Sicko: Socialism, Capitalism, Health Care

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 25, 2007.

Michael Moore, the documentarian that right-wingers love to hate, recently came out with Sicko (2007), a critique of the U.S. health-care system — and, by extension, a praise of other countries' systems, which he sees as more rational, cost-effective, and humane. It seems that a fair number of conservatives viscerally despise the rotund Michigan native, but they should let the man have his say (and should debate whichever of his points they see as inaccurate or unfair). Regardless of one's views of Sicko, it does serve a useful purpose by proposing an unambiguously socialist position regarding health care, which then serves as a foil against which detractors can stake their own claims. (A libertarian documentary advocating a completely laissez-faire approach to health care would have served the same purpose.)

Sicko alternately moves between health-related tales of woe in the United States and more utopian (from Moore's perspective) situations in Canada, the United Kingdom, France, and Cuba. The U.S. stories are truly heart-wrenching and even infuriating, as people recount tales of insurance companies bending over backwards to deny claims; of medical directors who serve as hired guns for those companies, providing justifications for those denied claims; of people who literally die due to bureaucratic inertia. Of course, Moore has a point to make and chooses his stories carefully in order to propagate that point, and we should remember that insurance companies can (and do) serve a useful purpose. Nevertheless, it does seem that plenty of Americans have had bad experiences with their health care, since that topic consistently shows up as one of the top, if not the top, domestic concern among voters.

The other countries' health-care systems are portrayed in a much more favorable light. Because their systems are taxpayer-funded and government-managed, they are seen as public goods and positive rights — i.e., the citizens of those countries just expect to receive health care because they are, well, citizens. The health-care professionals are government employees, deductibles are non-existent, and pharmaceuticals are dirt cheap. From Moore's perspective, these other countries have it right, and the U.S. has let itself be suckered by various health-related special interests into denying these same benefits to its own citizens.

Moore also anticipates the critiques that would be lodged against his view. He shows various examples of how the other countries' systems are not jammed with long lines of patients waiting to see physicians, how government-employed physicians are not living in squalor (a British doctor he profiles drives an Audi and lives in a nice home — relative to London's astronomical real-estate prices), and how citizens from all sorts of political perspectives have come to rely on—and defend—their government health care. Again, caution is advised, since we are getting only Moore's perspective.

Nevertheless, one should commend Moore for being clear and consistent with his views on health care, for throwing down the socialist gauntlet and implicitly demanding that his detractors come up with a better solution. Within the current political landscape of the United States, establishment Democratic politicians offer a variety of public-policy bandages to "fix" health care, but few are willing to support an outright socialist system.

There are, of course, lots of problems with Moore's analysis. Does not the United States have the most advanced health care in terms of clinical research and technological innovation? Do these benefits not come about due to the profit motive that encourages researchers and their corporate employers to devote countless hours and billions of dollars to improving pharmaceuticals, medical devices, and treatment methods? One could argue that countries like Canada, the U.K., France, and Cuba essentially free ride off the innovations that are produced in the United States; perhaps, in some indirect way, U.S. citizens are subsidizing the rest of the industrialized world's health care.

This is a major gap in Moore's analysis. Like many socialists, he sees economic problems as simply a matter of distribution, rather than production. The other countries in Sicko may have a more equitable system of health-care distribution, but the lack of a clear profit motive—of the possibility of realizing some gain from one's risks—seems to stunt the innovation and production required for further improvements. In other words, socialist economies try to distribute "what is" equitably, whereas capitalist economies try to produce (and distribute) even more (the "what could be").

The other problem with Moore's analysis is the fact that he doesn't address the mixed nature of the U.S. health-care system. The United States is not a medical free market. Far from it. Besides for-profit hospitals and insurance companies, we also have non-profit institutions and government entities like county hospitals, Medicare, and Medicaid. It's a labyrinthine mess that symbolizes our contradictory feelings about health care: we don't know whether we want government involvement or not (and if do, we don't know how much). While Western Europe has opted for a variety of socialist solutions, we haven't made up our minds.

Thus, it would be refreshing if we could hear a voice from the world of mainstream politics advocating a completely laissez-faire health-care system: no government programs, no Food and Drug Administration, no anti-competitive licensure requirements. While few Democrats advocate socialized medicine, few Republicans advocate the libertarian approach. They, too, offer a hodge-podge of public-policy bandages that do little to address fundamental questions about the proper role of government in the lives of everyday citizens. (The Republicans, of course, dropped the small-government cause a long time ago, but that is an issue for another day.)

