Babel: The Simple, Intrinsic Alienation of Humanity

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on March 24, 2007.

Perhaps the two most anticipated Best Picture nominees from the most recent Academy Awards were Martin Scorsese's The Departed (2006) and Alejandro González Iñárritu's Babel (2006). Movie fans know that the former took home the coveted prize, and upon seeing both films, I was glad at the outcome.¹ Babel isn't a bad film; it is a highly ambitious project that is worthy of admiration. However, it is also a little contrived, more than a little overrated, and thematically naive.

What makes Iñárritu's project ambitious is the geographic and linguistic diversity of the movie, which takes place in Japan, Mexico, Morocco, and the United States. The plot is mildly complicated, and there is no need to go into specifics here. Suffice it to say, the disparate characters are intricately connected—whether by intense personal relationship or inadvertent circumstance—and their connections clearly highlight the movie's message: despite the fact that we are all connected in this giant, global web, we nevertheless remain fractured by language, socio-economic status, and political boundaries.

For Babel, positive messages and feelings about globalization require a counter-message of caution and even pessimism. Think of Babel as providing relief from those simplistic Cisco commercials, in which people all over the world are connected to "The Human Network," in which the mere application of technology (provided by Cisco, of course) can create that one-world community for which we all supposedly long.²

Yet, Babel provides us with its own simplistic take on globalization. Upon watching it, we are supposed to have a profound moment of empirical and moral revelation: (1) we are all connected with each other, and (2) we should use this newfound awareness to "get along" and "do the right thing" (or at least treat our fellow human beings better than do the characters in the film). This not-so-subtle moralizing ultimately degrades the quality of the movie and reveals the filmmakers' naive perspective regarding human nature.

On one level, by providing a cautionary message regarding the effects of globalization, Babel appears to provide a sober assessment of the human condition. However, by presuming that audience members would become more moral as a result of its message—and by presuming that the human condition could be any different than what it portrays—the movie misses the mark. The fundamental condition of humanity is alienation—from God and from other people—and no amount of consciousness-raising will change that until the Eschaton. Babel presumes that people are bad because they are ignorant of how connected they are with "the other," that if they recognized those connections, then they would be more moral. Unfortunately, what Babel's filmmakers should realize is that people are simply bad — period.

This does not meant that globalization, per se, is bad. In fact, we benefit from increased trade, immigration, and communication across boundaries. Overall, on a material level, our lives are enriched by the connections that we make with each other, by the fact that distant lands are rendered closer by technology (thank you, Cisco!). However, material betterment does not translate automatically into moral or spiritual improvement, and globalization has not (and will not) eradicate greed, violence, racism, and a whole litany of other ills.³ Such a fundamental reality—one that will not be altered by any cinematic consciousness-raising—seems to elude the filmmakers.

(In this sense, the gritty, cynical view offered by The Departed—a view that eschews moralizing in favor of a more hard-nosed portrayal of bad people doing bad things—evinces a thematic maturity that Babel lacks.)

Unfortunately, the same condition of division and alienation permeates the Church as much as any other institution. One of the most significant commands of Jesus is that of love among the brethren (John 13:34-5), a love that presumes a unity among believers, as there exists a unity between the Father and the Son (see John 17).⁴ Yet, one of the hallmarks of the Church of yesterday and today is that of division — whether over doctrine, organizational structure, or (worse yet) politics. In one sense, division is the Church's worst sin because it evinces an inability to understand God's will within a coherent community. While unity should not be a goal in and of itself—after all, one cannot, in good conscience, be unified with another whose moral and theological views one sees as fundamentally incorrect—it is nevertheless true that disunity remains a Biblically unacceptable state of affairs. Perhaps if the makers of Babel had spent some time looking at the history of the Church—an institution that is supposed to be coherent, universal, and unified—then they would have realized the (current) impossibility of their thematic mission.

Again, I want to stress that Babel is not a bad film. It is impressive in its geographic and linguistic scope and is definitely worth a viewing. Its message is just not terribly realistic.

Notes

1. Though my wife has convinced me that Martin Scorsese should not have won the Best Director prize since The Departed is largely a copy-and-paste rendition of Wai Keung Lau and Siu Fai Mak's Infernal Affairs (2002).


2. Cisco is not the only one using the globalized human in public-relations efforts.


3. Back in college, an economics professor told us of a classic defense of free trade: economic connectedness would foster peace between nations. However, he continued, if trade had such an effect on the human condition, then there would be no such thing as civil war.


