odonovan

No Country for Old Men: Fate and Circumstance in a Desert Land

2008-04-26T19:55:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on March 22, 2008.

...even in the contest between man and steer the issue is not certain.

- Tommy Lee Jones as Ed Tom Bell

One of the most common reasons cited for stress is perceived lack of control. When a person senses that events "out there" are affecting his/her life directly and that he/she has no ability to stop said events, then anxiety sets it. Bad things are coming, and there is nothing to do but wait for the inevitable loss of employment, loss of health — whatever is defined as bad. Perceived control helps to provide structure and even meaning to our lives. If I commute to the office the same way, at the same time, every workday—and if that pattern holds true day in and day out—then I have a predictable structure that gives me a sense of control and even purpose. Anything that disrupts my commuting intentions adds some stress to my life, forcing me to recalibrate my plans and to re-establish the control that I so desire.

Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, we should acknowledge that the amount of control we have is very little (if we have any at all). Consistent patterns, while perhaps reassuring, by no means guarantee any particular outcome. Today may be the day in which the regular pattern of one's life is disrupted, whether through tragedy or mere inconvenience. To acknowledge our impotent stance before powers external to us is perhaps a hallmark of humility and wisdom, developed over years of hard experience.

This question of fate stands steadfastly in the center of the Coen Brothers' No Country for Old Men (2007), a serious, yet darkly humorous, crime thriller which recently won the Academy Award for Best Picture. We begin our tale with Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin), a Vietnam Vet living in Texas in 1980. While hunting solo in the desert, he makes an unusual find: several abandoned vehicles, a bunch of dead people, one (barely) live person, and a very large amount of cash. Clearly, Llewelyn has stumbled upon the results of a drug deal gone sour, and he has a classic moral choice to make: call the cops or take the money and run. (Viewers may remember a similar plot structure in Sam Raimi's A Simple Plan [1998].) Of course, Llewelyn chooses the latter (if he didn't, we wouldn't have much of a plot, would we?).

At first blush, it seems that Llewelyn has stumbled upon a gold mine: assuming the lone survivor doesn't live much longer in the desert heat, then there are no witnesses to his theft. However, he subsequently makes a choice that is arguably both moral and stupid, a choice which exposes his tracks to other parties interested in the loot. Enter Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem), an expert tracker and killer who learns of Llewelyn's absconding with the cash. Anton is not a man with whom to mess around. Besides a large shotgun, his preferred weapon is a high-pressured oxygen tank that he is unafraid to use against door locks, people, and others who get in his way. Much of No Country for Old Men consists of a cat-and-mouse chase between Llewelyn and Anton through the seedy underside of the U.S.-Mexico border.

When he's not killing people and hunting Llewelyn, Anton seems to be honing a fatalistic philosophy that explains his actions. Despite the fear that his mere presence induces in those who know him, he implicitly sees himself as simply one part of a larger drama beyond anyone's control. He is destined to be wherever he ends up and to do whatever he ends up doing; in short, he is destined to kill.

One of his favorite instruments is the simple coin toss, which he invokes twice in the film to determine whether to kill a potential victim. While we commonly regard a coin toss as an instrument of chance, one also can see within it a fatalistic quality. Anton uses it to determine whether he is destined to kill somebody: the coin becomes for him a metaphysical lens by which he interprets reality and his function within it. When Llewellyn's wife, Carla Jean (Kelly Macdonald), protests that "The coin don't have no say. It's just you," he responds, "Well, I got here the same way the coin did."

At this point, it might seem that such talk of fatalism is simply an excuse. Of course, Anton does have a choice; there is nobody putting a gun to his head and forcing him to rack up victims. Llewelyn, too, had a choice: if he had not taken the money, then the probability of his becoming Anton's prey would have been low (though, given Anton's propensity for killing seemingly random people, it would not have been zero). Yet, at some practical level, this talk of choice becomes moot. Llewelyn did take the money and now has to deal with the consequences; he has new choices to make, but no amount of "what if" thought experiments will change the underlying reality of his situation. In regards to Anton: his philosophical framework is firmly in place, so no amount of lecturing about "choices" will change the fact that if he feels destined to kill a certain person in a certain place at a certain time, then so be it.

The inevitability of such violence and injustice does, of course, wear down those who actively seek a different path. The local sheriff, Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones), seeks to find Llewellyn before Anton gets to him; however, this case, like so many others, doesn't give him reason to rejoice in the human condition. Year in and year out, he sees people at their worst, and the futility of his career becomes unmistakable. If Llewelyn can't change the fact that he's running for his life because he took drug money, and if Anton's mind is fixed on his "destiny" as a purveyor of death, then why should Ed see his lot—his inevitable impotence in the face of injustice—any differently?

All of this talk about fatalism and futility is perhaps depressing. However, the recognition that we are participants in a reality much bigger than we is perhaps the first step in recalibrating our overly inflated images of ourselves. We are special insofar as God loves each one of us, but we are not special in relation to broader events that swirl all around us. We are not the center of our universe, and we cannot mitigate all of the unforeseen circumstances that press upon us. In his own (albeit immoral) way, Anton reminds us that life occasionally comes down to something as simple, fleeting, and unpredictable as a coin toss — a coin toss that has been years in the making.

Gone Baby Gone: Bad Mother! No Kid for You!

2008-03-23T22:31:00.000-05:00

This review was originally published on cinekklesia on February 28, 2008.

A friend at work recently castigated me for noting how different the career trajectories have been for Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, even though they both made their (early) claims to fame with Good Will Hunting. According to my friend, Matt has no special talents of note, so any denigration of Ben is simply unwarranted. I'll grant that Matt Damon is not a great actor—decent but nothing to write home about—but doesn't he have a little more to brag about than his cinematic colleague? After all, Matt didn't get involved in projects like Reindeer Games and Gigli. (I admit that I haven't seen either one — but do I need to?)

Thus, I was mildly hesitant to rent Gone Baby Gone (2007), Affleck's directorial debut. However, Netflix's algorithm assured me that based on my ratings of other films, I would enjoy this thriller, and the algorithm (again) proved correct. Like any good crime drama that goes beyond the salacious, Gone Baby Gone works on different levels: one can enjoy it as a simple kidnapping tale with unexpected twists and turns, or one can appreciate the moral quandary of its main character, who must contend with the question of who is "good enough" to care for their own children. At any level, Gone Baby Gone serves as a hopeful sign that Mr. Affleck's career has some promising days ahead.

In our movie, the director's brother, Casey, plays Patrick Kenzie, a Boston-based private investigator who specializes in hunting down debt-ridden deadbeats. He and his girlfriend/investigative partner, Angie (Michelle Monaghan), are commissioned to conduct a supplemental investigation into the kidnapping of Amanda McCready (Madeline O'Brien) — something for which they have no prior experience. I say "supplemental" because the police are already conducting their own investigation, but Amanda's aunt, Bea (Amy Madigan), wants the PIs to rummage through Boston's underworld—those who would have nothing to do with the cops (at least voluntarily)—in order to dig for more information. Patrick soon finds himself a wee bit over his head, as his snooping turns up inconvenient facts that make this simple kidnapping case anything but.

You'll notice that I mentioned the victim's aunt as the one who sought out the private investigators. You see, the girl's mother, Helene (Amy Ryan, who was nominated for an Academy Award for her performance), isn't quite up to snuff. She likes to drink. She likes to carouse. She's a barfly with a foul mouth. She's also known in the neighborhood as the powder-cocaine equivalent of the proverbial "crack whore." She also happens to be Amanda's legal guardian.

Besides fear of the terrible things that potentially await Amanda, the audience is invited to feel disgust at Helene. Right at the beginning, we question her maternal fitness when we see Amanda's room: bare, dreary, and not particularly well lit (Patrick jokingly questions whether the assailants took off with the furniture, as well). Throughout the course of Gone Baby Gone, we learn more of Helene's regular interactions with Boston's seedier elements and realize that Amanda's pre-kidnapping environment was, to put it nicely, not particularly healthy.

Thus, our movie cleverly presents us with an inverse relationship: as its mysteries slowly untangle and become more clear, the moral conundrums become thornier. Specifically: Who has the rightful claim to parenthood? By default, we privilege biological parents, which intuitively makes sense. However, we also have come to take claims of child abuse and neglect very seriously, and Americans are well aware of cases in which the state wrests a child from a bad home for his/her "own good." (The recent drama surrounding Britney Spears' parenting—or lack thereof—is perhaps the most famous example.)

Yet, even as the characters confront the question of parental rights, Gone Baby Gone presents us with a relatively simple characterization of Helene, one that makes it easy for audience members to judge her as horribly deficient. However, that characterization masks an underlying ambiguity. After all, one's fitness for parenting is an ultimately arbitrary question. Where does one draw the line between the acceptable and unacceptable caregiver? As the totalitarian reach of the nanny state grows, this question becomes more important since there is no logical limit to the criteria that governments can establish for "proper" parenting. If a father lets his child drink two liters of Coke a day, should the local DSS raid his house? How about a mother who is a member of Ku Klux Klan and who teaches racist ideology at home? Is she, in some way, a danger to her children?

On a related vein, the question of whether biology should take primacy is also arbitrary. As mentioned, we tend to privilege biological parents, but as we see with Helene, nature is no guarantee of good nurture. It is disconcerting that we make the process of adoption so onerous—even for parents who have the means and the desire to raise a child—while implicitly assuming that those who have a kid the old-fashioned way are "ready" for parenthood. When one hears of cases of biological parenting gone awry, one can't help but wonder whether our obsession with genetic primacy is actually harmful for children.

While family-related issues are thorny, it is interesting how most of the characters in Gone Baby Gone easily make up their minds in the case of Helene and move on with their lives. It is the lead character, Patrick Kenzie, who evinces an inner struggle, unsatisfied with the options before him but nevertheless compelled to make a moral decision (or at least to choose the lesser evil). Because Patrick cares so deeply about this case, he ultimately becomes undone by it, proving the cynical wisdom of Clare Boothe Luce's famous quotation: "No good deed goes unpunished."

So it appears that a talented artist resides in Ben Affleck after all. In Gone Baby Gone, he has crafted an engaging crime thriller with the requisite lowlifes, crooked cops, and downbeat ambience — along with some probing moral questions. Here's hoping that Mr. Affleck continues to produce fine films in his post-J. Lo phase.

The Gleaners and I: The Ethics of Dumpster Diving

2008-03-23T19:56:00.001-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on February 12, 2008.

For six years you shall sow your land and gather in its yield; but the seventh year you shall let it rest and lie fallow, so that the poor of your people may eat; and what they leave the wild animals may eat. You shall do the same with your vineyard, and with your olive orchard" (Exodus 23:10-1, NRSV).

My wife has told me the story of a student at our alma mater who, in the course of her adolescence, never learned how to do laundry. When she got to college, she apparently had no idea what to do with clothes that she had just worn. Thus, she simply would throw them out and buy new ones. When the housekeeping staff learned of this, they took it upon themselves to teach the young woman how to use the university-provided washers and dryers.

Besides the discomfiting image of low-paid service personnel teaching a woman of privilege a basic hygienic practice, the story is shocking because of the sheer waste. Can you imagine throwing away clothes every week just to turn around and buy new ones? Even if one could afford to do so, it just seems so utterly stupid and disrespectful not to reuse something designed for the long haul. It's one thing not to finish all of the food on one's plate, but it's quite another not to launder one's underwear!

In its own distinct way, Agnès Varda's The Gleaners and I (2000)—a.k.a., Les Glaneurs et la glaneuse—tackles the question of waste from the perspective of those who fight against it, whether out of sheer necessity or for moral reasons. Using Jean-François Millet's famous 1857 painting as a springboard, Varda travels around France with her digital video camera, searching for modern gleaners in locales both rural and urban. She meets a wide array of people who are refreshingly honest about why they do what they do and who implicitly challenge us to consider our own wasteful habits.

Varda begins with gleaners of the traditional variety: those who pick the produce left behind after the harvesters have made their run. In the course of a regular harvest, both humans and machines leave behind vast amounts of food, whether due to oversight or aesthetics (after all, the produce that we see in our grocery stores has to be "pleasing to the eye"). The gleaners Varda runs into pick such food for a variety of reasons: some have perfectly stable finances but have fun picking free food (who said thrift was dead?), while others simply pick to survive. Varda focuses on one particular man, estranged from his family, living in a camper, and scrounging for food in fields and dumpsters. While he gleans out of necessity, he also learns quickly that the pickings aren't all that bad, especially the packaged foods that businesses so readily throw away to make room for new inventory.

The most interesting subjects in Varda's study are those who choose to eat discarded food for moral reasons. In Paris, Varda spends a lot of time with an intelligent man who seems as though he "should" be conventionally successful. Nevertheless, he lives in public housing, makes money by selling magazines to commuters, and consumes almost all of his calories from an outdoor market's leftover produce. Varda waits with her camera for the market to close and spots our underemployed subject, picking up food from the ground, packing much of it in his bag, and eating the rest "on the go." While his dining habits may make the stomachs of the queasy churn, he makes a good point that the food is still perfectly safe (it was just on sale an hour or two prior, after all). Why should it go to waste? (If you're interested in dumpster diving as an intentional lifestyle, then check out Wikipedia's article on Freeganism. Thanks to my wife for informing me of this ideology.)

Of course, France is not simply an agricultural nation, and transferring the idea of gleaning to a post-industrial society requires analyzing our non-food throwaways, as well. This part of dumpster diving is probably more agreeable, as it involves non-perishable items: clothes, furniture, electronics, and the like. Even though Web sites like eBay and craigslist have made it easier than ever to unload our old stuff on willing takers, we still pitch a lot. In Varda's movie, we meet a man who references a brochure containing his municipality's schedule for leaving large, discarded items on the curb. He then bikes to the relevant neighborhood at night and rummages through his fellow citizens' refuse before the garbage collectors arrive. (He has to be quick, though, since he spots other post-industrial gleaners on the prowl for free stuff.)

Of course, as with discarded food, the non-food items still have life left in them. Much of what we pitch isn't broken, per se — just old. Like businesses, we, too, make room for upgrades: new clothes for a new "life stage," new furniture for a new home, new computers with even more speed, memory, and features. The post-industrial gleaners take advantage of their fellow citizens' throwaway habits, finding objects both practical and whimsical amidst the rubble.

Yet, one cannot help but notice that these scavenging heroes are perhaps engaging in a vice of their own: hoarding. No, I'm not talking about hoarding in a greedy sense; rather, the desperate revulsion that the post-industrial gleaner experiences at the site of waste translates into a messy abode full of, well, trash. There's only so much "found art" that one can produce before the aesthetics of such art become overwhelmed by sheer clutter. While our wasteful lifestyles are scandalous, I'm not sure what purpose is served by scavenging for the sake of scavenging — after all, once the scavenger passes away, what happens to his/her pile of stuff?

Nevertheless, the gleaners—those who do it for survival and those who do it in protest—have an important lesson to teach us. By their very actions, they shine a light on the rest of us, giving us reason to pause, take stock (literally), and see what we could re-use, recycle, or give away. One of the scavengers in Varda's film argues that waste is a sign of disrespect for the worker who initially produced the items we're throwing away. I'll take it a step further and argue that waste is a sign of disrespect for God's Creation. I wouldn't say that dumpster diving is a morally necessary activity; however, it would be good to make sure that our dumpsters weren't so full in the first place.

Postscript

It appears that The Gleaners and I was quite a hit in France. Varda made a short sequel titled Two Years Later (available on the same disc), which followed up with the more memorable subjects from the original, while documenting the fun and quirky fan mail our director received.

Zoolander: Man of Substance?

2008-03-01T22:27:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on January 20, 2008.

I freely admit that I am a shallow man. I used to think that I was "deep," that I was somehow above the grubby, materialist horde. However, when the materialism of this world proved not only pleasurable but even edifying, then my original hopes for leading a profound life dissipated. You see, right at the moment that one decides to pursue a good, service, or experience that is beyond the simplest and least expensive—when one has the means to move beyond the inferior good—then he/she has entered (probably irrevocably) the materialist realm.

How did this come to be? I suppose that I could blame, in part, my spouse, who introduced me to various culinary delights that surpassed what had been a staple meal in my bachelor days: elbow macaroni noodles (store brand) with canned Parmesan cheese (store brand). However, we also happen to live in a culture that is so wealthy, knowledgeable, and connected that many of us don't have to settle for basic, "inferior" goods; the materialist life is, in fact, the de facto life.

In many respects, Ben Stiller's Zoolander (2001) mirrors our current age. While the movie, at one level, mocks our culture's fascination with appearance, healthy living, and self-actualization, it also subtly encourages those very elements.

Stiller plays Derek Zoolander, a male model who fits all of the stereotypes that term connotes: he is shallow, body-centric, and a complete intellectual lightweight. He thrives on media attention and is always concerned with finding the appropriate "after party" to attend. However, when he loses VH1's award for male model of the year to rising star Hansel (Owen Wilson)—after having won in prior years—he begins to look at his existence in a different light. Perhaps there is "more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking." He then spends much of the rest of the movie stumbling around for direction: he tries to reconnect with his coal-mining family, and he even comes up with an idea for a non-profit organization — the Derek Zoolander Center for Children Who Can't Read Good and Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too.

Besides Zoolander's existential quest, we have other subplots threading their way through the movie. Will Ferrel plays Mugatu, the narcissistic designer who has been commissioned by his fashion-executive overlords to assassinate the leader of Malaysia — whose child-labor-busting crusade threatens their profits. (Mugatu's weapon of choice is, of course, Zoolander, who is brainwashed to serve as a sleeper agent.) Christine Taylor is Matilda Jeffries, the Time reporter trying to uncover the fashion industry's dark side, while David Duchovny performs an X-Files-inspired cameo as J.P. Prewitt, a model turned conspiracy theorist, who has collected evidence on how male models are the real agents of change in world history.

Ultimately, though, the focus of the movie is Zoolander and his shallow, stupid ways. Yet, we should ask ourselves: do we find him funny because he is so different from us, or because we recognize in him our 21st-century consumer culture and the ways in which it enmeshes us? For example, when Zoolander's male-model roommates offer to take him out for an Orange Mocha Frappuccino® in order to take his mind off his troubles, we laugh at their suggestion's innate frivolity — as though a chilled beverage was all that he needed. Besides, there is something shallow about the beverage itself: it's one thing to go out for a cappuccino or mocha (which have a sufficiently long culinary history), but to throw in orange flavor, mix it with ice, and call it a "frap" is far too cute, faddish, and ephemeral. However, if we honestly examined our own beverage consumption, then we probably would find our fair share of specialty coffees or other non-nutritional products.

Another example: when Zoolander visits his coal-mining family, they see one of his television ads, a spot for Aveda in which he dons a mermaid—um...merMAN—outfit, swims around, and utters these provocative words: "Moisture is the essence of wetness, and wetness is the essence of beauty." Of course, it's a spoof of the utterly pretentious marketing often found in the "beauty" industry, and we laugh at how the models treat their ridiculous poses (a merman outfit?) as high forms of human expression. However, I'm the first to admit that I use moisturizer on my hands during these cold and dry winter months. Does that make me less manly? Or, am I simply following a contemporary trend that eschews the slovenly male who barely understands basic hygiene, let alone skin care?

Thus, underneath the obvious satire, Zoolander displays what designers and other trend setters have long known: at some point, the ephemeral becomes the substantial. One can just look at the U.S. consumer landscape to see how much has changed over the past couple of decades. For example, higher quality coffee has moved from independent, boutique establishments to chain cafes and on to general supermarkets. Organic food has moved from farmers' markets to the trend-setting Whole Foods and on to Wal-Mart(!). While quality coffee and organic foods were once regarded as fads of both the culinary avant-garde and self-righteous do-gooders—and not something for real, working people of substance—they now have become assimilated into the wider consciousness.

So what are we to make of this? At one level, this is simply inevitable: in a market economy, goods often move from elite to mass status (think of something as "basic" as indoor plumbing). Plus, as I mentioned before, once one decides to pursue a good or service beyond the bare minimum, then he/she has entered the ranks of the materialist, however slightly. Yet, before we bemoan our excess and exchange our Frappuccinos® for hair shirts, perhaps we should remember the Apostle Paul's caution against self-denial based on a worldly asceticism (Col. 2:20-3). The sin does not lie in the Frappuccino®, per se, but in our attitude towards it.

Thus, while Zoolander (in its own way) documents current trends in American consumer culture and the options that make up our daily material landscape, it also (gently) criticizes the attitudes of the "cutting edge" tastemakers. Their shallowness, frivolity, and narcissism are quite evident throughout the film and are worthy of mockery. In short, go ahead and use the moisturizer that the male model peddles; just don't be like that model.

Helvetica and Manufactured Landscapes: The Triumph of Emotions?

2008-02-09T11:51:00.000-05:00

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

At some point in my life, I learned to distrust emotions (or, more colloquially, feelings). Emotions, after all, were fleeting, fickle, and prone to manipulation. They were also morally problematic: I could feel that a course of action was correct when, in fact, it was morally detrimental. Only when tempered and molded by an a priori list of dispassionate principles could emotions serve any beneficial end. Otherwise, they were to be relegated to the sidelines of one's life and faith.

Such a perspective can serve a useful purpose, especially when we are in danger of allowing our emotions to get the better of us, dictating every aspect of our lives. However, an excessive distrust of emotions—along with an excessive reliance on a priori rationality—seems to serve as a denial of who we are: whether we like it or not, we are emotional creatures, created by a God who exhibits those very same emotions.

Two recent documentaries implicitly play with the idea of human feelings—specifically, our responses to the aesthetic—and demonstrate that emotions are not simply one attribute among many in the human condition, but perhaps the overriding attribute.

The first documentary is Gary Hustwit's Helvetica (2007). Yes, that's right: someone has made an entire documentary about a font. However, what makes Helvetica special is its pervasiveness: from corporate logos to magazine advertisements to street signs, the Swiss-designed typeface is simply the font of choice for designers everywhere. No, designers don't always use Helvetica, but its simple and modern construction makes it an easy choice. Easy choices become defaults. Defaults become the way we "intrinsically" look at the world — which, for all practical purposes, becomes the way the world is.

Hustwit's is an outstanding documentary because it not only illuminates the pervasiveness of Helvetica—thus allowing us to spot it in our own surroundings—but it also positions the font within a wider sociological context. Helvetica arose in post-War Europe, at a time when designers were looking to break from the horrors of fascism and genocide. They wanted a fresh aesthetic to match their desire for a new world. Helvetica fit nicely within their milieu: the font looked clean, crisp, sophisticated, and forward-looking. In the United States, Helvetica was seen as a breath of fresh air within marketing circles. Graphic design in the 1950's was a horribly cluttered melange of ugly typeface and tacky images. When Helvetica came along, it allowed marketers to revamp their ads and to present their clients in a cleaner, sharper light.

As the use of Helvetica spread, however, it became an object of scorn for some designers who saw it as stifling originality and creativity. Since it was seemingly everywhere, Helvetica became seen as the "establishment" font. Designers rebelled by creating alternatives, and in the 90's, some were inspired by the "grunge" aesthetic, producing edgy (and perhaps unreadable) typefaces.

In the end, however, Helvetica has proven triumphant. Designers have returned to the ol' reliable, realizing that it is not only a well designed font, but perhaps the best font ever devised (seriously). As such, it appears that our built environment will continue to be dominated by Helvetica, and we won't even notice since its elegant simplicity just seems to blend effortlessly into our everyday objects. As a clean and simple part of our visual landscape, Helvetica seems to provide us with a subconscious level of utility and pleasure — in short, Helvetica persists because it feels right.

Jennifer Baichwal's Manufactured Landscapes (2006) also examines our emotional responses to the aesthetic world, but it takes the opposite perspective by exploring what feels horribly wrong. Baichwal's documentary traces the work of photographer Edward Burtynsky, who has made a career of capturing images that evoke awe, shock, and even horror among viewers. He focuses on how humans have altered their surroundings through mining and manufacturing and argues that we have every reason to define those surroundings as landscapes — albeit "artificial," non-traditional, and (to most) ugly.

In recent years, Burtynsky has done a lot of work in China, since that country's industrial boom has resulted in unprecedented levels of environmental change. The scale of mining and manufacturing in China is simply mind-boggling: what impressed me most were Burtynsky's work on Chinese coal mining [see picture] and the construction of the infamous Three Gorges Dam [see picture], both of which exhibit China's insatiable demand for energy. Burtynsky sees his role as that of environmental documentarian, recording the seemingly inevitable result of combining globalization with China's intense economic growth.

To his credit, Burtynsky doesn't overly politicize his work. He notes that he prefers to let viewers internalize the images on their own terms, to reach conclusions at their own pace. The movie itself follows this philosophy, as we hear relatively little dialogue and spend most of our time looking at both Burtynsky's work style and his finished products. (The lack of dialogue turned out to be helpful in my case since—through a usability problem with my DVD—I missed a chunk of the English subtitles.)

Yet, Burtynsky's avoidance of overt political commentary doesn't obscure his underlying message. It is obvious that he finds highly troubling the way in which we have altered our landscapes, and China is simply a newer, faster (much faster) variation on our old industrial practices. Burtynsky also knows his audience; he knows that most Westerners who see his photographs will be disturbed at the sheer destruction and waste created by a world that is increasingly dependent on both old-school energy (e.g., coal, hydroelectric power) and new electronic products (e.g., computers) full of toxic materials. Burtynsky doesn't have to say much because his pictures by themselves produce the desired emotional response.

So is our tendency to be easily swayed by emotional responses a bad thing? Marketers (like those who rely so heavily on Helvetica) want us to feel good about their clients, regardless of what those clients may or may not do. Activists and artists, on the other hand, often want to make us a feel bad in order to wake us from our doldrums so that we campaign for change. At some level, marketers and activists are engaging in the same practice, convincing (manipulating?) us to follow a particular line of thinking. Thus, there are many times in which it is helpful to have an a priori list of principles so as to test the feelings and images that bombard us each day.

On the other hand, we also must be wary of an excessive skepticism in the face of emotions. After all, just because X produces an emotional response in us doesn't mean that it and/or the response are wrong. The response could simply complement what we already know about X. Strong feelings should provoke us to investigate: Why do we feel as we do? Are our feelings justified? Are we receiving a holistic picture, or do our feelings result from a partial (maybe skewed) perspective? Thus, I recommend both Helvetica and Manufactured Landscapes not only because they are fascinating, but because they provide us with an opportunity to investigate more deeply our emotional lives.

Pierrepoint: The Last Hangman

2008-02-07T23:05:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 17, 2007.

At the risk of sounding like a relic of the 1800s, I sometimes wonder whether the rest of the industrial/post-industrial world looks upon the United States as a land of savagery. After all, we seem to have a predilection towards explicit violence in almost every facet of our social life. We engage in military adventures around the world, maintain a relatively high murder rate, and consume violent media in the form of movies, television, and video games. Plus, despite official pronouncements to the contrary, we also seem to engage in torture—um, enhanced interrogation techniques—a practice that does not seem to cohere with "advanced" culture (we even revel in the practice of torture in our prime-time entertainment).

