Junebug: Artful Stereotyping

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 7, 2006.

When I was in college, a friend of mine from Atlanta told me that he thought his city—large and prosperous that it was—represented the best of the South. However, he fully recognized that some of his compatriots would not share his sentiment, perceiving Atlanta as somehow un-Southern. Perhaps it is too big, too urban, too wealthy. Isn't the South supposed to be emblematic of quiet, rural, humble living?

"Rural," of course, is not a particularly positive designation among the intellectual, cultural, and political elite of the United States (or perhaps anywhere). Even reactionaries who openly espouse the supposedly superior virtues of rural states do so from their perches atop large cities. (Reason magazine's Nick Gillespie recently noted Pat Buchanan's status as a reactionary who is ironically plugged into one of the most dynamic, cosmopolitan locales anywhere.) To be "rural" implies intellectual limitation, lack of exposure to contemporary news and views — in short, ignorance. This view of rural life may be unfair and even woefully inaccurate, but it nevertheless persists among elites and serves as easy fodder for entertainment.

Enter Phil Morrison's Junebug (2005), a tale of an urbane art dealer, Madeleine (Embeth Davidtz), who marries George (Alessandro Nivola), a native North Carolinian who presumably ran away from his Southern roots to settle in Chicago. Madeleine and George travel back to North Carolina in order to sign a deal with David Wark (Frank Hoyt Taylor), an intellectually disabled "outsider artist," who happens to live a stone's throw from George's family — thus, Madeleine and George have to spend a few days in the area for the requisite familial visit.

When I read the back of Junebug's DVD case, I was a little bit worried. Whoever wrote the blurb gave the movie a schmaltzy feel: a sophisticated Yankee meets her country in-laws, hilarious hijinks ensue, and she goes home learning about the really important things in life. However, rather than presenting us with schlock worthy of the Hallmark Channel, Morrison gives us a subtle, clever, and carefully constructed portrait of believable characters.

While Madeleine is highly educated and sophisticated, she is also open to meeting her in-laws, to learning from them, and to soaking in as much unspoken, intuitive knowledge as possible about her new husband's small-town background. One also has a sense that she is absolutely genuine about her feelings; even when she exoticizes the "outsider artist," it appears that she truly cares for and respects the man. (Note: Madeleine's exoticism is highly emblematic of a general exoticism of the South by cultured, upper-middle-class Northerners. In my own neck of the woods—the Research Triangle region of North Carolina—tourists can eat "Southern cuisine," shop at "Southern-inspired stores," and experience "Southern hospitality" — and then tell their friends back home about their delightful, commodified romp through the Tarheel State.)

In addition, while Madeleine and her in-laws certainly experience a cultural clash, their interactions remain subtle and nuanced. For the most part, the cultural incongruities do not result in major blowups or faux pas, but in moments of mild discomfort and awkwardness. We know that the characters are different people, but we nevertheless witness them trying to get along and act nice — in much the same way as real people interact with "others" that they are forced to befriend.

Finally, Madeleine does learn some lessons about the value of roots, family, and even the power of faith. However, Morrison does not give us any overt "Aha!" moments, nor does he present these lessons in the heavy-handed, didactic style exhibited by such movies as Crash. Rather, we see glimpses of understanding and glimmers of moral change. The end of Junebug does not resolve all tension, but many of the characters (not just Madeleine) do alter their perspectives, having been affected by their interactions with others. We know that long-lasting change will require work on the part of the characters, a willingness to be open to new ways of thinking and being; however, in Junebug we see the genesis of such change, and the end of the movie leaves us hopeful.

Oddly enough, while the aforementioned Crash tries to break the bonds of stereotypes with a heavy-handed cinematic lesson plan, Junebug facilitates stereotypes with its subtlety, careful attention to detail, and slow pacing. When one watches Junebug, he/she cannot help but think: "I've seen someone like him! I know someone like her!" Because Crash feels staged (and thus, fake), the power of its message (i.e., the eradication of racial stereotypes) easily fades; Junebug's intimate detail and realism, on the other hand, stays with the viewer and (inadvertently) burns stereotypes of urban Northerners, rural Southerners—and rural Southerners who flee to the North—firmly in the brain.

In one respect, this is troubling. Junebug feels so "real," but it strengthens, rather than overturns, stereotypes. Paradoxically, Morrison ends up reproducing those schmaltzy themes from the back of the DVD case by giving us a carefully crafted character study that seemingly eschews simple caricatures. Does this challenge us to rethink our previous views regarding the evils of stereotypes? Or, is Morrison riding the wave of post-PC culture, in which the American consumer no longer cares about stereotypical portrayals of the Other? Or perhaps rural Southerners just make easy targets?

These questions are large and go beyond the scope of this review. However, one thing is for certain: Morrison has crafted a fine, if inadvertently troubling, movie that deserves your attention.

The Battle of Algiers: The Folly of Occupation

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 2, 2006.