4. See F.F. Bruce, The Gospel of John: Introduction, Exposition and Notes (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1983):328-38; Gail R. O'Day, "The Gospel of John: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections," The New Interpreter's Bible, Volume IX (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995):785-98; Rodney A. Whitacre, John, The IVP New Testament Commentary Series (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1999):402-23.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off: The Most Ideologically Important Film Ever Made

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on February 24, 2007.

John Hughes' Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986) has a solid reputation as a cult classic. Almost any U.S. citizen who can claim some part of the 1980's as forming some part of their youth knows the movie well. Even those whose adolescent years began in 1990 have found their way to this work of art, which may indicate that it will achieve the status of a timeless cult classic.

Yet, despite Ferris Bueller's popularity, I have yet to hear mention of its ideological importance. It appears that most viewers consider it simply a funny, ultimately benign, and even shallow artifact of 1980's teenage cinema. However, missing the underlying ideological message does a disservice to the film and blinds us to a philosophical force that is, to a certain degree, affecting the very fabric of our social and political lives.

Most of you know the story: Ferris Bueller (Matthew Broderick), a high-school senior living outside Chicago, simply wants to take a break from school. He knows that soon, he and his uptight best friend, Cameron (Alan Ruck), are going to graduate and go their separate ways. He also knows that things are going to be tough on him and his girlfriend, Sloane (Mia Sara), since she is a junior and alas, will be stuck in high school for another year. Thus, he simply wants to take advantage of a sunny spring day and hang out with his compatriots. He tricks his parents—and the majority of the Chicago metropolitan area—into believing that he is desperately ill and in need of bed rest.

So how is this an ideological film? Simply put: Ferris Bueller emulates what is best termed "unconscious libertarianism." In a nutshell, libertarians oppose state intervention in most aspects of life; common libertarian positions include legalization of drugs, privatization of almost all endeavors currently subsidized/regulated by the state (e.g., education, health care), protection of free expression, etc. At this point, readers may object and argue that the film neither makes an explicit political statement nor portrays its title character as a political (or even politically aware) individual. What is, for example, Ferris Bueller's views on the future of Social Security?

Here is where we must distinguish the "conscious" from the "unconscious" libertarian. Ferris Bueller doesn't advocate particular public policies, but he exhibits an underlying ethos that fuels libertarian thinking: he simply wants to be left alone to do as he pleases with those who voluntarily agree to associate with him. In fact, politics would just get in the way of his life: why should he be politically aware and active just to spend time with his friends? Furthermore, Ferris Bueller's dislike of basic ideological questions actually exemplifies the end goal of many libertarians: a life free from the shackles of political orthodoxy. Bueller's views on the irrelevance of ideology to daily life is best summed up by the following quote: "I do have a test today. That wasn't bull****. It's on European socialism. I mean, really, what's the point? I'm not European. I don't plan on being European. So who cares if they're socialists? They could be fascist anarchists. It still doesn't change the fact that I don't own a car."

Unfortunately, however, even though our protagonist simply wants to do this own thing, he must deal with an entity that refuses to let him be: the state, as exemplified by his school's Dean of Students, Ed Rooney (Jeffrey Jones). Even though he oversees hundreds of teenagers, Rooney has made it his life's mission to serve as Ferris Bueller's personal nemesis, spending the day chasing him down in order to prove that he is not really sick. Even though he is supposedly trained as a professional educator, Rooney's thirst for revenge—exacerbated by the power given to him by the state—renders that professionalism moot, as he not only wastes taxpayer dollars but illegally enters the Bueller residence (clearly demonstrating a lack of respect for property rights). In short, Rooney embodies Lord Acton's famous line: "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." (It is satisfying to watch the ending credits, as we see an injured, defeated Rooney hitching a ride on a school bus, getting a taste of the humiliation that his institution doles out on a daily basis.)

If you're not ready to take the plunge into Ferris Bueller's unconscious libertarianism, then what are you to do? The movie suggests that you leave him alone. Throughout the film, we see his sister, Jeanie (Jennifer Grey), becoming increasingly angry at his antics and plotting to take revenge. However, when she inadvertently ends up in jail, she encounters a "druggie" (played masterfully by Charlie Sheen), who tells her to lighten up: her brother's ditching school and getting away with it ultimately should not concern her. (In addition, I would argue that her anger and jealousy merely exhibit a pettiness that is more appropriate for a bureaucratic oppressor like Rooney.)