There is also, of course, the death penalty. The United States holds the distinction of being a rare (perhaps the only) wealthy, industrialized country to kill a certain class of prisoners deemed "worthy" of the punishment. For sure, there is great debate about the practice—often surrounding the question of whether various methods are "cruel and unusual" and thus, unconstitutional—but there is not a sufficient enough opposition to bring about a speedy end to capital punishment. If most Americans found the death penalty to be simply wrong, then it wouldn't be too hard to pass legislation banning it. However, a large enough percentage supports the practice, despite the controversies surrounding it, and thus it persists, contributing to America's violent reputation.

As such, it is instructive, perhaps, to watch a movie about the last days of capital punishment in another country. No, I'm not talking about a documentary or a heavy-handed polemic; the movie I have in mind is Adrian Shergold's Pierrepoint (2005)—a.k.a., The Last Hangman—a biopic about one of the most "successful" executioners in the United Kingdom. Timothy Spall plays Albert Pierrepoint, who most people know as a local deliveryman, but who also moonlights for the correctional system. Following in his father's footsteps, Pierrepoint regularly receives notices in the mail about impending executions throughout the country. When duty calls, he travels to the appropriate prison, carries out the task at hand, and receives his monetary compensation — a supplement to the income from his day job.

At first, Pierrepoint is portrayed in a troubling light. He's a little too good at his job, and he makes it his goal to be the fastest hangman in the country: the "ideal" execution takes literally just seconds. (After all, the condemned have had substantial time to think about their impending death, so why prolong the final, agonizing moments?) When asked about how he manages his job, the specifics of which are—even to those who support capital punishment—troubling and distasteful, Pierrepoint is very upfront about it: he simply maintains a divided self. The person who binds the prisoners' hands, puts the rope around their necks, covers their heads with a hood, and pulls the lever to release the trap door — that person is not Albert Pierrepoint, you see. He is simply a nameless agent of the state, carrying out a dirty but necessary job. When that agent leaves the prison, he returns to his prior identity as the local deliveryman that everyone knows and loves.

Is Pierrepoint professional? Absolutely. Cold? Perhaps. Heartless? Actually, no. The movie takes great pains to show Pierrepoint as a highly moral and even compassionate man. He takes the idea of payment seriously: once the condemned have paid their price, then their sins are forgiven. As far as society is concerned, the guilty return to a prior, innocent status, and the living have no moral right to speak ill of them. He treats the bodies of the condemned with great care and respect, and he demands that each one be buried in a proper coffin.

One of the moral debates surrounding capital punishment concerns the question of whether it really enacts justice or is simply an instrument of vengeful bloodlust. Presumably, justice has a dispassionate, even somber, quality that is distinct from the clamor of the angry mob. It is clear that from Pierrepoint's perspective, his actions serve the higher cause of justice — which explains his calm, professional demeanor. When the British government commissions him to carry out the post-World War II executions of Nazi war criminals, he makes it a point not to dwell on the atrocities committed by the prisoners; even in a situation of war, when all of Britain is (understandably) incensed at the death and destruction wrought by the Nazi regime, Pierrepoint conducts his job with poise, dignity, and respect.

Does Pierrepoint have anything to say about current American debates regarding the death penalty? At one level, proponents could look at Britain's "last hangman" and argue that it is possible to carry out executions in a way that promotes justice, eschews vengeance, and treats with respect the humanity of the condemned. However, that position would have to ignore the psychological toll that is undergone by the executioner. After years of practicing his "craft," Pierrepoint starts to come apart. Because he does care about human dignity, his moonlighting gig eventually has to affect him. Not many people can maintain the "split" personalities that are required in order to engage in distasteful activities in private while "keeping up appearances" in the public square. To his credit, Pierrepoint could not maintain his double life indefinitely. Again, to use the outdated terminology, he could not reconcile the "civilization" and "savagery" warring inside him.

Of course, the Bible does not condemn executions—and in some cases, capital punishment is actually prescribed—so it is hard to make a theological case for opposing the practice outright (thus, I am not opposed to the death penalty intrinsically). However, there is plenty of reason to oppose its current administration in the United States. Many death-row inmates have faced biased juries, overworked or incompetent counsel, and corrupt prosecutors — and yes, innocent people have been convicted. If we are going to have a death penalty, then we at least can demand that it be carried out in a fair, competent manner.

Thus, in our current climate, it seems that a moratorium is a reasonable request, an opportunity to find out why and how innocent folks end up behind bars and to mitigate the incompetence and corruption in our correctional system. Death-penalty proponents argue that a moratorium is simply a back-door method to end executions outright, and perhaps that is true. However, by their very position, moratorium opponents send two messages to the world: either (a) they are ignorant of the reality of wrongful convictions or (b) they don't care. The latter, of course, simply evinces an excessive utilitarianism that, at its most extreme, is expressed by the old adage: "Kill them all. Let God sort them out."

If Albert Pierrepoint found it difficult to continue executing prisoners—even with the professional poise that he brought to the practice—and if he found that he could not, in good conscience, maintain his alternate life as a facilitator of death, then perhaps it would be wise for Americans to rethink capital punishment. While it may not be intrinsically wrong from a Biblical standpoint and while it is possible to administer it justly, we must admit that the current state of affairs is far from just. If we continue the status quo and ignore the substantial problems that plague the death penalty, then we simply confirm what many suspect of the United States: that it is a land of self-righteous hypocrisy, an outpost of savagery in the industrialized world.

One Hour Photo: Gluttony, Envy, Idolatry

2007-12-21T13:42:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-18T21:33:00.000-05:00

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.

The Host: Monster Movie with a Message

2007-10-13T10:05:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 7, 2007.

There are several different ways by which a director can craft social/political satire. One is to produce subtle criticism that is woven into the larger fabric of the movie, so that the satire is neither explicit nor obvious. While the director faces the prospect of the audience missing the point, he/she nevertheless can escape the charge of producing a heavy-handed, contrived piece of commentary. After all, the director can claim that any satirical element that the audience may find is inadvertent: he/she is just trying to tell a story, and if the audience interprets a portion of it satirically, then so be it.

Joon-ho Bong's The Host (2006) appears to follow that subtle method of satire. While his commentary is not completely "hidden" (it doesn't take much effort to find it), it is also not an integral part of the film. One simply can watch it "on the surface" and take it as a modern interpretation of the classic monster movie (or, more specifically, the big-monster-causes-havoc-in-large-urban-setting movie).

One of the chief virtues of The Host (a.k.a., Gwoemul) is its slightly irreverent style. The main characters stem from a Korean family that is not dysfunctional per se, but nevertheless quirky and off-key. Park Hie-bong (Hie-bong Byeon) is the patriarch, a snack vendor who sets up shop next to the Han River in Seoul. He has three children: Park Gang-Du (Kang-ho Song), who won't be winning any prizes for acumen or effort (at the beginning of the movie, we see him sleeping on the job in his father's mobile store); Park Nam-il (Hae-il Park), an active member of the democracy movement in his college days who now finds himself unemployed and constantly drinking; and Park Nam-Joo (Du-na Bae), a competitive archer. He has one granddaughter: Park Hyun-seo (Ah-sung Ko), whose mother left her dad (Park Gang-Du) a long time ago.

One bright and sunny day, the Seoul residents relaxing by the Han notice that something strange is lurking beneath the surface. To their surprise and horror, it turns out to be an enormous mutant creature that unfortunately is no herbivore. It jumps out of the river and causes massive chaos, chasing and killing people. Of course, The Host follows the classic aesthetic of the monster movie, in which hundreds of extras scream, shout, and run frantically away from the Godzilla wannabe — though, compared to this monster, Godzilla looks like a cuddly teddy bear.

In the mayhem, Park Gang-Du loses his daughter, and he sees her getting pulled into the river by the monster, presumably to drown and/or get eaten. Her family is utterly crushed. They, along with anyone else having contact with the monster, are quarantined, and they have nothing to look forward to but days of grieving and government-administered medical procedures. However, in the course of his woe, Park Gang-Du receives a brief, frantic cell phone call from his daughter. She is alive, and her family must find a way to escape the quarantine and to track the girl within the maze of the metropolitan sewer system.

So how does The Host provide political commentary? Right at the beginning, we find out how such a mutant came to exist. A U.S. military doctor (remember: the United States still has a large military presence in the country) orders an underling to dump dozens of bottles of a toxin down the drain. Of course, such a practice goes against regulation, and the substance is bound to end up in the water supply, but the doctor doesn't seem to care. The toxin mixes with the organic compounds in the river, and years later we see the result: a big, scary monster. (It is not clear why there is only one big, scary monster since presumably, the toxin would have affected numerous aquatic creatures. However, now is not the time to quibble.)

Even though the U.S. has created this minor problem for one of its East Asian allies, South Korea ultimately cannot rely on the U.S. to fix it. Instead, the country's best hope lies, of course, with its native sons and daughter: the brave, courageous—though slightly quirky—family trying to rescue one of its own. It is hard not to notice a sense of national pride coming through this film. The United States' half-century presence on the Korean peninsula has not been without controversy, of course, and there is something anachronistic about the Cold War divide between Seoul and Pyongyang. If there is a problem lurking on the peninsula—could North Korea's Kim Jong-il be the "monster" in question?—then according to the film, it can (and should) be solved by Koreans. In The Host, we see that the family has the energy and resources to tackle even the biggest problem. (The alcoholic son, in particular, puts his skills at throwing Molotov cocktails—honed during his student-protest days—to good use.)

(It is important to note, however, that any national pride in The Host is low-key. After all, the movie is funny and irreverent, and—as a co-worker of mine pointed out—it seems to have fun playing a bit on Korean stereotypes. Just because you're proud of your country doesn't mean you can't poke fun at it.)

Thus, while social/political satire easily can be found in The Host, it is by no means heavy-handed, and the subtle commentary takes up a relatively small portion of the film. If all you want is an old-school monster movie with a Korean twist, then Joon-ho Bong delivers nicely.

Air Guitar Nation: The Apex of Civilization?

2007-09-23T16:05:00.000-05:00

This review was first published on cinekklesia on September 22, 2007.

One of my first exposures to the world of competitive air guitar came on a 2004 business trip to Atlanta. I was on my flight, thumbing through the airline's magazine, when I saw a British journalist's article regarding the most recent Air Guitar World Championships in Oulu, Finland. Aah, but the journalist was not merely reporting; he was a participant, proudly representing his country in the relatively new (but increasingly popular) art form. I was fascinated. The competition's organizers had taken what some less-innovative minds might consider a mere "joke" and turned it into a full-fledged artistic discipline. If air guitar is not a joke, if it has established itself as an art form, then could it signal the apex of civilization as we know it? Have we finally reached the pinnacle of human achievement?

Enter Alexandra Lipsitz's Air Guitar Nation (2006), which doesn't answer such profound civilizational questions, but instead provides a helpful introduction to the trailblazing community of would-be rock legends. Specifically, the documentary focuses on the first air-guitar championships in the United States, a country which inexplicably had been missing from the international stage. After all, didn't the U.S. "invent" rock 'n' roll — and, by extension, air guitar? Why had Americans, a competitive lot if there ever was one, not packed their bags for Finland? The organizers of the U.S. competition were hoping to change that.

The two air-guitar maestros that take center stage in Lipsitz's work are David Jung (stage name: C-Diddy) and Dan Crane (a.k.a., Bjorn Turoque — Born to Rock, get it?!). Their rivalry serves as the primary narrative focus of Air Guitar Nation: Jung is the relatively laid-back, happy-go-lucky artist, while Crane is the more serious competitor, determined to take back the honor that he believes Jung undeservedly won at his expense. Along the way, we meet a variety of air guitarists, competition organizers, fans, family members, etc. At the end of the movie, we not only have a good introduction to the air-guitar community, but we just might have the urge to put on a metal album and take a stab at it ourselves.

So, is air guitar the apex of civilization? In one sense, it is. We seemingly have reached the point at which people can take an activity previously relegated to the privacy of one's home—and, more specifically, the privacy of one's bedroom—and perform it publicly, formally, and with artistic merit. It is also not an activity reserved for the rich. While some art forms require one to train for years and to purchase expensive supplies just for the privilege of participating (let alone achieving recognition), air guitar simply requires a little bit of practice and a cheap tape/CD player from a discount store. Think about it. What takes more time and money: playing Beethoven's Piano Concerto No.5 or performing an air-guitar rendition of Motörhead's "Ace of Spades" (featured in the movie)?

Naysayers, of course, would counter that air guitar actually showcases the decline of civilization: the further lowering of artistic standards, the perverse outcome of our seemingly insatiable democratization of culture. The years of training that one must devote to an art form is what makes that art form great; any punk can play air guitar, but only a few can tackle a concerto. As such, we have artistic canons, we have scholars and critics who tell us why something is important, valuable, or simply good. We have standards, and high standards are what make for advanced civilizations.

The naysayers are exhibiting a narrow aesthetic preference: a work that is difficult to perform and that is classified as cultured, refined, and high-brow is worthy of "civilized" praise. There is nothing wrong with this view, since anyone can define "civilization" in any way he/she chooses. However, I argue for a broader view, one that takes into account the socioeconomic conditions that allow for air guitar to develop as its own art form. Air guitar's mere existence actually evinces a healthy civilization: one that is thriving, full of vitality, creativity, and fun. One doesn't have to be a fan of air guitar in order to appreciate its social importance.

Since I'm writing in cinekklesia, I suspect that some readers may remain skeptical. Is air guitar not a waste of time? How does it bring glory to God? (These questions would be heightened by some stereotypical rock 'n' roll behavior portrayed in the movie—as air guitarists take after "real" rock heroes?—which include a little bit of profanity, nudity, and sacrilege.) However, we could ask the same question of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 5 (a piece which I love, by the way): what value does it truly have? Is it not ultimately a waste of time? If one takes a stark, all-or-nothing view of the world, believing that all of its components are fundamentally and irretrievably lost, then neither air guitar nor Beethoven concertos deserve our time and attention.

As such, I must conclude that air guitar is a sign of the apex of human civilization, as distinct from God's Kingdom. I do not find air guitar of intrinsic value, and I know that it very well could end up on the cosmic ash heap once the Eschaton arrives. Nevertheless, we should acknowledge how air guitar signals the vitality and fullness of a civilization in which ordinary people of modest means can participate meaningfully in their society's artistic life. Rock on.

The Eyes of Tammy Faye: A Lesson in Grace

2007-09-09T17:01:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 8, 2007.

It is, perhaps, fitting (maybe even poetic) that Tammy Faye Messner and Jerry Falwell passed away so close to each other. They were two giants of the age of televangelism, a distinct phenomenon in Christian history in which the Gospel—and a whole bunch of other, less savory, messages—have been preached to millions of viewers around the world. At one level, detached scholars may look back on our period and note the importance of televangelism; love it or hate it, one cannot deny its important position within Christian history. On the other hand, the whole phenomenon is prone to a tackiness—and sometimes a meanness—that seem unfit for Our Lord and Savior.

Enter Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato's The Eyes of Tammy Faye (2000), a fascinating, informative, and surprisingly sympathetic portrayal of perhaps the quintessential figure of televangelism. Tammy Faye Bakker (who became Tammy Faye Messner upon remarriage) and husband Jim ran the PTL (Praise the Lord) program, which achieved notoriety in the 1980s for its immense success followed by an equally immense fall due to financial and sexual scandal. The documentary provides lots of interesting tidbits about Jim and Tammy: how they met in Bible college, their early life as itinerant preachers, their shaky start in television, and how PTL developed a niche as a friendly alternative to the more dour, fire-and-brimstone televangelists. We also learn that Tammy Faye went out on a limb as one of the first within the Evangelical tent to embrace those with HIV/AIDS (back when it was known almost exclusively as a "gay man's disease").

Nevertheless, with success often comes excess, and PTL was no exception. Jim and Tammy's empire was huge, with the most visible symbol being Heritage USA, a theme park designed as a Christian parallel to the Disney properties. Near the end of PTL's run, there were some financial, um, problems that forced the Bakkers to work overtime at raising money in order to keep the operation afloat. We also learn that Tammy Faye was abusing meds just to keep her wits about her. Oh, and there was that messy little one-night stand between Jim Bakker and Jessica Hahn. All-in-all, Jim and Tammy's saga ended with a giant thud, as their entire operation imploded from the weight of corruption and adultery.

(By the way, it is very important to note that throughout the documentary, Tammy Faye consistently defended PTL and felt that external actors were out to slander the operation. It is also crucial to note that Jerry Falwell comes across very poorly in the movie, portrayed as a disingenuous vulture, pouncing on the Bakker empire—his rivals—at its weakest moment. Of course, caution would dictate that we remember that the documentary is told largely from Tammy Faye's perspective.)

I remember the field day that journalists and comedians had when the multiple scandals broke. Hypocrisy is, of course, the easiest fodder for critics, and Tammy Faye's personal aesthetic didn't help her cause. The impression that people formed of Tammy Faye—that she was a Christianized version of a "ditzy blonde" with an outlandish lifestyle and shockingly excessive make-up—came to symbolize something hideously wrong with televangelism: namely, its tackiness and corruption. When a group of Christians decided to enter the world of multimedia entertainment, it seemed that they fell prey to all of that world's vices (which forces us to ask: to what extent can Christians enter any secular sphere without becoming sullied?).

Yet, The Eyes of Tammy Faye is about a lot more than the scandal that sent Jim Bakker to prison and Tammy Faye into social and cultural exile. When I first heard about the documentary, I got the impression that it would be a cheeky depiction, full of sarcastic tones and ironic references. It is actually a very compassionate and respectful portrait of a woman who had experienced the whole gamut of human emotion, who had suffered tragedy and humiliation, but who nevertheless persevered with grace and dignity.

In the latter days of her life, after PTL and before her struggle against cancer, Tammy Faye attempted to get back into the entertainment world with varying degrees of success. She continued trying to deal with the emotional effects of PTL's downfall, and one suspects that she knew full well her status as the butt of many a joke in popular culture. However, she also exhibited a grace and compassion that was both admirable and disarming. For example, the documentarians interviewed a journalist who had written a book about PTL's downfall, and they actually had him meet with Tammy Faye on camera. Even though she vigorously challenged his book's claims, she also signed one or two copies (how's that for "no hard feelings?"). Tammy Faye also remained very respectful of Jim Bakker, despite his infidelity and the subsequent divorce; that, too, should provide us with a positive example of how to interact with those who have done us harm.

I'm glad that I watched The Eyes of Tammy Faye. Do I still think that she had a tacky aesthetic? Of course. Do I still look at televangelism with a wary eye? Absolutely. However, Bailey and Barbato have done the world a service by giving us a fuller, more holistic portrait of a woman who learned the meaning of grace and who maintained her faith during the tough times. In that sense, Tammy Faye has taught us all a valuable lesson.

The Lives of Others: The Constancy of Choice

2007-09-03T14:21:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 1, 2007.

If I remember correctly, I initially encountered Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's The Lives of Others (2006) when looking at the list of last year's Oscar nominations. It was nominated for—and eventually won—the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language film. I dutifully put it on my Netflix queue, where it sat many months prior to its official DVD release. It was well worth the wait.

The Lives of Others takes place in the former East Germany of the 1980s, when the state ruled supreme, supported by the infamous Stasi (an internal security agency). The movie specifically focuses on the plight of writers and artists, who essentially had three choices: (1) escape into exile (a risky proposition), (2) speak out against the regime (an equally, if not more, risky proposition), or (3) "get along" with the authorities so as to be able to continue writing, acting, directing, etc.

Donnersmarck presents us with Georg Dreyman (Sebastian Koch), a playwright who has chosen (at least initially) the third option. He's not necessarily happy with the East German regime, and he feels that its treatment of dissident artists is too harsh; nevertheless, for all practical purposes, he toes the line so that he can keep writing. On the other side is Hauptmann Gerd Wiesler (Ulrich Mühe), a hard-line veteran of the Stasi, who suspects Dreyman of subversion and proceeds to have his apartment completely bugged.

Much of the movie shows Dreyman and Wiesler leading parallel, yet intimately connected, lives. Wiesler spends hours sitting in his secret compound, listening to countless details of Dreyman's life: passionate disputes, mundane conversations, sexual encounters. Donnersmarck presents us with a snapshot of how a totalitarian society keeps a lid on its citizens: it not only controls the information that ordinary people consume, but it also keeps tabs on what "subversives" (or potential subversives) are thinking and feeling.

Yet, even in a society as lockstep as the former East Germany, people can (and do) find ways to resist. We see a change in both Dreyman and (more interestingly) Wiesler. After a personal tragedy, Dreyman begins to question whether his accommodation with the state is worth it, especially as he sees the repression that his friends suffer. Wiesler, after hours of eavesdropping into Dreyman's life, begins to feel some sympathy for the writer — not necessarily (or overtly) resulting from ideological conversion, but rather, from simple compassion. Though it is not clear where in Wiesler's psyche resides such sympathy (since he initially is presented as a cold, hard-line Stasi agent), we nevertheless start to see him breaking protocol and "covering" for Dreyman as the writer becomes more politically active.

Besides its wonderful writing and acting, The Lives of Others does what every great movie should do: present old themes in fresh, creative ways. Besides the questions of individualism (and individual privacy) versus state control that Donnersmarck raises, the director forces us to think (again) about the role of choice in morally difficult circumstances. The former East Germany is simply an extreme case of people having to decide whether (a) they like the status quo and actively support it, (b) they don't like it but don't take any action, (c) they don't like it and try to leave, or (d) they don't like it but stay and try to resist.

These options are always available to us at any moment in time — and we don't have to live in a totalitarian regime in order to pursue them. Even in a situation as seemingly benign as an ordinary, everyday job, there exists a status quo and the choice of whether to challenge it or not. If we find it morally problematic, then we have to decide whether to take action or to maintain a low profile and collect the next paycheck. The reality, of course, is that we probably encounter many situations in our everyday lives (not just at work) with which we have moral disagreement but with which we learn to tolerate. Rocking the proverbial boat, after all, comes with consequences — the least of which is the time and effort it takes to resist.

So, at what point does someone take a stand? This, of course, varies between individuals, but a person has to reach a point—consciously or unconsciously—at which the moral question supersedes all others. In other words, the person sees his/her reputation, financial security, and even physical safety as taking a back seat to the moral question. That question becomes the most important thing and maybe the only important thing. For Dreyman, his personal tragedy becomes the moment at which he recognizes both the moral bankruptcy of accommodation and the practical futility of trying to please East Germany's fickle and corrupt cultural overlords.

One thing that we cannot claim is to have no choice. We always have a choice, regardless of how difficult and unpleasant our options may be. As such, at any moment in time, we are doing exactly what we want to do—within our material constraints—whether we care to admit it or not. If we choose to remain in a morally problematic situation or to continue dealing with morally bankrupt people, then we have stated implicitly that we value other things (like financial security) more highly. This may make us feel bad, but we nevertheless should admit to it and either change our ways or learn to live with ourselves.

The questions of morality and resistance are, of course, only a part of Donnersmarck's well-crafted, multi-layered film. I highly recommend The Lives of Others to anybody who cares about complex, sophisticated—yet accessible—filmmaking.

Sicko: Socialism, Capitalism, Health Care

2007-08-26T17:24:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-16T21:37:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-04T12:45:00.000-05:00

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.

Notes on a Scandal: Why Do We Like SCANDAL?

2007-07-20T17:55:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-07-15T17:07:00.000-05:00

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."

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

2007-06-23T10:18:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-09T11:16:00.000-05:00

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.

Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollack?: The Perils of Expertise

2007-05-26T10:50:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on May 21, 2007.

When I was in college, I interned at a small think tank in Washington, DC. One day, the director of my section, one of his staff members, and I were driving through town when the staffer noted how she enjoyed listening to the Diane Rehm Show, a radio talk show based at American University's WAMU. The director indicated that he had no desire to listen to talk radio since he didn't want to hear what the masses thought about foreign policy, as they had no training in the subject (and, presumably, had nothing substantive to contribute). Overall, the director of my section was a nice and considerate man, who certainly had accomplished much in his long career; he also had a very good point about talk radio: much of it simply involves shouting matches between ignorant people. However, if he were to take his sentiments to an extreme, disregarding all amateur opinion simply because it was "unlearned," then he could end up throwing out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.

Such is the lesson of Harry Moses' Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollack? (2006), a documentary about an amateur's struggle to gain a shred of acknowledgment from the Art Establishment. Moses tells the tale of Teri Horton, a retired long-haul trucker in her 70s, who one day made a whimsical purchase in a thrift store. She wanted to a buy a gag gift for a friend, and she encountered a massive painting that she thought looked absolutely hideous (perfect for serving as an ad hoc dart board). The retailer wanted to sell it for $8.00; Horton made a counteroffer, and for $5.00, she walked out of the store with the gift.

Later, a local art teacher told Horton that her painting looked like it could be an original work by Jackson Pollack — to which she responded with the profanity-laced question. Horton has had a hard life since the day she was born, and obtaining higher education has never been an immediate priority (or possibility). Thus, she never had an opportunity to learn about Pollack and how his abstract, drip paintings helped to revolutionize art in the 20th century. However, now retired, she decided to pursue this line of inquiry. Did she have a "genuine" Pollack? If so, how much would it be worth? Through what channels could she sell the work?

What she found was a bunch of closed doors and rude disinterest. Many in the Art Establishment simply did not believe that she could have stumbled upon a genuine Pollack in a thrift store. One collector in the movie indicated that once Pollack's work started fetching astronomical prices, then the artist's paintings would have had to bubble up to the surface, as people would want to cash in. To have a Pollack sitting in a thrift store years after his death was preposterous.

For the movie, Moses brought in Art Establishment types to look at the piece, and the skeptics simply would say that it didn't "feel" like a Pollack. One relied solely on his experience: because he had spent years working in the field, that alone was enough for him to determine whether the piece was genuine. Horton's judgment, on the other hand, could not be trusted because she was, simply put, a nobody.

Yet, Horton had a tool that the art critics did not: science. She hired Peter Paul Biro, a forensic scientist who specializes in authenticating works of art. After laborious analysis, he ended up stumbling upon a finger print on the back of the canvas. He later traveled to Pollack's studio, which is still preserved like a museum artifact, and obtained another print from one of his old paint cans. Voila! A match! He enlisted the aide of one of his colleagues, who confirmed that indeed, the two prints were identical. Case closed, right? Horton had a $50 million Pollack on her hands!

Not exactly. The Art Establishment continued to doubt Horton's claim, making up all sorts of excuses as to why the fingerprint match really didn't prove anything. At this point, we see clearly Moses' point in making this film: to demonstrate the pitfalls in relying too heavily on a priori designations of expertise. Anybody with any degree of "common sense" would know that to doubt the authenticity of Horton's painting is simply stubborn stupidity; after all, as the movie makes clear, the level of evidence that Biro's analysis produced would be enough to send a murder suspect to death row — and yet, it could not authenticate a simple painting?

Expertise, of course, isn't intrinsically wrong. In one sense, it is simply another way of designating "specialization of labor." We can't all be doctors, lawyers, auto mechanics, etc. For the simple purpose of saving time, we have to defer to others, trust their opinions, and let them "take care of it." In many respects, expertise is our way of creating shortcuts and defaults ("Is your computer acting funny? Talk to Joe!") and making our lives more efficient.

Yet, defaults can be problematic. By definition, they require no thought or deliberation, and our reliance on default expertise can prove erroneous. Perhaps the expert has become rusty in his/her field (after all, if it's not our field, then how would we know whether the expert is "keeping up"?). Perhaps he/she has ulterior motives that are so strong, they overpower sober analysis. Finally, the expert is human, after all, and thus, prone to simple, everyday error.