In terms of debates about U.S. foreign policy, perhaps no other rhetorical device is used as much as the analogy. The United States has been involved in so many different types of wars in so many disparate countries that our pundits find it easy to pluck an example from the annals of history in order to score debating points. These days, the historical example with the most currency is, of course, Vietnam, and those who are opposed to the U.S. occupation of Iraq (or at least fearful of its long-term consequences) are keen to remember our quagmire in Southeast Asia during the 1960's and 70's. The other side may note that such one-to-one analogies are faulty: Vietnam and Iraq have very different historical, cultural, and political contexts. Besides, the American military of 2006 is significantly better than its predecessor from 40 years ago.

Yet, perhaps the underlying issue has nothing to do with analogies per se but with the specific analogy that one is using. Recently, Gillo Pontecorvo's The Battle of Algiers (1966) has been receiving some attention, due to its unintended echoing of the current situation in Iraq. (For example, former National Security Advisor—under Carter—Zbigniew Brzezinski mentioned it during a debate with the Council on Foreign Relations' Walter Russell Mead.) With a gritty, black-and-white realism, Pontecorvo relays 1950's and 60's urban warfare between members of the French military, occupying Algeria, and the National Liberation Front (FLN). (For a brief overview, check out Wikipedia's entry on Algerian history, particularly the sections on Nationalism and Resistance and the War of Independence.)

The parallels are eerie: a Western military occupying a predominantly Muslim country, insurgents utilizing terrorist tactics, clear physical and geographic divisions between locals and occupiers, etc. One difference, perhaps, is the attitude of the French commander in the film: he essentially admits to using torture and says that he is merely doing what it takes to fulfill the policy mandate from Paris — i.e., if France wants to hold onto Algeria as colonial territory, then his soldiers must use brutal tactics to achieve that end. (It's too bad that such rhetoric is politically unfeasible today, since it at least would add some honesty to the debate.) Pontecorvo clearly sides with the Algerians in his film, and he has two simple messages for his Western viewers: (1) colonialism is morally wrong, and (2) while colonial occupiers may have strong militaries, they will have to be ready to spill a lot of blood and spend a lot of cash in order to maintain their control.

At this point, supporters of the U.S. war effort in Iraq (a number that seems to dwindle by the day) may argue that even with the Arab-Islamic connection, one cannot make a one-to-one analogy between Algeria and Iraq. For one thing, the U.S. is not (explicitly, at least) attempting to foist colonial rule, and the current situation in Iraq is not so much a war of independence as it is a sectarian struggle between Sunnis and Shiites (as though that were better).

Fair enough: let's dispense with the analogous rhetoric, which is certainly too simplistic, and recognize the real value of historical case studies like Vietnam and Algeria — they provide insights into trends. If one-to-one relationships prove problematic, then what do the adventures of Western powers in far-off lands show us in general? Unfortunately, it seems that such cases demonstrate how long-term occupations are a recipe for disaster.

The first reason should be obvious: occupied peoples usually don't want to be occupied. Given a choice, most groups do not want to be assimilated into larger and/or more powerful political bodies, do not want foreign troops patrolling their streets, and do not want to pay taxes/tribute to external leaders. I am sure that readers can find exceptions to my claim (e.g., Puerto Rico), but I sense that my general observation stands on solid ground. Even groups that have been occupied for decades or centuries try to strike out on their own again (e.g., the Chechens in Russia, the Basques in Spain), if an opportunity presents itself. Even if the occupying power claims to be doing the locals a favor by, say, investing in local infrastructure or installing democracy, the probability is high that resentment against said power will grow. (On a related note, foreign policy analyst Ted Galen Carpenter recently lambasted those who believe that Iranians would welcome a U.S. military strike, if that strike would help oust the unpopular theocratic rulers. Carpenter notes what should be an obvious point: most people, regardless of their political views, would not appreciate a third party bombing their neighborhoods, despite that party's intentions.)

The second reason why occupation makes for bad policy is cost. The occupier expends a huge amount of resources (human and financial) trying to control a population that doesn't want to be controlled. By definition, locals in occupied lands aren't going anywhere and are fighting on "home turf," while occupying forces (along with their administrators, contractors, and equipment) have to be shipped in from far away. Almost every empire in history has had to contend with the expense of its enterprise and with the transfer of huge amounts of wealth from productive purposes (free markets) to unproductive ends (command-and-control systems that are the hallmark of occupation).

Unfortunately, in what appears to be an endless cycle, historical lessons about the folly of occupation fall on deaf ears. New generations of political leaders often don't appreciate the live-and-let-live approach to foreign policy—which promotes an effective, though non-interventionist, national defense—and opt instead to promote democracy at the barrel of a gun or to maintain control, at all costs, over an ethnic minority itching for autonomy. Such egregious ignorance of (or reckless disregard for) the most basic historical lessons regarding military occupation is not just short-sighted — it is morally reprehensible.

Steamboy: The Exhilaration of the Real

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on July 17, 2006.

