X-Men: The Last Stand - The Virtue of Separatism

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 20, 2006.

I think that I may have found the secret to enjoying comic-book movies. After having my expectations raised (and then significantly lowered) with Batman Begins, I later began watching Brett Ratner's X-Men: The Last Stand (2006)— a.k.a., X3—with very low presuppositions. It was going to be a bad film, I thought, even by the standards of Hollywood's comic-book adaptations, so I was just going to accept my fate, ride the wave, and see where I landed at the end.

What I actually encountered was a surprisingly fun entertainment experience. The third installment in the cinematic franchise, X3 is by no means a highbrow work of art, nor does it challenge any cinematic conventions. It is largely a revisiting of the characters who continue to learn about their mutations (and how to live with them), struggle for social respect and political rights, and fight amongst themselves over how best to interact with the "normal," non-mutant population. Yet, if one goes into the movie with very low expectations, then one leaves feeling rather uplifted: I had to admit that the movie was pretty good — for what it was.

Of course, the X-Men franchise's primary theme is difference, and in-between the fights and general mayhem that one would expect from a comic-book movie, Ratner and his screenwriting colleagues (Simon Kinberg and Zak Penn) actually construct some nifty thematic scenarios. In X3, the big controversy surrounds the development of a surprisingly fast-acting "cure" for mutation, and the mutants in question must decide whether to take the drug and become "normal" or eschew it altogether in the name of Mutant Pride. Of course, since the antidote comes with government backing, one must decide whether it truly is a goodwill gesture by well-meaning scientists or simply a plot to eradicate mutation—and thus, difference—from the human population.

Underlying these specific controversies is the intramutant fighting between assimilationist Professor Charles Xavier, played by Patrick Stewart, and the radical separatist Eric Lensherr—a.k.a., Magneto—played by Ian McKellen. What is most interesting about these men—besides the former's ability to tap into others' minds and the latter's penchant for throwing around metal objects with the flick of a wrist—is how closely their attitudes and positions align with standard moderate/radical divides throughout history. Xavier believes that the respect and rights that mutants want from the mainstream public will come if they can demonstrate that they are no threat, that their powers can be controlled and even put to good use. Magneto, on the other hand, sees no hope for any rapprochement between mutants and non-mutants, advocating instead a radical, uncompromising, and militant separatism that is inspired by the greatness of unleashed mutant power.

So, which is the better path? The X-Men franchise seems to suggest that Xavier has it right. His patient, pedagogical approach (he runs a boarding school for mutant youth) seems nicer, more genteel, more sophisticated. Who wants to deal with Magneto's angry struggle for power when one can sit at the feet of the wise professor and learn some nice lessons about ethics and playing nicely?

Yet, the franchise's implicit support of Xavier's path does not necessarily make it right. Perhaps the professor is merely a dupe, too trusting of the fickle non-mutants who easily could stab him in the back. Moreover, even if peaceful assimilation is possible, should that have any bearing on how one interacts with humans? Perhaps there is something truly special about mutants; perhaps their very difference is an indication of a greatness that should be not hampered by lowly, uninteresting "normals." For the most part, after all, the characters' mutations are not a disability, but rather, a high-level supplement to the standard repertoire of human abilities.

Despite its implicit approval of Xavier's philosophy and methods, the X-Men franchise simply provides no substantive backing for that position. More meaningful judgment must come from outside the assimilation/separation dichotomy, since neither position is intrinsically valuable — i.e., are there arguments outside of the dichotomy that can shed light on which course of action is morally appropriate? Is Magneto correct in supposing that Mutant Pride is its own end, to be guarded at all costs? Or, does Xavier have it right in arguing that mutant identity does not trump all other ends, that peaceful co-existence with non-mutants has intrinsic value (or at least facilitates the pursuit of other valuable goals — goals beyond Mutant Pride).

This is one of the most fundamental questions that any individual or group can face at any time in history. Of course, we first must ask whether we are even aware of the question: do we consciously contemplate assimilation/separation, or is our position unconsciously decided for us, based on our particular sociological identifiers (race, class, etc.)? Secondly, if we are aware of the question, then do we make any intentional choices about whether to assimilate or separate? Do we do a little bit of both? How do we choose? Is it a question of morality or simple convenience?

Many visitors to this site are Christian and perhaps have thought extensively about this topic. The Bible is full of dichotomous language regarding God's ways versus those of the world, and separatism has been a course of action pursued by various believers throughout the centuries. Yet, separatism is a hard road to follow, and many American Christians seem to assimilate in one of two ways: either we more-or-less cohere with the general culture, leaving no distinguishable mark of difference, or we "separate" from the world but establish subcultures so large and comprehensive that they become new mainstreams, new status quos. In the context of the 21st-Century United States, separatism may require eschewing multiple mainstream cultures (as paradoxical as that sounds), including religious ones, in order to find the essential faith.