As we were watching the movie, my wife indicated that it seemed that the Art Establishment simply didn't want Teri Horton to be right. They seemed set in their belief that (a) there were no "undiscovered" Pollack works remaining and/or (b) no foul-mouthed trucker could be in possession of such a culturally significant artifact. Despite the forensic evidence (along with other strands of information the movie pieces together), the critics seemed content to wallow in their "expertise" and to deny Horton what appears to be her rightful claim. In other words, their ulterior motives seemed to overpower completely even the most basic analytical skills.

In the movie, we learn that Horton had received offers (in the seven-figures), but she refused them. She knows that the painting is worth at least $50 million, and at this stage, it's really not about the money; it's about intellectual honesty and simple respect. I admire her for sticking to her guns. If nothing else, Horton has taught us that we shouldn't be afraid to ask for a second opinion.

The Island: Incompetent Bioethics

2007-05-19T10:15:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on May 5, 2007.

Dystopian movies can be tricky. The whole point of portraying subsequent eras in a negative light is, of course, to serve as a warning about what could happen to us if we don't change our ways or to make a comment about our present reality through the relatively safe lens of the "future." As with any "message" movie, however, the risk lies in creating a work that is ploddingly didactic or overly simplistic. Unfortunately, Michael Bay's The Island (2005) fails to mitigate this risk, as it takes a potentially interesting and complex question and presents it in a simple-minded fashion.

Ewan McGregor plays Lincoln Six Echo, one of many humans who live in a sterilized environment, completely shut off from the surrounding natural world, which has been irrevocably contaminated by killer pathogens. His living situation is highly regimented, as an essentially totalitarian state has arisen to ensure that the remaining humans survive so they can continue the species. "The Island" refers to the only remaining pathogen-free natural environment on the planet; McGregor and his fellow survivors are entered regularly into a lottery to see who will be able to re-initiate human civilization in that tropical paradise.

In the middle of the movie, Lincoln Six Echo learns that he and his fellow survivors are actually part of a scheme as complicated as the island-colonization plan, but far less pleasant. They are unknowing "subjects" in a massive organ-harvesting regime, serving biological masters ("clients") who live beyond the sterilized walls.

The problems with The Island are many and are best discussed systematically:

1. It is Cinematically Mediocre (at Best)

Despite its bioethical pretensions, The Island is basically a vehicle by which Bay could put together some cool chase scenes and special effects. In fact, he and the screenwriters (Caspian Tredwell-Owen, Alex Kurtzman, and Roberto Orci) could have shortened the movie by 30 to 45 minutes without any detrimental effect to the storyline — though the violence, I suppose, would have "suffered." The script was largely dull and contrived, and McGregor's performance came across as a bit amateur (though, admittedly, I've never been a fan of his acting).

2. Its Main Moral Point Is Too Simple

For a sign that The Island is not to be taken seriously from a philosophical standpoint, we just have to look at its main moral point: killing people for the sake of harvesting their organs is bad. That's it. That's as complicated as it gets. That point is so obvious (in the sense that the vast majority of people in the world would agree with it) that it is hardly a point at all. Why even mention it? Furthermore, making an obvious point as part of a moral discourse simply evinces a lack of originality and courage. Obvious points are a way for people to pretend that they have something important and meaningful to say, when in fact, their points contribute nothing substantive.

3. It Implicitly (and Simplistically) Blames Technology

Because large-scale organ harvesting is almost intrinsically a high-tech endeavor, The Island ends up implicitly blaming technology for the moral travesty it portrays. Sure, the movie includes characters with "bad motives," but technology is portrayed as the enabling medium — because organ harvesting is so bad, then technology loses its position as a morally neutral vehicle for human activity and becomes inextricably tied with the immoral behavior of its masters. (The same rhetoric pervades our debate over guns: gun-control activists claim that automatic weapons "have no other purpose" than to kill and, as such, are immoral technologies.)

The problem with implicitly blaming technology is that (a) it diverts some blame from humans when, in fact, humans should be completely responsible for what they do, and (b) it insinuates that the prohibition or reversal of technology is an efficacious means toward a moral end. However, we would do well to remember that Cain didn't need a lot of high-tech gadgetry in order to kill Abel and that people with immoral aims and sufficient drive can obtain almost any "prohibited" technologies.

4. It Sloppily Handles the Question of Longevity

Besides the evil organ harvesters, The Island also condemns the harvesters' clients, wealthy people with either life-threatening diseases or who just want to have "spare parts" available for any future repair. The movie continually returns to the question of people who are willing to "do anything" in order to "live longer" (and maybe even live forever). Its handling of this is sloppy because it fails to recognize that the issues of (a) longevity and (b) actions that promote longevity are completely separate.

From a theological standpoint, the mere desire for longevity becomes problematic if it evinces a lack of faith in God. If one doesn't believe in God (or in an afterlife of some sort), then he/she may be very concerned, even obsessed, with extending his/her time on earth. However, longevity in and of itself is not morally problematic; if it were, then any attempts we made at healthy living—diet, exercise, doctor's visits, even childhood immunizations—would be bad. By implicitly equating the desire for longevity with organ harvesting, The Island incorrectly condemns longevity per se.

(In addition, a friend of mine noted that Lincoln Six Echo's "client," Tom Lincoln, appears to serve as a representative of all of the clients; thus, his desires and motivations are to be seen as those of his peers. In the middle of the movie, we learn that the clients are incorrectly told that the organs produced do not develop in actual humans beings but rather, in some biological sack (or stew) sans consciousness. When Tom Lincoln learns the truth, he doesn't care and wants the company to continue harvesting anyway. Thus, The Island implies that all of the clients, even if presented with the truth of the matter, would follow Tom's immoral path — an unfair, broad-brush condemnation that serves to obfuscate, rather than illuminate, the moral questions involved.)

5. It Unfairly Condemns Cloning

Finally, along with all of the other implications it makes, The Island implies that human cloning, per se, is bad. The only purpose or outcome of said practice that the movie portrays is organ harvesting; we are given no indication that human cloning could produce a beneficial (or, at least, neutral) outcome.

Yet, we seriously should ask ourselves why cloning, in and of itself, is so readily condemned. After all, a clone is simply a genetic copy of a biological entity; as others have noted, so long as a cloned human is treated as the moral equivalent of a non-clone, then there should be no problem. (After all, an identical twin is simply a clone produced the old-fashioned way.) Sure, there are perfectly legitimate moral questions regarding the risks of human cloning, but cloning in and of itself seems to pose no moral problem. (In this sense, The Island seems to fall into trap of the "ick" or "yuck" factor, in which a biological process or practice is condemned simply because it appears strange to a particular group of people at a particular point in history.)

As such, The Island simply presents important and complicated bioethical issues in a simplistic and ultimately incompetent fashion. If you want to see chase scenes and special effects, then by all means, watch this movie. If you want thoughtful moral reflection, then you need to look elsewhere.

Half Nelson: On Micro-Level Change

2007-05-01T21:17:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on April 21, 2007.

Last weekend, my wife and I conversed with a friend of ours who currently is teaching a college-level course. She was expressing disappointment at the fact that her students didn't seem to get it, that despite the new theories and research she had presented to them throughout the semester, they seemed stuck in singular, conventional modes of thinking. She also seemed disappointed at their apparent lack of passion for new ideas and their skepticism that anything could change. After all, if the status quo was largely immovable, then why get excited about new ideas — ideas that (for all practical purposes) are already DOA?

Two explanations for her students' fatalistic perspectives come to mind. First, despite all of the enthusiastic rhetoric (propaganda) about the value of a liberal-arts education, most students are in it for the piece of paper that lands them higher-paying jobs. Ideas are only valuable insofar as they can be regurgitated on essays and exams for the purpose of getting a decent grade, graduating, and moving on.

Secondly, perhaps my friend's students are simply onto something. Perhaps large, macro change is not realistic, that hoping for anything different is simply an exercise in banging one's head against a wall. Granted, her students' fatalism may stem from their own life goals: they don't want to become activists, and if enough of their peers feel the same way, then change won't happen — the proverbial self-fulfilling prophecy. Then again, maybe they simply looked at their parents—the narcissistic Baby Boomers who once espoused hope and idealism, only to became conventional bankers, doctors, and lawyers—and realized that calls for social change are simply naive and/or deceptive.

In its own way, Ryan Fleck's Half Nelson (2006) examines the question of whether change is ever possible and if so, at what level. Ryan Gosling plays Dan Dunne, a white history teacher in an inner-city school with a primarily African-American student body. He eschews the standard curricula in order to teach his students from a broader perspective: rather than teach what happened, he wants to raise their consciousness about the how, specifically the role of struggle in bringing about social change. (Who said Marxism was dead?) One gets the sense that Dan initially intended to teach at an inner-city school, that he wanted to "do good," "make a difference," and "change kids' lives."

Yet, Dan's mission is thwarted by a major stumbling block: a prodigious drug habit. He barely can show up to school, and even though he can put together an interesting (albeit unconventional) lesson for his students, it is obvious that he is always on the razor's edge between function and dysfunction. At some point, we must ask ourselves whether Dan is playing the role of hypocrite: how can he encourage his students to think in terms of macro-level change when he seems unable or unwilling to make a micro-level change in his own life?

The question of life-altering change also haunts one of Dan's students, Drey (Shareeka Epps). Her father is practically non-existent, her mother is overworked, and her brother is in prison for drug dealing. Thus, in terms of adult role models, she has to make a choice between Dan (whose drug habit is known to her) and Frank (Anthony Mackie), her brother's friend who escaped imprisonment and now contributes to her family's income. Throughout the film, we see Dan attempting to play the role of protector: while he may not be the best role model for Drey, he at least doesn't want her taking Frank's lead down the road of criminality.

Thus, Half Nelson presents us with two questions regarding its main characters: (1) will Dan clean up his act and get his life in order, and (2) which path will Drey ultimately choose? I won't provide more in terms of plot specifics, but I will say that Fleck presents us with a tiny glimmer of optimism at the end. Half Nelson is elegant in that it lacks the tedious (and potentially racist) didacticism that one would expect from a film about a white teacher in an inner-city school, and it also lacks an overdrawn ending — Fleck gives us just enough information (and no more) to draw a potentially positive conclusion.

Ultimately, Half Nelson demonstrates that micro-level change is all that we should hope to accomplish in life. The sweeping historical changes about which Dan tried to teach his students are rare events, and I hypothesize that most of those were the result of factors external to—and beyond the control of—the actors involved. Even the notion that by changing ourselves, we can change the world is overly optimistic; after all, by changing ourselves, we may affect only the few people in our immediate sphere of influence.

While this may seem like a depressing perspective, it is actually quite hopeful. While most change may occur at an individual and local level, it still occurs. Encouraging students (or anybody) to "think big" and to fight for broad, sweeping reforms merely sets them up for disappointment, frustration, and burnout. Demonstrating effective, long-lasting change at the micro level and teaching students to maintain reasonable (or even low) expectations is more realistic and ultimately more edifying.

Babel: The Simple, Intrinsic Alienation of Humanity

2007-03-25T18:26:00.000-05:00

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

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).

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

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.

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

2007-03-18T16:37:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-17T11:13:00.000-05:00

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.

Amadeus: The Perils of Overly Contextualized Art

2007-02-24T10:32:00.001-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on February 3, 2007.

Do people matter when we make moral and aesthetic judgments? That may seem like an odd question since people seem almost intrinsically connected with both. Are they not the object of most of our moral concern, the reason why we even wrestle with moral questions in the first place? Do not people make many of the objects that we find aesthetically pleasing (or otherwise)? In many respects, people provide the context in which we can think in moral and aesthetic terms.

Yet, is that a fundamental flaw in our reasoning? Do people get in the way of our judgments, leading us to hold imprecise views of "What Is" and "What Should Be" and to take incorrect (perhaps even disastrous) action based on those views? Milos Forman's Amadeus (1984) forces us to ask these fundamental questions. A highly fictionalized account of the supposed rivalry between Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Tom Hulce) and Antonio Salieri (F. Murray Abraham), Forman's interpretation of Peter Shaffer's screenplay shows us what can happen when we take art too personally, peering too closely behind the curtain to catch a glimpse of the man or woman behind the work. (Note: Wikipedia gives a brief, but helpful, account of how significantly the film differs from history.)

We learn early on that Salieri has spent his life infatuated with music. When his father—who did not approve of his son's artistic inclinations—passes away during Salieri's adolescence, the young composer becomes free to pursue his passion. He eventually becomes a court composer in Vienna, writing music, teaching aristocrats, and maintaining a comfortable socio-economic position. Most importantly, Salieri believes he is fulfilling God's plan for his life; after all, if the Almighty didn't want him to glorify Him through music, then why did He give the composer such a burning passion for the discipline?

Enter Mozart. The young man has been building a reputation as a musical prodigy, and he enters the Vienna scene in order to refine his craft and build his career. The odd thing is that it doesn't seem like Mozart has to do much refining: music seems to flow naturally from his brain to the page to the orchestra with little to no revision (this, according to the aforementioned Wikipedia entry, is complete fiction). Not only that, but the music is superb and original, making Salieri's sound mediocre and pedestrian. This wouldn't be so bad, if Mozart were deserving of such genius and acclamation. However, the young prodigy is arrogant, obnoxious, disrespectful, narcissistic — in short, it appears that he deserves a beating, rather than accolades. Salieri is both confused and infuriated: why would God build him up as a composer only to tear him down in the face of the bratty wunderkind?

Rather than simply taking Mozart's music at face value, recognizing the young composer's clear superiority in both technique and style, Salieri obsesses about the person of Mozart. Making the same mistake as the Prodigal Son's older brother (Luke 15:11-32) and the laborers who worked an entire day in order to earn the same pay as those who worked one hour (Matthew 20:1-16), Salieri relies on an overly abstract vision of "justice." Since he is "good" and has dedicated his entire life explicitly to God's service, then he deserves more than the young Mozart, who is, at best, an ingrate. As such, Salieri reveals that his primary concern is really not music or God; it is simply himself.

Besides demonstrating Salieri's moral shortcomings, Amadeus presents us with a more subtle message about the importance of separating a work of art from its artist. This may be an odd outcome of a film that seeks to do precisely the opposite, but we see that in presenting an immature and obnoxious Mozart, Amadeus forces us to reconsider how much we want to know about those who create the art, film, literature, and music that we enjoy.

The arts affect us at some visceral level, and we experience many aesthetic sensations prior to knowing anything about the creator of those sensations. If we are interested enough in a particular visual or aural experience, then we try to find out more; at the least, we try to learn the title of the work so as to purchase or borrow a copy. Thus, if I hear an enjoyable piece of music, I subsequently may learn that it is a symphony composed by Mozart, and I then may purchase the CD (or, to be more technologically sophisticated, the MP3).

I may continue down this road and try to learn more about the artist, a little about his/her biography and socio-historical context. This is where things get tricky. What if I ascertain a piece of information that is unflattering? Perhaps I will learn that an artist held racist views, stabbed a friend in the back, or committed any number of possible offenses. How will that knowledge of the artist affect my views of his or her work? Should it matter?

I argue that it should not. While biographical, social, and historical context may help us to appreciate a work of art—and while such context may provide gainful employment for scholars and critics—it should not be the determining factor in our judgment. We should not discount the basic, even visceral, qualities of a work of art. Do we like it? Does it give us aesthetic pleasure? This does not mean that our views of art cannot change or that we cannot "learn" to appreciate a work that we heretofore have dismissed. However, when asked, we should be able to indicate whether we simply liked, or disliked, any given work. If we cannot do that, then our aesthetic judgments are perhaps overburdened by context (and hence, worthless).

Pan's Labyrinth: Fantasy for the Rest of Us

2007-02-03T10:51:00.000-05:00

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

As has been discussed before on this Web site, both science fiction and fantasy face an uphill battle when it comes to winning adherents, especially from the ranks of audience members who prefer their movies rooted in a more recognizable material reality. In fact, sci-fi/fantasy films have to go beyond the merely decent in order to earn some credibility; while other genres don't have to achieve much in order to pass as watchable—most of us are willing, at least on occasion, to view a comedy or drama that we know is mediocre—sci-fi/fantasy has no such luxury. If it's not solidly good—or even great—then it simply becomes relegated to the category of camp.

Guillermo del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth—a.k.a.,El Laberinto del Fauno—(2006) is one such film that stands solidly on its own legs. It is not a great film "despite" its genre, or "even though" it is a fantasy; rather, it is simply a wonderful work of art, period. Pan's Labyrinth follows the story of Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), a pre-teen girl living in 1940's fascist Spain. Her widowed mother, Carmen (Ariadna Gil), recently married a captain in the fascist army (Sergi López), and the beginning of the movie shows them moving to his rural post, where he is fighting rebel forces in the hills.

Alongside the material hardship of war and political repression, Ofelia encounters Pan (Doug Jones), who, as the title indicates, lives in an ancient, decrepit stone labyrinth behind the Captain's headquarters. Ofelia learns that she is, in fact, the reincarnation of a princess and that she must complete three tasks in order to reclaim her royal heritage. Since she already has a predilection for fantasy, others do not believe her when she tries to explain the parallel reality that is taking place right under their noses. No matter: Ofelia's commission from—and interactions with—Pan make up a reality that is intended for her alone.

Of course, one of the arguments made in favor of sci-fi/fantasy is the flexibility of the genre. The ability to bend or break the material allows one to explore alternative social, political, and scientific realities within a safe environment. Pan's Labyrinth takes advantage of this flexibility — to a limit.

Essentially, the movie is structured as a dichotomous examination of power. Captain Vidal merely exemplifies the political system to which he gives total allegiance. He is a stickler for order and punctuality, desires to rid his country of rebels (thereby creating a "clean" Spain), and exhibits a cold, militant brutality that no doubt has helped him to rise within the ranks. (Please keep in mind that Pan's Labyrinth is a violent and bloody film; some scenes are not meant for the squeamish.)

Ofelia, on the other hand, is a relatively powerless character, who is derided for her supposed obsession with the fantastic — an obsession that has continued after most kids would have given up the genre. She is not interested in punctuality or the "greater good" of the nation or in getting to know her thuggish step-father. Rather, she has chosen to be mindful of a parallel reality and the tasks that await her therein. While she may be a reincarnated princess, she gives no indication that she is interested in the power that such a role entails. Unlike the Captain, her reality is not dictated by order and control but rather, by imagination, play, and friendship. Ironically, while Ofelia demonstrates some of the most positive attributes of civilized living, the Captain—"defender" of Spanish Civilization—is nothing short of a barbaric animal.

One of my primary reasons for wanting to see Pan's Labyrinth in the first place was the outpouring of praise it has been receiving from both critics and audience members — it has been nominated for six Academy Awards, including Best Original Screenplay and Best Foreign Language Film, and at last count, it is listed at No. 86 on IMDb's Top 250.

Why the acclaim? After all, I feel safe in hypothesizing that with rare exceptions (e.g., the Lord of the Rings trilogy), fantasy movies do not make many audience members' "best of" lists. I'm going to venture that Pan's Labyrinth's success is due, in part, to its lack of fantasy. Most of the movie is actually historical drama, and the characters' experiences are completely plausible; if we cannot relate to them on a personal level (since we don't live in 1940's Spain), we at least can read about similar experiences in historical documents. Pan's Labyrinth's fantastic elements do not overwhelm, but rather, supplement the "real-world" plot, providing the "safe environment" in which experimental perspectives (e.g., an alternate view of power relationships) can be explored. In addition, Pan's Labyrinth doesn't get caught up in the minute details of its alternate world; thus, it avoids the stereotypical characterization of sci-fi/fantasy as a genre more interested in meaningless minutiae, rather than overarching themes and Big Ideas.

As such, I hope that Pan's Labyrinth does well at the Oscars. Success at such a high-profile venue may encourage others to create fantasy that is both accessible to—and enjoyable for—a general audience. More broadly, it is simply an excellent film that deserves recognition.

Little Miss Sunshine: Family as Idolatry

2007-01-21T14:32:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on January 18, 2007.

In an essay published over a decade ago, theologian Stanley Hauerwas recalls how a journalist asked him for his views on "family values." Hauerwas notes that in reply, he said, "since I am a Christian I have, of course, a deep distrust of the family, since for Christians the family is one of the great sources of idolatry. Christians believe our first loyalty is to the God who constitutes us first by making us part of the church rather than of the family."¹ The clear and unambiguous nature of Hauerwas' reply was made all the more stark by its timing, which was right in the midst of the 1992 Republican National Convention, famous for its clarion call to "family values."

Family-values rhetoric is, of course, premised on the notion that without stable home lives, people are more likely to engage in anti-social behavior that threatens us all. Strong families (and, in particular, strong nuclear families) thus help to alleviate the looming specters of crime, violence, and poverty. While there is some truth to this (after all, it's pretty hard to have a well-adjusted perspective on life if one's everyday existence is dysfunctional), family-values rhetoric seems to go beyond mere utilitarianism and towards upholding traditional families as a near-intrinsic good.

Interestingly, the pull of the "family" has become strong across the political spectrum. Leftist activists and politicians like to argue that if their opponents were really concerned about "working families" (whatever that means), then they would support various health and educational programs that supposedly help those families. So, on the right, one has the "Family Research Council," and on the left, one can find "Families USA." The names of both organizations try to induce a rhetorical effect — i.e., "we're the ones who really care about families."

What's fascinating is how this (idolatrous) message seeps into Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris' Little Miss Sunshine (2006), a dark comedy that ultimately has a conservative view of family life. "Little Miss Sunshine" is actually the name of a national beauty pageant for young girls, and Olive (Abigail Breslin) inadvertently qualifies after another competitor had to forfeit her place. Olive's attendance at Little Miss Sunshine is highly unusual since she is overweight and conventionally unattractive (mean observations, perhaps, but nevertheless true).

Traveling with Olive in a yellow VW van from her Albuquerque home to the pageant's California location is her misfit family:

Richard (Greg Kinnear) - her father, an aspiring (yet ultimately pathetic) motivational speaker, who is trying to land a book deal

Sheryl (Toni Collette) - her mother, desperately trying to keep her wits about her as the family slides into bankruptcy

Frank (Steve Carell) - her uncle, a former scholar of—actually, an authority on—Marcel Proust, who was thrown out of his university job and is now suicidal

Dwayne (Paul Dano) - her brother, a teenage Nietzschean who has taken a vow of silence until he gets into flight school

Grandpa (Alan Arkin) - a dirty old man who was thrown out of his retirement community (and who also happens to be Olive's dance coach for the pageant)

Of course, lots of hilarity ensues during the trip (how could it not with this bunch?), but I was a bit surprised at the darkness of the humor (some scenes were downright depressing). My wife noted that every character in the movie has to deal with a profound loss, and this tone of despair pervades even the most absurdly comical moments. Dayton and Faris seem to find creative energy in marrying the extremes of comedy and tragedy into one seamless narrative; as such, Little Miss Sunshine mirrors Todd Solondz's Happiness (1998), an even darker comedy.

I won't reveal what specifically happens to each of the characters—and you'll have to watch the movie yourself, if you want to see the bizarre (and funny) ending—but suffice it to say that the theme of family plays a progressively prominent role in the story. Of course, Olive's is not a conventional family—by most accounts, we would label it dysfunctional—but they nevertheless learn from each other and grow closer by the closing credits. In other words, when all else fails—when we lose hope in life ever being good again—we still can rely on family.

Thus, "family" as a category of near-intrinsic worth has traveled from the Religious Right to left-wing activists to Hollywood. Hollywood! The pop-culture center that conservatives love to bash is promoting family values! Sure, Little Miss Sunshine doesn't present us with a psychologically "normal" family, but its members nevertheless form a cohesive unit, remaining loyal to each other.

As such, if you found Little Miss Sunshine problematic (I didn't; I thought it was pretty funny) and if you consider yourself a "family values" kind of person, then you might want to reconsider your stance. Upholding "family" as a near-intrinsic good leaves one open to supporting all kinds of interpersonal dynamics that may or may not be healthy. Besides, as Stanley Hauerwas reminds us, the "family values" position is mere idolatry, and you don't want to be an idol worshiper, do you?

Reference

Stanley Hauerwas, "Communitarians and Medical Ethicists: Or, 'Why I Am None of the Above" in Dispatches from the Front: Theological Engagements with the Secular (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994), 158.

Children of Men: Against Politics

2007-01-17T22:39:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on January 11, 2007.

I recently finished reading Ernesto "Che" Guevara's The Motorcycle Diaries: Notes on a Latin American Journey. Many know Che as the Cuban Revolution's most iconic hero, whose image—ragged beard, long hair, and eyes gazing into that supposed proletarian utopia—has been reprinted on countless T-shirts all around the world. The Motorcycle Diaries documents Che's pre-revolutionary days as a restless Argentinian medical student, looking for exotic adventure in the South American continent. Most of the work is a fun and fascinating travelogue with only occasional hints of political consciousness-raising — in many respects, it could have been written by any well-educated twenty-something on a low-budget road trip.

Yet, the final chapter, "A Note in the Margin," serves as an explicit, internally-directed call to a life of revolutionary struggle. It's too bad because the rhetoric is cheesy and over-the-top, denigrating the rest of the work (which is a lot more nuanced and complex). An Ocean Press edition also includes an abridged version of a speech Che delivered to post-revolutionary medical students in Cuba; in that text, we see that the transformation of Che from an adventurous, fun-loving student to a stodgy, didactic, and self-righteous politician had become complete.

What does this have to do with Alfonso Cuarón's Children of Men (2006), a superb thriller set in a dystopian future in which humans have lost the ability to reproduce? Simply put, Children of Men's main character, Theodore Faron (Clive Owen) serves as a foil for the historic Che Guevara; Theodore transitions from a politically active life to one of seeming depression, apathy, and cynicism. However, in the process of depoliticizing his consciousness (albeit slowly and perhaps unintentionally), he gains a powerful moral sensibility that both transcends and spurns the political.

During the movie, we learn that Theodore was quite the activist back in the day (though he claims that he was just in it for the sex). He betrothed a fellow activist, Julian Taylor (Julianne Moore) with whom he had (and then tragically lost) a child. Their responses to the loss exposed deep divisions within their relationship, and they eventually split.

That was two decades ago. In the meantime, the world has been turned upside-down. For some reason (never explained), humans lose the ability to conceive, and "youth," already a prized status (at least in the West), takes on a whole new meaning. (The movie opens with news of the death of the world's youngest person, an event which provokes intense public mourning.) In addition, all of the major cities in the world have fallen into turmoil (whether provoked by the worldwide infertility or not is neither confirmed nor refuted), and Theodore and Julian's home country of England have taken drastic, fascist measures in order to "protect" the citizenry.

Theodore—disillusioned, alcoholic, and working some bureaucratic job for the very state he should despise—is recruited by Julian to help transport a woman, Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey), out of the country. In the middle of the movie, we learn that Kee is pregnant! Impossible! Eureka! Is the future of humanity again ensured? Perhaps. However, before we see whether she can even get out of the country and give birth, she will have to get away from political forces—both the state and the main rebel group—who will want to use her (and her pregnancy) for their own ends.

