One Hour Photo: Gluttony, Envy, Idolatry

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on November 24, 2007.

It seems appropriate to review Mark Romanek's One Hour Photo (2002) during the Thanksgiving season since at the heart of this thriller lies a message about gratitude and family. Thus, after engaging in the socially permissible gluttony that marks this time of year, you might want to curl up on your favorite couch and pop this movie into your DVD player. Ideally, you would be watching One Hour Photo with your family, and your family would be wealthy, attractive, and knowledgeable about good taste. That, after all, is the reason why you're thankful, isn't it?

That sentiment lies as the heart of Sy Parrish (Robin Williams), a photo technician at the local SavMart, who has spent the past 20 years of his life processing other people's cherished memories (along with insurance-claims evidence, homemade pornography, and anything else that customers drop at his work station). Keep in mind that this movie was made when middle-class consumers were just starting to transition to digital cameras, which would allow them to print their own photos at home. Beforehand, consumers had to trust their memories to technicians like Sy.

This is where things get creepy. Sy becomes enamored with the Yorkins, a seemingly picture-perfect (pun intended) family, whose photos he has been developing for years. Living alone and with no friends, Sy yearns for some kin of his own, and he "adopts" the Yorkins, processing extra copies of their prints for his own collection at home. The movie provides plenty of cringe-inducing moments in which Sy crosses—just a tad—socially-constructed boundaries in relation to the Yorkins (especially in relation to nine-year-old Jake). (His inappropriate behavior is not sexual, mind you; he just desperately wants to be "Uncle Sy.") In reality, of course, Sy doesn't even pass for an acquaintance: he's just an employee of a big-box retailer who has no business stalking the family.

Since One Hour Photo is a thriller, our main character, of course, has to snap. Why does he snap? It turns out that the Yorkins are not so picture-perfect, after all. Will, the father, is "emotionally neglectful," according to wife Nina; while the superficial reason for his aloofness is the long hours that he has to devote to work, we later learn that Will has been engaging in some extra-curricular activities with a colleague. His philandering ways threaten the stability of the entire family, and Sy, who has invested years of emotional energy in that family, has to put a stop to it.

Despite his creepy ways, Sy serves as a moral compass in the film because he reminds Will Yorkin of how thankful he should be. By most measures, Will is a successful man: he runs his own company, makes a sizable income, is married to a conventionally attractive woman, and has a well-behaved child. To chase after another woman seems the height of gluttony: despite all he has, he is unhappy and simply wants more. (This reminds me of a recent commentary on happiness by Eduardo Porter, in which he notes: "...while money boosts happiness, the effect doesn't last. We just become envious of a new, richer set of people than before. Satisfaction soon settles back to its prior level, as we adapt to changed circumstances and set our expectations to a higher level."¹)

Sy, on the other hand, has relatively little. His job at SavMart won't make him rich, and, as noted before, he is a loner seeking greater connection and intimacy with others. His relative deprivation gives him greater insight into the differences between the haves and have-nots, and thus, he has some authority by which to lecture Will on the virtues of gratitude and fidelity.

Yet, Sy's sentiment is marred by a vice of his own: envy. Encouraging others to be grateful—or, in Sy's case, forcing others into an "attitude of gratitude"—is a tricky task. For a rich person to lecture the poor on the virtue of thankfulness is both cruel and self-righteous. On the other hand, a poor person's condemnation of the rich for their lack of gratitude may smack of envy. While we certainly should feel sympathy for Sy—and while his critique of Will is spot-on—he nevertheless does covet what his neighbor has (Ex 20:17).

Besides his envy, we must be wary of the content of Sy's desires. What does he value? The romanticized, upper-middle-class American family. By idolizing this institution, he in effect believes that the people who are part of it lead more valuable, authentic lives. He sees his life, on the other hand, as less than authentic, and he desperately strives to catch just a glimmer of the Yorkins' glory. This is, perhaps, the saddest part of the movie. While he leads a life of relative deprivation by conventional standards, it seems simply incorrect to condemn Sy Parrish's life as inauthentic, relative to Will Yorkin's. We can (and do) create all sorts of standards by which to measure one's life as more authentic, more deserving of respect, than another's. However, such standards are usually socially constructed and seem to carry no deep, fundamental validity. If Sy had realized this, then perhaps he would have saved himself a lot of trouble.

So, as we enter this materialist season in which we gorge on food and presents—while keeping our eye on those who have even more stuff than we—let us learn a lesson from the sad lives of Will Yorkin and Sy Parrish. At some point, our gluttonous ways catch up with us and—in the worst-case scenarios—lead to tragic consequences. Despite its worldly implication of success, gluttony does not signify a more authentic existence; thus, to envy the gluttonous is to set oneself up for a disastrous fall.

Note

¹ Many thanks to Jason Mathes for pointing me to this commentary.

The Exorcism of Emily Rose: A Taxonomy of Belief

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 28, 2007.

