Notes on a Scandal: Why Do We Like SCANDAL?

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on July 14, 2007.

Scandals make me giddy. I suppose that I'm a boor for feeling this way, but when powerful people fall due to their own errors, I take great pleasure. I like seeing them sweat under television lights, watching them run from the relentless press. The threat of having one's embarrassments exposed is, of course, a risk inherent in a public life. However, what about the scandals that beset the previously unknown, the people who—if not for some court case or other public event—would not have attracted any media attention? Do they deserve the same derision of the masses, or should they be left alone?

These themes form only a small part of Notes on a Scandal (2006), Richard Eyre's masterful portrayal of British schoolteachers gone wild. Sheba Hart (Cate Blanchett) is married to a significantly older college professor (whose prior marriage she helped to dissolve) and has spent the past decade taking care of their developmentally disabled child. She finally feels able to get a job in the outside world, so she takes a position as an art teacher in a local high school. There, she meets a 15-year-old boy who, quite simply, lusts after her. Does she resist his advances? Does she report him to school administrators? Ultimately, no! She begins to have an affair with the lad, to meet him in secret, unseemly locations for sex.

Enter Barbara Covett (Judi Dench), an older history teacher at the same school, who finds out about the illicit hanky-panky. Does she follow proper administrative protocol in handling her misbehaving colleague? No! She keeps Sheba's secret and uses it to her own scheming advantage. As we see later in the movie, Barbara has her own skeletons to hide. Naughty! Bad teacher!

As I mentioned, I love scandals, and fictional ones are no different. I absolutely enjoyed watching how Sheba kept making stupid errors and how Barbara kept making matters worse by not following through on her responsibility to "protect" students. From a narrative perspective, scandals are a great means by which to build suspense, to elicit that sense of "Oh, oh: this is going to end very badly." Few cinematic devices are more effective than the ticking time bomb, whether literal or metaphorical.

Yet, is there a higher purpose to scandal than the simple, giddy excitement of the masses? On a more ideal plane, perhaps scandal serves the same purpose as shame: it should lead one to repentance. A person gets caught with the proverbial pants down, is shamed by his/her surrounding community, and then repents. (Whether the offending party is brought back into the fold depends, of course, on the community's temperament.)

It seems, however, that if scandal ever really served the goal of repentance, that function has now been lost. Do we really want repentance, or do we just want to mock those who have embarrassed themselves in public? Besides, in some cases, scandal produces no ill effect. The first time I ever heard of Paris Hilton was when news broke out that her now-infamous sex tape was being distributed online. Even though that was "scandalous," she nevertheless ended up with her own television show and has been the focus of media attention ever since. There's no such thing as bad publicity, after all, and we have entire networks devoted to A-, B-, and C-list celebrities.

One doesn't even have to be rich to profit from this phenomenon. One could argue that Jerry Springer, with his obnoxious and bawdy talk show, has helped to democratize scandal. Anybody engaged in (real or fictional) taboo behavior can go on the air, bare all (perhaps literally), and talk back to the audience members, who jeer with their faux righteous indignation. Everyone benefits: the subject of the scandal gets to be on TV, the audience gets to feel better (with the "at least I'm not as bad as that person" mentality), and Springer gets to make a living.

Thus, it seems that scandal has become simply aesthetic. We really don't care about moral lessons that can be learned from shaming people (if shame still exists), and a scandal is simply one more item in our long list of entertainment options. Do I want to listen to some Beethoven or catch up on the latest Britney Spears debacle? At a basic level, it's all the same. Even political scandals, which theoretically serve some material purpose, ultimately prove aesthetic. After all, does the average voter really gain more utility from following "issues"—over which he/she has almost no control—rather than the illicit sex lives of Members of Congress (which, if nothing else, prove entertaining)?

A note of caution should be raised here. As mentioned earlier, not all scandals are the same. Those which affect previously obscure, "unknown" people who have no desire to expose themselves to the spotlight should give us pause. To relish in the embarrassments (self-inflicted or otherwise) of ordinary people is cruel — especially when they probably need time to process the recent events and to figure out how to move forward. Folks in such positions (which, it seems, would include Sheba Hart) should be left alone.

Anyone else, however, is fair game. "Ordinary" people who desire the spotlight at whatever cost, along with celebrities and politicians (who, by definition, seek attention), should realize that they are easy fodder for our multi-media culture. Perhaps it shouldn't be this way, but it nevertheless is. It might have something to do with the fact that there is something within us that enjoys a good scandal.

Maxed Out and In Debt We Trust: The Curse of a Wealthy Age?

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on July 7, 2007.