It is through this saga that we see the renewal of Theodore's standing as an independent, morally conscious man. Originally recruited by the rebel group to procure transport documents for Kee, he eventually comes to see her as someone in need of "proper care," regardless of the political events swirling around her. Within the classical language of moral reasoning, he sees Kee as an end, rather than political means. Yes, he still agrees to get her out of the country (much of the movie tracks their harrowing ordeal), but he does so in order to help her, to get her away from the political nightmare that is England's future.

As such, we see the character of Theodore Faron as the very opposite of the real-life Che Guevara. Faron's "consciousness raising" was an unintended walk through a purgatory of post-political depression, apathy, and cynicism, leading to an awareness of the moral significance of helping one person in need, despite the risks and political repercussions. The tragedy of Che Guevara lay in his decision to eschew such individual-level moral reasoning for the sake of meaningless collectivist cant. (Of course, it should be noted that meaningless political rhetoric is found in abundance among both left-wing and right-wing circles; for a contemporary example of the latter, just watch Fox News.)

Those who complain that the movie doesn't provide any explanation of why the human race became infertile or why the world's cities descended into anarchy are barking up the wrong tree. Children of Men is ultimately not about fertility, children, or even dystopian futures; these elements simply serve as vehicles that highlight the main point: the role of formal political life in stunting moral development. When we become overly "political"—wedded to collectivist policies, rhetoric, and actions—we lose the ability to make independent decisions and to see other people as complex individuals who don't fit predefined political categories. We lose the ability to take meaningful risks for a true Greater Good because the "good" becomes redefined in narrow, worldly, opportunistic terms.

All formal political life—from totalitarian crackdowns to violent revolutions, from running for office to simply casting a ballot—degrade our capacity for independent moral judgment. While this is not an intrinsic necessity of political life, it is nevertheless the reality of said life. Theodore Faron eventually learned this lesson and took meaningful moral action. Hopefully, the rest of us can do the same.

Clerks and Clerks II: Vulgar Conservatism

2006-12-19T22:47:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 16, 2006.

There's an expression about cynicism that I like: "Scratch a cynic and underneath, you'll find a romantic" (some versions say "disappointed idealist"). I can't help but apply this notion to director Kevin Smith, with the following alteration: "Scratch an antinomian and find a conservative." Smith, the legendary filmmaker known for his vulgar sense of humor, has developed a reputation for bucking conventional, bourgeois morality while simultaneously defending his practice. In 1994, he released Clerks, which garnered him near-instant critical and commercial praise, and in 2006, he released the sequel, Clerks II. Both movies purposefully push the comical envelope, but both also harbor some very conservative messages — though Michael Medved probably won't be praising Kevin Smith anytime soon.

Both movies detail the lives of Dante Hicks (Brian C. O'Halloran) and Randal Graves (Jeff Anderson), two low-paid, frontline workers in the United States' culture of bargain convenience. In the first movie, they were in their early 20's, one working for a local 7-Eleven knockoff, while the other worked next door at an affiliated video store. The film, shot in a wonderfully grainy black-and-white, focused on their antics during a day on which everything seemed to fall apart in Dante's love life. In between scenes of Dante dealing with both his current and ex-girlfriends, we see him having semi-meaningless (or, semi-philosophical, depending your view) conversations with Randal, playing hockey on the roof of the store, getting thrown out of a funeral parlor, and dealing with the New Jersey riffraff who pepper him with stupid questions.

In Clerks II, we fast-forward a decade. Dante and Randal are still working minimum-wage retail (this time, at a fast-food establishment, since their prior workplaces were gutted in a fire), Dante still can't get his act together relationally (this time, with different women), and the customers are just as rude and annoying. Unfortunately, once Kevin Smith became established, he left his initial black-and-white aesthetic in favor of high-budget color films; that is a shame since the cinematography of the first Clerks had an understated charm that Smith has not replicated since.

Of course, as anyone who has seen either film knows, the vulgar jokes fly fast and furious between the counter jockeys and the customers. Thus, any recommendation to see either film is highly conditional. In addition, if you see only one of these films, then check out the first, since the sequel tries too hard to push the proverbial envelope and ends up a little too crude and a little too juvenile.

Nevertheless, despite his vulgarity, Smith does demonstrate a deft sense of humor that is grounded in the obnoxiousness of his characters. The first Clerks, in particular, paints slightly exaggerated (or, completely realistic, depending on your view of New Jersey) portraits that propel each scene to heights of comical absurdity. Smith's portrayals are so funny that one wonders whether his considerable talent could be put to use in a less vulgar fashion. However, as sad as it may seem, Smith's humor seems best suited to the bawdy, and his talent seems to be almost necessarily connected with dirty jokes. Alas.

Yet, despite all the bawdy banter, Smith evinces an underlying (and purposeful) conservatism in both movies. First of all, Dante ends up learning a lesson about personal responsibility. Even though he is, by far, less vulgar and more socially respectable than Randal, he constantly bemoans his fate, hems and haws about the steps that he could take towards a better future, and generally demonstrates a cowardly indecision. Randal, despite his juvenile sensibilities, is fully aware of his position at the bottom of the occupational food chain; however, he doesn't care and actually revels in a life of low achievement — which, after all, facilitates lower stress levels, while encouraging a non-pretentious attitude.

Secondly, it is clear that Kevin Smith places a high value on geographic immobility. While he certainly plays on New Jersey's stereotype as a socially backward state—one that merely houses a long strip of shopping malls and chain stores between New York and Philadelphia—he nevertheless advocates staying put. While Dante feels antsy about his position in life—and, in the second movie, plans to move away to Florida—Randal presents an opposing narrative: he tells Dante that his current status is no accident, that being a clerk—and, one can infer, a clerk in New Jersey—is an intrinsic part of who he is. Running away to Florida won't change that; rather, he should embrace his identity and stay put — with his "own kind," as it were. If Kevin Smith were as antinomian as he superficially seems, then "home" would have no value. However, a friend of mine once opined that good satire is based ultimately on love, and Smith certainly has plenty of that for his home state.

Finally, both Clerks films reveal a near-essentialist search for "true identity" and the "true self" that is far from anarchic. Smith seems to view life as a long series of bawdy, misfit adventures punctuated by glimpses of honesty and truth. Within the boredom and angst of the everyday, Dante learns something about both himself and the previously unknown value of his environs. He realizes that glimmers of beauty can be found within the vulgarity of his life — while glimmers of value can be found in an environment as socially and culturally desolate as New Jersey. (Note that this is not necessarily my view of the Garden State).

In addition, Smith seems to suggest that if one focused on the vulgarity of the two films, then he/she would miss the larger point. Bourgeois morality would dictate that one eschew such crude joking since "good people" don't do that sort of thing. In the process, however, bourgeois morality ends up detracting us from the search for deeper truths since the adherents of said morality spend all of their time worrying about social propriety, rather than the "really important things."

While Smith has a point, it is important to keep in mind that vulgarity can and does have a degrading effect on one's intellectual, emotional, and spiritual life. While bourgeois morality does detract one from the Truth, vulgarity can do the same; an alternative to both is the preferred approach (see Phil. 4:8). In any case, an honest appraisal of Clerks and Clerks II must note that within all the bawdy humor, Smith presents an essentially conservative view of personal responsibility and geographic (im)mobility — whether his audience wants it or not.

I ♥ Huckabees: Happiness on Trial?

2006-12-14T20:51:00.000-05:00

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 1, 2006.

Are you happy? Few questions provoke as much thought (or thought-avoidance) as that simple yes-and-no. Its simplicity hides one of the boldest and brashest of provocations: to ask whether someone is happy is to demand a peek into the condition of that person's deepest emotional, and even spiritual, self. Yet, despite the provocative nature of such questioning, we accept happiness as a natural desire. Who wouldn't want to be happy? Is that not the end goal of so many of our activities?

Happiness, however, is a slippery animal. Feelings of happiness easily fade, and happy appearances, of course, can mask an opposite reality. Worse yet: happiness may be a deceptive obstacle, blocking our path to Truth with sugarcoated roadblocks and siren songs that tempt us to easy, pedestrian lives.

Perhaps it is ironic that a comedy, I ♥ Huckabees (2004) ends up asking whether happiness is an impediment to a life of higher purpose. David O. Russell's philosophical farce places environmental activist Albert (Jason Schwartzman) in an unusual position: he encounters the same African man in several disparate circumstances and wants an explanation for this "coincidence." He recruits Bernard and Vivian (Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin), a spousal team of existential detectives who posit the notion that everything in the universe is connected. As such, they follow all of their clients, including Albert, in order to examine fully their daily lives and to ascertain the underlying reasons (connections) that shed light on their original question — or, more importantly, expose new questions.

On the other side of the ledger is Caterine (Isabelle Huppert), a former student of Bernard and Vivian's, who since has taken an opposite perspective: nothing in the universe is connected, and we are simply disparate beings, endlessly playing out humanity's conflict, pain, and futility. Her most recent disciple is an angry firefighter named Tommy (Mark Wahlberg). Tommy tries to recruit Albert to join the other side in this philosophical dichotomy, and in a way, I ♥ Huckabees is an examination of each side's attempt to gain the upper hand in our protagonist's life. Albert just wants to find out the reason behind a seeming coincidence, but he gets a lot more than expected: a highly charged examination of whether a Higher Purpose even exists.

Albert's initial quest is embedded within a life of conflict and doubt. While he cares passionately for his cause (anti-sprawl), the local chapter of his organization sees him as a liability, an ineffectual leader spending too much time writing poetic screeds rather than protecting open space. The musings of his philosophical compatriot, Tommy, are affected by anger over both his failing personal relationships and U.S. oil consumption (seriously). Both men begin reflection during moments of unhappiness, and near the beginning of I ♥ Huckabees, Tommy asks a simple question that frames the entire movie: "How come we only ask ourselves the really big questions when something bad happens?"

Even though I ♥ Huckabees portrays the philosophical enterprise in a humorous, even satirical, light, it does suggest that only through unhappiness can we come to a deeper understanding of ourselves, the world, and the very nature of the universe. Happiness—and the attempts to mimic it—almost intrinsically prevent deep thinking because they do not leave space available for the inquisitive mind to take its course. If we're happy, then presumably things are the way they should be (why stop a good thing?), and if we are trying to appear or become happy, then our time and energy will become totally consumed by that goal. Only during crisis, depression, or tragedy do we take stock of the Big Questions.

What is particularly odd about this view of happiness is its zero-sum nature. If one wants to be happy, then he/she has to sacrifice intellectual integrity and the search for Truth (or at least the search for greater understanding). If one wants to be philosophically aware, then he/she must forego happiness and all of its accoutrements. In this respect, I ♥ Huckabees mirrors The Matrix, since the latter suggests that a desire to know the truth will propel one into a heroic, though unhappy, existence.

Overall, I would have to agree with I ♥ Huckabees' assessment. Happiness does seem to preclude serious reflection, facilitate status-quo preferences, and inadvertently prop up existing political regimes (happy people rarely raise a ruckus).

Yet, we should note that some may not care about higher-order things and may be willing to trade those for a happier life. While the movie strongly suggests that those who do so (e.g., marketing executive Brad Stand, played by Jude Law) merely repress the angst bubbling right below the surface, it seems that the Happy simply have made a decision to pursue ends outside of Deep Reflection. How many of us have taken a college-level humanities class, one that raised provocative questions about the nature of humanity and/or the universe, and then simply moved on to other pursuits once the semester ended? How many of us have been exposed to potentially life-altering ideas and instead chose the safe, comforting path of routine and banality?

Perhaps the best solution for most of us lies in-between the cheerleader and the malcontent. In the context of material goods, the Apostle Paul advances the following virtue: "for I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me" (Phil. 4:11b-13, NRSV). The contented individual does not ignore the harsh reality of existence (cheerleader), nor does he/she mope and complain about it (malcontent). The contented individual can look reality in the face and still be thankful, confident that God will empower during good times and bad. In short, the secret lies not in pursuing happiness or in harboring scorn, but in seeking grace.

The Village: The Scourge of "Community"

2006-12-11T21:34:00.000-05:00

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on November 17, 2006.

For the past several years, I have been hearing lots of talk about "community." In one sense, this talk stems from those with an ideological predisposition against individualism, geographic mobility, and—to use a term with a negative connotation—atomism. To take an ideological position about community means going beyond a mere acknowledgement of its existence; it means holding up community as a moral good, striving for community with intentionality, and even pursuing public policies that (supposedly) nurture interpersonal bonds.

As with so many discourses in the wider world, the focus on "community" has infiltrated church talk. Christians are, of course, to foster community with other believers, and it seems that some church leaders fear the United States' culture of "rampant individualism" and its negative effect on this basic Biblical principle. As such, it appears that Christian community as an explicit conversation/teaching topic has received a relatively robust airing in the past decade or so.

Yet, we must be wary of community, for as with any concept or institution, it has its dark side. M. Night Shyamalan's The Village (2004) tackles this dark side in the director's own peculiar way, and while this movie can grate heavily on one's nerves, it does raise some interesting questions. Set in a commune during, presumably, the 18th or 19th Century, The Village focuses on how the characters perceive their lives in relation to the outside world. They purposely live isolated, in the middle of a forest, so as to separate themselves from what they perceive as the violent, corrupt "city." In-between the city and their commune live many a dangerous creature, filling the residents with fear and ensuring that the local watchtower remains occupied every night.

After a violent crime is committed within this supposed haven of peace, one of the locals, Lucius Hunt (Joaquin Phoenix), lies in a serious medical state. In the middle of the forest, however, there obviously is no ready access to medication, so Lucius' blind fiancée, Ivy Walker (Bryce Dallas Howard), volunteers to cross the dreaded woodland into the decadent city in order to obtain medicine and save her man. Is it right to send a blind person on such a dangerous task? Will she make it back alive? (Cue melodramatic music here — as I said, The Village easily grates on one's nerves.)

I won't spoil the plot's specifics, but suffice it to say that things are not what they seem (this is, after all, a Shyamalan project). In addition, the town elders—in their near-rabid desire to keep everyone safe and to protect the "integrity" of their community—have failed to disclose some very important facts about the village. (I'm not a fan of Shyamalan, and as I noted, I found this movie far too melodramatic; however, I have to give the director credit for the clever, earth-shattering bomb that he drops at the end.)

The point at which we learn of the elders' deception is the point at which the concept of "community" starts to lose its moral stature. A community that is based on a lie stands on shaky ground: when one part of the edifice starts to come undone, then the overseers have to scramble (tell more lies) in order to make sure that the whole house of cards doesn't fall apart.

One could say that the elders should not be faulted for practicing utilitarian methods in order to protect the people they care about — after all, are they not ultimately serving a moral end? Do not the people under their care benefit? Unfortunately, the elders fail to take into account the reality of sin. Running away from the big, bad city does not mitigate evil — the violent crime committed in their midst should be evidence enough of that.

In addition, despite their attempts to protect the integrity of their community, the elders' deception automatically nullifies that integrity. Their actions remind me of the views of some secular conservatives — those who don't hold religious faith but who believe that religion is a "useful" tool for maintaining social order. Let the common people believe this superstition, goes this line of reasoning, since it encourages them to work hard, respect authority, and eschew crime. In this world, Social Order becomes the highest good, the god to be preserved at all costs. In the world of The Village, Safety is the god, and a little deception goes a long way in making sure that the god sticks around.

Of course, the secular conservative position should offend anyone with actual religious faith, for said position not only belittles faith, but it patronizes the faithful. Along a similar vein, the elders in The Village belittle and patronize the community they supposedly love. The fact that they alone know the secret behind the lie gives them an incredible amount of cognitive power over the other villagers, a power which ultimately demonstrates the elders' lack of respect for their charges' personhood, individuality, and agency. It's as though they taught the story of Santa Claus but never got around to the fact that nobody really lives at the North Pole.

Ultimately, The Village illustrates the problems with communities that are overly intentional. There is something to be said for communities that develop because people share similar beliefs and interests, rather than a desperate attempt to connect with others at all costs. In fact, the more that someone talks about "community," the more suspicious I become. Either the community he/she creates will be an arbitrary, cardboard replica of the real thing (and thus, will be doomed to fail), or he/she will want to isolate me from the rest of the world and make me a slave of a charismatic, yet corrupt, figurehead.

Is community life good? Yes! Is it Biblical? Absolutely! Should we pursue it at all costs and by any means? Our response should be a resounding "NO." Shyamalan's Village should convince us of that.

Thank You for Smoking: The Moral Relativity of Us All

2006-11-19T16:07:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on November 9, 2006.

I used to hear more talk about the dangers of moral relativity. It seemed for a while that this was the great demon in our "post-modern" culture, the ideology or zeitgeist that would tear apart the Western world in a frenzy of debauchery and stupidity. Moral relativity was, of course, nonsensical (the argument went) because it tended to buttress the very edifice it sought to destroy: by claiming that we should be morally relative, proponents ended up making a morally absolute claim. Those silly, stupid moral relativists — when will they ever learn?

The problem with such an argument lies not in its logic (it is true that taken to an extreme, moral relativity contradicts itself), but in its lack of sociological awareness. Most people are not morally relative on a conscious level—there are few who make it their life's mission to proselytize against moral judgment of any and all kinds—but in practice almost everybody is a moral relativist to some degree or other. We not only tolerate those with whom we morally disagree, but we also evince an apathy towards others' actions — and we do so selectively (perhaps even arbitrarily).

Moral relativity (or "flexibility") is the main theme that Jason Reitman's Thank You for Smoking (2005) tackles. Aaron Eckhart plays Nick Naylor, a lobbyist for Big Tobacco: his job is to testify before Congress, plead his industry's case before the general public, and create as positive an image as possible for cigarettes, cigars, and other like products. He openly admits that he is one of the most despised men in the world, but he does his job extremely well. He needs no MD or JD because he is a born B.S.-er who eventually can convince almost anyone of anything.

The most interesting interactions in the movie involve Nick and his son, Joey (Cameron Bright). Joey constantly follows his dad around and wants to learn everything about him. Nick is happy to oblige because he sees an opportunity to teach his kid about how the world really works. For example, people do not become successful because their work is intrinsically more valuable, nor is it possible to judge whether one is truly "correct" on any given matter. Rather, people's successes depend on whether they can convince someone (say, a prospective customer) that they are worthy, and such convincing often requires a heaping helping of B.S. In addition, one is only "correct," if he/she can argue better than the other side. (In Nick Naylor's world, being right is a matter of method, not substance.)

We may think that such a callous attitude towards the Truth and the Good is nothing new; perhaps Thank You for Smoking simply reflects what we know as our world, awash as it is in meaningless platitudes, braggadocio, and outright lies. However, the movie digs deeper because it then challenges us to think about how we feel regarding those who peddle B.S. for a living. In many ways, Nick Naylor is a delightful character. He's funny, smart, and—when he analyzes his own life—quite honest and matter-of-fact. He fully admits that he's a B.S. artist, and with few exceptions, he is not ashamed to teach his son the tricks of the trade.

So is Nick Naylor really that bad of a guy? I suggest that the reason why Thank You for Smoking resonates with so many people is because the tobacco lobbyist is no longer the demonic figure of days past. Almost anybody with a pulse in these United States knows, to one degree or other, that smoking is unhealthy. Philip Morris, RJ Reynolds, and the like have been through the legal wringer countless times. States and localities are imposing increasingly totalitarian measures against a stigmatized minority (smokers) in order to "protect" the majority. We can laugh at (with) Nick Naylor because he and his colleagues have been through enough. So what if they sling around B.S. on Capitol Hill (a locale in which B.S. is no rare commodity)? So what if they split rhetorical hairs in order to convince us that their products aren't so bad? Hasn't Nick been through enough? Doesn't he deserve to fight back, make a living, pursue the American Dream?

The fact that the tobacco lobbyist is no longer worthy of condemnation demonstrates how fickle we are in our moral outrage. Our demonization of particular classes of people is temporary (or, at most, cyclical). We become tired of treating someone like a punching bag, so we go after other (politically expedient) targets (e.g., fast-food outlets, programmers of violent video games, etc.). We are all moral relativists insofar as we are fickle: for most of us, moral outrage becomes moral apathy as we realize that we don't have the energy to care anymore. Moral outrage takes a lot of work, after all, and besides: will the West really collapse if someone eats a Big Mac and plays a couple of hours of Halo?

Thus, critics of moral relativism are correct on philosophical/theological grounds, but their outrage carries less and less sociological weight. We don't want to demonize Nick Naylor anymore; we want to tell a few jokes at his expense and then let him go his way. If anything, stigmatized groups can take comfort in knowing that their position outside the realm of polite company is most likely temporary.

The Prestige: A Magical Disappointment

2006-11-12T20:25:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 26, 2006.

One of the advantages of being married is that your spouse can alert you to how wrong you are on any given issue. Take Christopher Nolan's The Prestige (2006). Last weekend, my wife and I (along with a few others) saw this latest Hollywood blockbuster starring a litany of cinematic heavyweights (Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Scarlett Johanson, and Michael Caine). During the screening, I became entranced while trying to understand the twists and turns of the plot and the motivations of the characters. I left the theater feeling mildly confused about one or two plot points, but nevertheless happy and excited. On the way home, however, my wife informed me of why she didn't particularly care for the movie, and I ultimately had to conclude that her observations were more valid — so much so that I'm now a bit upset at how The Prestige snookered me, leading me on a cinematic journey of high style and low substance.

I suppose that it is appropriate that I feel a little duped by this movie, since its plot does revolve around magicians. Michael Caine plays Cutter, an older magician who serves as a mentor to Rupert Angier (Jackman) and Alfred Bordon (Bale). Initially, Rupert is portrayed as a more "conventional" magician: he doesn't mind performing Cutter's "old" tricks, so long as the audience is satisfied, and he also doesn't mind adhering to Cutter's more rigid code of safety. Alfred, on the other hand, is bored and wants to try more daring (and dangerous) feats. After a horrible on-stage accident, Rupert and Alfred part ways and become bitter rivals. In one sense, The Prestige is simply a long series of tit-for-tat revenge scenarios in which Rupert and Alfred try to outdo each other's tricks while disrupting/destroying the other's performances. In addition, by the end of the movie, the audience sees that the magicians' lives are rooted not just in revenge but also in obsession. Magic becomes not just a profession, as it was for Cutter (who probably has the most reasonable perspective out of all of the characters), but an all-encapsulating way of life that destroys everything in its wake.

Unfortunately, as my wife sagely noted, The Prestige's depiction of revenge is very trite. According to Hollywood formula, revenge is supposed to be an all-consuming passion that eventually destroys one's entire life, and Nolan follows the playbook to the letter. However, other than this single theme—which is presented in essentially the same way throughout the film—Nolan offers nothing substantive. Whether intentionally or not, The Prestige is simply an exercise in cinematic style, rather than substance. The acting is decent, the costumes and set designs are well done, and the different magic tricks (as well as their accompanying explanations) are fun to watch. However, after the exuberance of 128 minutes, we are left with nothing to chew on, nothing to think about.

This may seem to some like an unfair indictment. After all, what is wrong with a film that produces two hours of mere escapism? Not all films have to involve post-screening meditation and discussion, do they? Of course not. However, my initial impression of The Prestige was that of a more substantive work. It was not marketed as a simple exercise in excessive style (e.g., Moulin Rouge), nor was it advertised as something that was completely devoid of substance, meant solely for "mindless entertainment" (e.g., Eight Legged Freaks). The Prestige was supposed to be "better" than that, but at the end, it proved nothing more than stylistic exercise. As such, I felt a little duped. While I appreciate and enjoy some movies even more after thinking about them (e.g., the excellent Junebug), The Prestige had the opposite effect on me: the more I thought about it, the more duped I felt.

(A Brief Exception: Nolan's addition to the plot of the legendary engineer Nikola Tesla, played by David Bowie, was fun and refreshing. If Nolan had played more with Tesla's popular status as a brilliant-inventor-turned-mad-scientist—or, better yet, had made an entire biopic about the man—he would have given us a more interesting/edifying project.)

All of this has me wondering whether Nolan is falling into the same trap as M. Night Shymalan. Both men experienced critical and commercial success with relatively early films—Nolan's breakthrough was Memento, while Shymalan's was The Sixth Sense—and both seem to have taken a downward trajectory ever since. While Nolan's remake of Insomnia was decent (though not as good as the Norwegian original), his subsequent projects (Batman Begins and The Prestige) have proven disappointing. The Internet Movie Database reports that his next project is yet another Batman movie, which simply indicates that he's taking the path of least resistance. If he's making a lot of money churning out Hollywood formula, then why stop?

In discussing this film further, my wife made another point relevant to Nolan and other young directors. In some cases, there seems to be an inverse relationship between monetary success and artistic quality. Nolan seems unable to maintain his artistic integrity in the face of the financial pressures (temptations?) that come with big Hollywood investments and the need to make those investments grow. Paradoxically, low-budget films with no-name casts may carry less risk since few people will care (or even notice) if they tank. Big-budget productions, on the other hand, require that the director come through with a "sure thing." Alas, Nolan seems stuck in the trap of his own success, and it will be interesting to see whether he ever breaks out of it.

X-Men: The Last Stand - The Virtue of Separatism

2006-10-29T16:39:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 20, 2006.

I think that I may have found the secret to enjoying comic-book movies. After having my expectations raised (and then significantly lowered) with Batman Begins, I later began watching Brett Ratner's X-Men: The Last Stand (2006)— a.k.a., X3—with very low presuppositions. It was going to be a bad film, I thought, even by the standards of Hollywood's comic-book adaptations, so I was just going to accept my fate, ride the wave, and see where I landed at the end.

What I actually encountered was a surprisingly fun entertainment experience. The third installment in the cinematic franchise, X3 is by no means a highbrow work of art, nor does it challenge any cinematic conventions. It is largely a revisiting of the characters who continue to learn about their mutations (and how to live with them), struggle for social respect and political rights, and fight amongst themselves over how best to interact with the "normal," non-mutant population. Yet, if one goes into the movie with very low expectations, then one leaves feeling rather uplifted: I had to admit that the movie was pretty good — for what it was.

Of course, the X-Men franchise's primary theme is difference, and in-between the fights and general mayhem that one would expect from a comic-book movie, Ratner and his screenwriting colleagues (Simon Kinberg and Zak Penn) actually construct some nifty thematic scenarios. In X3, the big controversy surrounds the development of a surprisingly fast-acting "cure" for mutation, and the mutants in question must decide whether to take the drug and become "normal" or eschew it altogether in the name of Mutant Pride. Of course, since the antidote comes with government backing, one must decide whether it truly is a goodwill gesture by well-meaning scientists or simply a plot to eradicate mutation—and thus, difference—from the human population.

Underlying these specific controversies is the intramutant fighting between assimilationist Professor Charles Xavier, played by Patrick Stewart, and the radical separatist Eric Lensherr—a.k.a., Magneto—played by Ian McKellen. What is most interesting about these men—besides the former's ability to tap into others' minds and the latter's penchant for throwing around metal objects with the flick of a wrist—is how closely their attitudes and positions align with standard moderate/radical divides throughout history. Xavier believes that the respect and rights that mutants want from the mainstream public will come if they can demonstrate that they are no threat, that their powers can be controlled and even put to good use. Magneto, on the other hand, sees no hope for any rapprochement between mutants and non-mutants, advocating instead a radical, uncompromising, and militant separatism that is inspired by the greatness of unleashed mutant power.