No, I am not suggesting that Magneto's violent path is the appropriate one. However, we perhaps can learn from his steadfast skepticism of the larger world and what it claims to offer.

Our Brand Is Crisis: Political Entertainment, Political Disaster

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 13, 2006.

As I write this, the United States has less than four weeks until its mid-term elections. Voters around the country shall decide whether Republicans maintain control of the U.S. Congress or lose said control to the Democrats. I must admit that I am interested in the outcome of this election, not because I expect that it will produce any significant material difference, but because it makes for good theater. For all the rhetoric about Big Issues, elections are nothing more than an entertaining gloss over individuals' and groups' struggles for power. If U.S. citizens (or citizens of any country, for that matter) insist on trying to grab more money and perks at the expense of their fellow taxpayers, then the process at least should be amusing. (We need more scandal, not less.)

Of course, as the United States and other industrialized countries continue in their quest to build cultures that are completely saturated with entertainment, politicians have to keep abreast of what will maintain the interest of the masses. Enter the political consultant, perhaps the most important figure on any candidate's payroll, the marketing wiz who measures success not by a monetary bottom line but by poll numbers and ballots cast. Propagandists are, of course, nothing new; however, the formal job title of "political consultant" may be a recent phenomenon. James Carville, of course, popularized the notion of political consulting when he worked on Bill Clinton's first campaign, while Karl Rove fulfills that role for George W. Bush.

While we may have grown accustomed to hearing about American candidates' advisors/groomers, we are probably less aware of the exportation of such services. Perhaps nothing exemplifies the dominance of the service and information sectors of the U.S. economy more than the fact that we can export something as ephemeral and superficial as political consulting. This odd fact is the subject of Rachel Boynton's Our Brand Is Crisis (2005), a documentary about the 2002 election of Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada (a.k.a., "Goni") to the presidency of Bolivia, how the American consulting firm of Greenberg Carville Shrum (GCS) aided in that outcome, and why things turned so horribly wrong afterwards.

Boynton's point in the film is clear: while the consultants may have been convinced that they were "doing good," that they were aiding the right candidate, they ultimately failed to understand conditions on the ground. GCS (particularly Jeremy Rosner, the consultant with the most exposure in the film) was convinced that Goni was part of the cadre of center-left, "Third Way" political elites that emerged around the world in the 1990's: those who believed that the market was ultimately the driving force behind social and political advancement but who were not slavishly devoted to laissez faire economics. If GCS could convince the Bolivian electorate that Goni was the right man for the job, if they could convince voters that he wasn't as arrogant as he seemed—a hard task since the documentary made it clear that he was an arrogant figure (e.g., he publicly equated political protestors with tantrum-throwing children)—then they would have done the world some good (and made some money along the way).

While all of the work that GCS put into crafting the "right" image for their client would serve them well on Election Day (a razor-thin plurality of Bolivian voters cast their ballots for Goni), their ultimate success would be short-lived. When not forced to travel around the country as a candidate, playing "meet and greet" with the impoverished Bolivian peasants that he looked down on, Goni proved himself a cold, aloof man with little political acumen. On his watch, Bolivia descended into a political disaster that was precipitated by controversies over the role of multinational corporations in the country's natural gas sector (regarded by many Bolivians as a "national" resource). Goni's approval plummeted through the floor, violent protests erupted throughout the country, and he was forced into exile in 2003 (he now lives outside Washington, DC).

While Our Brand Is Crisis takes places almost completely in Bolivia, it ultimately serves as an examination of the drawbacks and shortsightedness of American political culture. By all accounts, the consultants of GCS were intelligent, well-educated professionals who tried to understand as well as they could (given the fact that they were not experts in Latin America) the dynamics of Bolivian politics. Unfortunately, they simply lacked the historical and cultural awareness that might have helped them to see the storm clouds gathering just over the horizon, the deep-seated social dynamics that might have indicated that their client really didn't know what he was getting himself into.

While elections are nothing more than entertainment, the material consequences of political conflict are anything but entertaining. Implicitly, perhaps unconsciously, the consultants of GCS thought that by exporting American-style political marketing to a developing country and creating the right image for their client, they somehow could transform the material reality of Bolivia itself — as though a well-crafted marketing campaign was all that the country needed. Granted, the elections-as-entertainment model may work well for industrialized countries, which are rich enough to overcome (or at least ignore) the fluff and foibles of their elected leaders. However, in poor, socially polarized countries, the election façade can work for only so long before material hardship kicks in, a hardship that may foment real political strife.