I am the first to admit that I am an utter neophyte in the realm of anime, and I have had little desire to immerse myself in the genre (and its subculture). As with science fiction and fantasy, anime largely doesn't "do it" for me. Granted, my exposure has been limited to a couple of television episodes, as well as viewings of Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle; nevertheless, while my initial reactions certainly were not negative, I wasn't particularly enthusiastic (nor could I understand why so many people were getting hooked).

Then came Katsuhiro Ôtomo's Steamboy (2004), which recently found its way to the top of my Netflix queue. (My wife has expressed a relatively strong interest in anime, so I recently started populating the queue with such fare.) When it arrived, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to partake — would I be disappointed, as I was with Howl's Moving Castle? However, I read the blurb, thought that the movie at least had an interesting premise, and decided to give it a go (after all, I already had paid for the Netflix subscription).

What Steamboy delivered was nothing less than stunning. The plot centers on Ray Steam, a precocious kid in 19th-Century England, who spends his free time tinkering in a workshop and inventing all sorts of gadgets and gizmos. Near the beginning of the story, he receives a package from his grandfather, an engineer stationed in Alaska; the package contains a spherical object about the size of a bowling ball, as well as a note instructing Ray to keep said object away from the O'Hara Foundation, the entity sponsoring his grandfather's recent research. We later learn that the sphere is a vital component of a much larger device designed to provide massive amounts of energy (making Steamboy highly relevant to our own day). Of course, the arrival of the sphere makes Ray's life complicated: he gets chased by agents of the foundation (who obviously want their device back); he learns that the foundation's aim of finding a convenient and powerful source of energy is clouded by the other, less-savory parts of its mission (arms dealing); and he also participates in lots of cool action sequences, which, admittedly, make up the movie's strongest qualities.

Steamboy's message is relatively simple: science should be used for the good of humanity. However, its presentation of this message isn't terribly coherent, and we are left wondering how, exactly, science should accomplish its lofty mission. Ray's grandfather is the most strident proponent of the humanitarian perspective, and he takes a hard-line, purist approach: even though the convenient and efficient provision of energy is good, it should not be associated in any way with profit or militarism. (Thus, since the O'Hara Foundation manufactures and distributes arms, Ray's grandfather wants to keep the sphere out of the hands of his former sponsors.) Linking profit with militarism, however, is both unfair and simplistic (after all, one doesn't need to sell arms in order to make money), and Ray's grandfather doesn't seem to appreciate the profit motive that fuels many scientific innovations.

Other characters in the movie differ with the profit-hating engineer, but their positions are not presented in a coherent fashion. For example, Ray's father is a proponent of the foundation's goals, but he really doesn't explain his position well; relative to Ray's grandfather, his father comes across as an unthinking brute, mindlessly obsessed with the potential of Science to create and unleash pure Power. I suppose that the grandfather's views (or "emotional perspective") merely reflect Ôtomo's, so it would make sense for the director to present an alternate perspective in a negative light.

In any case, all of this talk about science is peripheral because Steamboy's strengths do not lie in its themes but rather, in its aesthetics. Relative to Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle, I found Steamboy's animation sharper, clearer, sleeker. Perhaps that had to do with the latter's focus on science and engineering: Steamboy's visuals are full of interlocking gears, metallic textures and colors, and, of course, lots and lots of steam (this is 19th-Century England, after all). Steamboy doesn't dwell in rural environments or pre-modern settings; it is a wholly modern, industrial film. Even as Ôtomo criticizes the misuse of science, he does not question the material (and aesthetic) value of technology.

(Some viewers may note that because Steamboy employs so much metal and machinery in its animation, it has a stereotypically masculine feel. One even may note that its main female character, heir to the O'Hara Foundation, is presented very poorly: while the men are busy Taking Action and Solving Problems, she serves as comic relief, running around and complaining about silly minutiae. Is Steamboy gendered? Absolutely. However, is it downright sexist? At first, I would have been willing to buy that argument, but the image montage at the end, accompanying the closing credits and providing a glimpse into the characters' futures, suggests that the spoiled girl matures into a take-action woman with her own sense of agency.)

Finally, besides the crisp animation and fun action sequences, Steamboy's high quality stems from its realism. This idea may surprise some, since anime often evokes images of the fantastic (or at least of the far, far future) among the general public. Yet, if one looks closely at Steamboy's aesthetic, we see Ôtomo pushing the edges of possibility, but not making that final jump (fall?) into fantasy. Sure, the movie is unrealistic in the sense that the 19th Century did not witness the mammoth, sophisticated devices on display in Ray Steam's England; however, the movie's machines still look and operate like machines, with their gears, pipes, bolts, etc. Ôtomo's brilliant creative vision lies not in forsaking material reality, but in pushing its boundaries to new limits. (It should go without saying that my appreciation of Steamboy's aesthetics represents a subjective preference. I am not suggesting that this site resuscitate its debate on the fantasy genre.)

In short, I finally have found an anime film that I not only can tolerate but absolutely enjoy. Rent it today!