Clerks and Clerks II: Vulgar Conservatism

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 16, 2006.

There's an expression about cynicism that I like: "Scratch a cynic and underneath, you'll find a romantic" (some versions say "disappointed idealist"). I can't help but apply this notion to director Kevin Smith, with the following alteration: "Scratch an antinomian and find a conservative." Smith, the legendary filmmaker known for his vulgar sense of humor, has developed a reputation for bucking conventional, bourgeois morality while simultaneously defending his practice. In 1994, he released Clerks, which garnered him near-instant critical and commercial praise, and in 2006, he released the sequel, Clerks II. Both movies purposefully push the comical envelope, but both also harbor some very conservative messages — though Michael Medved probably won't be praising Kevin Smith anytime soon.

Both movies detail the lives of Dante Hicks (Brian C. O'Halloran) and Randal Graves (Jeff Anderson), two low-paid, frontline workers in the United States' culture of bargain convenience. In the first movie, they were in their early 20's, one working for a local 7-Eleven knockoff, while the other worked next door at an affiliated video store. The film, shot in a wonderfully grainy black-and-white, focused on their antics during a day on which everything seemed to fall apart in Dante's love life. In between scenes of Dante dealing with both his current and ex-girlfriends, we see him having semi-meaningless (or, semi-philosophical, depending your view) conversations with Randal, playing hockey on the roof of the store, getting thrown out of a funeral parlor, and dealing with the New Jersey riffraff who pepper him with stupid questions.

In Clerks II, we fast-forward a decade. Dante and Randal are still working minimum-wage retail (this time, at a fast-food establishment, since their prior workplaces were gutted in a fire), Dante still can't get his act together relationally (this time, with different women), and the customers are just as rude and annoying. Unfortunately, once Kevin Smith became established, he left his initial black-and-white aesthetic in favor of high-budget color films; that is a shame since the cinematography of the first Clerks had an understated charm that Smith has not replicated since.

Of course, as anyone who has seen either film knows, the vulgar jokes fly fast and furious between the counter jockeys and the customers. Thus, any recommendation to see either film is highly conditional. In addition, if you see only one of these films, then check out the first, since the sequel tries too hard to push the proverbial envelope and ends up a little too crude and a little too juvenile.

Nevertheless, despite his vulgarity, Smith does demonstrate a deft sense of humor that is grounded in the obnoxiousness of his characters. The first Clerks, in particular, paints slightly exaggerated (or, completely realistic, depending on your view of New Jersey) portraits that propel each scene to heights of comical absurdity. Smith's portrayals are so funny that one wonders whether his considerable talent could be put to use in a less vulgar fashion. However, as sad as it may seem, Smith's humor seems best suited to the bawdy, and his talent seems to be almost necessarily connected with dirty jokes. Alas.

Yet, despite all the bawdy banter, Smith evinces an underlying (and purposeful) conservatism in both movies. First of all, Dante ends up learning a lesson about personal responsibility. Even though he is, by far, less vulgar and more socially respectable than Randal, he constantly bemoans his fate, hems and haws about the steps that he could take towards a better future, and generally demonstrates a cowardly indecision. Randal, despite his juvenile sensibilities, is fully aware of his position at the bottom of the occupational food chain; however, he doesn't care and actually revels in a life of low achievement — which, after all, facilitates lower stress levels, while encouraging a non-pretentious attitude.

Secondly, it is clear that Kevin Smith places a high value on geographic immobility. While he certainly plays on New Jersey's stereotype as a socially backward state—one that merely houses a long strip of shopping malls and chain stores between New York and Philadelphia—he nevertheless advocates staying put. While Dante feels antsy about his position in life—and, in the second movie, plans to move away to Florida—Randal presents an opposing narrative: he tells Dante that his current status is no accident, that being a clerk—and, one can infer, a clerk in New Jersey—is an intrinsic part of who he is. Running away to Florida won't change that; rather, he should embrace his identity and stay put — with his "own kind," as it were. If Kevin Smith were as antinomian as he superficially seems, then "home" would have no value. However, a friend of mine once opined that good satire is based ultimately on love, and Smith certainly has plenty of that for his home state.

Finally, both Clerks films reveal a near-essentialist search for "true identity" and the "true self" that is far from anarchic. Smith seems to view life as a long series of bawdy, misfit adventures punctuated by glimpses of honesty and truth. Within the boredom and angst of the everyday, Dante learns something about both himself and the previously unknown value of his environs. He realizes that glimmers of beauty can be found within the vulgarity of his life — while glimmers of value can be found in an environment as socially and culturally desolate as New Jersey. (Note that this is not necessarily my view of the Garden State).

In addition, Smith seems to suggest that if one focused on the vulgarity of the two films, then he/she would miss the larger point. Bourgeois morality would dictate that one eschew such crude joking since "good people" don't do that sort of thing. In the process, however, bourgeois morality ends up detracting us from the search for deeper truths since the adherents of said morality spend all of their time worrying about social propriety, rather than the "really important things."

