Little Miss Sunshine: Family as Idolatry

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on January 18, 2007.

In an essay published over a decade ago, theologian Stanley Hauerwas recalls how a journalist asked him for his views on "family values." Hauerwas notes that in reply, he said, "since I am a Christian I have, of course, a deep distrust of the family, since for Christians the family is one of the great sources of idolatry. Christians believe our first loyalty is to the God who constitutes us first by making us part of the church rather than of the family."¹ The clear and unambiguous nature of Hauerwas' reply was made all the more stark by its timing, which was right in the midst of the 1992 Republican National Convention, famous for its clarion call to "family values."

Family-values rhetoric is, of course, premised on the notion that without stable home lives, people are more likely to engage in anti-social behavior that threatens us all. Strong families (and, in particular, strong nuclear families) thus help to alleviate the looming specters of crime, violence, and poverty. While there is some truth to this (after all, it's pretty hard to have a well-adjusted perspective on life if one's everyday existence is dysfunctional), family-values rhetoric seems to go beyond mere utilitarianism and towards upholding traditional families as a near-intrinsic good.

Interestingly, the pull of the "family" has become strong across the political spectrum. Leftist activists and politicians like to argue that if their opponents were really concerned about "working families" (whatever that means), then they would support various health and educational programs that supposedly help those families. So, on the right, one has the "Family Research Council," and on the left, one can find "Families USA." The names of both organizations try to induce a rhetorical effect — i.e., "we're the ones who really care about families."

What's fascinating is how this (idolatrous) message seeps into Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris' Little Miss Sunshine (2006), a dark comedy that ultimately has a conservative view of family life. "Little Miss Sunshine" is actually the name of a national beauty pageant for young girls, and Olive (Abigail Breslin) inadvertently qualifies after another competitor had to forfeit her place. Olive's attendance at Little Miss Sunshine is highly unusual since she is overweight and conventionally unattractive (mean observations, perhaps, but nevertheless true).

Traveling with Olive in a yellow VW van from her Albuquerque home to the pageant's California location is her misfit family:

1. Richard (Greg Kinnear) - her father, an aspiring (yet ultimately pathetic) motivational speaker, who is trying to land a book deal


2. Sheryl (Toni Collette) - her mother, desperately trying to keep her wits about her as the family slides into bankruptcy


3. Frank (Steve Carell) - her uncle, a former scholar of—actually, an authority on—Marcel Proust, who was thrown out of his university job and is now suicidal


4. Dwayne (Paul Dano) - her brother, a teenage Nietzschean who has taken a vow of silence until he gets into flight school


5. Grandpa (Alan Arkin) - a dirty old man who was thrown out of his retirement community (and who also happens to be Olive's dance coach for the pageant)

Of course, lots of hilarity ensues during the trip (how could it not with this bunch?), but I was a bit surprised at the darkness of the humor (some scenes were downright depressing). My wife noted that every character in the movie has to deal with a profound loss, and this tone of despair pervades even the most absurdly comical moments. Dayton and Faris seem to find creative energy in marrying the extremes of comedy and tragedy into one seamless narrative; as such, Little Miss Sunshine mirrors Todd Solondz's Happiness (1998), an even darker comedy.

I won't reveal what specifically happens to each of the characters—and you'll have to watch the movie yourself, if you want to see the bizarre (and funny) ending—but suffice it to say that the theme of family plays a progressively prominent role in the story. Of course, Olive's is not a conventional family—by most accounts, we would label it dysfunctional—but they nevertheless learn from each other and grow closer by the closing credits. In other words, when all else fails—when we lose hope in life ever being good again—we still can rely on family.

Thus, "family" as a category of near-intrinsic worth has traveled from the Religious Right to left-wing activists to Hollywood. Hollywood! The pop-culture center that conservatives love to bash is promoting family values! Sure, Little Miss Sunshine doesn't present us with a psychologically "normal" family, but its members nevertheless form a cohesive unit, remaining loyal to each other.

As such, if you found Little Miss Sunshine problematic (I didn't; I thought it was pretty funny) and if you consider yourself a "family values" kind of person, then you might want to reconsider your stance. Upholding "family" as a near-intrinsic good leaves one open to supporting all kinds of interpersonal dynamics that may or may not be healthy. Besides, as Stanley Hauerwas reminds us, the "family values" position is mere idolatry, and you don't want to be an idol worshiper, do you?

Reference

1. Stanley Hauerwas, "Communitarians and Medical Ethicists: Or, 'Why I Am None of the Above" in Dispatches from the Front: Theological Engagements with the Secular (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994), 158.

Children of Men: Against Politics

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on January 11, 2007.