As readers may have noticed, there has been a recent spike of interest in atheism. "Celebrity atheists" like Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris have received much in the way of media exposure, generating heat for their controversial critiques of both faith and the practice of organized religion. The tone of some atheists' critiques can be quite harsh, impugning the intelligence of believers, and the rhetoric seems to reach fever pitch when discussion turns to religious beliefs or practices that are beyond the mainstream.

Exorcism is, of course, one such "bizarre" practice that is an easy target of ridicule, and movies like Scott Derrickson's The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005) are almost guaranteed to send any tried-and-true atheist into an apoplectic fit. Based on a true story (I can see the atheist rolling his/her eyes now), this film is less of a horror movie (though there are some mildly scary scenes) and more of a courtroom drama. It chronicles the case of Father Moore (Tom Wilkinson), a Roman Catholic priest charged with recklessly endangering the life of the title character (played by Jennifer Carpenter). A devout Catholic, Emily had sought the help of Father Moore when she believed that she was undergoing demonic possession. Convinced that her condition was not psychiatric in nature, Father Moore received permission from his archdiocese to perform an exorcism.

The participants in the case provide a fascinating portrait of contrast and irony. The prosecutor (played by Campbell Scott) is a serious, church-going Methodist who is convinced that Father Moore is simply a "primitive" shaman with a clerical collar, a priest who should have relied on medical experts when ministering to Emily Rose. The defense attorney (played by Laura Linney) is an agnostic, more interested in climbing the legal ladder than in answering fundamental questions of human existence. As expected, each side recruits its own crew of experts to testify, and the case initially seems poised to hinge on what physicians have to say about Emily's condition. However, as the trial progresses, we see that the jury has to make a more profound judgment: is our current scientific knowledge enough to explain what happened to Emily? Should we not entertain the possibility that Emily's condition had a supernatural origin — that she was, in fact, possessed by a demon?

There are, of course, many ways by which one can interpret the events in Emily Rose's life, but it seems that any given response falls roughly into one of five categories:

1. Automatic Unbelief

This, of course, would be the atheistic/materialistic perspective. All phenomena have some material explanation, even if we have yet to discover it. All that is required is strict adherence to the scientific method. For the atheist, mystery should not lend itself to supernatural speculation; it simply should lead to further study. Thus, in the atheist's mind, the prosecutor is correct to doubt the priest's testimony (even if that same prosecutor is to be pitied or scorned for his church-going ways).

2. Automatic Belief

On the opposite extreme is the person who believes any and all accounts of the supernatural. If Emily Rose said that she was being attacked by demons, then her testimony should be accepted without question. For this group, skeptical science simply gets in the way of metaphysical reality. (There are several dangers in being part of this category, of course, with susceptibility to fraud being high on the list.)

3. Holistic Reality

The third category involves a more holistic view. In this group are those who argue that the division between "natural" and "supernatural" phenomena is ultimately false; the natural and supernatural coexist, and the question is how attuned one is to the latter. (An anthropologist testifying for Father Moore's defense makes this case.) This can—and often does—cohere with belief in the Judeo-Christian God, but it doesn't have to. There are plenty of non-materialists who are not Christian.

4. Agnosticism

Agnosticism is, of course, the big shrug within philosophy. Does God exist? Or, more broadly: does non-material reality exist? Who knows? For the agnostic, God may exist, and demons may inhabit the spiritual realm, but he/she simply has to say "I don't know." Father Moore's attorney inhabits this category, which actually makes her relatively receptive to her client's perspective. She may not necessarily believe, but she increasingly comes to respect her client as a man of integrity and conviction. He is not stupid, nor is he a swindler. Because she leaves open a tiny space for the possibility of alternative explanations, she is able to transform the case from "my scientist is better than your scientist" to one where the (absolute) authority of science itself is questioned.

5. Rational Spirituality

The prosecutor fits into the fifth category of "rational spirituality." He goes to church and reads Scripture, so at some level he is a man of faith. However, his faith is tempered by a modern sensibility that seeks evidence and clarification. He doesn't want to be lumped in with the automatic believers, those publicly ridiculed for making pilgrimages to holy sites with healing properties or who report seeing holy images in mundane objects. God gave us minds, after all. The spiritual life is real but distant, and Heaven is a faraway place. According to the prosecutor, we have the Bible, but we also have the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: if we can explain a person's behavior with the latter, then we should, lest we fall into the trap of an "overly" spiritual perspective.

So which of the above five is the best perspective? My vote goes to No. 3: Holistic Reality. If we believe that God is sovereign over all that is, and if we believe that reality includes both tangible and intangible phenomena, then there is no reason to harbor a stubborn disbelief in Emily Rose's claims. Sure, there are instances when we can trace "erratic" behaviors to specific neurological pathologies, but there are also cases which are mysterious and offer no satisfactory scientific explanation. If we truly believe, then we should reject the prosecutor's "rational spirituality"—which unintentionally shares some attributes with atheism—and instead open ourselves to the possibility that the spiritual realm is not just real but always present.