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

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!

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note

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

The Exorcism of Emily Rose: A Taxonomy of Belief

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

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

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

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

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

1. Automatic Unbelief

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

2. Automatic Belief

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

3. Holistic Reality

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

4. Agnosticism

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

5. Rational Spirituality

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

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