Debt is an ambiguous topic. I don't know of anyone who says that debt is an unalloyed good, that we should seek to increase it—at the personal or national level—in all circumstances, and that paying off one's debts is immoral. On the other side, some folks may say that any and all debt is bad. However, few people are completely debt-free: whether it be a home mortgage, car loans, student loans, or credit cards, it seems that almost all of us is indebted to someone at some point in time.

Our level of indebtedness, of course, has become a topic of great concern. The national debt has been a political issue for years, but recently, consumer debt has begun to draw the national spotlight, as we hear stories of individuals and families struggling under the weight of numerous credit cards. Two recent (2006) documentaries seek to tackle this issue: James D. Scurlock's Maxed Out and Danny Schechter's In Debt We Trust. Both profile people who have reached the brink of financial ruin, feature interviews with relevant figures (e.g., activists, bankruptcy lawyers), and chastise creditors for making their wares, well, too easy to obtain.

(If you only have time to watch one of these documentaries, then Maxed Out would be your better cinematic choice, since it is more polished. I also liked In Debt We Trust, but it clearly was a lower-budget production — which, admittedly, might not be a bad thing, given the nature of its topic.)

While both movies briefly discuss the national debt, along with personal debt like mortgages, their primary targets are credit cards and payday loans. These latter industries come in for particular scorn due to the ease with which they award high-interest credit. If not all debt is created equal, then one could say that home mortgages and student loans are "good" insofar as they help people to build equity and improve their employment prospects, while credit-card debt is "bad" because it usually doesn't serve a long-term purpose (after all, credit cards are often used for "frivolous" purchases).

According to the documentaries, by making credit so easy to obtain, credit-card companies effectively exploit the average person's poor financial literacy, while trapping him/her in a never-ending cycle of debt. After racking up thousands of dollars in credit-card charges, the debtor is unable to clear his/her account and thus, is forced to make minimum payments for years (perhaps until death). After all, if one has to choose between paying the rent and paying off a credit card, the former necessarily takes precedence (unless, of course, the debtor doesn't mind being homeless).

What is most interesting about both films is what they imply (perhaps unconsciously) but never explicitly state: as all debts are not created equal, neither are all debtors. While middle- and upper-middle-class folks who can't control their consumer urges may find themselves under a pile of credit-card bills, the poor easily can find themselves in the grip of seedy payday lenders: those who front money under extremely onerous conditions. By definition, the poor have fewer financial options (e.g., many don't have enough money to maintain a minimum balance at a traditional bank) and quickly can find themselves in desperate situations — and thus, easy targets of payday lenders.

The two "types" of consumer debtors highlight a problem with both documentaries. The poor deserve more sympathy since their indebtedness arises—in part, if not mostly—from the simple fact that they have few resources. In addition, those who find themselves in debt due to (as a friend of mine puts it) "negative shocks" (e.g., large, unexpected medical bills) also deserve sympathy. However, what about those who are in debt due to frivolous spending or an inability to hold off on purchases until they can pay in full? What about those who insist on adding an extra 1,000 square feet to their new home or who opt for an SUV in lieu of a compact? Do they not, in some sense, deserve less sympathy? Perhaps they, too, should receive compassion, as did the Prodigal Son who squandered his inheritance (see Luke 15:11-32), but on a practical level, should we chastise credit-card companies for the failures of the American middle class? What about that "personal responsibility" thing? Both movies briefly touch upon that question but ultimately shrug it off in favor of legislative solutions.

So, how should we handle debt? Years ago, a friend of mine noted that one could strictly interpret Paul's exhortation to "owe no one anything, except to love one another..." (Romans 13:8, NRSV) and thus, insist that all debt is morally wrong. However, if one does so, then he/she must eschew, well, all debt: if you can't pay for a house in cash, then rent; if you can't pay for tuition, then stay out of college; if you can't afford a car, then walk or take public transport. Using credit cards is also verboten: even if you plan to pay off the balance at the end of the month, there is no guarantee that you'll be able to do so. There is nothing wrong with this interpretation; in some sense, it is the best one. However, those who propose it must live it consistently, or their perspective will prove hollow and hypocritical.

Less stringent is the view that while debt may not be intrinsically bad, it should be avoided and/or reduced (especially by those with means). Buying a smaller house or car (and thus, taking out a smaller loan) is probably a more responsible option and leaves more resources available for other things (like, say, charity). Burdening oneself with fewer financial constraints also lessens the probability of worry taking a disproportionate share of our emotional and spiritual lives (see Matthew 6:25-34). If debt is not an intrinsically bad thing, it certainly should not be categorized as "good."