If we had a more honest debate between the socialists and the libertarians, then we would be forced to deal with the root issues underlying our health-care hand-wringing. We would have to defend the stances we take on the size and scope of government, as well as the responsibility of individuals towards their neighbors (and what that responsibility would look like in real-life, everyday terms). Thus, while I ultimately disagree with Michael Moore's perspective on health care, I applaud him for raising tough issues, taking a clear stand, and challenging his opponents. I just wished that mainstream politicians would do the same.

The Bourne Supremacy: Good Spies, Bad Spies, Amoral Spies

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 4, 2007.

So cinekklesia's founder asked me to write a review of Paul Greengrass's The Bourne Supremacy (2004) in anticipation of this weekend's release of the third installment in the series: The Bourne Ultimatum. I must confess an initial bit of apprehension on my part: what, after all, can one say about Supremacy? Does it tackle any interesting philosophical questions? Does one learn anything profound about the human condition from watching Jason Bourne's exploits around the world?

Not really. Supremacy is simply a continuation of The Bourne Identity. Those who have seen the first installment know that Mr. Bourne (Matt Damon) suffers from amnesia but slowly gains knowledge of his past as a specially-trained CIA assassin (specifically employed by the Agency's super-secret Treadstone project). All sorts of nefarious characters from his past want him dead, and he spends the movie trying to get to the bottom of his mysterious life — while, of course, deftly evading capture (there are advantages to being a specially-trained assassin). Chase, chase. Punch, punch. Bang, bang. Done! End of movie.

What is interesting to observe, perhaps, is the way in which Supremacy coheres with the typical spy-movie formula. First, it follows the notion that the world is nothing more than a playground for the world's elites and the agents who they employ. The characters in Supremacy visit a dizzying array of locales, raising havoc wherever they go. The history, culture, and people of the particular locations hold almost no importance; they simply serve as backdrops (obstacles?) to the agents fulfilling their mission. Of course, within the spy-movie universe, the plenitude of locations is supposed to add excitement to the enterprise (and it does), but the moviemakers usually neglect to raise the important moral problem of treating the ordinary peoples of the world as mere props.

Supremacy also follows the classic good-spy/bad-spy motif. Being a U.S. film, the Americans are, on the whole, portrayed in a positive light — at least they operate under good intentions. The Treadstone project is not the norm; it was an aberration perpetuated by a few rogue agents (bad apples) who did not follow Agency protocol. The project ended up severely disrupting some lives and completely destroying others, and the "good" agents of the CIA are shown trying to get to the bottom of the truth. While the bad agents want Bourne dead (since he is the evidentiary link to the naughty deeds of the past), the good ones want to make some amends (albeit off-the-record).

The problem with the good-spy/bad-spy motif lies in the fact that it ignores larger questions of both government policies and the practice of spying itself. The CIA may have some rogue agents, but it nevertheless falls under the side of the "good." This is America, after all, and despite some moral lapses, like Abu Ghraib, it still tries to serve the best interests of the world, right? Beacon of Democracy? American spy movies largely do not question these assumptions, which is understandable since we American moviegoers (ticket buyers) want to believe that we are a good lot. However, the assumption implies a transcendent, intrinsic good to the United States that simply isn't true. (Many Christians like to believe that the United States is a Promised Land, but there is no warrant for that view.) While it is wrong to blame the United States for every evil in the world, it is equally wrong to pretend that the U.S. is not like any other country: a nation-state trying to maximize its self-interest.

Finally, like most other spy movies, The Bourne Supremacy doesn't tackle a fundamental question that lurks behind the entire espionage enterprise: its morality. Biblically speaking, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with spying (e.g., see Numbers 13), but there seems to be a difference between Divinely motivated espionage and that conducted by the secular nation-states of our own day. After all, espionage involves breaking some law somewhere (if laws weren't being broken, then spying wouldn't need to be, well, secret), and if one is going to break a law, then it had better be for a defensible higher purpose. Furthermore, if one is going to spend his/her entire career as a spy for a government, then he/she had better be sure that said government is perfect; for if it is not perfect, then at some point the spy in question is going to be implementing/perpetuating immoral policy.

This, of course, isn't any different from other jobs and careers in which people occasionally find the actions of their employers to be distasteful, if not outright evil. Right or wrong, we at some point learn to hold our noses and live with the moral discrepancies in our lives; whether we like to admit it or not, we are all moral relativists. What is perhaps distinct about covert ops is the constant breaking of law. If one is going to break the law constantly, then the purpose of such illegal activity must be consistently good in order for the activity to be moral. Seeing as how that's impossible, then it seems that secret agents have to be, at some level, amoral. They may have built a moral universe in their own minds, convincing themselves of the rightness of their actions, but in reality, they subconsciously suppress questions of right-and-wrong, since those only gets in the way of the mission.