While Smith has a point, it is important to keep in mind that vulgarity can and does have a degrading effect on one's intellectual, emotional, and spiritual life. While bourgeois morality does detract one from the Truth, vulgarity can do the same; an alternative to both is the preferred approach (see Phil. 4:8). In any case, an honest appraisal of Clerks and Clerks II must note that within all the bawdy humor, Smith presents an essentially conservative view of personal responsibility and geographic (im)mobility — whether his audience wants it or not.

I ♥ Huckabees: Happiness on Trial?

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 1, 2006.

Are you happy? Few questions provoke as much thought (or thought-avoidance) as that simple yes-and-no. Its simplicity hides one of the boldest and brashest of provocations: to ask whether someone is happy is to demand a peek into the condition of that person's deepest emotional, and even spiritual, self. Yet, despite the provocative nature of such questioning, we accept happiness as a natural desire. Who wouldn't want to be happy? Is that not the end goal of so many of our activities?

Happiness, however, is a slippery animal. Feelings of happiness easily fade, and happy appearances, of course, can mask an opposite reality. Worse yet: happiness may be a deceptive obstacle, blocking our path to Truth with sugarcoated roadblocks and siren songs that tempt us to easy, pedestrian lives.

Perhaps it is ironic that a comedy, I ♥ Huckabees (2004) ends up asking whether happiness is an impediment to a life of higher purpose. David O. Russell's philosophical farce places environmental activist Albert (Jason Schwartzman) in an unusual position: he encounters the same African man in several disparate circumstances and wants an explanation for this "coincidence." He recruits Bernard and Vivian (Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin), a spousal team of existential detectives who posit the notion that everything in the universe is connected. As such, they follow all of their clients, including Albert, in order to examine fully their daily lives and to ascertain the underlying reasons (connections) that shed light on their original question — or, more importantly, expose new questions.

On the other side of the ledger is Caterine (Isabelle Huppert), a former student of Bernard and Vivian's, who since has taken an opposite perspective: nothing in the universe is connected, and we are simply disparate beings, endlessly playing out humanity's conflict, pain, and futility. Her most recent disciple is an angry firefighter named Tommy (Mark Wahlberg). Tommy tries to recruit Albert to join the other side in this philosophical dichotomy, and in a way, I ♥ Huckabees is an examination of each side's attempt to gain the upper hand in our protagonist's life. Albert just wants to find out the reason behind a seeming coincidence, but he gets a lot more than expected: a highly charged examination of whether a Higher Purpose even exists.

Albert's initial quest is embedded within a life of conflict and doubt. While he cares passionately for his cause (anti-sprawl), the local chapter of his organization sees him as a liability, an ineffectual leader spending too much time writing poetic screeds rather than protecting open space. The musings of his philosophical compatriot, Tommy, are affected by anger over both his failing personal relationships and U.S. oil consumption (seriously). Both men begin reflection during moments of unhappiness, and near the beginning of I ♥ Huckabees, Tommy asks a simple question that frames the entire movie: "How come we only ask ourselves the really big questions when something bad happens?"

Even though I ♥ Huckabees portrays the philosophical enterprise in a humorous, even satirical, light, it does suggest that only through unhappiness can we come to a deeper understanding of ourselves, the world, and the very nature of the universe. Happiness—and the attempts to mimic it—almost intrinsically prevent deep thinking because they do not leave space available for the inquisitive mind to take its course. If we're happy, then presumably things are the way they should be (why stop a good thing?), and if we are trying to appear or become happy, then our time and energy will become totally consumed by that goal. Only during crisis, depression, or tragedy do we take stock of the Big Questions.

What is particularly odd about this view of happiness is its zero-sum nature. If one wants to be happy, then he/she has to sacrifice intellectual integrity and the search for Truth (or at least the search for greater understanding). If one wants to be philosophically aware, then he/she must forego happiness and all of its accoutrements. In this respect, I ♥ Huckabees mirrors The Matrix, since the latter suggests that a desire to know the truth will propel one into a heroic, though unhappy, existence.

Overall, I would have to agree with I ♥ Huckabees' assessment. Happiness does seem to preclude serious reflection, facilitate status-quo preferences, and inadvertently prop up existing political regimes (happy people rarely raise a ruckus).

Yet, we should note that some may not care about higher-order things and may be willing to trade those for a happier life. While the movie strongly suggests that those who do so (e.g., marketing executive Brad Stand, played by Jude Law) merely repress the angst bubbling right below the surface, it seems that the Happy simply have made a decision to pursue ends outside of Deep Reflection. How many of us have taken a college-level humanities class, one that raised provocative questions about the nature of humanity and/or the universe, and then simply moved on to other pursuits once the semester ended? How many of us have been exposed to potentially life-altering ideas and instead chose the safe, comforting path of routine and banality?

