual.

On an individual level, of course, one does not have to be an arms dealer. One can leave the field for other lines of work, and even though such a move may not effect any material change, it nevertheless carries moral significance. This is precisely the conflict within Orlov: he feels guilty about his line of work, but he also feels that it is the "only" work that he can do well — and since his departure from gun-running wouldn't make a difference anyway, he might as well stay put.

More broadly, Lord of War is a critique of militarism, the perspective that sees conflict as not only inevitable but fundamental to the human condition. Militarism goes beyond a recognition that the world is a dangerous place, requiring some degree of self-defense and military preparedness. Rather, it seeks to inculcate a culture of martial heroism in which the prized identity is connected with a uniform (preferably emblazoned with medals), a gun, and a history of military service.

While nearly every country in the world has some militaristic impulse, the powerful ones have the means to show it off. Ever since World War II, the United States has cultivated a national identity inextricably linked with military power: for the past 60 years, to be an "American" has meant, in part, to be associated with one of the largest (and now, the largest) military machines on the planet. While this identity has eroded somewhat—probably due, in part, to the abolition of the draft: the primary institution to facilitate the development of military consciousness among young men—we still cannot shake the impulse to spend huge amounts on our fighting forces and to intervene in countries and conflicts far and wide.

It does not take a pacifist to realize that militarism is unhealthy, whether from the perspective of public policy or national identity. On a policy level, the United States is spending itself into the ground, and this is partially due to the size of our military. In terms of identity, militarism has the potential to dwarf other modes of being: compassion, entrepreneurship, individual creativity, etc. And let's not forget what the Bible says about peacemakers (Mt. 5:9). While Scripture may not advocate pacifism in a totalizing sense, it is clear that the Bible teaches us to strive for peace, to avoid attitudes (and policies) of domination, and to love our neighbor. Such teachings do not cohere with militarism, an ideology that helps nobody except the Yuri Orlovs of the world.

Grizzly Man: Good Intentions Run Amok

This review was published orginally on cinekklesia on June 4, 2006.

Within the social and political realms, it often appears that we are divided in regards to the moral choices we have before us; as such, our divisions seem intractable since nothing polarizes more than a good moral debate, especially if that debate is wrapped in strong religious conviction. However, on at least some issues, what appear to be moral debates are really matters of practical policy concerns. For example, in terms of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, most Americans were not debating whether Saddam Hussein was a bad guy (most agreed that he was), nor were people debating whether democratic reform of some sort would be good for the Middle East (most would support that position in some capacity). Rather, the debate was often a very practical one: (1) Is an invasion the best vehicle to bring about democratic change? (2) How long would the U.S. have to stay in Iraq? (3) Would an invasion seriously destabilize the region, thus producing a political scenario even worse than Saddam's rule? (4) Would this serve to increase anti-Americanism at a very inopportune time? (5) Oh, and about those pesky WMDs....While those who argued for and against the war may have done so with passion and moral zeal, the questions that they raised often were practical.

The same dynamic applies to disagreements over how we care for the natural world. Many years ago, I heard a political commentator make an astute point in regard to such debates: environmentalists often have an uphill rhetorical battle because there is nobody on the other side who is arguing that we should destroy nature. I am going to make the relatively safe hypothesis that given a choice, most people on the planet would prefer clean air and water over smog and toxic waste. The question, then, is not whether we should protect the environment, but to what extent and by what means. How does one balance economic development (as much of a human need as clear skies) with environmental protection? Does one need government regulations, or can the free market correct environmental problems (what economists call "externalities") by itself?