So what does Ferris Bueller's Day Off mean for us? First, it exemplifies the mindset of the unconscious libertarian, of one who so desires to be free that he eschews the world of politics and even ideology itself. It also exemplifies the sheer waste and danger inherent in giving the state too much power. Finally, in a world that is intrinsically divided, that cannot agree on what constitutes the good life (e.g., whether attending school is morally necessary), the best that we can do is live and let live. One may not agree with how Ferris spends his day off (attending a baseball game, visiting the Art Institute of Chicago, etc.), but as long as he doesn't interfere directly with others' lives, then he should left alone.

While most people would not label themselves "libertarian," it seems clear that some sense of the libertarian ethos has seeped into our collective unconscious. This was particularly evident in the 1990's when the end of the Cold War and the rise of Internet culture seemed to usher in an era of greater economic and political freedom. (It is interesting to watch Bueller's use of technology. Though his equipment is outdated by our standards, his deft computer skills foretell the myriad ways by which we would use technology to reorganize both our individual lives and our interactions with others.) Thus, calling Ferris Bueller's Day Off the "most ideologically important film ever made" may not be such a stretch. Even if it is, such hyperbole simply pays homage to our protagonist's "carpe diem" attitude. Ferris Bueller deserves nothing less.

Appendix: Two Comments

Comment from Vic

Hi Kevin, I too enjoy the classic immensely, but don't you think that the movie is an example of "ignorant libertarianism" instead of "unconscious libertarianism." Ignorant libertarianism is a brand of libertarianism that many Americans favor. That is, they think they want to be more free but are not really ready to accept the consequences of true libertarianism. First, there is the incident with them "liberating" Cameron's dad's car, which is completely against libertarian principle of property right. Sure, that's fine since it enabled them to "do what they wanted." But as true libertarians, they would've thumbed a ride from a willing stranger to downtown Chicago, but no, that would've been too risky for upper class teenagers. Second, the nice upper-class neighborhood in which they live has some of the strictest zoning laws in the US. The reason why Winnetka does not have porn stores at every corner is because the town has legislated them away. Thus, one of the cool appeals of the movie--that rich kids from a nice neighborhood can be cool and ditch school--is predicated upon highly repressive state policies. Also, if I am correct, the school they go to is a public school, and they are only ditching school for one day. As true libertarians, they would want to boycott the school for taxing their parents too much in order to provide only slightly above-average education. The dean of students, Ed Rooney, is at least being consistent and transparent. He is an agent of the state, and as such, he will trample on all those who try to undermine the state's authorities. Farris, on the other hand, just wants to play at an amateur libertarian without accepting the full consequence of a libertarian society. That is, without parental support, he would have to work at a crappy job until he saves up enough for some education. He can rail against the oppression that surrounds him, but really he benefits a lot from it. It is the oppression around him that allows him the luxury of having a day off.

My Response

I think you're on to something with the "ignorant libertarian" label. As you know, many Americans hold inconsistent political views: on some issues, they support individual rights, but on others, they demand state subsidy and regulation. You also are right that Ferris' libertarian ethos does not rest on solid ground when he usurps the Ferrari; while he may not respect the materialism of Cameron's father, he still should not have taken his vehicle.

While one of the "cool" aspects of the movie (rich kids ditching school) might be predicated on the town's highly restrictive zoning policies, the more generic action of ditching school is not. Neither a town's zoning policies nor its socioeconomic status have a bearing on whether its students ditch school; kids from all types of neighborhoods, all around the country can (and do) skip class.

Yes, it is true that if Ferris Bueller were a truly committed libertarian, then he would boycott school in civil disobedience. However, as I mentioned, he is an unconscious libertarian--one who eschews both political activism and ideological commitment--and thus, it would be hard to imagine him sticking with any overt cause. That's a bit of a paradox within libertarianism: the end goal is a life free from formal politics, but libertarian methods often involve political action (e.g., campaigning for the Libertarian Party).

You are correct in saying that Rooney is ideologically consistent, but that is all that you can say for him. You cannot say that he is ideologically correct (unless, of course, you support bureaucratic authoritarianism), nor can you even say that he is competent (the movie shows that he clearly is not). Don't forget: consistency is not an intrinsically valuable attribute (would you say that those who hold consistently anti-Semitic views were "good"?), and if I had to choose between a consistent authoritarian and a fair-weather libertarian, then I'd have to go with the latter. After all, Ferris most likely would admit to his hypocrisy and inconsistency, while Rooney would be too arrogant to acknowledge any of his failures.

Finally, whether Ferris relies on parental support is immaterial to his ideology. If his parents voluntarily agree to provide him with room and board, then so be it. I do not begrudge Ferris his comfortable lot in life.