So, which is the better path? The X-Men franchise seems to suggest that Xavier has it right. His patient, pedagogical approach (he runs a boarding school for mutant youth) seems nicer, more genteel, more sophisticated. Who wants to deal with Magneto's angry struggle for power when one can sit at the feet of the wise professor and learn some nice lessons about ethics and playing nicely?

Yet, the franchise's implicit support of Xavier's path does not necessarily make it right. Perhaps the professor is merely a dupe, too trusting of the fickle non-mutants who easily could stab him in the back. Moreover, even if peaceful assimilation is possible, should that have any bearing on how one interacts with humans? Perhaps there is something truly special about mutants; perhaps their very difference is an indication of a greatness that should be not hampered by lowly, uninteresting "normals." For the most part, after all, the characters' mutations are not a disability, but rather, a high-level supplement to the standard repertoire of human abilities.

Despite its implicit approval of Xavier's philosophy and methods, the X-Men franchise simply provides no substantive backing for that position. More meaningful judgment must come from outside the assimilation/separation dichotomy, since neither position is intrinsically valuable — i.e., are there arguments outside of the dichotomy that can shed light on which course of action is morally appropriate? Is Magneto correct in supposing that Mutant Pride is its own end, to be guarded at all costs? Or, does Xavier have it right in arguing that mutant identity does not trump all other ends, that peaceful co-existence with non-mutants has intrinsic value (or at least facilitates the pursuit of other valuable goals — goals beyond Mutant Pride).

This is one of the most fundamental questions that any individual or group can face at any time in history. Of course, we first must ask whether we are even aware of the question: do we consciously contemplate assimilation/separation, or is our position unconsciously decided for us, based on our particular sociological identifiers (race, class, etc.)? Secondly, if we are aware of the question, then do we make any intentional choices about whether to assimilate or separate? Do we do a little bit of both? How do we choose? Is it a question of morality or simple convenience?

Many visitors to this site are Christian and perhaps have thought extensively about this topic. The Bible is full of dichotomous language regarding God's ways versus those of the world, and separatism has been a course of action pursued by various believers throughout the centuries. Yet, separatism is a hard road to follow, and many American Christians seem to assimilate in one of two ways: either we more-or-less cohere with the general culture, leaving no distinguishable mark of difference, or we "separate" from the world but establish subcultures so large and comprehensive that they become new mainstreams, new status quos. In the context of the 21st-Century United States, separatism may require eschewing multiple mainstream cultures (as paradoxical as that sounds), including religious ones, in order to find the essential faith.

No, I am not suggesting that Magneto's violent path is the appropriate one. However, we perhaps can learn from his steadfast skepticism of the larger world and what it claims to offer.

Our Brand Is Crisis: Political Entertainment, Political Disaster

2006-10-28T10:42:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 13, 2006.

As I write this, the United States has less than four weeks until its mid-term elections. Voters around the country shall decide whether Republicans maintain control of the U.S. Congress or lose said control to the Democrats. I must admit that I am interested in the outcome of this election, not because I expect that it will produce any significant material difference, but because it makes for good theater. For all the rhetoric about Big Issues, elections are nothing more than an entertaining gloss over individuals' and groups' struggles for power. If U.S. citizens (or citizens of any country, for that matter) insist on trying to grab more money and perks at the expense of their fellow taxpayers, then the process at least should be amusing. (We need more scandal, not less.)

Of course, as the United States and other industrialized countries continue in their quest to build cultures that are completely saturated with entertainment, politicians have to keep abreast of what will maintain the interest of the masses. Enter the political consultant, perhaps the most important figure on any candidate's payroll, the marketing wiz who measures success not by a monetary bottom line but by poll numbers and ballots cast. Propagandists are, of course, nothing new; however, the formal job title of "political consultant" may be a recent phenomenon. James Carville, of course, popularized the notion of political consulting when he worked on Bill Clinton's first campaign, while Karl Rove fulfills that role for George W. Bush.

While we may have grown accustomed to hearing about American candidates' advisors/groomers, we are probably less aware of the exportation of such services. Perhaps nothing exemplifies the dominance of the service and information sectors of the U.S. economy more than the fact that we can export something as ephemeral and superficial as political consulting. This odd fact is the subject of Rachel Boynton's Our Brand Is Crisis (2005), a documentary about the 2002 election of Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada (a.k.a., "Goni") to the presidency of Bolivia, how the American consulting firm of Greenberg Carville Shrum (GCS) aided in that outcome, and why things turned so horribly wrong afterwards.

Boynton's point in the film is clear: while the consultants may have been convinced that they were "doing good," that they were aiding the right candidate, they ultimately failed to understand conditions on the ground. GCS (particularly Jeremy Rosner, the consultant with the most exposure in the film) was convinced that Goni was part of the cadre of center-left, "Third Way" political elites that emerged around the world in the 1990's: those who believed that the market was ultimately the driving force behind social and political advancement but who were not slavishly devoted to laissez faire economics. If GCS could convince the Bolivian electorate that Goni was the right man for the job, if they could convince voters that he wasn't as arrogant as he seemed—a hard task since the documentary made it clear that he was an arrogant figure (e.g., he publicly equated political protestors with tantrum-throwing children)—then they would have done the world some good (and made some money along the way).

While all of the work that GCS put into crafting the "right" image for their client would serve them well on Election Day (a razor-thin plurality of Bolivian voters cast their ballots for Goni), their ultimate success would be short-lived. When not forced to travel around the country as a candidate, playing "meet and greet" with the impoverished Bolivian peasants that he looked down on, Goni proved himself a cold, aloof man with little political acumen. On his watch, Bolivia descended into a political disaster that was precipitated by controversies over the role of multinational corporations in the country's natural gas sector (regarded by many Bolivians as a "national" resource). Goni's approval plummeted through the floor, violent protests erupted throughout the country, and he was forced into exile in 2003 (he now lives outside Washington, DC).

While Our Brand Is Crisis takes places almost completely in Bolivia, it ultimately serves as an examination of the drawbacks and shortsightedness of American political culture. By all accounts, the consultants of GCS were intelligent, well-educated professionals who tried to understand as well as they could (given the fact that they were not experts in Latin America) the dynamics of Bolivian politics. Unfortunately, they simply lacked the historical and cultural awareness that might have helped them to see the storm clouds gathering just over the horizon, the deep-seated social dynamics that might have indicated that their client really didn't know what he was getting himself into.

While elections are nothing more than entertainment, the material consequences of political conflict are anything but entertaining. Implicitly, perhaps unconsciously, the consultants of GCS thought that by exporting American-style political marketing to a developing country and creating the right image for their client, they somehow could transform the material reality of Bolivia itself — as though a well-crafted marketing campaign was all that the country needed. Granted, the elections-as-entertainment model may work well for industrialized countries, which are rich enough to overcome (or at least ignore) the fluff and foibles of their elected leaders. However, in poor, socially polarized countries, the election façade can work for only so long before material hardship kicks in, a hardship that may foment real political strife.

At the end of the film, Jeremy Rosner acknowledges that as an outsider, he missed some major cues about the deeply entrenched political views of the Bolivian electorate. However, he also should have noted that perhaps U.S.-style political marketing is not a moral course of action in poor, socially divided countries — that consultants like him should eschew such "opportunities." Unfortunately, he doesn't say that — which leads me to believe that he didn't learn the most important lesson from his client's disaster.

Brothers: Moral Improvement, Moral Deterioration

2006-10-27T12:16:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 28, 2006.

Perhaps the two questions that interest us most are: "How did we end up the way we are?" and "How do we change and become different?" Academics, writers, ministers, and talk-show hosts all obsess about these questions because within them lie the seeds of moral understanding and reform. Moviemakers, too, take stabs at answering these questions. Tom Tykwer's Run Lola Run (1998), for example, argues that human outcomes are simply random: something as simple as bumping into a person on the street can have far-reaching, life-long effects. We are merely billiard balls, bouncing around the table. David Cronenberg's A History of Violence (2005) takes a different approach, implying that moral character is not random, but deeply ingrained; we cannot escape our past easily, and genuine change is a hard, long, painful process that never really ends.

Susanne Bier's Brothers—or Brødre—(2004) adds an interesting voice to this discussion because it does not address explicitly the underlying reasons behind moral development and change. Rather, the movie demonstrates the process by which two siblings start out at opposite ends of the spectrum and slowly trade places.

Michael (Ulrich Thomsen) is a major in the Danish army and by all accounts, a stand-up guy with a comfortable, middle-class life. He appears to be happily married to Sarah (Connie Nielsen), and he also appears to adore his two young daughters. At the start of the movie, we learn that he is going to be deployed to Afghanistan in order to work with NATO peacekeeping forces. Thus, in a conventional sense, he is doing "good work" — and serving in a significantly less controversial battlefield (i.e., he's not in Iraq).

On the other side of the ledger is Jannik (Nikolaj Lie Kaas), Michael's younger brother and by all accounts a ne'er-do-well. At the beginning of the film, we see him leaving prison after having served a sentence for assault. He drinks a lot, doesn't have a steady job, and seems to carry a big chip on his shoulder.

After Michael leaves for Afghanistan, we slowly see a shift in the brothers' demeanor and moral character. Jannik steps up to the plate and starts to help his sister-in-law with household duties, begins to serve as a surrogate father of sorts for his nieces, and eventually finds work as a handyman. Michael, on the other hand, is scarred, perhaps irrevocably, from his experience abroad. I won't give away the various plot twists that make for the meat of this film, but suffice it to say that Michael no longer can claim a moral high ground at the end. In more ways than one, he begins to resemble the Jannik of days past.

So what does Brothers have to say about moral development and change? On the one hand, Bier doesn't take the radical approach of Run Lola Run. The characters' lives are not altered solely by random, external factors; they react to their circumstances, make choices, and affect some sort of outcome with some degree of agency. On the other hand, the changes that Michael and Jannik undergo are precipitated by a large, external event over which they have no control: the former's deployment overseas. Without this major change in their lives (or at least a major change), it would have been hard to imagine how either of them would modify their behavior and motivations. Bier's movie implies that we are not as ingrained in our ways as Cronenberg's A History of Violence would suggest; events outside ourselves easily can make heroes or monsters of us all.

At its most basic level, then, Brothers simply teaches us about hope and humility. It implies that hard cases like Jannik can improve substantially while seemingly "good" people like Michael can deteriorate, given the "right" circumstances. Brothers cautions us to be conscious of our fickle psyches that are prone to quick, adverse shifts. In many respects, Michael's wife, Sarah, proves to be the most level-headed character: observing, studying, and sympathizing with the two men (as well as her daughters). Her level of calm and awareness (both self- and other-directed) are remarkable, given the tumult in her life; in many ways, she serves as the film's emotional anchor.

Thus, I highly recommend Brothers, a moving, tragic, and believable portrait of how our moral lives are easily affected by external circumstances, particularly major ones.

Postscript

I cannot help but speculate about whether Brothers foresaw—unintentionally, perhaps—European unease about the peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan. Taliban fighters currently appear resurgent in the southern part of the country, and NATO recently had difficulty recruiting fresh troops from member countries. Perhaps the movie's analysis of the effects of war on both soldiers and their families reflects an underlying anxiety (and perhaps anti-war resistance) across the Atlantic.

The Matador: The Dullness of Emotional Men

2006-10-26T15:43:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 21, 2006.

Every so often, I get suckered into watching a movie of questionable quality, and I end up wondering why I thought the film was worth pursuing in the first place. For example, the results of my Netflix algorithm recently led the site to recommend 11:14, a thriller with some degree of potential that was unfortunately lost in the film's execution. In the case of Richard Shepard's The Matador (2005), I suppose that I got sucked in by the premise of a buddy movie involving assassination, or perhaps the ads—with the requisite positive quotations from critics—pushed me over the edge. In any case, the movie proved disappointing, and unlike 11:14, it didn't even have potential.

The "buddies" of this buddy film are Julian Noble (Pierce Brosnan) and Danny Wright (Greg Kinnear). The former is a well-paid, globe-trotting assassin with no permanent address, no real friends, and a simmering suspicion that his oversexed, cloak-and-dagger lifestyle isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Danny is a mild-mannered businessman, who is trying to bounce back professionally and emotionally: in recent years, he has suffered both a layoff and, more tragically, the loss of his only child. Julian and Danny both find themselves in Mexico City—each pursuing his respective "business"—and they run into each other in a bar.

What follows is essentially a series of conversations between the men regarding work, love, and life. In one sense, Danny plays the voyeur, peeking into the dark world of the assassin's craft; we sometimes wonder whether Danny will leap into the fray and join Julian's profession (especially if his company's negotiations with a Mexican firm fall through). Yet, the movie really isn't about assassination so much as Julian's lack of roots and his deep desire for friendship — a friendship that Danny may be able to provide.

Unfortunately, The Matador suffers from its inconsistency in tone, substance, and character. On one level, it is supposed to be a "comedy," but its dialogue seems trapped in an unsophisticated vulgarity, a forced crudeness that seems targeted towards the stereotypical frat boy. The Matador's script lacks the satirical edge found in movies like Clerks, a bawdy film that nevertheless exhibits a cultural knowledge—and even appreciation—of its subject matter. The Matador's humor is neither knowledgeable nor appreciative; it's just rude.

In addition, the movie doesn't provide a clear picture of who Julian is supposed to be. Is he an international man of mystery (a role with which Pierce Brosnan has significant recent experience)? Or, is he a pathetic, washed-up loser in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Are we supposed to be impressed with Julian, find him amusing, or take pity on him? One could say "all of the above," but Brosnan doesn't pull off this multifaceted feat. Rather, we see him jumping from persona to persona without any believable transition; the movie feels more like a hastily produced compilation of character studies, rather than a coherent portrait.

Even Pierce Brosnan's physicality is somewhat confusing. On the one hand, he is conventionally attractive, so one would think that the movie would use that to boost his man-of-mystery status. On the other hand, Brosnan's shirtless scenes reveal someone who, while certainly not overweight, nevertheless shows signs of a middle-age man (he's 53) who hasn't lifted weights in a while. It's not clear whether this is part of the movie's intent of showing an assassin past his prime or whether Pierce Brosnan is unintentionally demonstrating that he's past his prime. The aesthetic confusion is compounded by Brosnan's tacky mustache, which makes him look like he should be peddling lemons in a used-car lot, rather than conducting high-priced assassinations. (All of this talk about appearance might seem shallow, but if the movie is going to cast an actor known as much for his physical attributes as for his experience in front of the camera, then it should do a better job of making him look somewhat coherent.)

Finally, the long dialogues—including a seemingly (and inexplicably) interminable scene with Julian, Danny, and the latter's wife, "Bean," in the middle of the film—strive to produce sympathy for the assassin, who is, after all, an emotional being. You see, The Matador is really about a man who hides his emotional self underneath layers of violence, coarseness, and chauvinism. The latter are merely tools by which he protects himself from asking hard questions and delving into the depths of his soul. The Matador is about emotional liberation. Men, too, can cry.

Unfortunately, emotional men have become boring. We know how we historically have fostered a culture in which men are not given adequate space to express their feelings and thus, are inhibited in their emotional development. Slowly, the Western world is facilitating men with a wider range of emotions: fathers who are more involved with their children, men who are willing to hug as a sign of friendship, etc. Yet, this cultural shift is not particularly new or interesting, and its manifestation in such venues as The Matador is odd, given the film's vulgar joshing. Like the stereotypical frat boy who ten years post-graduation has an awakening while thumbing through his latest issue of Maxim ("hmm...maybe drunken misogyny isn't such a good lifestyle choice!"), Julian's emotional shifts just seem a little too out-of-place and contrived.

While The Matador is not a horrible movie (I even laughed at a few of the jokes), it's mediocre at best. A significant percentage of the tone is unintelligently vulgar, Pierce Brosnan gives an inconsistent performance, and the theme of men "discovering" their emotional selves is simply trite. If you want to watch sappy, contrived emotions, then save your money and check out some prime-time TV.

Memoirs of a Geisha: Indefensible Practice?

2006-10-10T21:52:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 14, 2006.

I first encountered the concept of the geisha from my parents. My father described geisha as highly trained Japanese women skilled in the arts of hospitality and entertainment. My mother called them prostitutes. Such is the debate that has revolved around a practice that has mystified outsiders for centuries. While there does exist a sexual element to the geisha life, it is discrete, complicated, and vague. No mere "street walkers," the geisha flirt and entertain wealthy men—married and unmarried—and get paid for doing so. Sex may enter the equation, but it usually does not. So, is this prostitution? Oppression? Both? Neither?

Director Rob Marshall's 2005 interpretation of Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha is an attempt to shed some light on the institution. It follows the story of a young girl who is sold by her family to a geisha house; learns the aesthetic, musical, and conversational skills required of the profession; and then competes for the patronage of wealthy businessmen. While she is learning her trade, she falls in love with a one such man, but alas, geisha are not allowed such emotional luxury.

While viewing this film with some cinekklesia writers and friends, I couldn't help but critique it with my Western, classical liberalism. First of all, the main character obviously had no choice in the matter, as her father shipped her off to the geisha house. She then lived a life of indentured servitude under a cruel and mercenary mistress. Finally, her entire life became centered on men, whether in serving them as part of her professional duties or in yearning for the love that was just beyond reach — no autonomous agency here!

During a bit of post-screening conversation, the question of bias arose, and one viewer suggested that we be mindful of our Western-inspired critiques of geisha. For one thing, geisha do not define themselves as prostitutes, having carved out a different space within Japanese culture. Yet, this observation places far too much weight on self-definition; just because one doesn't define herself as a prostitute, does not make it so. To regard self-definition as the basis for all definition only works among those who advocate the most extreme forms of subjectivism. (In fairness, I actually agree with the notion that geisha are not prostitutes but rather, highly institutionalized mistresses.)

The same viewer also noted that we should not neglect the value of duty (in the case of the geisha: duty to her house and to the traditions of her profession). However, duty carries no intrinsic moral weight; its morality is defined by context. The geisha system (at least an older variant, as portrayed in the film) seems to foster both an involuntary servitude as well as a highly formalized objectification of women. While individual women fulfilling their "duty" under such a system should not be blamed, the system itself certainly can (and should) be criticized, if not outright condemned. To praise a person for being dutiful under trying circumstances—while preventing her exit from those circumstances—is disingenuous, to say the least.

Yet, am I not merely exhibiting a deep-rooted Western bias in favor of individualism and autonomy? Regardless of whether geisha are "prostitutes" and regardless of whether they have any sort of agency, do I have any moral right to condemn the entire system? Am I simply an insensitive cultural boor for even broaching the subject?

At this point, we need to make a distinction between cultural recognition and moral approval. A boor would not take the time to study cultural practices of "The Other" and would make hasty, blanket statements condemning practices that, at first glance, seemed objectionable. Like a child refusing to try a new food simply because it's different, the boor refuses to engage in anybody or anything outside the proverbial "comfort zone." Thus, a cultural boor from the West most likely would condemn the geisha system immediately without bothering to engage its historical and cultural context.

Yet, cultural recognition does not lead automatically to moral approval. A non-boor can study a particular cultural practice and still come to the conclusion that it is wrong. This, of course, requires belief in universal norms that supercede individual cultures. While it is certainly possible to reject such norms by taking an extreme subjectivist (culturally relativist) approach, most people—religious and non-religious—believe in some extra-cultural morality. We certainly argue about what that morality is, how it should be enforced, and the source(s) from which it springs; however, what seems beyond dispute is the fact that empirically, most people are not extreme cultural relativists.

Thus, in order to defend the geisha system on moral grounds, one cannot resort to the cultural argument unless he/she is an extreme relativist. Once a person accepts some form of extra-cultural moral standard, then "culture" itself is no longer a moral defense but simply an empirical reality. The apologist has to present a more robust argument as to why the system is moral (or, at least, morally neutral). This may reveal fundamental differences between the apologist's views on morality and those of his/her interlocutors. However, such an airing of differences is healthy — and only possible once all parties are aware of their use of "culture."

The film itself does not address these issues, as it is more concerned with presenting both fictional autobiography and an overview of the geisha system. However, for Western audiences, the culture vs. morality debate is practically inescapable since the geisha system is an almost completely foreign concept. However, any self-righteous Westerner reading this should note that the tables easily can be turned, as others can criticize our own cultural pathologies.

Batman Begins: An Interesting Idea Buried in a Mediocre Movie

2006-09-30T10:19:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on September 4, 2006.

In 2005, I heard a lot of buzz about Christopher Nolan's take on the Batman story. In the hands of the slightly dark and mysterious director of Memento and Insomnia, Batman Begins was to be a gritty and perhaps more sophisticated variation within the franchise. Unfortunately, upon my recent viewing of the DVD, I felt disappointed: Nolan's version was mediocre at best, full of contrived dialogue, cardboard characters, and only one interesting—though completely undeveloped—idea.

Nolan took on the challenge of portraying the transformation of Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale) from billionaire playboy to caped crusader for justice within the corrupt, crime-ridden city of Gotham. We learn that Wayne's parents were killed by a street thug when he was merely a lad; upon growing older, he takes a break from his wealthy life in order to travel to East Asia, develop an understanding of the "criminal mindset," and learn some martial arts. He trains under the auspices of a secret Ninja brotherhood that seeks to fight evil and injustice around the world. After his training (and subsequent break from the brotherhood's methods), Wayne returns to Gotham in order to exact revenge for his parents' murder and to take down the evil crime boss corrupting his beloved town.

The plot, of course, sounds silly (especially the bit about the Ninja brotherhood), and the silliness is exacerbated by Nolan's attempt to shove huge amounts of character development into a relatively short amount of time, thus producing canned dialogue that "tells," rather than "shows," people's histories and motivations. As such, Nolan fails to develop the characters in any meaningful way and gives us instead a lineup of stock Hollywood figures (and stars): good guy (Christian Bale), bad guy (Tom Wilkinson), really bad guy (Liam Neeson), corrupt official (Cillian Murphy), incorruptible official / love interest (Katie Holmes), honest cop (Gary Oldman), doting butler (Michael Caine), gadget guy (Morgan Freeman)...and the list goes on.

In terms of ideas, Batman Begins suffers from the same malady that afflicts many (though not all) comic-book movies: thematic development receives quick, choppy attention here-and-there but eventually succumbs to the main selling point of the movie — violence and cool gadgets. Batman Begins supposedly tackles the question of revenge—and the fine line between revenge and justice—but apart from some lame dialogue between Bruce Wayne (Bale) and Rachel Dawes (Holmes) and a completely undeveloped debate between Wayne and Henri Ducard (Neeson), the theme almost never shows up. (However, that might not be so bad: the Revenge vs. Justice theme is a tired one, and it would be hard to imagine this movie presenting it in a fresh or meaningful way.)

A more interesting theme that Batman Begins could have developed concerns moral and legal legitimacy. As an independent, crime-fighting crusader, Batman is part of a long line of superheroes who "take the law into their own hands," supplementing (or challenging) state authority. They fill some sort of need that stems from a deficiency in either the police force's capabilities or (in the case of Batman Begins) morality.

As such, regardless of their motives, superheroes who proactively fight crime do pose a challenge to the state's monopoly on "legitimate violence," setting up an alternate system of enforcement that aids—but is completely independent of—established authority. As such, to be morally legitimate, superheroes require a significant amount of epistemic confidence: they must know that the criminals they are fighting are truly bad, since the inadvertent killing of an innocent would degrade automatically their legitimacy — and would provide fodder to those who would claim that the superhero is nothing more than yet another criminal. (A state, on the other hand, can get away with a significant amount of wrongful imprisonments and executions before its very purpose is called into question.)

The other major issue that superheroes like Batman raise has to do with shifting alliances. At what point would a group of citizens feel that the state has lost all right to its allegiance? At what point could a third party, like Batman, claim to offer a better way—at least in terms of law enforcement—and build a loyal following? In the world of comic-book cinema, a clear line between the authority of the state and that of third-party alternatives does not appear to exist; those who would make such films would do well to explore this theme (especially if they want to keep the interest of audience members who fall outside the realm of comic-book fandom).

While these basic political questions may seem arcane, they nevertheless are finding their way to the top of our current political discourse, especially in terms of the Middle East. Western policy makers, in their continued inability to engage the region coherently, revert to simple political equations that support the state's monopoly of violence (the so-called "One Gun") while decrying those third parties who vie for power and authority (those "states-within-a-state"). Superheroes like Batman challenge such simple dichotomies and implicitly argue that the authority of the gun should be fluid, especially if a given state becomes corrupt and/or ineffective.

Such a timely question would have been highly appropriate for Batman Begins to address. It's too bad that Nolan instead reverted to a simple comic-book (and Hollywood) formula.

V for Vendetta: Inevitable Democracy?

2006-09-10T16:17:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 29, 2006.

In a prior review, I noted that revolution was not a Biblically warranted response to political oppression and that democracy had no intrinsic value (though it has immense practical value). However, it is one thing to make such claims on an abstract, theoretical level, and it is quite another to live in a (supposed) democracy founded on a revolution. The fact is that we live in a country that still has some remnant of its classical liberal heritage, and this affects what we expect from both our political leaders and our everyday lives — i.e., regardless of any philosophical quibbles we may have with democracy, we still expect the state to respect our political rights. We are accustomed to such freedoms as speech, press, and assembly, and we become upset if any power tries to take those freedoms away.

Perhaps this explains why movies like James McTeigue's V for Vendetta (2005) strike a chord with audiences. The presentation of a heroic individual fighting against a totalitarian regime sells to a public raised (at least to some degree) on notions of autonomy and individual rights. "V" (Hugo Weaving) dons a mask, cape, and other superhero regalia, and spends his evenings planting bombs at government buildings and assassinating evil politicians and bureaucrats. The totalitarian regime in question is a futuristic England, run by a dictator obsessed with securing the country against any and all security threats (real or perceived). The script (penned by Andy and Larry Wachowski of Matrix fame) doesn't provide much detail about how and why England abandoned its classical liberal traditions, but we do receive glimpses of times past when political crisis "necessitated" extreme measures that may have been, well, "regrettable."

For more plot detail, one should turn to the original graphic novel by Alan Moore and David Lloyd. It not only provides more character development but also a darker, grittier feel. Using muted colors and dark, shadowy tones, Moore and Lloyd present an England that is utterly depressing, run by powerful thugs who repress dissent while fighting their own inner demons. While the movie does paint a disturbing portrait, it nevertheless uses bright lights and cleaner, sharper colors that induce a less depressing tone.

The other major difference between the novel and the movie is ideological. In the former, V is explicitly an anarchist: he not only wants to overthrow the regime, but he favors replacing it with, well, nothing. In the movie, V's end goals are less clear. While he wants to depose the current regime, we don't see any alternate vision — not even one as loose and open-ended as anarchy. He just wants to provide the masses with the opportunity to make up their own minds and find their own way.

Of course, the problem with the two V's (the novel and the movie) lies precisely in the lack of a viable end game. The anarchism of the "printed" V may sound ideal, but it ignores our Hobbesian reality, the fact that without some arbiter (though not necessarily a monarch, as Hobbes proposed), we constantly would be at each other's throats. The cinematic V is simply too optimistic; after all, if people "find their own way" in a vacuum, that "way" could lead either to the aforementioned Hobbesian nightmare or to another despotic regime (i.e., another leader who promised the restoration of law and order).