On one level, Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man (2005) attempts to examine this question of practicality in the case of one man: Timothy Treadwell, an environmental activist and documentarian who spent many summers studying bears in Alaska, filming both their behavior and his own. (During his final expedition, Treadwell and his girlfriend were tragically killed by one such bear.) Herzog edits the hours of documentary footage that Treadwell recorded, interviews Treadwell's friends and family, and narrates his own interpretation of the motivations and behaviors that led to his subject's ultimate demise. Herzog is always respectful and specifically celebrates the magnificent natural footage that Treadwell was able to capture under remote and sometimes harsh conditions. However, his respect is tempered by his criticism of Treadwell; as such Grizzly Man is not just a study of Treadwell's worldview but of Herzog's, as well.

One obvious criticism of Treadwell is his seeming anti-empiricism. For instance, why is this man spending his summers living next to wild bears without any sort of protection? Doesn't he realize how dangerous they are, that they easily could turn him into a meal, should the need arise? Secondly, for all his concern about the dangers that the bears in his part of Alaska face, they actually are doing relatively well. Herzog interviews a biologist, who notes that the population is relatively stable, that humans can hunt a small percentage of them each year without causing real harm, and that unlike other regions of the world, that section of Alaska has a relatively low rate of poaching. Thus, Treadwell's protective zeal seems misplaced.

The second main critique concerns Treadwell's lack of respect for the bears. This may seem odd since so much of his footage consists of monologues regarding how much he loves his furry friends. However, according to a Native Alaskan that Herzog interviews, Treadwell crossed an invisible line between humans and bears; by trying to befriend the bears (or actually "become" a bear), he was violating their turf and thus, disrespecting them. It is one thing to advocate for the protection of bear habitat, but it is quite another to think that one can inhabit their world successfully. As the biologist noted, humans can be lured into thinking that the bear's life is idyllic—just romping around nature, catching salmon all day—but the reality is far more difficult (and brutal) than we like to admit. To revere the beauty of the natural world, while ignoring (or at least downplaying) its brutality, demonstrates a lack of respect (even a lack of basic knowledge) about that world.

The final critique that can be lodged against Treadwell is more metaphysical. Though he played down religiosity, his work eventually took a mystical turn; he came to despise human civilization and sought salvation among the bears. (This salvific sense stems partially from his previous bout with alcoholism: he realized that if he were going to serve as an advocate for the bears, then he would have to clean up his ways — lo and behold, he did.) Herzog criticizes Treadwell's idyllic view of the natural world and his intense desire to break down the barriers between human and animal. For Herzog, the universe is full of chaos and brutality, not harmony, and Treadwell demonstrated an incredible naivete that eventually cost him his life.

So what are we to make of Timothy Treadwell's legacy? We certainly do have a responsibility to take care of God's earth; in Genesis 1, we read of God bestowing moral significance on His creation and thus, we are to treat it with respect and gratitude. The tricky part comes in the details: how do we balance human need with environmental protection? What type of perspective should we hold in regards to the natural world (i.e., how much agency should we grant it)? Treadwell took a relatively extreme position in that he came to view his fellow humans with disdain and the natural world, particularly bears, as pure manifestations of being. This empirically incorrect view led him to conduct himself in ways that were both embarrassing and unintelligent (to put is nicely). Thus, the message from Treadwell's life and tragic death is simple: good intentions, divorced from sound reasoning, can produce very bad outcomes.

Match Point: Luck, Justice, Realism

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on May 29, 2006. To see extensive comments initiated by Paul Marchbanks, cinekklesia's founder and coordinator, check out the original review.

At the beginning of Woody Allen's Match Point (2005), we see a shot of a tennis net with a ball sailing back-and-forth, in slow motion, right over it. We also hear the voice of Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) discussing how so much of life is mere chance: while we can practice and prepare diligently, sometimes minor, seemingly inconsequential circumstances can alter our entire destiny. The introductory scene ends with the ball hitting, just barely, the top of the net, and falling backwards — presumably "bad luck" for one of the unseen players.

