Deliver Us From Evil: Rape, Cover-up, Corruption

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on June 10, 2007.

A while ago, I heard one of my relatives indicate that a Catholic priest who sexually molests children deserves a bullet in the head. At the time, this relative, herself a Roman Catholic (though clearly a jaded one), made what seemed to be a jarringly harsh comment. However, when we think about it in greater depth, we begin to understand—and, if we are honest, empathize with—her sentiment. We're talking about the rape of children, after all. Not just "inappropriate touching" or fondling, but actual rape of pre-teen boys and girls. Is not a bullet in the head a relatively light punishment for such a crime?

Such thoughts roiled around in my brain as I watched Amy Berg's Deliver Us From Evil (2006), an Oscar-nominated documentary about Oliver O'Grady, a former Catholic priest who was convicted of sexual molestation, served a measly seven years in a California prison, and was deported back to his native Ireland, where he now lives a relatively comfortable life of retirement. Berg's documentary consists of interviews with O'Grady himself, three of his victims (along with family members), lawyers, and others involved in the sordid state of affairs.

The movie is critical at two levels. The first level, of course, involves O'Grady himself, who had molested dozens of children (the youngest being nine-months-old) for years, while serving as a priest in several Northern California parishes. In his interview, he recalls how he didn't struggle with being sexually aroused by men or women, but he did struggle with such arousal when in the presence of children. He claims to have felt torn about his actions: he knew, in some sense, that he was doing something wrong, but he also didn't mean harm per se (his "affectionate" actions were even a sign of "love").

As such, O'Grady is sorry at some superficial level for what he had done, but one doesn't receive the impression that he understands, even in his older years, the gravity of his sin or the level of destruction he wrought on dozens of families. What is most infuriating about O'Grady's attitude is the relatively benign language he uses when discussing his actions. Let us not forget that he didn't just act inappropriately: he raped little children! He was a serial rapist, plain and simple. The fact that he raped kids while entrusted with an ecclesial position of authority makes his crimes all the more vicious (and the fact that he got off with such a light sentence all the more insulting to those who suffered so much).

The second level of Berg's criticism is lodged against the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church. Catholic leaders who knew of O'Grady's pedophilia did nothing substantive to stop him: they simply transferred him from parish to parish, which, of course, allowed him to rape different children in different parts of Northern California. In particular, Cardinal Roger Mahoney is criticized as one almost singularly concerned with maintaining institutional stability, rather than holding priests accountable.

Of course, those who defend the Catholic Church would say that Berg's analysis is one-sided and that she clearly had a bone to pick with Mahoney et al. (The Catholic Church refused to be interviewed for this project.) However, her movie is simply one more document in a large stack of evidence regarding the number of pedophiles who have worn the clerical collar and a bureaucratic regime that simply does not care about the rape of children. That last phrase may seem harsh, but one cannot conclude otherwise when the Church's "punishment" for pedophiles had been simple job transfers and when it consistently has tried to treat the scandal as primarily a public-relations problem.

As if covering up rape were not bad enough, the Catholic Church's handling of the crisis also demonstrates an utter disregard for the spiritual health of its followers. The fact that (a) a priest raped children and got away with it for years and (b) his superiors were ultimately indifferent to the crimes obviously does not provide encouragement to the faithful. How can an institution that claims to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ expect to be taken seriously when its own house festers with the stench of pedophilia? (By the way, in case anyone missed that class at seminary: evangelizing and discipling does not involve sodomizing children.)

Of course, the Catholic Church is not alone in harboring villains, and there is plenty of sexual sin, corruption, and abuse of power within Protestant churches. However, because the Roman Catholic Church is, by design, a monolithic/bureaucratic organization, it is simply ill-equipped to deal with sin of this magnitude. In many respects, priests, bishops, and cardinals are simply bureaucrats—with the Pope serving as "Head of State"—and bureaucracies are not known for accountability, innovation, or quick response. Those who work in large bureaucracies tend to see their entire careers—and, in the case of Catholic priests, their entire lives—as wrapped up in the stability of the organization; thus, to question one's employer, to "rock the boat" and demand accountability (repentance?) is to risk destroying the foundation of one's entire existence.

So what should be done with clerical pedophiles? It's simple, really. Those found guilty of "inappropriately touching" or raping children should lose their jobs and should be barred from all ministerial positions for the rest of their lives. Period. No excuses. No exceptions. Church leaders and administrators who are found guilty of having knowledge of sexual molestation and of doing nothing substantive to intervene also should lose their jobs and should be barred from all future ministry. Anything less is administratively incompetent and morally reprehensible.