Of course, espionage and covert ops aren't going away anytime soon. As long as people (and, specifically, nation-states) distrust each other, we'll have spies to go along with our militaries. And, of course, spy movies are not going to change their money-making formula by asking hard moral questions. (Why should they? After all, I certainly plan to watch The Bourne Ultimatum.) However, we should be more honest about the nature of espionage: a sometimes (often?) ugly, amoral line of work. Just because we don't see the dirty work done in our name doesn't mean we have clean hands.

The Apostle: Achingly, Palpably Real

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on July 21, 2007.

When one finds him- or herself taking a minority position regarding a film, several different outcomes can result. One possible outcome is frustration: the person can feel pressured to like or dislike a film just because an overwhelming majority holds the favorable/unfavorable position, and he/she can feel upset that so many people hold the obviously incorrect view. (Have they all been brainwashed? Is there something in the water?) Another outcome is transcendence: the person recognizes that a majority of people regard a movie differently than he/she, but that person also realizes that the world may one day come to understand what is the true take on the movie.

In regards to The Apostle (1998), I am in a position similar to the second outcome. I do not claim any "transcendent" understanding of the movie, but I definitely sense that I hold a position in conflict with that of most audience members — and perhaps that of the filmmaker himself.

Robert Duvall is the filmmaker in question, serving not only as director, but also screenwriter, executive producer, and lead actor. Duvall plays Euliss "Sonny" Dewey, a Pentecostal preacher from Texas who finds himself in a tight spot. His wife, Jessie (Farrah Fawcett), wants to divorce him (she also happens to be sleeping with the youth pastor), and his church has just voted him out of office (the specific reason for his church's action is unclear). His entire life comes asunder, he takes to booze, and in a fit of rage, swings a baseball bat at the youth pastor's head, putting him into a coma.

At this point, Sonny runs away, sheds his identity, and eventually ends up in a small Louisiana town, where he (what else?) takes up preaching again under the new, mysterious identity of "The Apostle E.F." He encounters some initial skepticism, but he soon starts to gain the trust and admiration of the locals. He reopens a dormant church building with the help of a retired pastor who used to preach there, and he starts to attract a following with his fervent oratory.

What is most remarkable about Sonny is his all-or-nothing approach to living and preaching. He pours almost every ounce of energy he has into his new church, working extra jobs to bring in revenue, advertising the ministry on the local radio station, driving folks to Sunday services. Despite his past, his motives are pure: he simply loves the Lord and wants to bring more people into relationship with Him. The entire trajectory of his life points towards that end.

Yet, he has put someone in a coma. He is running from the law. It seems that he has a history of fooling around with other women — and in the movie, he tries to initiate an intimate relationship with a local woman who herself is separating from her husband. This stark contrast fuels what seems to be the prevailing sentiment regarding Sonny Dewey: unease. On the one hand, he seems to be doing good work: bringing people to Jesus, facilitating reconciliation, teaching about love. His passion is palpable. He clearly is bearing fruit. On the other hand, he seems unable to exercise adequate restraint: the passion that fuels his ministry also leads to lust and unrighteous anger. We're not sure what to make of him: the fact that his faults are not just minor vices but "big" sins and an outright felony makes us confused and perhaps upset.

Or does it? I have never understood fully why the character of Sonny Dewey seems to produce so much unease — especially since I find him wholly positive. I'm not saying that his sins aren't serious (they are), nor am I saying that he is a paragon of virtue (he isn't), nor do I suggest that he shouldn't suffer the consequences of his actions (he should, and he does). However, in regards to his core character, there is no doubt: his life is almost wholly and solely devoted to the Lord. He is passionate about loving God and loving neighbor; nobody can accuse him of being lukewarm (Rev 3:15-6) for Jesus has set his heart on fire, and nothing, it seems, can put it out.

As mentioned, his anger and adultery are sinful manifestations of the passionate core of his being. Because Sonny is fully human, he is a sinner, and his sin has to manifest itself in some way; it tragically does so via the same passion that he uses to preach the Good News. However, he at least has a passionate core. He at least has sought tirelessly to bring people to Jesus, even in the midsts of his moral crisis. Despite his serious sin, he still has done good work with loving motives. Do we doubt the good that God has done through the hands of conflicted persons like Sonny Dewey? Was Sonny's years of ministry conducted in vain, or did they bring glory to God? Does not God redeem those who love Him — along with the works they have done (Rom 8:28)?

As such, Sonny Dewey is both a tragic figure and a highly positive one. His life serves as an example of God's power to build up a servant, to discipline him/her when necessary, and to redeem that same servant for future work. Sonny Dewey is not a false, sugar-coated character, but one who is achingly, palpably real. His life is an illustration of hope that is tempered and matured by tragedy. His story is well worth your time.