(Disclosure: I was an anarchist when I was younger, but I found the total absence of state authority hard to defend, given the reality of sin. Thus, I have moderated my ideology to that of libertarianism.)

Nevertheless, despite the problems with his vision, many of us like V precisely because he is fighting an alternate vision that we definitely do not like: fascism. I have yet to meet a person who honestly would prefer to live in a totalitarian regime, given what he/she knows of alternative systems. Sure, there are plenty of people who gladly would give up their liberties for some promise of security, but they do so under a representative regime, and they still think that they hold a measure of autonomy (i.e., that they matter as individuals). I have yet to meet someone who, having lived in a democracy, would want to subsume his/her entire being under collective state rule. (For a glimpse of those who do not have a choice of living under such rule, check out A State of Mind, an intriguing documentary about life in contemporary North Korea.)

Thus, despite the philosophical charges that one can raise against classical liberalism and representative government, despite the violent excesses that rebels inevitably commit in their attempts to overthrow dictatorships, characters like V still resonate with us. We can't turn back the clock — if you are reading these words, then you probably live in some sort of democratic system, and given a clear choice between your current status and a completely antithetical alternative, you probably would choose the former. This, of course, sounds thoroughly Western, modern, and bourgeois: the "inevitable" march of liberalism smacks of a cultural and ideological chauvinism that is dangerously triumphalist and ahistorical. However, alternatives that are both viable and palatable are lacking, and while certain efforts at democratization, such as the Iraq War, have proven disastrous, the ideology itself still stands. What else is one going to offer?

For the Christian, the march of democracy doesn't make much of a theological difference, but it does hold practical benefits. Since nothing in the Bible explicitly praises or condemns representative government, there seems to be no reason to eschew it outright. On a sociological level, we are all, to one extent or other, (lowercase-d) democrats and some part of V for Vendetta's message resonates with us. If nothing in that movie resonates with you, then perhaps you do want to live in a totalitarian regime. I hear that Pyongyang is an interesting town.

Aristide and the Endless Revolution: What Value Democracy?

2006-09-03T10:46:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on August 21, 2006.

Years ago, a Christian acquaintance of mine argued that the American Revolution was completely unjustified. From a Biblical standpoint, of course, he was correct. Nothing in Scripture says that an individual or group has a right or obligation to rise up against oppression, whether real or perceived; in fact, one could argue that the opposite is true, that the Bible calls us to lives of suffering and to loving those who would harm us.

My acquaintance was pretty right-wing politically, but his sentiment ironically went against the ideological grain of the Religious Right. How could the United States have been established as a "Christian" country when its founders engaged in acts (i.e., revolution) that have no Biblical warrant? Moving beyond the United States, we must ask ourselves whether democracy of any sort, in any country, has intrinsic value and whether we should be spilling so much blood and treasure trying to promote it.

Such questions are inspired by my recent viewing of Nicolas Rossier's Aristide and the Endless Revolution (2005), a documentary about the shady circumstances that led to the downfall and exile of one of the most intriguing (and polarizing) political figures in the Western Hemisphere. Rossier first provides a little background on Jean-Bertrand Aristide, showing his transformation from liberation-theology-inspired priest to democratically elected president, the coup d'etat that led to his ouster in 1991, and his reinstatement to power by U.S. forces in 1994.

The majority of the film, however, focuses on Aristide's second presidential victory (2000) and his subsequent ouster from power (what some would call the second coup d'etat) in February 2004. According to conventional wisdom, several members of Aristide's Lavalas political party had won some legislative seats in, shall we say, a controversial manner. As such, the international community froze transfers of aid to Haiti's government, which is one of the poorest in the world. Haiti's political instability, coupled with the economic crisis, led to a highly dangerous situation in which the country found itself on the verge of all-out civil war. Thus, Aristide had no choice but to resign in 2004 and flee the country on U.S. transport. (He is currently in exile in South Africa.)

Rossier's main purpose in the film is to challenge the conventional wisdom and to argue that Aristide's departure was anything but voluntary. He first lays out the argument that the United States and other powers were never fans of Aristide, fearful of his populist rhetoric and policies and protective of the interests of the upper classes. Secondly, by preventing any foreign aid from entering the country, the international community effectively strangled Haiti, virtually ensuring the violent social unrest. Finally, rather than serve as an honest broker in mediation between the government and rebel forces, the United States effectively forced Aristide to abdicate his presidency by refusing to provide him security in the face of marauding bandits. In other words, the only meaningful choice that the U.S. gave him was to resign and flee.

Aristide's opponents, on the other hand, argue that the former president has no one to blame but himself. Upon achieving the presidency, he became autocratic and developed his own network of thugs and gangs loyal to his rule. Plus, he exercised no meaningful statesmanship while his country was falling apart at the seams: the international community had no choice but to step in and prevent Haiti from devolving into complete chaos.

While Rossier does interview figures on "both sides" of this issue, it is clear that he sympathizes with pro-Aristide forces and questions the United States' commitment to democracy. If one didn't suspect this already, then Rossier leaves no doubt that U.S. support for democratically elected governments is highly conditional. Countries electing left-wing, populist governments that eschew the so-called Washington Consensus receive either tepid support or outright opposition (see the examples of Venezuela's Hugo Chavez and Bolivia's Evo Morales). (In the Middle Eastern context, Washington's contradictory stance is most evident in its opposition to the democratically elected Hamas government in the Palestinian Territories.)

Regardless of how one feels about populist leaders like Aristide (I'm not a fan), it is hard to deny the hypocrisy of Western governments that push for democracy as a matter of unthinking, knee-jerk policy on the one hand, while also harboring suspicion and even contempt for elected officials who happen to see the world differently. While Aristide may have offered poor policy prescriptions, he nevertheless was extremely popular among the Haitian electorate, who theoretically should have the right to vote for whom they please — without foreign interference.

On the flip side, we also should note that while populist leaders may support representative government as a matter of rhetoric and tactic, democracy ultimately just serves as a tool for material gain. During the documentary, Aristide himself praises his partisans who continue to support him during his exile; he notes that they are risking their lives because they want to see democracy flourish in their country. However, while that may be true for some of his supporters, I would venture to say that the vast majority voted for him because he promised them material improvement. For many, if not most, citizens in representative states, democracy is not an end in itself, but rather, a means towards some other end — one which may or may not be democratic.

So, if democracy is empty rhetoric spouted by the Western world or a tool by which wealth can be redistributed, does it have any intrinsic value? The answer is simply no. My acquaintance was right about the inherent illegitimacy of the American Revolution, and he could expand his analysis to democracy in general: the Bible simply offers no warrant for representative government as the "correct" method of political organization. Rather, democracy has practical benefits, especially in terms of diluting power and in offering an alternative to less savory forms of government (I'd rather live in a democracy than, say, a fascist regime). Aristide and the Endless Revolution just reminds us that it would be more seemly if Western governments (a) supported democracy consistently, regardless of who got elected, or (b) just didn't support it at all.

Junebug: Artful Stereotyping

2006-08-19T09:37:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 7, 2006.

When I was in college, a friend of mine from Atlanta told me that he thought his city—large and prosperous that it was—represented the best of the South. However, he fully recognized that some of his compatriots would not share his sentiment, perceiving Atlanta as somehow un-Southern. Perhaps it is too big, too urban, too wealthy. Isn't the South supposed to be emblematic of quiet, rural, humble living?

"Rural," of course, is not a particularly positive designation among the intellectual, cultural, and political elite of the United States (or perhaps anywhere). Even reactionaries who openly espouse the supposedly superior virtues of rural states do so from their perches atop large cities. (Reason magazine's Nick Gillespie recently noted Pat Buchanan's status as a reactionary who is ironically plugged into one of the most dynamic, cosmopolitan locales anywhere.) To be "rural" implies intellectual limitation, lack of exposure to contemporary news and views — in short, ignorance. This view of rural life may be unfair and even woefully inaccurate, but it nevertheless persists among elites and serves as easy fodder for entertainment.

Enter Phil Morrison's Junebug (2005), a tale of an urbane art dealer, Madeleine (Embeth Davidtz), who marries George (Alessandro Nivola), a native North Carolinian who presumably ran away from his Southern roots to settle in Chicago. Madeleine and George travel back to North Carolina in order to sign a deal with David Wark (Frank Hoyt Taylor), an intellectually disabled "outsider artist," who happens to live a stone's throw from George's family — thus, Madeleine and George have to spend a few days in the area for the requisite familial visit.

When I read the back of Junebug's DVD case, I was a little bit worried. Whoever wrote the blurb gave the movie a schmaltzy feel: a sophisticated Yankee meets her country in-laws, hilarious hijinks ensue, and she goes home learning about the really important things in life. However, rather than presenting us with schlock worthy of the Hallmark Channel, Morrison gives us a subtle, clever, and carefully constructed portrait of believable characters.

While Madeleine is highly educated and sophisticated, she is also open to meeting her in-laws, to learning from them, and to soaking in as much unspoken, intuitive knowledge as possible about her new husband's small-town background. One also has a sense that she is absolutely genuine about her feelings; even when she exoticizes the "outsider artist," it appears that she truly cares for and respects the man. (Note: Madeleine's exoticism is highly emblematic of a general exoticism of the South by cultured, upper-middle-class Northerners. In my own neck of the woods—the Research Triangle region of North Carolina—tourists can eat "Southern cuisine," shop at "Southern-inspired stores," and experience "Southern hospitality" — and then tell their friends back home about their delightful, commodified romp through the Tarheel State.)

In addition, while Madeleine and her in-laws certainly experience a cultural clash, their interactions remain subtle and nuanced. For the most part, the cultural incongruities do not result in major blowups or faux pas, but in moments of mild discomfort and awkwardness. We know that the characters are different people, but we nevertheless witness them trying to get along and act nice — in much the same way as real people interact with "others" that they are forced to befriend.

Finally, Madeleine does learn some lessons about the value of roots, family, and even the power of faith. However, Morrison does not give us any overt "Aha!" moments, nor does he present these lessons in the heavy-handed, didactic style exhibited by such movies as Crash. Rather, we see glimpses of understanding and glimmers of moral change. The end of Junebug does not resolve all tension, but many of the characters (not just Madeleine) do alter their perspectives, having been affected by their interactions with others. We know that long-lasting change will require work on the part of the characters, a willingness to be open to new ways of thinking and being; however, in Junebug we see the genesis of such change, and the end of the movie leaves us hopeful.

Oddly enough, while the aforementioned Crash tries to break the bonds of stereotypes with a heavy-handed cinematic lesson plan, Junebug facilitates stereotypes with its subtlety, careful attention to detail, and slow pacing. When one watches Junebug, he/she cannot help but think: "I've seen someone like him! I know someone like her!" Because Crash feels staged (and thus, fake), the power of its message (i.e., the eradication of racial stereotypes) easily fades; Junebug's intimate detail and realism, on the other hand, stays with the viewer and (inadvertently) burns stereotypes of urban Northerners, rural Southerners—and rural Southerners who flee to the North—firmly in the brain.

In one respect, this is troubling. Junebug feels so "real," but it strengthens, rather than overturns, stereotypes. Paradoxically, Morrison ends up reproducing those schmaltzy themes from the back of the DVD case by giving us a carefully crafted character study that seemingly eschews simple caricatures. Does this challenge us to rethink our previous views regarding the evils of stereotypes? Or, is Morrison riding the wave of post-PC culture, in which the American consumer no longer cares about stereotypical portrayals of the Other? Or perhaps rural Southerners just make easy targets?

These questions are large and go beyond the scope of this review. However, one thing is for certain: Morrison has crafted a fine, if inadvertently troubling, movie that deserves your attention.

The Battle of Algiers: The Folly of Occupation

2006-08-12T10:20:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on August 2, 2006.

In terms of debates about U.S. foreign policy, perhaps no other rhetorical device is used as much as the analogy. The United States has been involved in so many different types of wars in so many disparate countries that our pundits find it easy to pluck an example from the annals of history in order to score debating points. These days, the historical example with the most currency is, of course, Vietnam, and those who are opposed to the U.S. occupation of Iraq (or at least fearful of its long-term consequences) are keen to remember our quagmire in Southeast Asia during the 1960's and 70's. The other side may note that such one-to-one analogies are faulty: Vietnam and Iraq have very different historical, cultural, and political contexts. Besides, the American military of 2006 is significantly better than its predecessor from 40 years ago.

Yet, perhaps the underlying issue has nothing to do with analogies per se but with the specific analogy that one is using. Recently, Gillo Pontecorvo's The Battle of Algiers (1966) has been receiving some attention, due to its unintended echoing of the current situation in Iraq. (For example, former National Security Advisor—under Carter—Zbigniew Brzezinski mentioned it during a debate with the Council on Foreign Relations' Walter Russell Mead.) With a gritty, black-and-white realism, Pontecorvo relays 1950's and 60's urban warfare between members of the French military, occupying Algeria, and the National Liberation Front (FLN). (For a brief overview, check out Wikipedia's entry on Algerian history, particularly the sections on Nationalism and Resistance and the War of Independence.)

The parallels are eerie: a Western military occupying a predominantly Muslim country, insurgents utilizing terrorist tactics, clear physical and geographic divisions between locals and occupiers, etc. One difference, perhaps, is the attitude of the French commander in the film: he essentially admits to using torture and says that he is merely doing what it takes to fulfill the policy mandate from Paris — i.e., if France wants to hold onto Algeria as colonial territory, then his soldiers must use brutal tactics to achieve that end. (It's too bad that such rhetoric is politically unfeasible today, since it at least would add some honesty to the debate.) Pontecorvo clearly sides with the Algerians in his film, and he has two simple messages for his Western viewers: (1) colonialism is morally wrong, and (2) while colonial occupiers may have strong militaries, they will have to be ready to spill a lot of blood and spend a lot of cash in order to maintain their control.

At this point, supporters of the U.S. war effort in Iraq (a number that seems to dwindle by the day) may argue that even with the Arab-Islamic connection, one cannot make a one-to-one analogy between Algeria and Iraq. For one thing, the U.S. is not (explicitly, at least) attempting to foist colonial rule, and the current situation in Iraq is not so much a war of independence as it is a sectarian struggle between Sunnis and Shiites (as though that were better).

Fair enough: let's dispense with the analogous rhetoric, which is certainly too simplistic, and recognize the real value of historical case studies like Vietnam and Algeria — they provide insights into trends. If one-to-one relationships prove problematic, then what do the adventures of Western powers in far-off lands show us in general? Unfortunately, it seems that such cases demonstrate how long-term occupations are a recipe for disaster.

The first reason should be obvious: occupied peoples usually don't want to be occupied. Given a choice, most groups do not want to be assimilated into larger and/or more powerful political bodies, do not want foreign troops patrolling their streets, and do not want to pay taxes/tribute to external leaders. I am sure that readers can find exceptions to my claim (e.g., Puerto Rico), but I sense that my general observation stands on solid ground. Even groups that have been occupied for decades or centuries try to strike out on their own again (e.g., the Chechens in Russia, the Basques in Spain), if an opportunity presents itself. Even if the occupying power claims to be doing the locals a favor by, say, investing in local infrastructure or installing democracy, the probability is high that resentment against said power will grow. (On a related note, foreign policy analyst Ted Galen Carpenter recently lambasted those who believe that Iranians would welcome a U.S. military strike, if that strike would help oust the unpopular theocratic rulers. Carpenter notes what should be an obvious point: most people, regardless of their political views, would not appreciate a third party bombing their neighborhoods, despite that party's intentions.)

The second reason why occupation makes for bad policy is cost. The occupier expends a huge amount of resources (human and financial) trying to control a population that doesn't want to be controlled. By definition, locals in occupied lands aren't going anywhere and are fighting on "home turf," while occupying forces (along with their administrators, contractors, and equipment) have to be shipped in from far away. Almost every empire in history has had to contend with the expense of its enterprise and with the transfer of huge amounts of wealth from productive purposes (free markets) to unproductive ends (command-and-control systems that are the hallmark of occupation).

Unfortunately, in what appears to be an endless cycle, historical lessons about the folly of occupation fall on deaf ears. New generations of political leaders often don't appreciate the live-and-let-live approach to foreign policy—which promotes an effective, though non-interventionist, national defense—and opt instead to promote democracy at the barrel of a gun or to maintain control, at all costs, over an ethnic minority itching for autonomy. Such egregious ignorance of (or reckless disregard for) the most basic historical lessons regarding military occupation is not just short-sighted — it is morally reprehensible.

Steamboy: The Exhilaration of the Real

2006-08-05T10:24:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on July 17, 2006.

I am the first to admit that I am an utter neophyte in the realm of anime, and I have had little desire to immerse myself in the genre (and its subculture). As with science fiction and fantasy, anime largely doesn't "do it" for me. Granted, my exposure has been limited to a couple of television episodes, as well as viewings of Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle; nevertheless, while my initial reactions certainly were not negative, I wasn't particularly enthusiastic (nor could I understand why so many people were getting hooked).

Then came Katsuhiro Ôtomo's Steamboy (2004), which recently found its way to the top of my Netflix queue. (My wife has expressed a relatively strong interest in anime, so I recently started populating the queue with such fare.) When it arrived, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to partake — would I be disappointed, as I was with Howl's Moving Castle? However, I read the blurb, thought that the movie at least had an interesting premise, and decided to give it a go (after all, I already had paid for the Netflix subscription).

What Steamboy delivered was nothing less than stunning. The plot centers on Ray Steam, a precocious kid in 19th-Century England, who spends his free time tinkering in a workshop and inventing all sorts of gadgets and gizmos. Near the beginning of the story, he receives a package from his grandfather, an engineer stationed in Alaska; the package contains a spherical object about the size of a bowling ball, as well as a note instructing Ray to keep said object away from the O'Hara Foundation, the entity sponsoring his grandfather's recent research. We later learn that the sphere is a vital component of a much larger device designed to provide massive amounts of energy (making Steamboy highly relevant to our own day). Of course, the arrival of the sphere makes Ray's life complicated: he gets chased by agents of the foundation (who obviously want their device back); he learns that the foundation's aim of finding a convenient and powerful source of energy is clouded by the other, less-savory parts of its mission (arms dealing); and he also participates in lots of cool action sequences, which, admittedly, make up the movie's strongest qualities.

Steamboy's message is relatively simple: science should be used for the good of humanity. However, its presentation of this message isn't terribly coherent, and we are left wondering how, exactly, science should accomplish its lofty mission. Ray's grandfather is the most strident proponent of the humanitarian perspective, and he takes a hard-line, purist approach: even though the convenient and efficient provision of energy is good, it should not be associated in any way with profit or militarism. (Thus, since the O'Hara Foundation manufactures and distributes arms, Ray's grandfather wants to keep the sphere out of the hands of his former sponsors.) Linking profit with militarism, however, is both unfair and simplistic (after all, one doesn't need to sell arms in order to make money), and Ray's grandfather doesn't seem to appreciate the profit motive that fuels many scientific innovations.

Other characters in the movie differ with the profit-hating engineer, but their positions are not presented in a coherent fashion. For example, Ray's father is a proponent of the foundation's goals, but he really doesn't explain his position well; relative to Ray's grandfather, his father comes across as an unthinking brute, mindlessly obsessed with the potential of Science to create and unleash pure Power. I suppose that the grandfather's views (or "emotional perspective") merely reflect Ôtomo's, so it would make sense for the director to present an alternate perspective in a negative light.

In any case, all of this talk about science is peripheral because Steamboy's strengths do not lie in its themes but rather, in its aesthetics. Relative to Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle, I found Steamboy's animation sharper, clearer, sleeker. Perhaps that had to do with the latter's focus on science and engineering: Steamboy's visuals are full of interlocking gears, metallic textures and colors, and, of course, lots and lots of steam (this is 19th-Century England, after all). Steamboy doesn't dwell in rural environments or pre-modern settings; it is a wholly modern, industrial film. Even as Ôtomo criticizes the misuse of science, he does not question the material (and aesthetic) value of technology.

(Some viewers may note that because Steamboy employs so much metal and machinery in its animation, it has a stereotypically masculine feel. One even may note that its main female character, heir to the O'Hara Foundation, is presented very poorly: while the men are busy Taking Action and Solving Problems, she serves as comic relief, running around and complaining about silly minutiae. Is Steamboy gendered? Absolutely. However, is it downright sexist? At first, I would have been willing to buy that argument, but the image montage at the end, accompanying the closing credits and providing a glimpse into the characters' futures, suggests that the spoiled girl matures into a take-action woman with her own sense of agency.)

Finally, besides the crisp animation and fun action sequences, Steamboy's high quality stems from its realism. This idea may surprise some, since anime often evokes images of the fantastic (or at least of the far, far future) among the general public. Yet, if one looks closely at Steamboy's aesthetic, we see Ôtomo pushing the edges of possibility, but not making that final jump (fall?) into fantasy. Sure, the movie is unrealistic in the sense that the 19th Century did not witness the mammoth, sophisticated devices on display in Ray Steam's England; however, the movie's machines still look and operate like machines, with their gears, pipes, bolts, etc. Ôtomo's brilliant creative vision lies not in forsaking material reality, but in pushing its boundaries to new limits. (It should go without saying that my appreciation of Steamboy's aesthetics represents a subjective preference. I am not suggesting that this site resuscitate its debate on the fantasy genre.)

In short, I finally have found an anime film that I not only can tolerate but absolutely enjoy. Rent it today!

How to Watch An Inconvenient Truth

2006-07-19T20:06:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on July 4, 2006.

Perhaps the strongest evidence that one has achieved moral consensus on a given issue lies in the language that one uses to debate that issue. In Davis Guggenheim's An Inconvenient Truth (2006), the recent documentary focusing on Al Gore's famous slide presentation on global warming, we see the former Vice-President bombarding audience members with a barrage of graphs, statistics, and photographs in an attempt to convince us that global warming is real, caused by humans (or, if you prefer, "anthropogenic"), and a grave threat to the survival of the planet (and, by extension, us). Gore doesn't have to convince us that protecting the environment, in some capacity, has merit; most people would agree with that. The plane on which Gore talks is empirical: he needs to convince us that a particular environmental problem exists and that we should address it with urgency.

The thought of watching a documentary about a slide show, of all things, might strike one as the epitome of nerdy/geeky. For the most part, that is a fair assessment, and though Gore takes pains to make his presentation accessible (which it is), I imagine that this movie will appeal mainly to a relatively well-educated audience — those not inclined to watching, say, The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift (how's that for an elitist observation?).

In any case, the documentary is well edited, and moves back-and-forth between Gore's main lecture and scenes of him traveling around the world, visiting his family's farm, and reminiscing about his past. We get a picture of a man who suffered major political defeat, but who has moved on with his life, finding purpose and energy from his role as environmental activist. Of course, the movie paints Gore in a positive light, and Guggenheim wants audiences to sympathize with both the message and the messenger. Nevertheless, regardless of whether one agrees with Gore's mission, I see no reason why we should doubt his sincerity.

This bring us to the main question regarding An Inconvenient Truth: How should we watch it? As I mentioned, it is a highly empirical movie: if you are a global warming skeptic, then Gore aims to throw so many factoids your way, to weigh down your mind so heavily with charts, maps, and statistics, that you will have no choice but to raise the white flag and gasp your surrender. In regards to the science, I have no expertise by which to judge the movie—I have found Wikipedia's lengthy entry on the subject to be a helpful primer—but for the purposes of clarification, it might prove useful to list the various perspectives that one can take:

Camp 1: Denial

One simply can deny that any global warming is taking place. However, this view has become almost completely marginalized, even among those who would critique Gore's perspective. Wikipedia maintains a helpful list of scientists opposing global warming consensus, and the last time I checked (07/04/06): "There have not been any scientists since 2001 who express the opinion that evidence of global warming is inconclusive or who are skeptical that temperatures have risen the 0.6 ± 0.2 °C as advanced by the IPCC" [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change].

Camp 2: Natural Variation

One can claim that global warming exists but that it merely is part of natural climatic changes that have occurred throughout the earth's history (i.e., there is nothing particularly special or alarming about this current uptick in temperature). Gore is particularly critical of this view.

Camp 3: Anthropogenic...But Not Alarming

A third perspective is to acknowledge that the earth is warming, that the causes of such warming are anthropogenic, but that it's no big deal. The doomsday scenarios painted by Gore are overly dramatic, and humans will adjust to any temperature variations that occur. Besides, there may even be some positive outcomes from global warming, such as increased (and more efficient) shipping via the warmer Arctic Ocean!

Camp 4: Anthropogenic, Requiring Individual-Level Changes

A fourth perspective suggests that the best way to counter global warming is to educate people about the reality and then encourage them to take individual actions to lessen their energy consumption. Suggested actions include remedies that we have heard about for years: energy-efficient lightbulbs and appliances, carpooling, hybrid vehicles, etc. This response, of course, invites a certain level of praise by most environmentalists, but also is regarded by those same environmentalists as incomplete — which leads to the fifth perspective...

Camp 5: Anthropogenic, Requiring Global, Systemic Changes

Individual, voluntary action is insufficient. Global warming is an international problem that requires inter-governmental solutions; the state, after all, has a monopoly on "legitimate violence" and ultimately can make people do its bidding (even in democracies). This is ultimately what is required and is the view advocated by Gore and his supporters (though they might leave out the bit about "legitimate violence").

So what are we to do? Obviously, if one falls within Camps 1, 2, or 3 above, then the answer is simply to do nothing. If one falls within Camp 4, then he/she should consider taking the bus to work — if that person ends up wrong about the dangers of global warming (i.e., is overly pessimistic), then at least he/she is affecting mainly his/her own lifestyle.

The tricky part comes with those in Camp 5 since law and public policy are dangerously tricky animals, often incurring unintended effects that produce other maladies or even exacerbate the problem being addressed. The journalist Ronald Bailey, who has "long been a critic of former Vice-President Al Gore" but who nevertheless is "a recent convert to the view that humanity is contributing significantly to the current increase in average global temperatures" cautions that "being right on science doesn't mean that one is automatically...an expert on the proper policy response." (Bailey's review of An Inconvenient Truth makes for interesting reading: on the one hand, he presents a laundry list of instances in which Gore appears to exaggerate the threat of global warming, but on the other hand, Bailey exhibits a grudging acknowledgment that Gore may have a point.)

Ultimately, I feel torn about this issue, and the team of Gore-Guggenheim deserve a lot of credit for that. We do have a responsibility for taking care of this earth since God has imbued creation with moral significance (Gen. 1:1-2:3). As a libertarian, I also have a strong preference for allowing market forces to hold great sway in this arena (after all, the institutionalization of private property incentivizes the protection of that property). However, policy analyst Shikha Dalmia recently reported on the failure of Europe's attempt at "carbon trading" — probably the most market-friendly solution (so far) to global warming. Her response to this failure is essentially to throw up her hands: "it might be best for countries to eschew collective action altogether...and concentrate, instead, on maximizing economic growth and generating the resources necessary to deal with the threat — when and if it materializes." Perhaps Dalmia's conclusion seems cheap and callous, but I must admit that it is the only one currently crossing my own mind.

The Weather Man: In Defense of Mediocrity

2006-06-27T21:18:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on June 26, 2006.