Perhaps the best solution for most of us lies in-between the cheerleader and the malcontent. In the context of material goods, the Apostle Paul advances the following virtue: "for I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me" (Phil. 4:11b-13, NRSV). The contented individual does not ignore the harsh reality of existence (cheerleader), nor does he/she mope and complain about it (malcontent). The contented individual can look reality in the face and still be thankful, confident that God will empower during good times and bad. In short, the secret lies not in pursuing happiness or in harboring scorn, but in seeking grace.

The Village: The Scourge of "Community"

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on November 17, 2006.

For the past several years, I have been hearing lots of talk about "community." In one sense, this talk stems from those with an ideological predisposition against individualism, geographic mobility, and—to use a term with a negative connotation—atomism. To take an ideological position about community means going beyond a mere acknowledgement of its existence; it means holding up community as a moral good, striving for community with intentionality, and even pursuing public policies that (supposedly) nurture interpersonal bonds.

As with so many discourses in the wider world, the focus on "community" has infiltrated church talk. Christians are, of course, to foster community with other believers, and it seems that some church leaders fear the United States' culture of "rampant individualism" and its negative effect on this basic Biblical principle. As such, it appears that Christian community as an explicit conversation/teaching topic has received a relatively robust airing in the past decade or so.

Yet, we must be wary of community, for as with any concept or institution, it has its dark side. M. Night Shyamalan's The Village (2004) tackles this dark side in the director's own peculiar way, and while this movie can grate heavily on one's nerves, it does raise some interesting questions. Set in a commune during, presumably, the 18th or 19th Century, The Village focuses on how the characters perceive their lives in relation to the outside world. They purposely live isolated, in the middle of a forest, so as to separate themselves from what they perceive as the violent, corrupt "city." In-between the city and their commune live many a dangerous creature, filling the residents with fear and ensuring that the local watchtower remains occupied every night.

After a violent crime is committed within this supposed haven of peace, one of the locals, Lucius Hunt (Joaquin Phoenix), lies in a serious medical state. In the middle of the forest, however, there obviously is no ready access to medication, so Lucius' blind fiancée, Ivy Walker (Bryce Dallas Howard), volunteers to cross the dreaded woodland into the decadent city in order to obtain medicine and save her man. Is it right to send a blind person on such a dangerous task? Will she make it back alive? (Cue melodramatic music here — as I said, The Village easily grates on one's nerves.)

I won't spoil the plot's specifics, but suffice it to say that things are not what they seem (this is, after all, a Shyamalan project). In addition, the town elders—in their near-rabid desire to keep everyone safe and to protect the "integrity" of their community—have failed to disclose some very important facts about the village. (I'm not a fan of Shyamalan, and as I noted, I found this movie far too melodramatic; however, I have to give the director credit for the clever, earth-shattering bomb that he drops at the end.)

The point at which we learn of the elders' deception is the point at which the concept of "community" starts to lose its moral stature. A community that is based on a lie stands on shaky ground: when one part of the edifice starts to come undone, then the overseers have to scramble (tell more lies) in order to make sure that the whole house of cards doesn't fall apart.

One could say that the elders should not be faulted for practicing utilitarian methods in order to protect the people they care about — after all, are they not ultimately serving a moral end? Do not the people under their care benefit? Unfortunately, the elders fail to take into account the reality of sin. Running away from the big, bad city does not mitigate evil — the violent crime committed in their midst should be evidence enough of that.

In addition, despite their attempts to protect the integrity of their community, the elders' deception automatically nullifies that integrity. Their actions remind me of the views of some secular conservatives — those who don't hold religious faith but who believe that religion is a "useful" tool for maintaining social order. Let the common people believe this superstition, goes this line of reasoning, since it encourages them to work hard, respect authority, and eschew crime. In this world, Social Order becomes the highest good, the god to be preserved at all costs. In the world of The Village, Safety is the god, and a little deception goes a long way in making sure that the god sticks around.

Of course, the secular conservative position should offend anyone with actual religious faith, for said position not only belittles faith, but it patronizes the faithful. Along a similar vein, the elders in The Village belittle and patronize the community they supposedly love. The fact that they alone know the secret behind the lie gives them an incredible amount of cognitive power over the other villagers, a power which ultimately demonstrates the elders' lack of respect for their charges' personhood, individuality, and agency. It's as though they taught the story of Santa Claus but never got around to the fact that nobody really lives at the North Pole.

Ultimately, The Village illustrates the problems with communities that are overly intentional. There is something to be said for communities that develop because people share similar beliefs and interests, rather than a desperate attempt to connect with others at all costs. In fact, the more that someone talks about "community," the more suspicious I become. Either the community he/she creates will be an arbitrary, cardboard replica of the real thing (and thus, will be doomed to fail), or he/she will want to isolate me from the rest of the world and make me a slave of a charismatic, yet corrupt, figurehead.

Is community life good? Yes! Is it Biblical? Absolutely! Should we pursue it at all costs and by any means? Our response should be a resounding "NO." Shyamalan's Village should convince us of that.