Pulp Fiction: Top of the Second Tier

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on February 10, 2007.

What does it take to make an A+ movie? The formula is quite simple: good writing, good acting, and a theme that is innovative, intelligent, and/or provocative. What does it take to make an A- movie? The formula is just as simple: good writing and good acting — but you can skip the theme. Notice that the formula for an A- movie doesn't allow one to choose any two elements; if one has an interesting theme with bad writing or acting, then the entire endeavor immediately falls flat, and the most that the director can hope for is a B+ (if critics and audience members feel generous).

Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction (1994), generally regarded as a contemporary classic, is a good example of how to make a solid A- movie. Die-hard Tarantino fans, of course, would take serious issue with my not recognizing his effort as deserving an A+, as would the American Film Institute, which currently lists it as one of the "100 Greatest American Movies of All Time" (No. 95), and IMDb members, who have voted the movie into the No. 8 slot on that site's Top 250. However, such adulation misses the point: Pulp Fiction is special not because it breathes the rarefied air at the apex of American cinema, but rather, because it resides at the apex of second-tier American cinema.

Pulp Fiction's appeal lies, in part, on its lack of a discernible point. Detractors may argue that this makes the movie a simple artifact of "meaningless violence," but they, too (like Tarantino's fans), don't get it right. Pulp Fiction's "point" is simply the exercise of style. This means that it doesn't rise to the A+ level of film making (contra Tarantino's fans), nor does it wallow in the mire of bad cinema (contra his foes). Rather, Pulp Fiction takes cinematic style and stretches it to the breaking point, creating an experience that is aesthetically fascinating, if thematically vacuous.

In terms of the screenplay, Tarantino demonstrates a deft understanding of human conversation. At one level, Pulp Fiction is simply a series of relatively detailed discourses between characters; each scene/segment is long and detailed, both propelling the overall plot and serving as an independent vignette in its own right. Sure, at one level, the conversations often focus on silly, obscure topics that would not concern most people, and yes, a lot of the subject matter is crude. However, Tarantino is a master of structuring the dynamics of conversations so as to produce an intelligently comical effect. In addition, the fact that Tarantino doesn't hesitate to write long scenes that probe characters' motivations and personality quirks is refreshing; rather than worry about losing his audience's interest, he instead pours his energies into crafting a strong script. Regardless of how one feels about the content of Tarantino's writing, his ability to structure dialog well is almost beyond dispute.

Besides the screenplay, Pulp Fiction benefits from strong performances by a star-studded cast. We have a mob boss (Ving Rhames), his two thugs (Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta), his girlfriend (Uma Thurman), a corrupt boxer (Bruce Willis), and an underworld "problem solver" (Harvey Keitel). Even Tarantino himself plays one of the thug's associates. While in many ways, the characters are mere caricatures or "types," the actors' performances are so on-target that they are highly believable. While they may find themselves in ridiculous situations, their reactions to those situations are internally logical, coherent, and even sensible. As with Pulp Fiction's script, the acting is so structurally sound that the content of their performance (what they say and do) has little bearing on the overall quality of said performance.

As such, Pulp Fiction's strong writing and acting render its lack of theme/message/idea inconsequential. One gets the sense that Tarantino's priorities involve anything and everything but theme; it is almost as though he has decided that the "deep" movie is not his specialty, that Hollywood has a need for intelligently stylish film (specifically influenced by 70s-era blaxploitation and kung fu), and that he exists to fill that niche. Thus, Pulp Fiction is destined to fulfill a subservient position in relation to A+ work, but there is no shame in that. To be at, or near, the top of thematically vacuous cinema is no small feat, and Tarantino evinces a talent that few possess. (It is perhaps interesting to note that Pulp Fiction shares the same epochal space as Seinfeld, the television series that was, supposedly, about "nothing.")

So, what is Pulp Fiction's place in American cinema? Does it deserve the esteem that professionals and consumers have heaped on it? As long as its fans do not take it for more than it is (it is not "brilliant" in any absolute sense), then yes, it deserves praise. Has it changed American cinema in any meaningful or discernible way? Perhaps, though it is still too early to tell. One thing is for certain: Tarantino belongs to that club of directors whose work is so distinct (almost unique) that it would be hard for anyone else to mimic their films successfully. (Wes Anderson is another such director that comes to mind.) As such, that may be Pulp Fiction's legacy: a funny, stylish, and clever mid-90s romp that is worth watching but ultimately irreproducible.