The question of mediocrity is perhaps one of the most important of our times. In an era in which we demand excellence—nay, perfection—in all aspects of our lives, we need to be reminded of the value of the mediocre, the average, the unimportant wallflower who commands neither attention nor respect. As a culture obsessed with "greatness" in wealth, beauty, athletic prowess, etc., we could use a bit of that proverbial "reality check," a reminder that most of us are, by definition, "average"—and dare I say, mediocre—in almost everything we do.[1]

Gore Verbinski's The Weather Man (2005) tackles this theme head-on, reminding us that in the vast majority of cases, the search for excellence is futile. Nicolas Cage plays David Spritz, the weather man in question, working for a Chicago-based television station and applying for an open slot on a show with both a national audience and a substantial increase in pay. However, in the midst of his professional goal-setting, Spritz must deal with a personal life that is falling apart: he wants to get back together with his ex-wife, but he flubs every attempt at showing that he's a "changed man"; his son is being slowly seduced by his former rehab counselor; his daughter is seriously obese and suffering from depression; and his father is dying of cancer. In each of his relationships, Spritz feels that he has failed in some capacity, and in one sense, The Weather Man is a record of both his attempts to right some wrongs and his realization that there are some aspects of his life that will never reach the level of excellence.

Even in a professional sense, Spritz is essentially a mediocre performer. Sure, he's a popular forecaster, but we learn that he has no degree in meteorology and that he was hired mainly for his skills in chatting it up in front of the cameras (and in doing some promotional appearances on the side). For working essentially two hours a day, he earns well over $200,000.00 annually. You might think that getting so much money for so little work would entitle Spritz to the label of "success," but he knows that his job is essentially a no-brainer, that he lacks substance beneath the smiling exterior, and that his cushy lifestyle has earned him the derision of some Chicagoland residents, who show their contempt by attacking him on the street with half-eaten fast food (a bizarre, but comical, sidebar in the movie).

More fundamentally, Spritz's job garners him no respect from his father, Robert Spritzel (Michael Caine), a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer (how many could top that?) who clearly has very little understanding of—or interest in—what his son does for a living. We learn that Spritz tries to earn his father's respect by taking a stab at the written word and penning a spy novel — an endeavor that proves to be a horrible (though comical) failure.

Besides his professional and literary shortcomings, Spritz also must deal with his moral and relational failures. While he can deal with the fact that he's an intellectual lightweight, he is more troubled by the fact that he couldn't hold his marriage together or keep his kids out of trouble. He ultimately sees these failures as stemming from a lack of virtue, and late in the movie, he remembers how he used to think that one day, he would become a man with a particular set of qualities (qualities usually exemplified in other people). However, as he crept into middle age, he realized that most of these qualities were non-existent in his life, and that he instead became a man of distinctly mediocre talents and virtues. In fact, The Weather Man's theme ultimately revolves around the acceptance of mediocrity as our natural condition.

So how does this relate to us? Is the question of mediocrity truly critical to our age? Do we need to learn how to accept, even revel, in mediocrity? Perhaps I am making a broad generalization from very limited observations, but I hypothesize that we live in an age of unreasonably high expectations, both in regards to our lifestyles (how we live, how much stuff we have) and our achievements (how many degrees we earn, what types of jobs we have, how much money we make). There appears to be no standard of acceptability or contentment; as soon as one level is reached, the drive to climb to the next immediately beckons, and we mindlessly trudge forward.

The danger in this lies not only in the stress such expectations produce but also in the utter depression, even despair, that results from any lack of success. Even if one's overall trajectory is positive, any temporary setbacks can prove emotionally devastating. 'Tis better to have low expectations, which allow us to be content with utter failure, happy with mediocre performances, and absolutely exuberant with those rare (once-in-a-lifetime?) moments of excellence. Rather than teach our children the lie that they "can be anything they want to be" or that "if they work hard, then can achieve anything," we instead should be honest, counseling them that they probably will not be super-rich or intellectually brilliant or especially attractive and that they should be content with the relatively anonymous, average, mediocre lives that they are bound to live.

More importantly, does this clarion call to mediocrity transfer to questions of morality and virtue? In one sense, it does. While we certainly are called to nothing less than perfection (Mt. 5:48), while we are morally obligated to avoid sin, we also must be honest with ourselves and recognize that our virtue is woefully limited. A person who lives in a state of healthy mediocrity does not give up on moral improvement, but he/she also acknowledges that any moral victory comes from God alone and humbly accepts that his/her life will be marked by moral and spiritual imperfection until either death or the eschaton. While virtue and moral purity are important topics for preaching and teaching, one should not focus on them at the exclusion of grace and the humble acknowledgement that since Genesis 3, humans have been born in a position even worse than mediocre.

Thus, Gentle Reader, I encourage you to reconsider the value of mediocrity, a refreshingly honest perspective in an era obsessed with supposed excellence and greatness. We should acknowledge our mediocrity now — before other people or (circumstances) do it for us.

Note

[1]There are numerous studies on the tendency of humans to perceive themselves as above average. A dated, but nevertheless interesting, summary of this research can be found in Robert H. Frank's and Philip J. Cook's The Winner-Take-All Society (New York: The Free Press, 1995), 103-5.

Mean Creek: The Fragmented Self

2006-06-24T15:05:00.000-05:00

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on June 19, 2006.

Ever since the Enlightenment, the "self" has been a topic of endless speculation, discussion, and debate among intellectuals. What, exactly, is this thing we call a human? Can humans truly be perceived as "individuals," as atomistic beings who can be treated as sovereign domains unto themselves? Do humans have an intrinsic, individual selfhood that can demand this sovereignty, or are we socially constructed beings whose "self" is merely a facade for the various attributes that come together and form a seemingly coherent "person"?

Jacob Aaron Estes' Mean Creek subtly examines this question of the self, how we construct it, and what happens when we encounter someone whose self doesn't cohere successfully. In the film, we meet up with Sam (Rory Culkin), a small kid who gets beaten up by George (Josh Peck). Sam's older brother, Rocky (Trevor Morgan), and his friend Marty (Scott Mechlowicz) decide that such injustice should not go unchecked; thus, they devise a scheme to invite George to a "birthday outing" in the woods in order to humiliate him (and thus, dissuade him from bullying again).

During their outing, we learn that George's identity and personality are not so easy to pin down. While at the beginning of the movie, we think that he is just some big, stupid, uncontrollable bully, we later learn that in a different context (such as a birthday outing), he can be quite amiable and even generous (he gives a present to his prior victim, Sam). We also learn that George has a learning disability — could that explain some of his aggressive behavior? Does George have a neurological condition that challenges not only his academic performance but also his social skills?

Estes takes a classic plot device—confusing audience members regarding how they "should" feel about a main character—and puts it to good use in Mean Creek. Some of the members of the conspiracy begin to have second thoughts about their plan, and they argue amongst themselves (in hushed tones, apart from George) regarding whether they should go through with it. However, when we think that the kids are going to abandon their plan, George learns the true nature of this "outing" and starts acting up again, showing his "mean" side, the side that initiated the plot in the first place. As such, events begin to unravel from there.

Whether intentionally or not, Estes presents us with a discussion of the self and implies that we are not intrinsically coherent beings, though we put up a good front. Most of the characters in the movie have an "identity" and a "personality" that seem "put together" — whether we like the character or not, we sense that there is a "whole person" there, and we can form a judgment about that person without much trouble. With George, however, we are presented with multiple identities and "presentations of self"[1] that confound us. At one point, he is a thug; at another, he is generous. He is affable in one instance but becomes cruel and rude the next. He seems like he may have some gifts and talents, but then he does something completely inept and embarrassing. We are not sure what to make of him, except to assume that his behavior is a result of some "incomplete" or "faulty" neurological development.

One could argue that George is the proverbial exception that proves the rule. Humans do have whole, coherent selves—as exhibited by the other characters in Mean Creek—and George is merely an outlier: a person who couldn't get his self together due to his disability. However, this argument ignores the very real possibility that the other characters merely do a good job of presenting coherent selves; they, too, are nothing more than a collection of socially constructed attributes. Even if one just focused on neurological characteristics (i.e., George is different not because of anything social, but simply because of his neurological disability), we are still left with an absence of self — after all, if we are just a collection of neurological attributes, then we still lack the holistic coherence, the whole-that-is-greater-than-the-sum-of-its parts, that for centuries has defined the self in Western culture.

Some may criticize this viewpoint and argue that the denial of a coherent self is also a denial of the soul. However, can we not acknowledge that we are creatures of attributes, both social and biological, and that we consciously and unconsciously combine these attributes in our "presentation of self"? Does not the soul, the deepest entity that communes with God, exist in some sense (or in some cases) apart from the myriad ways in which we present ourselves to the world? Is not the denial of coherence also an acknowledgement that we are incomplete creatures who are struggling to find that True Self but who fall woefully short? Is not our supposed coherence merely an attempt to convince ourselves and others that we "have it together," while we secretly know that any catastrophe (or even minor event) can unhinge our carefully constructed identity?

Thus, perhaps the "self" is merely a false coherence, a facade that should be examined with skepticism by Christians. This is not to deny that we each can have a individual relationship with God; however, we also should acknowledge that we are heavily conditioned by biological and social forces, and much of the way we perceive the world is not the result of honest, autonomous investigation, but rather, of our neurological limitations, cultural prejudices, and socio-economic status. In one sense, the reason why the other characters in Mean Creek found George so confusing (and repulsive) is not because he was so different but because his self-presentation (his performance) was so flawed — and thus, so revealing.

Note

[1]This term is borrowed from the title of Erving Goffman's most famous work, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. I have never read this book, nor have I read Goffman's other works, nor do I claim that this review in any way coheres with his ideas. Nevertheless, I suspect that this review has been informed unconsciously by at least some of Goffman's theories since I am married to a sociologist who has studied them. In any case, all responsibility for this review rests with me alone.

Lord of War: Against Militarism

2006-06-17T12:30:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on June 12, 2006.

In the summer of 1994, after my first year in college, I interned for Peace Action, an activist organization that advocated, well, peace. At that time, I was a social anarchist (I now am a libertarian), and I was highly critical of the massive role that militarism played in U.S. foreign policy. Interestingly enough, while social anarchists and libertarians often maintain very different perspectives regarding capitalism, they hold relatively coherent views on militarism, agreeing that the U.S. military is too large, that U.S. foreign policy is too interventionist, and that military culture and "consciousness" are too pervasive in our society.

While at Peace Action, I took an interest in international arms trafficking and conducted some research into the small arms trade; thus, it was no surprise that Andrew Niccol's Lord of War (2005) would spark my curiosity. On one level, this film is a study of an international arms dealer named Yuri Orlov (Nicolas Cage); the challenges he faces in trying to run guns while maintaining a "normal" family life; and the cat-and-mouse games he plays with Jack Valentine (Ethan Hawke), a by-the-book Interpol agent who's constantly on his trail. Niccol creates a composite figure in Orlov—who he portrays as the most prolific arms dealer in the world—in order to cover as many conflicts as possible (and to demonstrate the reach of the global arms trade). We see Orlov smuggling weapons out of the Ukraine right after the fall of the Soviet Union, smuggling weapons into Colombia via ship (with phony international registration, of course), and dealing with African thugs in the trade of the now-infamous "blood" or "conflict" diamonds.

Orlov is a conflicted man: on the one hand, he's very good at what he does, and Lord of War charts his rise from an amateur in the global arms circuit to a multimillionaire with both his own fleet of jets and the discrete, de facto backing of the U.S. government. On the other hand, he is not oblivious to the material outcomes of his trade: his guns help to prop up dictators, maim and kill civilians, and maintain horrendous levels of violence in conflict zones around the world. While he tries to convince himself that he merely is selling a means of self-defense, that his job is not to take sides in fights that are not "his," it nevertheless becomes clear that at some deep level, he knows what he is doing is wrong.

Overall, I enjoyed Lord of War, though parts of it felt a bit too polished (it reminded me of Hotel Rwanda, another fine film that nevertheless had a little too much of that didactic "Hollywood message"). However, neither Lord of War nor Hotel Rwanda had the heavy-handed preachiness of Crash, and they both highlighted issues that do not get much play in mainstream cinema; for those reasons, both films deserve your attention.

Apart from criticizing the global arms trade, Niccol leaves viewers with a sobering message: even if one player, such as Orlov, were to leave the field, there would be plenty more to take his place. As long as individuals and groups want to kill each other for any number of reasons, there shall be weapons producers and distributors willing to take orders. In short, the arms trade, whether domestic or international, is impossible to stop, and laws and regulations to the contrary are largely ineffectual.

On an individual level, of course, one does not have to be an arms dealer. One can leave the field for other lines of work, and even though such a move may not effect any material change, it nevertheless carries moral significance. This is precisely the conflict within Orlov: he feels guilty about his line of work, but he also feels that it is the "only" work that he can do well — and since his departure from gun-running wouldn't make a difference anyway, he might as well stay put.

More broadly, Lord of War is a critique of militarism, the perspective that sees conflict as not only inevitable but fundamental to the human condition. Militarism goes beyond a recognition that the world is a dangerous place, requiring some degree of self-defense and military preparedness. Rather, it seeks to inculcate a culture of martial heroism in which the prized identity is connected with a uniform (preferably emblazoned with medals), a gun, and a history of military service.

While nearly every country in the world has some militaristic impulse, the powerful ones have the means to show it off. Ever since World War II, the United States has cultivated a national identity inextricably linked with military power: for the past 60 years, to be an "American" has meant, in part, to be associated with one of the largest (and now, the largest) military machines on the planet. While this identity has eroded somewhat—probably due, in part, to the abolition of the draft: the primary institution to facilitate the development of military consciousness among young men—we still cannot shake the impulse to spend huge amounts on our fighting forces and to intervene in countries and conflicts far and wide.

It does not take a pacifist to realize that militarism is unhealthy, whether from the perspective of public policy or national identity. On a policy level, the United States is spending itself into the ground, and this is partially due to the size of our military. In terms of identity, militarism has the potential to dwarf other modes of being: compassion, entrepreneurship, individual creativity, etc. And let's not forget what the Bible says about peacemakers (Mt. 5:9). While Scripture may not advocate pacifism in a totalizing sense, it is clear that the Bible teaches us to strive for peace, to avoid attitudes (and policies) of domination, and to love our neighbor. Such teachings do not cohere with militarism, an ideology that helps nobody except the Yuri Orlovs of the world.

Grizzly Man: Good Intentions Run Amok

2006-06-13T20:45:00.000-05:00

This review was published orginally on cinekklesia on June 4, 2006.

Within the social and political realms, it often appears that we are divided in regards to the moral choices we have before us; as such, our divisions seem intractable since nothing polarizes more than a good moral debate, especially if that debate is wrapped in strong religious conviction. However, on at least some issues, what appear to be moral debates are really matters of practical policy concerns. For example, in terms of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, most Americans were not debating whether Saddam Hussein was a bad guy (most agreed that he was), nor were people debating whether democratic reform of some sort would be good for the Middle East (most would support that position in some capacity). Rather, the debate was often a very practical one: (1) Is an invasion the best vehicle to bring about democratic change? (2) How long would the U.S. have to stay in Iraq? (3) Would an invasion seriously destabilize the region, thus producing a political scenario even worse than Saddam's rule? (4) Would this serve to increase anti-Americanism at a very inopportune time? (5) Oh, and about those pesky WMDs....While those who argued for and against the war may have done so with passion and moral zeal, the questions that they raised often were practical.

The same dynamic applies to disagreements over how we care for the natural world. Many years ago, I heard a political commentator make an astute point in regard to such debates: environmentalists often have an uphill rhetorical battle because there is nobody on the other side who is arguing that we should destroy nature. I am going to make the relatively safe hypothesis that given a choice, most people on the planet would prefer clean air and water over smog and toxic waste. The question, then, is not whether we should protect the environment, but to what extent and by what means. How does one balance economic development (as much of a human need as clear skies) with environmental protection? Does one need government regulations, or can the free market correct environmental problems (what economists call "externalities") by itself?

On one level, Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man (2005) attempts to examine this question of practicality in the case of one man: Timothy Treadwell, an environmental activist and documentarian who spent many summers studying bears in Alaska, filming both their behavior and his own. (During his final expedition, Treadwell and his girlfriend were tragically killed by one such bear.) Herzog edits the hours of documentary footage that Treadwell recorded, interviews Treadwell's friends and family, and narrates his own interpretation of the motivations and behaviors that led to his subject's ultimate demise. Herzog is always respectful and specifically celebrates the magnificent natural footage that Treadwell was able to capture under remote and sometimes harsh conditions. However, his respect is tempered by his criticism of Treadwell; as such Grizzly Man is not just a study of Treadwell's worldview but of Herzog's, as well.

One obvious criticism of Treadwell is his seeming anti-empiricism. For instance, why is this man spending his summers living next to wild bears without any sort of protection? Doesn't he realize how dangerous they are, that they easily could turn him into a meal, should the need arise? Secondly, for all his concern about the dangers that the bears in his part of Alaska face, they actually are doing relatively well. Herzog interviews a biologist, who notes that the population is relatively stable, that humans can hunt a small percentage of them each year without causing real harm, and that unlike other regions of the world, that section of Alaska has a relatively low rate of poaching. Thus, Treadwell's protective zeal seems misplaced.

The second main critique concerns Treadwell's lack of respect for the bears. This may seem odd since so much of his footage consists of monologues regarding how much he loves his furry friends. However, according to a Native Alaskan that Herzog interviews, Treadwell crossed an invisible line between humans and bears; by trying to befriend the bears (or actually "become" a bear), he was violating their turf and thus, disrespecting them. It is one thing to advocate for the protection of bear habitat, but it is quite another to think that one can inhabit their world successfully. As the biologist noted, humans can be lured into thinking that the bear's life is idyllic—just romping around nature, catching salmon all day—but the reality is far more difficult (and brutal) than we like to admit. To revere the beauty of the natural world, while ignoring (or at least downplaying) its brutality, demonstrates a lack of respect (even a lack of basic knowledge) about that world.

The final critique that can be lodged against Treadwell is more metaphysical. Though he played down religiosity, his work eventually took a mystical turn; he came to despise human civilization and sought salvation among the bears. (This salvific sense stems partially from his previous bout with alcoholism: he realized that if he were going to serve as an advocate for the bears, then he would have to clean up his ways — lo and behold, he did.) Herzog criticizes Treadwell's idyllic view of the natural world and his intense desire to break down the barriers between human and animal. For Herzog, the universe is full of chaos and brutality, not harmony, and Treadwell demonstrated an incredible naivete that eventually cost him his life.

So what are we to make of Timothy Treadwell's legacy? We certainly do have a responsibility to take care of God's earth; in Genesis 1, we read of God bestowing moral significance on His creation and thus, we are to treat it with respect and gratitude. The tricky part comes in the details: how do we balance human need with environmental protection? What type of perspective should we hold in regards to the natural world (i.e., how much agency should we grant it)? Treadwell took a relatively extreme position in that he came to view his fellow humans with disdain and the natural world, particularly bears, as pure manifestations of being. This empirically incorrect view led him to conduct himself in ways that were both embarrassing and unintelligent (to put is nicely). Thus, the message from Treadwell's life and tragic death is simple: good intentions, divorced from sound reasoning, can produce very bad outcomes.

Match Point: Luck, Justice, Realism

2006-06-11T17:38:00.000-05:00

The following review was published originally on cinekklesia on May 29, 2006. To see extensive comments initiated by Paul Marchbanks, cinekklesia's founder and coordinator, check out the original review.

At the beginning of Woody Allen's Match Point (2005), we see a shot of a tennis net with a ball sailing back-and-forth, in slow motion, right over it. We also hear the voice of Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) discussing how so much of life is mere chance: while we can practice and prepare diligently, sometimes minor, seemingly inconsequential circumstances can alter our entire destiny. The introductory scene ends with the ball hitting, just barely, the top of the net, and falling backwards — presumably "bad luck" for one of the unseen players.

While watching Match Point's plot unfold, we might find ourselves confused that the theme of luck/chance plays such a dominant role; after all, the main character seems to make so many bad choices that he has only himself to blame. Chris is a tennis pro who has retired from the touring circuit, taking up residence in London and starting a new job at a local country club. While teaching the wealthy members, he befriends Tom Hewett (Matthew Goode), the son of a businessman, and soon becomes a regular part of the Hewetts' social life, eventually dating and betrothing Tom's sister, Chloe. However, he soon becomes entranced by Nola Rice (Scarlett Johansson), an aspiring American actress, who also happens to be Tom's fiancée. Chris' interest in Nola becomes an obsession, and when Tom breaks his engagement, Chris pursues a series of sexual liaisons with the American — never mind that he already has married Chloe.

Much of the movie shows how Chris tries to have it both ways, maintaining his newly obtained socio-economic status with the Hewetts while hitting the hay with his mistress. Woody Allen does a good job of portraying the stress, if not the immorality, associated with adultery. Chris constantly is juggling his new job responsibilities (working for one of his father-in-law's businesses, of course), his "regular" family life, and his liaisons with Nola. We thus do not sympathize with his supposed "bad luck" but blame him for his bad choices: he has made his bed (literally), so now he needs to lie in it.

Yet, Allen returns to the theme of luck with a vengeance: Nola becomes pregnant with Chris' child, an ironic twist of fate since he and Chloe have been trying unsuccessfully to have one of their own. This unleashes a chain of events that shifts Match Point from the genre of "drama" to that of "thriller." I won't give away the ending, but suffice it to say that Chris' life unravels quickly, and he ultimately makes choices that are even worse than his previous ones. Yet, as Chris' life spirals out of control, as he makes those bad choices, Allen nevertheless demonstrates that "luck" still plays a large part in the outcome — so much so that luck ends up trumping justice.

We should note at this point that Allen doesn't question the existence of the idea of justice. It is clear that he believes that notions of right and wrong exist and that Chris has violated those norms repeatedly. However, can we say that Justice—the abstract, almost metaphysical Justice—exists when so many people who have done so many bad things "get away with it"? In addition, if they get away with it because of favorable circumstances ("dumb luck"), then does Justice carry any significance in the universe? If something as spurious as luck can thwart Justice, then the latter is, at best, impotent and, at worst, non-existent.

Theologically, of course, all of this leads to two classic questions: (1) does the continued existence of injustice serve as evidence of the non-existence of God and (2) how can a good and sovereign God allow bad things to happen? The first question is a bit silly since there seems to be no reason why injustice on earth should necessitate the non-existence of God. However, the second question is hard and currently unanswerable. Some attempt an answer by saying that God has given us free will and allows us to make bad choices — in part because He doesn't want mere machines to serve Him. However, this viewpoint presumes that the modern conception of "free will" is Biblical (I do not think it is), and it ignores the fact that a sovereign God can intervene to alter an injustice — and yet, in many cases, He (seemingly) does not. As such, we have a question that so far remains unanswerable, residing in the dimness and partiality (1 Cor. 13:9-12) that make up our current lot.

Thus, we are left with faith. The only thing we can do is trust that God is, in fact, just, and that we eventually will have some understanding of why injustice was allowed to exist. Any current attempt to answer the second question ultimately proves speculative and unhelpful.

Allen, of course, does not provide faith as a recourse. For him, "Luck" both exists and signifies an intrinsic chaos in the universe: there is no "Purpose" for anything, nor can we hope for "Justice" to prevail. We may feel bad about the immoral actions we have committed, but those guilty feelings eventually subside (time heals all wounds, after all — even those self-inflicted), life moves on, and the victims of injustice (if we even notice them in the first place) eventually fade into memory.

Allen's metaphysical views, of course, do not cohere with a Christian understanding of the universe, but his temporal realism is helpful. On this earth and in this life, bad things do happen, perpetrators go free, and we usually forget the victims of injustice. A full understanding of our faith life requires our acknowledging this reality. What differentiates a Christian's response from Allen's, however, is whether said acknowledgement comes with a meaningful hope for the future.

The Da Vinci Code: A Non-Review

2006-05-29T10:36:00.000-05:00

This review was posted originally on cinekklesia on May 20, 2006.

In 1992, then-Vice President Dan Quayle publicly criticized the title character of Murphy Brown, a sitcom about a center-left broadcast journalist and the TV show she hosted. Quayle's beef had to do with the fictional Brown's decision to bear and raise a child as a single mother, which in the VP's mind was another pop-culture attack on traditional families and the values that uphold them. Though Quayle's term in office was marked by continuous ridicule for his lack of intellectual prowess, his critique of Murphy Brown nevertheless helped to spark the current "Culture War," a social and political phenomenon that has haunted us ever since.

The latest battle revolves around Ron Howard's adaptation of the Dan Brown bestseller, The Da Vinci Code (2006). I am titling my thoughts a "non-review" because I have neither the desire nor the intention to see this movie. You might be thinking that I am one of the hordes of Christians who are (a) boycotting the film, (b) demanding that the state censor it, or (c) running out to my local bookstore to purchase one of the many anti-Da Vinci Code treatises capitalizing on the phenomenon. No, my reason is much simpler: I'm sick of the whole thing.

After months (years!) of media hype and criticism, I simply want the whole franchise to go away. My wife tells me that I should read the book or see the movie, just so I know what all the fuss is about. However, the fuss is so pervasive, loud, and penetrating that I don't need to do anything (expect metabolize) in order to experience it. I got the gist: Brown's novel claims that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a child together; thus, their physical descendants are running around the earth as we speak. Oh, and the Roman Catholic Church is covering this up. Oh, and Opus Dei is evil. I think I've covered the major points.

What bothers me much more than Dan Brown's heresy is the generally sloppy response from Christians far and wide, a response that takes far too many cues from the Culture War and Dan Quayle's playbook. My first gripe has to do with the obvious fact that there is no such thing as bad publicity. Controversy breeds notoriety, which, of course, breeds sales. While I have heard that The Da Vinci Code may prove to be a financial disappointment, it seems hard to ignore the fact that Christian leaders, particularly those in the Vatican, have given Brown et al. an inordinate amount of free publicity.

My second gripe concerns Christians' seeming inability to get out of the suffocating (and ultimately false) Culture War dichotomy that depicts "liberals" as secular, overly-intellectual, snobbish denizens of the Northeast and West Coast and "conservatives" as religious, commonsensical, plain-talking inhabitants of the Midwest and South. The Da Vinci Code (within this demographic conceptualization of the United States) is yet another attempt by the former to attack the most cherished views of the latter, while hypocritically making a lot of money in the process. One problem with this dichotomy lies in its overly rigid categorization: it presumes that all liberals are secular and that they actively want to destroy traditional values, while all conservatives will boycott both the book and the movie. I hypothesize that the reality is more complicated and includes religious liberals, who may not want to see the movie because it looks cheesy, and secular conservatives, who don't mind spending a few bucks on a religiously themed thriller (heretical or otherwise). (For a secular take on this question, check out the comments of Tim Cavanaugh and Jesse Walker, both of Reason magazine.)

Beyond the Culture War's false dichotomy is the trap that Christians fall into again and again when it comes time to engage with the world. Any artifact or event that some Christian "leader" finds offensive and chooses to condemn publicly becomes a Pavlovian call for the rest of us to protest, condemn, boycott, threaten, etc. We saw it with Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), the hubbub over Roy Moore's attempt to prevent the removal of a Ten Commandments monument from an Alabama state building, the annual brouhahas all over the country whenever Church and State collide over the decoration of town squares with Christmas (rather than "Holiday") decorations, etc. The repetitive cycle of discover-publicize-organize-protest-sue-campaign is so predictable that I sometimes think that any true conspiracy lies neither in Roman Catholic cover-ups nor in secular attempts to discredit religion, but rather, in some third party who is keeping Christians busy with meaningless pop-culture "debates" while doing something really nefarious in the background.