I recently finished reading Ernesto "Che" Guevara's The Motorcycle Diaries: Notes on a Latin American Journey. Many know Che as the Cuban Revolution's most iconic hero, whose image—ragged beard, long hair, and eyes gazing into that supposed proletarian utopia—has been reprinted on countless T-shirts all around the world. The Motorcycle Diaries documents Che's pre-revolutionary days as a restless Argentinian medical student, looking for exotic adventure in the South American continent. Most of the work is a fun and fascinating travelogue with only occasional hints of political consciousness-raising — in many respects, it could have been written by any well-educated twenty-something on a low-budget road trip.

Yet, the final chapter, "A Note in the Margin," serves as an explicit, internally-directed call to a life of revolutionary struggle. It's too bad because the rhetoric is cheesy and over-the-top, denigrating the rest of the work (which is a lot more nuanced and complex). An Ocean Press edition also includes an abridged version of a speech Che delivered to post-revolutionary medical students in Cuba; in that text, we see that the transformation of Che from an adventurous, fun-loving student to a stodgy, didactic, and self-righteous politician had become complete.

What does this have to do with Alfonso Cuarón's Children of Men (2006), a superb thriller set in a dystopian future in which humans have lost the ability to reproduce? Simply put, Children of Men's main character, Theodore Faron (Clive Owen) serves as a foil for the historic Che Guevara; Theodore transitions from a politically active life to one of seeming depression, apathy, and cynicism. However, in the process of depoliticizing his consciousness (albeit slowly and perhaps unintentionally), he gains a powerful moral sensibility that both transcends and spurns the political.

During the movie, we learn that Theodore was quite the activist back in the day (though he claims that he was just in it for the sex). He betrothed a fellow activist, Julian Taylor (Julianne Moore) with whom he had (and then tragically lost) a child. Their responses to the loss exposed deep divisions within their relationship, and they eventually split.

That was two decades ago. In the meantime, the world has been turned upside-down. For some reason (never explained), humans lose the ability to conceive, and "youth," already a prized status (at least in the West), takes on a whole new meaning. (The movie opens with news of the death of the world's youngest person, an event which provokes intense public mourning.) In addition, all of the major cities in the world have fallen into turmoil (whether provoked by the worldwide infertility or not is neither confirmed nor refuted), and Theodore and Julian's home country of England have taken drastic, fascist measures in order to "protect" the citizenry.

Theodore—disillusioned, alcoholic, and working some bureaucratic job for the very state he should despise—is recruited by Julian to help transport a woman, Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey), out of the country. In the middle of the movie, we learn that Kee is pregnant! Impossible! Eureka! Is the future of humanity again ensured? Perhaps. However, before we see whether she can even get out of the country and give birth, she will have to get away from political forces—both the state and the main rebel group—who will want to use her (and her pregnancy) for their own ends.

It is through this saga that we see the renewal of Theodore's standing as an independent, morally conscious man. Originally recruited by the rebel group to procure transport documents for Kee, he eventually comes to see her as someone in need of "proper care," regardless of the political events swirling around her. Within the classical language of moral reasoning, he sees Kee as an end, rather than political means. Yes, he still agrees to get her out of the country (much of the movie tracks their harrowing ordeal), but he does so in order to help her, to get her away from the political nightmare that is England's future.

As such, we see the character of Theodore Faron as the very opposite of the real-life Che Guevara. Faron's "consciousness raising" was an unintended walk through a purgatory of post-political depression, apathy, and cynicism, leading to an awareness of the moral significance of helping one person in need, despite the risks and political repercussions. The tragedy of Che Guevara lay in his decision to eschew such individual-level moral reasoning for the sake of meaningless collectivist cant. (Of course, it should be noted that meaningless political rhetoric is found in abundance among both left-wing and right-wing circles; for a contemporary example of the latter, just watch Fox News.)

Those who complain that the movie doesn't provide any explanation of why the human race became infertile or why the world's cities descended into anarchy are barking up the wrong tree. Children of Men is ultimately not about fertility, children, or even dystopian futures; these elements simply serve as vehicles that highlight the main point: the role of formal political life in stunting moral development. When we become overly "political"—wedded to collectivist policies, rhetoric, and actions—we lose the ability to make independent decisions and to see other people as complex individuals who don't fit predefined political categories. We lose the ability to take meaningful risks for a true Greater Good because the "good" becomes redefined in narrow, worldly, opportunistic terms.

All formal political life—from totalitarian crackdowns to violent revolutions, from running for office to simply casting a ballot—degrade our capacity for independent moral judgment. While this is not an intrinsic necessity of political life, it is nevertheless the reality of said life. Theodore Faron eventually learned this lesson and took meaningful moral action. Hopefully, the rest of us can do the same.