Thank You for Smoking: The Moral Relativity of Us All

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on November 9, 2006.

I used to hear more talk about the dangers of moral relativity. It seemed for a while that this was the great demon in our "post-modern" culture, the ideology or zeitgeist that would tear apart the Western world in a frenzy of debauchery and stupidity. Moral relativity was, of course, nonsensical (the argument went) because it tended to buttress the very edifice it sought to destroy: by claiming that we should be morally relative, proponents ended up making a morally absolute claim. Those silly, stupid moral relativists — when will they ever learn?

The problem with such an argument lies not in its logic (it is true that taken to an extreme, moral relativity contradicts itself), but in its lack of sociological awareness. Most people are not morally relative on a conscious level—there are few who make it their life's mission to proselytize against moral judgment of any and all kinds—but in practice almost everybody is a moral relativist to some degree or other. We not only tolerate those with whom we morally disagree, but we also evince an apathy towards others' actions — and we do so selectively (perhaps even arbitrarily).

Moral relativity (or "flexibility") is the main theme that Jason Reitman's Thank You for Smoking (2005) tackles. Aaron Eckhart plays Nick Naylor, a lobbyist for Big Tobacco: his job is to testify before Congress, plead his industry's case before the general public, and create as positive an image as possible for cigarettes, cigars, and other like products. He openly admits that he is one of the most despised men in the world, but he does his job extremely well. He needs no MD or JD because he is a born B.S.-er who eventually can convince almost anyone of anything.

The most interesting interactions in the movie involve Nick and his son, Joey (Cameron Bright). Joey constantly follows his dad around and wants to learn everything about him. Nick is happy to oblige because he sees an opportunity to teach his kid about how the world really works. For example, people do not become successful because their work is intrinsically more valuable, nor is it possible to judge whether one is truly "correct" on any given matter. Rather, people's successes depend on whether they can convince someone (say, a prospective customer) that they are worthy, and such convincing often requires a heaping helping of B.S. In addition, one is only "correct," if he/she can argue better than the other side. (In Nick Naylor's world, being right is a matter of method, not substance.)

We may think that such a callous attitude towards the Truth and the Good is nothing new; perhaps Thank You for Smoking simply reflects what we know as our world, awash as it is in meaningless platitudes, braggadocio, and outright lies. However, the movie digs deeper because it then challenges us to think about how we feel regarding those who peddle B.S. for a living. In many ways, Nick Naylor is a delightful character. He's funny, smart, and—when he analyzes his own life—quite honest and matter-of-fact. He fully admits that he's a B.S. artist, and with few exceptions, he is not ashamed to teach his son the tricks of the trade.

So is Nick Naylor really that bad of a guy? I suggest that the reason why Thank You for Smoking resonates with so many people is because the tobacco lobbyist is no longer the demonic figure of days past. Almost anybody with a pulse in these United States knows, to one degree or other, that smoking is unhealthy. Philip Morris, RJ Reynolds, and the like have been through the legal wringer countless times. States and localities are imposing increasingly totalitarian measures against a stigmatized minority (smokers) in order to "protect" the majority. We can laugh at (with) Nick Naylor because he and his colleagues have been through enough. So what if they sling around B.S. on Capitol Hill (a locale in which B.S. is no rare commodity)? So what if they split rhetorical hairs in order to convince us that their products aren't so bad? Hasn't Nick been through enough? Doesn't he deserve to fight back, make a living, pursue the American Dream?

The fact that the tobacco lobbyist is no longer worthy of condemnation demonstrates how fickle we are in our moral outrage. Our demonization of particular classes of people is temporary (or, at most, cyclical). We become tired of treating someone like a punching bag, so we go after other (politically expedient) targets (e.g., fast-food outlets, programmers of violent video games, etc.). We are all moral relativists insofar as we are fickle: for most of us, moral outrage becomes moral apathy as we realize that we don't have the energy to care anymore. Moral outrage takes a lot of work, after all, and besides: will the West really collapse if someone eats a Big Mac and plays a couple of hours of Halo?

Thus, critics of moral relativism are correct on philosophical/theological grounds, but their outrage carries less and less sociological weight. We don't want to demonize Nick Naylor anymore; we want to tell a few jokes at his expense and then let him go his way. If anything, stigmatized groups can take comfort in knowing that their position outside the realm of polite company is most likely temporary.