While watching Match Point's plot unfold, we might find ourselves confused that the theme of luck/chance plays such a dominant role; after all, the main character seems to make so many bad choices that he has only himself to blame. Chris is a tennis pro who has retired from the touring circuit, taking up residence in London and starting a new job at a local country club. While teaching the wealthy members, he befriends Tom Hewett (Matthew Goode), the son of a businessman, and soon becomes a regular part of the Hewetts' social life, eventually dating and betrothing Tom's sister, Chloe. However, he soon becomes entranced by Nola Rice (Scarlett Johansson), an aspiring American actress, who also happens to be Tom's fiancée. Chris' interest in Nola becomes an obsession, and when Tom breaks his engagement, Chris pursues a series of sexual liaisons with the American — never mind that he already has married Chloe.

Much of the movie shows how Chris tries to have it both ways, maintaining his newly obtained socio-economic status with the Hewetts while hitting the hay with his mistress. Woody Allen does a good job of portraying the stress, if not the immorality, associated with adultery. Chris constantly is juggling his new job responsibilities (working for one of his father-in-law's businesses, of course), his "regular" family life, and his liaisons with Nola. We thus do not sympathize with his supposed "bad luck" but blame him for his bad choices: he has made his bed (literally), so now he needs to lie in it.

Yet, Allen returns to the theme of luck with a vengeance: Nola becomes pregnant with Chris' child, an ironic twist of fate since he and Chloe have been trying unsuccessfully to have one of their own. This unleashes a chain of events that shifts Match Point from the genre of "drama" to that of "thriller." I won't give away the ending, but suffice it to say that Chris' life unravels quickly, and he ultimately makes choices that are even worse than his previous ones. Yet, as Chris' life spirals out of control, as he makes those bad choices, Allen nevertheless demonstrates that "luck" still plays a large part in the outcome — so much so that luck ends up trumping justice.

We should note at this point that Allen doesn't question the existence of the idea of justice. It is clear that he believes that notions of right and wrong exist and that Chris has violated those norms repeatedly. However, can we say that Justice—the abstract, almost metaphysical Justice—exists when so many people who have done so many bad things "get away with it"? In addition, if they get away with it because of favorable circumstances ("dumb luck"), then does Justice carry any significance in the universe? If something as spurious as luck can thwart Justice, then the latter is, at best, impotent and, at worst, non-existent.

Theologically, of course, all of this leads to two classic questions: (1) does the continued existence of injustice serve as evidence of the non-existence of God and (2) how can a good and sovereign God allow bad things to happen? The first question is a bit silly since there seems to be no reason why injustice on earth should necessitate the non-existence of God. However, the second question is hard and currently unanswerable. Some attempt an answer by saying that God has given us free will and allows us to make bad choices — in part because He doesn't want mere machines to serve Him. However, this viewpoint presumes that the modern conception of "free will" is Biblical (I do not think it is), and it ignores the fact that a sovereign God can intervene to alter an injustice — and yet, in many cases, He (seemingly) does not. As such, we have a question that so far remains unanswerable, residing in the dimness and partiality (1 Cor. 13:9-12) that make up our current lot.

Thus, we are left with faith. The only thing we can do is trust that God is, in fact, just, and that we eventually will have some understanding of why injustice was allowed to exist. Any current attempt to answer the second question ultimately proves speculative and unhelpful.

Allen, of course, does not provide faith as a recourse. For him, "Luck" both exists and signifies an intrinsic chaos in the universe: there is no "Purpose" for anything, nor can we hope for "Justice" to prevail. We may feel bad about the immoral actions we have committed, but those guilty feelings eventually subside (time heals all wounds, after all — even those self-inflicted), life moves on, and the victims of injustice (if we even notice them in the first place) eventually fade into memory.

Allen's metaphysical views, of course, do not cohere with a Christian understanding of the universe, but his temporal realism is helpful. On this earth and in this life, bad things do happen, perpetrators go free, and we usually forget the victims of injustice. A full understanding of our faith life requires our acknowledging this reality. What differentiates a Christian's response from Allen's, however, is whether said acknowledgement comes with a meaningful hope for the future.