At the end of the film, Jeremy Rosner acknowledges that as an outsider, he missed some major cues about the deeply entrenched political views of the Bolivian electorate. However, he also should have noted that perhaps U.S.-style political marketing is not a moral course of action in poor, socially divided countries — that consultants like him should eschew such "opportunities." Unfortunately, he doesn't say that — which leads me to believe that he didn't learn the most important lesson from his client's disaster.

Brothers: Moral Improvement, Moral Deterioration

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

Perhaps the two questions that interest us most are: "How did we end up the way we are?" and "How do we change and become different?" Academics, writers, ministers, and talk-show hosts all obsess about these questions because within them lie the seeds of moral understanding and reform. Moviemakers, too, take stabs at answering these questions. Tom Tykwer's Run Lola Run (1998), for example, argues that human outcomes are simply random: something as simple as bumping into a person on the street can have far-reaching, life-long effects. We are merely billiard balls, bouncing around the table. David Cronenberg's A History of Violence (2005) takes a different approach, implying that moral character is not random, but deeply ingrained; we cannot escape our past easily, and genuine change is a hard, long, painful process that never really ends.

Susanne Bier's Brothers—or Brødre—(2004) adds an interesting voice to this discussion because it does not address explicitly the underlying reasons behind moral development and change. Rather, the movie demonstrates the process by which two siblings start out at opposite ends of the spectrum and slowly trade places.

Michael (Ulrich Thomsen) is a major in the Danish army and by all accounts, a stand-up guy with a comfortable, middle-class life. He appears to be happily married to Sarah (Connie Nielsen), and he also appears to adore his two young daughters. At the start of the movie, we learn that he is going to be deployed to Afghanistan in order to work with NATO peacekeeping forces. Thus, in a conventional sense, he is doing "good work" — and serving in a significantly less controversial battlefield (i.e., he's not in Iraq).

On the other side of the ledger is Jannik (Nikolaj Lie Kaas), Michael's younger brother and by all accounts a ne'er-do-well. At the beginning of the film, we see him leaving prison after having served a sentence for assault. He drinks a lot, doesn't have a steady job, and seems to carry a big chip on his shoulder.

After Michael leaves for Afghanistan, we slowly see a shift in the brothers' demeanor and moral character. Jannik steps up to the plate and starts to help his sister-in-law with household duties, begins to serve as a surrogate father of sorts for his nieces, and eventually finds work as a handyman. Michael, on the other hand, is scarred, perhaps irrevocably, from his experience abroad. I won't give away the various plot twists that make for the meat of this film, but suffice it to say that Michael no longer can claim a moral high ground at the end. In more ways than one, he begins to resemble the Jannik of days past.

So what does Brothers have to say about moral development and change? On the one hand, Bier doesn't take the radical approach of Run Lola Run. The characters' lives are not altered solely by random, external factors; they react to their circumstances, make choices, and affect some sort of outcome with some degree of agency. On the other hand, the changes that Michael and Jannik undergo are precipitated by a large, external event over which they have no control: the former's deployment overseas. Without this major change in their lives (or at least a major change), it would have been hard to imagine how either of them would modify their behavior and motivations. Bier's movie implies that we are not as ingrained in our ways as Cronenberg's A History of Violence would suggest; events outside ourselves easily can make heroes or monsters of us all.

At its most basic level, then, Brothers simply teaches us about hope and humility. It implies that hard cases like Jannik can improve substantially while seemingly "good" people like Michael can deteriorate, given the "right" circumstances. Brothers cautions us to be conscious of our fickle psyches that are prone to quick, adverse shifts. In many respects, Michael's wife, Sarah, proves to be the most level-headed character: observing, studying, and sympathizing with the two men (as well as her daughters). Her level of calm and awareness (both self- and other-directed) are remarkable, given the tumult in her life; in many ways, she serves as the film's emotional anchor.

Thus, I highly recommend Brothers, a moving, tragic, and believable portrait of how our moral lives are easily affected by external circumstances, particularly major ones.

Postscript

I cannot help but speculate about whether Brothers foresaw—unintentionally, perhaps—European unease about the peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan. Taliban fighters currently appear resurgent in the southern part of the country, and NATO recently had difficulty recruiting fresh troops from member countries. Perhaps the movie's analysis of the effects of war on both soldiers and their families reflects an underlying anxiety (and perhaps anti-war resistance) across the Atlantic.

The Matador: The Dullness of Emotional Men

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 21, 2006.