Is there not more to our faith than this? Do we not have more theologically profound issues to discuss than whether to boycott an apparently mediocre adaptation of a novel written not for serious reflection but for lazy summer vacations at the beach? Should Christians be so aligned with the perpetual outrage machine, ready to pounce at a moment's notice on the next politician, actor, or broadcaster who says something that someone somewhere finds offensive? Do we have nothing better to do, or are we demonstrating that contrary to Christ, our kingdom is of this world and our concerns are wholly temporal?

Thus, I have no plans to see The Da Vinci Code. I have no desire to support either Dan Brown or his many critics, all of whom stand to make a lot of money and achieve a lot of exposure from this latest battle in the exhausting, never-ending Culture War. Both heretics and self-righteous moralists stand to gain much from the publicity, and I am giving neither side the satisfaction of my lucre. Maybe that will serve as my own "boycott" of this whole sorry saga. Wake me up when it's over.

Looking at Women...in a Platonic Sort of Way

2006-05-13T17:21:00.000-05:00

Paul Marchbanks, founder and coordinator of cinekklesia, recently published a fascinating review of King Kong. However, I had to disagree with his views vigorously. Here is a copy of the comments I posted:

I wholeheartedly disagree with your review on a variety of levels. The apprehension of beauty in another person can "exist independent of sexual arousal," but only for very brief moments (seconds?). Humans are intrinsically sexual beings, due both to the biological imperative to reproduce, as well as to social conditioning, which (as you point out) tends to (hyper-)sexualize all human relationships. As such, it is virtually impossible for one to linger over another's beauty without such apprehension become sexual.

Secondly, by trying to wrest feminine beauty from sexuality, you imply that there exists an abstract, almost Platonic beauty "out there." This, of course, begs the question as to what that ideal beauty is and how different women "rank" in relation to that standard. (Since you are discussing this issue in the context of King Kong, are you saying that Naomi Watts is the Platonic ideal of feminine beauty, or is she merely a close approximation?)

Ironically, by discussing beauty in such an abstract, almost disemodied, fashion, one is in danger of objectifying women as much as those who overly sexualize. If one's beauty becomes a vehicle for "transcendent" meditation, then how is that object of meditation any different from, say, a mountain or a painting?

In addition, if the apprehension of female beauty can be done in a non-sexual fashion, then would you be willing to write about male beauty in the same way? If you find Naomi Watts transcendently beautiful, then what about a man who meets some aesthetic standard? Would you ponder him? If not, then I suggest that would be due to the intrinsically sexual nature of human beauty: you, as a heterosexual male, would not find similarly "transcendent" qualities in a man because you would not be sexually attracted to him! I am not saying that I suspect you of "lingering" over Naomi Watts' beauty; rather, I am saying that your appreciative apprehension of her, clean as it might be, only exists because of humanity's underlying sexual drive. In other words, you would not have categorized Ms. Watts as an "attractive woman" had you been an asexual being. (It also should be noted that unlike the aesthetic appreciation of humans, the appreciation of, say, a landscape is usually not linked to any sexual drive.)

Thus, while I agree that it is possible to apprehend human beauty in a non-sexual manner, it is very highly improbable that such a "clean" apprehension can last more than a few seconds. You are talking of a space in human relations that is so infinitesimal that it is not worth pursuing or defending. Finally, I must dispute the claim that "our apprehension of [female beauty] can be a transcendent thing." From a Biblical standpoint, it seems that the opposite is true: "Charm is deceptive, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised" (Proverbs 31:30, NRSV).

Three Formulaic Films, Three Different Results

2006-05-13T10:30:00.000-05:00

Why do Inside Man, Mission: Impossible III, and The Long Kiss Goodnight differ so dramatically?

(This review was published originally on cinekklesia on May 11, 2006.)

I imagine that most filmmakers would not want their movies described as "formulaic." Such a designation conjures images of Hollywood producers chatting excitedly over $30.00 salads and $6.00 glasses of sparkling water, pulling together the details of their next blockbuster: who's available to direct, whose agent will need to be contacted, who can play the love interest, what kind of "twist" the screenwriter will throw in at the end, etc. "Formulaic" connotes an absence of originality, a lack of creative vigor, a mindless cinematic repetition.

Yet, despite the "template" nature of formulaic films, they often differ dramatically in quality. It's almost like a basketball game: the rules are stable, and the action is repetitive—it's just ten players dribbling, passing, shooting, and blocking over and over—but the quality of the game varies immensely, depending on who's playing and who's coaching. The same dynamic applies in formulaic movies: good writing, acting, and directing are essential in determining whether a movie will be an enjoyable popcorn blockbuster or utter garbage. A formulaic movie doesn't have to be deep (most aren't), but it shouldn't waste the viewer's time either.

I recently have watched three formulaic films—Spike Lee's Inside Man (2006), J.J. Abrams' Mission: Impossible III (2006), and Renny Harlin's The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996)—and I found their varying levels of quality instructive. Our first question: what makes them formulaic?

Inside Man is about a bank heist and hostage taking that hold a lot more than meets the eye. However, despite the "twist" at the end, the movie uses a lot of conventional motifs: wise-cracking detective, conflict between law enforcement and bank executive who wants to hide "delicate" information, and clever cat-and-mouse tactics on the part of the hostage takers. Yet, despite all of the convention, I found Inside Man fresh, exciting, and altogether enjoyable.

Mission: Impossible III is even more conventional: U.S. secret agent, weapons dealer with heart of stone, kidnapped significant other, explosions, cool gadgets, explosions, computer geek providing IT support from headquarters, shootouts, explosions....It was nowhere near as good as Inside Man, but still worth matinee prices — though evening prices might be hard to justify.

The Long Kiss Goodnight is both conventional and stupid. An amnesic woman who was found lying on a beach eight years prior builds a new life as a small-town schoolteacher. During the course of the movie, she discovers that she was a super-secret agent in her past and subsequently tries to "come in from the cold." The world has changed during the past eight years, however, and her former bosses want her dead. Torture, shootouts, explosions. Awful writing, awful acting, awful directing.

In order to make a formulaic movie at the level of Inside Man, one needs decent writing. A formulaic plot does not necessitate contrived dialogue. The skilled screenwriter can take the boring template that is handed to him/her and add some fresh, witty repartee.

In Inside Man, Russell Gewirtz peppers his script with well-timed, believable wisecracks and zingers that break the tension of the hostage-taking. We're not talking Oscar Wilde-caliber writing, but Gewirtz nevertheless gives us alternating doses of humor and anxiety to hold our attention for the full two hours.

Mission: Impossible III's script is nowhere at the level of Inside Man, but it is tolerable and certainly doesn't fail to meet (low) expectations. Alex Kurtzman, Roberto Orci, and J.J. Abrams gave Tom Cruise the right amount of dialogue to match his mediocre acting. Besides, it is perhaps unfair to judge this film by its script since the dialogue is interrupted constantly by gunfire, chases, and explosions.

If I were not a libertarian, then I would insist that Shane Black be incarcerated for writing The Long Kiss Goodnight. He clearly does not know how to add clever dialogue to a formulaic plot. In fact, he breaks one of the basic rules of creative writing: show, don't tell — just in case we miss the fact that the spy-turned-teacher-turned-spy is undergoing an identity crisis, Black essentially has his characters describe their feelings to the audience. In addition, unlike Inside Man's banter, the "humor" in The Long Kiss Goodnight is mind-numbingly flat — appropriate for a middle-school student's creative writing assignment, perhaps, but not for a professional script.

Without a decent script, the best actors cannot salvage a sinking movie, and our three films exemplify this harsh reality with stinging clarity:

Because they have a tightly written storyline to work with, the cast members of Inside Man don't have to stretch to make their characters believable. Denzel Washington does a good job of playing the wisecracking police detective, while Clive Owens holds his own as a thuggish hostage-taker harboring a clever secret. Jodie Foster's character (a discrete private investigator for the rich and famous) comes across as a little contrived, but the overall strength of the script renders her character a mild annoyance at worst.

As is the case with Mission Impossible's script, said movie's acting does not fail to meet (low) expectations. Every single character is a prop, serving the will of the action and the gadgetry. Yes, Phillip Seymour Hoffman is probably the best prop out of the bunch, but he's still a prop; we know that he accepted this assignment both for the money and for the opportunity to work on a less demanding project. Ving Rhames, of course, was just playing the role he gets hired to play in every project — when you've seen one Ving Rhames performance....

The horrible acting in The Long Kiss Goodnight was both amusing and embarrassing. I felt bad for Geena Davis and Samuel L. Jackson since they probably did the best they could, given Shane Black's execrable writing. Nevertheless, Davis' portrayal of the teacher-spy is so choppy and immature that it reminds one of the embarrassing performances in high-school drama class — actually, no, those performances are usually better.

The reason why the director of a formulaic movie has to concern him/herself with at least tolerable writing and acting is because he/she is making a bargain with the audience. Provide a fun, smooth script with decent actors, and the masses will suspend their disbelief, no matter how improbable the story and/or action sequences.

While Inside Man isn't an action movie, it certainly can be described as improbable. Sure, exceedingly clever, jaw-dropping heists do happen in "real life," but they are rare — so much so that news accounts often describe them as "coming out of a movie." Nevertheless, because all of the other elements of Inside Man worked so well, the audience is willing to cut Spike Lee some slack and let him spin his tale.

Mission: Impossible III is, of course, all about action. Yet, while the script and acting were peripheral, they also were tolerable. Thus, they did not distract me from J.J. Abrams' main point — i.e., blowing up stuff. As I said, it's well worth matinee prices.

The Long Kiss Goodnight is full of highly improbable action sequences, and since the script and acting were abysmal, I was not willing to deal with Renny Harlin — he did not provide me with pleasurable entertainment, so I was not willing to suspend my disbelief.

So there you have it, Hollywood. If you want to make a good formulaic film, then make sure that you include some witty and fresh dialogue, which facilitates decent acting, which then motivates audience members to sit back, munch on some popcorn, and ignore the fact that the probability of the protagonist surviving that particular crash/fall/firefight is one-in-a-billion. The final scores for our three formulaic films:

Inside Man - 3 stars out of 4

Mission: Impossible III - 2 stars out of 4

The Long Kiss Goodnight - 1/2 star out of 4 (and I'm being generous)

The Final Cut: Speaking Ill (or Well) of the Dead

2006-05-06T14:40:00.000-05:00

This review was published orginally on cinekklesia on May 2, 2006.

Many Christians decry situational ethics, the school of thought which argues that the morality of one's action should be judged based on the situation in which the person finds him- or herself. The anonymous contributors at Wikipedia remind us that situational ethics should not be confused with moral relativism, since the former does not deny the existence of universal moral truths — rather, the fullness of those truths are complicated (not eradicated) by the situations in which we find ourselves.

Even though situational ethics might escape the charge of moral relativism, it is easy to see why it still comes up for special scrutiny (and criticism). It seems to present an overly convenient method of justification — any situation can be made "complicated," and anybody can demand that outside parties judge one's actions "in context." While situational ethics is not the same as moral relativism, the differences between the two seem to measure a hair's breadth, especially in their practical manifestations.

Yet, we all practice situational ethics, and when we look at specific, real-world cases (situations?), I doubt that we would want to live in a universe in which such ethics were completely unavailable. How about the case in which a small child presents us with an object that he/she created in art class and asks us what we think? Most likely, the piece is bad in some way (technically sloppy, aesthetically immature) because, well, a small child created it! Do we critique it harshly? Do we say that the child needs to spend a lot more time developing his/her craft, studying nuances of color, shading, and texture? Of course not. We tell the kid that the work is "very nice" and move on.

What about the case in which someone attending a lecture makes a rambling comment during the Q&A, demonstrating an ignorance of the most basic facts or an inability to analyze? Should the speaker call the audience member to account and tell him/her that the comment is asinine, meaningless, and narcissistic (a point on which the rest of the audience would agree)? Or, should the speaker be gracious, salvage what he/she can from the comment, and generate a meaningful response that edifies everyone?

These are just two examples of how most of us (including the most ardent moral universalists) appreciate a little of bit tact (read: polite deceit) if it can save everyone pain and embarrassment. Perhaps a fully developed situational ethic ultimately proves destructive; however, a "lite" situational ethic might be socially (and even morally) necessary. Trouble is, how do we distinguish the two?

Omar Naim tackles this question a bit in The Final Cut (2004). This movie packs a lot of themes into its one-and-a-half hours, but one of its central concerns focuses on the dead and how we (should) remember them. Robin Williams plays Alan Hakman, a technician ("cutter") skilled at editing the entirety of one's life into a 90-minute home movie for friends and relatives to view post-mortem. This life "footage" is retrieved from a neurological implant that the deceased received before birth. (In the universe of The Final Cut, parents who think it would be grand to have everything their child sees recorded for posterity can purchase the implant while the child is in utero.) Hakman is considered one of the best cutters in the business, particularly because of his skill in editing all of the nasty bits out of one's life.

During the movie, Hakman runs into a former colleague, Fletcher (Jim Caviezel), who has left his initial profession and joined the ranks of anti-cutter activists. The activists' list of grievances is quite long and includes invasion of privacy, parents' pre-natal interference in the future autonomy of their children, and whitewashing: the erasure of evidence regarding immoral, even criminal, activity.

Hakman, of course, sees his role differently. He is doing what the rest of us have done for centuries: creating an artifact—like a painting, photo album, or home movie—that captures the "best" of us, leaving out the naughty bits that we don't want the world to see. Besides, after one passes away, what is the point in dragging out his/her crimes into the light? What good will it do? The person can't be prosecuted. Speaking ill of the dead ultimately harms only the living, the friends and family who just want "closure" and to remember the good times.

What is most intriguing about this issue is the fact that we (at least those of us in Western cultures) don't have clear guidelines regarding how to speak about the dead. In one sense, we consider it impolite to criticize those who have passed away, but that taboo seems to correlate with time: the closer we are to the actual death of the person, the more tasteless it is to critique. However, once a certain, indeterminate, amount of time passes, then we can begin the process of biography and "truth-telling," of examining the impact (good and bad) of the deceased's life on the rest of us.

Yet, my description of this process is too clean relative to what we actually do. History and biography are messy, politically charged activities. Some figures are so polarizing that either (a) their demise brings about immediate celebration or (b) they remain sacred cows long after the coffin is laid to rest. To choose two obvious examples: most history textbooks state (or strongly imply) that Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin were bad men who—to put it in the mildest terms possible—instituted bad public policy. However, neo-Nazis certainly take offense at any demonization of their Führer, and one still can see Russians nostalgically holding pictures of Uncle Joe whenever yearning for "better times."

So, what is the movie's take on all this? Ultimately, The Final Cut doesn't give us any guidelines regarding when we can take apart and interrogate a dead person's legacy. It only warns us of the dangers of whitewashing, of destroying the evidence necessary for truth-telling.

On a theological level, we also don't have much guidance. Clearly, the Bible doesn't eschew our speaking ill of the dead; from Adam and Eve's disobedience to Judas' betrayal to Pontius Pilate's cowardice, we have spoken ill of the dead for centuries. The truth hurts, after all, and we might as well learn from it. However, the call to love our neighbor forces us to eschew a sweeping, overt exposure of the truth in all circumstances, at all costs. When facing grieving family and friends, is the best course of action to remind everyone that the man or woman in the coffin wasn't without blemish? Doesn't love dictate discretion and wisdom? Doesn't love "[keep] no record of wrongs" (1 Cor. 13:5, NIV)?

Our choice here is not whether we should praise or condemn situational ethics, but to see whether our particular courses of action cohere with the demands of Scripture. God calls us to righteousness, love, and wisdom; wisdom demands discretion that is borne of experience. Is that situational ethics, or is it maturity (see 1 Cor. 13:11)?

A History of Violence: Just a Hint of Optimism

2006-04-30T19:17:00.000-05:00

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on April 22, 2006.

Determinism and pessimism are in vogue again. Popular media are filled with stories of how we can measure our genetic predisposition to particular diseases or even behaviors. Social scientists are informing us of how—with enough data and the right methods—we can measure a person's probability of engaging in a certain act, holding a certain viewpoint, reacting to particular stimuli in certain ways. (In the field of economics, the data generally point to the conclusion that yes, we are self-interested beings who function under Pavlovian incentives.)

With the question of crime, such determinism carries particular psychological, moral, and legal weight. Given the "right" set of variables—genetic, social, or both—is one predisposed to criminal activity — so much so that "reform" is a naively optimistic goal? Sure, one can bring up individual cases of people with extremely violent records who genuinely repent and change their lives for the better. However, in a broader, sociological context, are such people mere exceptions? Is the rule far more depressing?

David Cronenberg tackles this question in A History of Violence (2005), his adaptation of the graphic novel by John Wagner and Vince Locke. Viggo Mortensen plays Tom Stall, proprietor of a small-town Indiana diner and devoted family man. When two thugs enter his establishment, hold everyone at gunpoint, and threaten to assault one of his employees, Stall fights back and kills the perpetrators. His heroic actions garner national media attention, bringing his existence to the attention of Carl Fogarty (Ed Harris), a mobster from Philadelphia. Fogarty is convinced that Stall is actually Joey Cusack, a criminal with the purported "history of violence," and he wants to bring him back to the city to, um, take care of some old business. Stall initially denies the accusation and insists that Fogarty has the wrong guy. However, in the middle of the movie, it becomes clear that Stall does have a shady past, an alternate history during which he learned the skills that allowed him to fight the thugs assailing his diner.

At this point, we can begin to despair for it seems that Cronenberg is presenting us another example of how people cannot change. Regardless of our efforts, the past creeps back, old habits reemerge, our sinful ways return to haunt us and others. The possibility of reform seems like a holdover from a more optimistic time, when we believed that it was possible to start afresh and reclaim the tabula rasa. These days, anyone and everyone can be placed in a series of genetic and socio-economic categories that seem to predict, with increasing certainty, our "outcomes" as human beings.

Yet, if we dig deeper, we see that Cronenberg is not nearly as pessimistic as he initially seems. In a recent group discussion regarding A History of Violence, cinekklesia founder Paul Marchbanks made note of Stall's previously honed skills coming out when confronted with attack; we pushed the point further and wondered whether the mere existence of those skills was morally problematic. In other words, does the mere fact that he can kill with ease make him bad? What about his motivation and intent?

For the most part, Cronenberg portrays Stall as a man desperately trying to eschew his past. He recognizes his violent history, he knows that he can kill, and he has spent years trying to channel his energies into more positive directions. For a brief moment, I suspected that Stall's small-town lifestyle and devotion to family were perhaps a facade, a necessary part of his do-it-yourself witness protection program. However, Cronenberg ultimately gives us no indication that Stall isn't sincere; as such, the director has created a highly sympathetic character for whom we wish the best.

Ultimately, A History of Violence teaches us that moral change is possible but requires both consciousness and effort. Unless we are aware of our condition and believe that we need to change, reform proves impossible. At some point in his past, Stall took a hard look in the mirror and realized that his life was morally reprehensible. On a broader level, perhaps a "hard look in the mirror" for the rest of us would involve those demographic categories and statistical probabilities into which we fall. How likely is it that we will engage in immoral or even criminal behavior? Perhaps assault and murder are not in our future but what about something like marital infidelity, a social and spiritual condition that is relatively common?

The next step, of course, is effort. Without consciousness, one sees no need to expend effort; without effort, one's consciousness proves pointless. In Stall, we see a man who has worked very hard at moral reform, who even spent time in the desert in order to fight the demons besetting his soul. Perhaps moral rectitude comes easier to some than to others, but we all need to expend some effort at righteousness — and if we are honest with ourselves, then there is always much room from improvement. (Students of psychology may see in my words hints of the Transtheoretical Model of Behavior Change, which attempts to map how people move through a series of stages—pre-contemplation, contemplation, preparation, action, and maintenance—as they attempt to modify their lifestyles.)

What is most interesting about this view of morality is how closely it lines up with Biblical injunctions to righteous living. One of the most familiar passages from the New Testament stems from Ephesians (6:10-7), in which we are exhorted to "put on the breastplate of righteousness," "take the shield of faith," etc. A friend once noted how external all of these virtues seemed. We are not righteous until we have "put on the breastplate of righteousness." Moral living does not come about naturally; as Stall realized, we must become conscious of our moral condition, seek guidance from a source (the Source) outside ourselves, and expend effort at "putting on" the virtues. Moral living is hard, and we have to fight our tendency to regress.

My more realistic side wants to extend a word of caution. Perhaps the success that Stall exhibits in fighting his past is a rarity. Perhaps most violent criminals remain violent, and the vast majority of our attempts at moral improvement ultimately fail. Nevertheless, Cronenberg doesn't despair and neither should we. The first step in moral change is consciousness, which is perhaps the biggest hurdle in our returning to the straight-and-narrow.

Fantasy? Bah! Scoff!

2006-04-24T20:48:00.000-05:00

There lately has been a small debate on cinekklesia regarding the fantasy genre, particularly as manifested in M. Night Shyamalan's Unbreakable.Below is a copy of my comments regarding Paul Marchbanks' defense of the film.

Two points:

First of all, while it is possible for fantasy to express "the struggles of [our] lives in effective, truthful metaphors," the genre usually ends up distracting me from whatever theme it wants to get across. If a director really wanted to dig deep into an aspect of the human condition, then he/she generally would be better served by a genre that more closely mimics that condition (at least in a material sense). For the most part, I am not as moved by artifacts of sci-fi/fantasy as I am by more "realistic" fare.

Second, as I mentioned in my review, I did find the first two-thirds of Unbreakable quite compelling. I did not "decline to admit" or "consciously evade" Shymalan's ideas; rather, I paid strict attention. However, when the director ventured from his brooding into superhero sloppiness, everything fell apart. Courtney is right: superhero movies generally succeed when they are campy enterprises and when their messages are simple and short (lasting only as long as the multiplex's bucket of popcorn). If Shymalan had stayed just a little closer to "reality," then he would have made a better film (and I even might have acknowledged him as the serious director he so desperately wants to be).

Unbreakable: Ironically Mediocre

2006-04-24T19:47:00.000-05:00

This review originally was published on cinekklesia on April 5, 2006.

Based on my three-film sample of M. Night Shyamalan's oeuvre, I am sensing a downward trend (downward spiral, perhaps). I enjoyed The Sixth Sense (1999) and found it clever, creepy, even moving. However, Unbreakable (2000), the subject of this review, and Signs (2002) were disappointing, both evincing a director trying to squeeze as much aesthetic capital as possible from earlier work, but coming up embarrassingly short. As such, I have avoided The Village (2004), fearing even greater disappointment, and the previews for the upcoming Lady in the Water (2006) look silly (actually, if the Internet Movie Database's plot summary is to be believed, then Lady in the Water will not just be silly, but horrifyingly stupid).

Unbreakable is disappointing precisely because it has so much promise. In fact, the first half (even two-thirds!) of the film is quite good. Bruce Willis plays David Dunne, a security guard who mysteriously survives a devastating train wreck. In fact, he is the only one who survives, walking away from the crash literally without a scratch. Samuel L. Jackson plays Elijah Price, seemingly Dunne's opposite. Price has a rare genetic disorder that renders his bones extremely fragile — so much so that simple falls that would leave most of us with some cuts and bruises literally shatter him.

After local media report on Dunne's miraculous survival, Price leaves him a note on his van; he wants to contact him in order to confirm a metaphysical theory. If Price is unusually weak and brittle, then maybe Dunne is his polar opposite: unusually strong and able to survive what would kill most of us. In fact, Price believes that Dunne may be a superhero!

Much of Unbreakable is a process of self-discovery. Dunne first doubts—then begins to investigate—the possibility that he is a sort of uebermensch. Furthermore, Price prods him to consider whether he has a purpose greater than himself, whether he is here to help the weak, fight evil, etc.

At this point, we begin to witness what may be a disturbing theme in Unbreakable — and perhaps in Shyamalan's worldview (though I know almost nothing of the latter). In a conversation with Dunne's wife, Price notes, "It's a mediocre time....People are starting to lose hope. It's hard for many to believe that extraordinary things live inside themselves as well as others." Price's interest (nay, obsession) with Dunne stems not just from a desire to find a superhero, but from a desire to break the grip of a perceived mediocrity that supposedly stifles the greatness living just underneath the surface of humanity.

This search for greatness, coupled with the superhero motif, can serve as a dangerous meme in social and political thought. Price presumes that everyone is like him, losing hope in a "mediocre" age, searching for a figure to rescue us, give us purpose, provide leadership. He seems to dismiss everyday life as a chore, even a distraction, from his quest for greatness. This devaluing of the banal, the average, the mediocre, can lead to cruel or stupid acts — after all, if the herd is just an impediment to greatness (and if greatness is the highest good), then eradicating a few steer is completely justified, even necessary. (At the end, we see that Price takes this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion.)

To be fair, Shyamalan backs away from Price's methods and offers a sort of corrective at the end. However, he doesn't back away from the notion of Dunne as a superhero, from the metaphysical bipolarity between Dunne and Price, and from the value of Dunne's newfound identity as an uebermensch. In fact, as Dunne starts to become accustomed to his superhero skin, the rest of his life (namely, his strained relationship with his wife and son) starts to fall into place.

There of course lies an unintended irony beneath all of this. In criticizing mediocrity, Shyamalan makes a mediocre film! I wrote earlier that the first half to two-thirds of the movie was actually quite good, and I stand by that claim. I would go so far as to say that Shyamalan presents an intriguing, philosophically sophisticated perspective regarding (of all things) comic books. However, when Dunne starts testing his superhero powers, the movie takes a turn for the silly. We no longer see a depressed man desperately seeking purpose and identity (and finding it!). Rather, Shyamalan turns Dunne into a silly, clumsy superhero caricature. Rather than raise the comic book to a new philosophical level for an audience that might be skeptical, Shyamalan ends up regressing to a wide-eyed, juvenile fascination with superheroes beating up the "bad guys," saving the weak and innocent, and mesmerizing a stupefied and gullible public ("Who was that masked man?").

Since it appears that The Sixth Sense was an aberration in a largely uninteresting (and overrated) career, Shyamalan perhaps should step back and take stock of the value of the banal, the mediocre, and the everyday — in other words, the lives that most of us lead. I've written elsewhere on the danger of "greatness" in a political context; that kind of sentiment can lead to the worst excesses, as political leaders take cruel, authoritarian measures to achieve collectivist glory. Yet, the search for greatness on an individual level can have negative consequences, as well. Besides the obvious moral danger of idolatry and self-aggrandizement, the search for greatness can leave one perpetually unsatisfied and frustrated. High expectations can lead to high disappointment, whereas low expectations, if met, can lead to satisfaction — and if exceeded, can even lead to happiness!

Thus, even though Shyamalan holds Price somewhat accountable at the end, he does not go far enough. He should have renounced completely Price's search for worldly, human-centered greatness and should have portrayed to the audience the value of the mediocre life. I suggest that Shyamalan lead by example, recognizing the mediocrity of his own work and stopping his incessant drive to be clever and "meaningful." Maybe he next should try his hand at a light romantic comedy, the pure embodiment of cinematic mediocrity.