The Prestige: A Magical Disappointment

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

One of the advantages of being married is that your spouse can alert you to how wrong you are on any given issue. Take Christopher Nolan's The Prestige (2006). Last weekend, my wife and I (along with a few others) saw this latest Hollywood blockbuster starring a litany of cinematic heavyweights (Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Scarlett Johanson, and Michael Caine). During the screening, I became entranced while trying to understand the twists and turns of the plot and the motivations of the characters. I left the theater feeling mildly confused about one or two plot points, but nevertheless happy and excited. On the way home, however, my wife informed me of why she didn't particularly care for the movie, and I ultimately had to conclude that her observations were more valid — so much so that I'm now a bit upset at how The Prestige snookered me, leading me on a cinematic journey of high style and low substance.

I suppose that it is appropriate that I feel a little duped by this movie, since its plot does revolve around magicians. Michael Caine plays Cutter, an older magician who serves as a mentor to Rupert Angier (Jackman) and Alfred Bordon (Bale). Initially, Rupert is portrayed as a more "conventional" magician: he doesn't mind performing Cutter's "old" tricks, so long as the audience is satisfied, and he also doesn't mind adhering to Cutter's more rigid code of safety. Alfred, on the other hand, is bored and wants to try more daring (and dangerous) feats. After a horrible on-stage accident, Rupert and Alfred part ways and become bitter rivals. In one sense, The Prestige is simply a long series of tit-for-tat revenge scenarios in which Rupert and Alfred try to outdo each other's tricks while disrupting/destroying the other's performances. In addition, by the end of the movie, the audience sees that the magicians' lives are rooted not just in revenge but also in obsession. Magic becomes not just a profession, as it was for Cutter (who probably has the most reasonable perspective out of all of the characters), but an all-encapsulating way of life that destroys everything in its wake.

Unfortunately, as my wife sagely noted, The Prestige's depiction of revenge is very trite. According to Hollywood formula, revenge is supposed to be an all-consuming passion that eventually destroys one's entire life, and Nolan follows the playbook to the letter. However, other than this single theme—which is presented in essentially the same way throughout the film—Nolan offers nothing substantive. Whether intentionally or not, The Prestige is simply an exercise in cinematic style, rather than substance. The acting is decent, the costumes and set designs are well done, and the different magic tricks (as well as their accompanying explanations) are fun to watch. However, after the exuberance of 128 minutes, we are left with nothing to chew on, nothing to think about.

This may seem to some like an unfair indictment. After all, what is wrong with a film that produces two hours of mere escapism? Not all films have to involve post-screening meditation and discussion, do they? Of course not. However, my initial impression of The Prestige was that of a more substantive work. It was not marketed as a simple exercise in excessive style (e.g., Moulin Rouge), nor was it advertised as something that was completely devoid of substance, meant solely for "mindless entertainment" (e.g., Eight Legged Freaks). The Prestige was supposed to be "better" than that, but at the end, it proved nothing more than stylistic exercise. As such, I felt a little duped. While I appreciate and enjoy some movies even more after thinking about them (e.g., the excellent Junebug), The Prestige had the opposite effect on me: the more I thought about it, the more duped I felt.

(A Brief Exception: Nolan's addition to the plot of the legendary engineer Nikola Tesla, played by David Bowie, was fun and refreshing. If Nolan had played more with Tesla's popular status as a brilliant-inventor-turned-mad-scientist—or, better yet, had made an entire biopic about the man—he would have given us a more interesting/edifying project.)

All of this has me wondering whether Nolan is falling into the same trap as M. Night Shymalan. Both men experienced critical and commercial success with relatively early films—Nolan's breakthrough was Memento, while Shymalan's was The Sixth Sense—and both seem to have taken a downward trajectory ever since. While Nolan's remake of Insomnia was decent (though not as good as the Norwegian original), his subsequent projects (Batman Begins and The Prestige) have proven disappointing. The Internet Movie Database reports that his next project is yet another Batman movie, which simply indicates that he's taking the path of least resistance. If he's making a lot of money churning out Hollywood formula, then why stop?

In discussing this film further, my wife made another point relevant to Nolan and other young directors. In some cases, there seems to be an inverse relationship between monetary success and artistic quality. Nolan seems unable to maintain his artistic integrity in the face of the financial pressures (temptations?) that come with big Hollywood investments and the need to make those investments grow. Paradoxically, low-budget films with no-name casts may carry less risk since few people will care (or even notice) if they tank. Big-budget productions, on the other hand, require that the director come through with a "sure thing." Alas, Nolan seems stuck in the trap of his own success, and it will be interesting to see whether he ever breaks out of it.