Every so often, I get suckered into watching a movie of questionable quality, and I end up wondering why I thought the film was worth pursuing in the first place. For example, the results of my Netflix algorithm recently led the site to recommend 11:14, a thriller with some degree of potential that was unfortunately lost in the film's execution. In the case of Richard Shepard's The Matador (2005), I suppose that I got sucked in by the premise of a buddy movie involving assassination, or perhaps the ads—with the requisite positive quotations from critics—pushed me over the edge. In any case, the movie proved disappointing, and unlike 11:14, it didn't even have potential.

The "buddies" of this buddy film are Julian Noble (Pierce Brosnan) and Danny Wright (Greg Kinnear). The former is a well-paid, globe-trotting assassin with no permanent address, no real friends, and a simmering suspicion that his oversexed, cloak-and-dagger lifestyle isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Danny is a mild-mannered businessman, who is trying to bounce back professionally and emotionally: in recent years, he has suffered both a layoff and, more tragically, the loss of his only child. Julian and Danny both find themselves in Mexico City—each pursuing his respective "business"—and they run into each other in a bar.

What follows is essentially a series of conversations between the men regarding work, love, and life. In one sense, Danny plays the voyeur, peeking into the dark world of the assassin's craft; we sometimes wonder whether Danny will leap into the fray and join Julian's profession (especially if his company's negotiations with a Mexican firm fall through). Yet, the movie really isn't about assassination so much as Julian's lack of roots and his deep desire for friendship — a friendship that Danny may be able to provide.

Unfortunately, The Matador suffers from its inconsistency in tone, substance, and character. On one level, it is supposed to be a "comedy," but its dialogue seems trapped in an unsophisticated vulgarity, a forced crudeness that seems targeted towards the stereotypical frat boy. The Matador's script lacks the satirical edge found in movies like Clerks, a bawdy film that nevertheless exhibits a cultural knowledge—and even appreciation—of its subject matter. The Matador's humor is neither knowledgeable nor appreciative; it's just rude.

In addition, the movie doesn't provide a clear picture of who Julian is supposed to be. Is he an international man of mystery (a role with which Pierce Brosnan has significant recent experience)? Or, is he a pathetic, washed-up loser in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Are we supposed to be impressed with Julian, find him amusing, or take pity on him? One could say "all of the above," but Brosnan doesn't pull off this multifaceted feat. Rather, we see him jumping from persona to persona without any believable transition; the movie feels more like a hastily produced compilation of character studies, rather than a coherent portrait.

Even Pierce Brosnan's physicality is somewhat confusing. On the one hand, he is conventionally attractive, so one would think that the movie would use that to boost his man-of-mystery status. On the other hand, Brosnan's shirtless scenes reveal someone who, while certainly not overweight, nevertheless shows signs of a middle-age man (he's 53) who hasn't lifted weights in a while. It's not clear whether this is part of the movie's intent of showing an assassin past his prime or whether Pierce Brosnan is unintentionally demonstrating that he's past his prime. The aesthetic confusion is compounded by Brosnan's tacky mustache, which makes him look like he should be peddling lemons in a used-car lot, rather than conducting high-priced assassinations. (All of this talk about appearance might seem shallow, but if the movie is going to cast an actor known as much for his physical attributes as for his experience in front of the camera, then it should do a better job of making him look somewhat coherent.)

Finally, the long dialogues—including a seemingly (and inexplicably) interminable scene with Julian, Danny, and the latter's wife, "Bean," in the middle of the film—strive to produce sympathy for the assassin, who is, after all, an emotional being. You see, The Matador is really about a man who hides his emotional self underneath layers of violence, coarseness, and chauvinism. The latter are merely tools by which he protects himself from asking hard questions and delving into the depths of his soul. The Matador is about emotional liberation. Men, too, can cry.

Unfortunately, emotional men have become boring. We know how we historically have fostered a culture in which men are not given adequate space to express their feelings and thus, are inhibited in their emotional development. Slowly, the Western world is facilitating men with a wider range of emotions: fathers who are more involved with their children, men who are willing to hug as a sign of friendship, etc. Yet, this cultural shift is not particularly new or interesting, and its manifestation in such venues as The Matador is odd, given the film's vulgar joshing. Like the stereotypical frat boy who ten years post-graduation has an awakening while thumbing through his latest issue of Maxim ("hmm...maybe drunken misogyny isn't such a good lifestyle choice!"), Julian's emotional shifts just seem a little too out-of-place and contrived.

While The Matador is not a horrible movie (I even laughed at a few of the jokes), it's mediocre at best. A significant percentage of the tone is unintelligently vulgar, Pierce Brosnan gives an inconsistent performance, and the theme of men "discovering" their emotional selves is simply trite. If you want to watch sappy, contrived emotions, then save your money and check out some prime-time TV.