Borat: Obnoxiously Visceral, Mildly Satirical

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on May 28, 2007.

So I finally found out what all the fuss was about. This weekend, I watched Larry Charles' Borat (2006), the wild, guerrilla-style production starring Sacha Baron Cohen in the title role. (For purists, I should note the movie's full title — Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.) Overall, it matches the hype from both critics and consumers: Borat is a crude, anarchic romp through the American landscape. Cohen pulls no punches, pushing the proverbial envelope every chance he gets. The broader question, of course, is whether Borat succeeds in its satirical intent as much as it does in its toilet humor.

For those who are unaware, Borat is a "Kazakhstani reporter" who travels to the United States in order to film a "documentary." Sacha Baron Cohen and his crew interact with "real-life" Americans and set up interviews under a journalistic premise — i.e., by all accounts, none of the Americans know that they are victims of a prank akin to (though more extreme than) the old-school Candid Camera or MTV's Punk'd. The prank's success depends almost entirely on Cohen's portrayal of Borat as ignorant, uncouth, vulgar, sexist, racist, etc. He is so obnoxious that audience members are left wondering how his victims will react: will they "play nice" and try to smooth over Borat's rough edges, or will they push back and resist what he represents?

Of course, a more basic question is this: Is Borat funny? Answer: Yes, in an almost totally visceral, pre-pubescent fashion. I suppose the fact that I laughed so hard at this movie demonstrates that despite my attempts to give others the opposite impression, I simply am an uncultured boor with low-brow tastes. Do you remember laughing at toilet humor when you were in elementary or middle school? Do you feel embarrassed when recalling how you found such things funny? Then don't watch Borat, for this movie brings to the surface those primordial urges that you have spent your entire adult life suppressing.

As satire, Borat is less successful. Many of the Americans are portrayed (or portray themselves, depending on your preference) as nationalistic, militaristic, racist, and/or money-grubbing. When Borat says something "politically incorrect," most of the film's subjects (victims?) either agree with it (thus, demonstrating America's "dark side") or try to laugh it off (in part, because they are in the process of offering a good or service to him — the customer is always right, after all!). While Borat certainly serves a satirical function, its message is hackneyed. A large percentage of the global population already perceives the United States as a bastion of nationalism, militarism, racism, and greed. This perception is nothing new, and Borat simply retreads old ground. (Then again, as a friend of mine has suggested, perhaps satire does not have the function of conversion but rather, of preaching to the choir. Satire simply raises the same old critiques for those who want to listen.)

Apart from its satire, Borat does raise an interesting question about moral and ideological integrity. Near the beginning of the film, three members of a feminist organization do push back against Cohen's boorish character. When Borat says that a Kazakhstani scientist has "discovered" that women have smaller brains than men (and thus, are inferior), the women refuse to play along and end up cutting short the interview. Because they are intentionally ideological, having formed a conscious perspective of the world as it is and as it should be, the women were able to respond when challenged — even by (or perhaps especially by) someone as obnoxious as Borat. Americans in general, however, do not spend time developing ideologically coherent perspectives and thus, have no means by which to respond to outlandish statements.

By far the most troubling aspect of Borat is its "portrayal" of Kazakhstan. If Borat is to serve as a representative of "his people," then we are to believe that Kazakhstan is a backward, ignorant, and vulgar place. Unfortunately, since the Central Asian republics that were part of the former Soviet Union remain distant and exotic lands to the vast majority of Americans, then any portrayal—regardless of how outlandish and satirical—becomes implicitly true. If one has never been to Kazakhstan, met a Kazakhstani, or even seen a news story about the country, then how can one make a comparison between satire and "real life"? When we watch a satire about people we know, we at least have some context by which to delineate hyperbole from reality. As noted elsewhere, by satirizing people from a relatively poor, remote region of the world, Sacha Baron Cohen unfairly picks on those who have few resources by which to push back.

Thus, I ultimately cannot recommend Borat. I suppose that if you really wanted to reconnect with your pre-pubescent side, or if you were completely ignorant of any and all negative stereotypes about Americans, then this would be the movie for you. However, Borat's satire ultimately falls flat, and Sacha Baron Cohen's ridiculing of Central Asians is simply unfair and distasteful, despite Miss Kazakhstan's diplomatic overtures to the contrary.