Memoirs of a Geisha: Indefensible Practice?

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 14, 2006.

I first encountered the concept of the geisha from my parents. My father described geisha as highly trained Japanese women skilled in the arts of hospitality and entertainment. My mother called them prostitutes. Such is the debate that has revolved around a practice that has mystified outsiders for centuries. While there does exist a sexual element to the geisha life, it is discrete, complicated, and vague. No mere "street walkers," the geisha flirt and entertain wealthy men—married and unmarried—and get paid for doing so. Sex may enter the equation, but it usually does not. So, is this prostitution? Oppression? Both? Neither?

Director Rob Marshall's 2005 interpretation of Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha is an attempt to shed some light on the institution. It follows the story of a young girl who is sold by her family to a geisha house; learns the aesthetic, musical, and conversational skills required of the profession; and then competes for the patronage of wealthy businessmen. While she is learning her trade, she falls in love with a one such man, but alas, geisha are not allowed such emotional luxury.

While viewing this film with some cinekklesia writers and friends, I couldn't help but critique it with my Western, classical liberalism. First of all, the main character obviously had no choice in the matter, as her father shipped her off to the geisha house. She then lived a life of indentured servitude under a cruel and mercenary mistress. Finally, her entire life became centered on men, whether in serving them as part of her professional duties or in yearning for the love that was just beyond reach — no autonomous agency here!

During a bit of post-screening conversation, the question of bias arose, and one viewer suggested that we be mindful of our Western-inspired critiques of geisha. For one thing, geisha do not define themselves as prostitutes, having carved out a different space within Japanese culture. Yet, this observation places far too much weight on self-definition; just because one doesn't define herself as a prostitute, does not make it so. To regard self-definition as the basis for all definition only works among those who advocate the most extreme forms of subjectivism. (In fairness, I actually agree with the notion that geisha are not prostitutes but rather, highly institutionalized mistresses.)

The same viewer also noted that we should not neglect the value of duty (in the case of the geisha: duty to her house and to the traditions of her profession). However, duty carries no intrinsic moral weight; its morality is defined by context. The geisha system (at least an older variant, as portrayed in the film) seems to foster both an involuntary servitude as well as a highly formalized objectification of women. While individual women fulfilling their "duty" under such a system should not be blamed, the system itself certainly can (and should) be criticized, if not outright condemned. To praise a person for being dutiful under trying circumstances—while preventing her exit from those circumstances—is disingenuous, to say the least.

Yet, am I not merely exhibiting a deep-rooted Western bias in favor of individualism and autonomy? Regardless of whether geisha are "prostitutes" and regardless of whether they have any sort of agency, do I have any moral right to condemn the entire system? Am I simply an insensitive cultural boor for even broaching the subject?

At this point, we need to make a distinction between cultural recognition and moral approval. A boor would not take the time to study cultural practices of "The Other" and would make hasty, blanket statements condemning practices that, at first glance, seemed objectionable. Like a child refusing to try a new food simply because it's different, the boor refuses to engage in anybody or anything outside the proverbial "comfort zone." Thus, a cultural boor from the West most likely would condemn the geisha system immediately without bothering to engage its historical and cultural context.

Yet, cultural recognition does not lead automatically to moral approval. A non-boor can study a particular cultural practice and still come to the conclusion that it is wrong. This, of course, requires belief in universal norms that supercede individual cultures. While it is certainly possible to reject such norms by taking an extreme subjectivist (culturally relativist) approach, most people—religious and non-religious—believe in some extra-cultural morality. We certainly argue about what that morality is, how it should be enforced, and the source(s) from which it springs; however, what seems beyond dispute is the fact that empirically, most people are not extreme cultural relativists.

Thus, in order to defend the geisha system on moral grounds, one cannot resort to the cultural argument unless he/she is an extreme relativist. Once a person accepts some form of extra-cultural moral standard, then "culture" itself is no longer a moral defense but simply an empirical reality. The apologist has to present a more robust argument as to why the system is moral (or, at least, morally neutral). This may reveal fundamental differences between the apologist's views on morality and those of his/her interlocutors. However, such an airing of differences is healthy — and only possible once all parties are aware of their use of "culture."

The film itself does not address these issues, as it is more concerned with presenting both fictional autobiography and an overview of the geisha system. However, for Western audiences, the culture vs. morality debate is practically inescapable since the geisha system is an almost completely foreign concept. However, any self-righteous Westerner reading this should note that the tables easily can be turned, as others can criticize our own cultural pathologies.