One of the more haunting images of the past few weeks was that of Seung-Hui Cho, the Virginia Tech killer, posed in his homemade video with a gun in each hand and a cruel snarl on his face. It was a stark image, especially when taken alongside the initial picture of the expressionless schoolboy that had circulated in the days following the shooting. The university, the Korean-American community, the state and the nation have been left to wonder about the tale of a quiet misfit and his path to mental instability and finally to enraged evil. His pose gives voice to that rage, as it reveals the obsession that he expressed that day on the campus.
But what of that obsession? Is it merely the property of the mentally disturbed, or are others subject to the same lure? Strange as it may seem, Notes on a Scandal, the recent Oscar-nominated film by Richard Eyre, gave me the context to consider this question. Eyre, who himself has a rich background in the British theater, gives us a platform to demonstrate the acting prowess of Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett (both of whom received nominations for their work), and it is their work that stands as the great strength of the film. Dame Dench plays Barbara Covett, who is introduced first as a surly, cynical and unappreciated school teacher. She has long since lost any delusions about her job, and is bored by the machinations of the school process. We hear the world described through her journal, but must measure those words with what we see. They don’t match up.
In contrast to Barbara’s despairing cynicism we have Blanchett’s Sheba Hart, a new art teacher, who is full of life and, while lacking wisdom in the art of teaching, at least brings zeal and passion. Through the quiet use of the camera, we learn immediately that Barbara’s interest in Sheba is more than passing. She is attracted to her, and though masking it with her cool demeanor, slowly finds ways to bring her into her world.
They forge a friendship, and it is through the conversations around this friendship and the rantings from Barbara’s journal that we come to learn that both of them are writing tales about obsession. For Barbara, she conjures up a story of their budding love affair, of the deep and meaningful companionship that they are meant to have together for a lifetime. On the other, we learn of Sheba’s unhappiness with her marriage, her exhaustion at raising two children, one of whom suffers from Down’s Syndrome, and eventually of the pressure she feels because she is the daughter of a famous man. The film slowly sets the stage for her feelings of being trapped, and then, in a wonderfully delivered scene, we learn along with Barbara her terrible secret: She is involved in an affair with one of her 15-year old students.
The scandal is revealed, and Barbara decides to use her knowledge to her advantage. She uses the affair to manipulate Sheba, and then when Sheba rejects her affections, she uses her knowledge to try and bring Sheba down. Soon, both become embroiled in a scandal that is national fodder for the tabloids.
Both women spend their lives constructing a fantasy world that is their means of coping with and escaping from their reality. While Barbara’s lesbianism could be a major focus of the piece, Eyre makes the wise choice to avoid that issue. While Barbara is pursuing this relationship, we get a brief scene between her and her family, where they reference a prior relationship that Barbara had had. They do so with a voice of acceptance, perhaps even approval. This is key, because we could assume that Barbara’s obsession is driven by her lifestyle and the disapproval that society brings. It isn’t, and the acceptance that we see in the film simply drives home the truth that Barbara’s fantasy world is one of her own creation that is made for her own ends. The root cause of her fantasy life is found not in her culture’s constraints, but in her own basic dissatisfaction with life.
But if dissatisfaction is what drives the obsessive retreat into fantasy, what is the cure? For the film, I think the answer is found in one brief scene towards the end. Both Barbara and Sheba’s obsession is brought to life, and both must endure some degree of public shame for the way in which their fantasy failed to comport with reality. But while one eventually simply begins to spin a new tale of fantasy, the other gives us some hope of finding healing, as she embraces her family and the role that they can play in her recovery.
In the end, Scandal provides a fascinating commentary on the private nature of our lives and the negative consequences that this can bring. It is easy in our world to become captives of our technology, our commutes, and the other treasures of our world. We have few friends, more time in the car, and know less about our neighbors with each passing day. And while we can isolate ourselves further and further, we have some of the same basic human weaknesses and human need that we always have had. We have a longing for love and acceptance, for relationships that are meaningful, and for lives that have purpose. Life has a way of challenging each of those needs.
There is a temptation that is alluring for us when we encounter these isolated lives of longing, and it is the temptation that Barbara and Sheba live out in extreme form. That temptation is to live in a fantasy world, whether that fantasy is constructed of material possessions, or success in career, in illicit affairs, or the retreats of the imagination. The cure for them and for us is community. The truth is that we need each other. One of the sources for our own healing from the anxieties, fears, and frustrations that we see in Barbara and Sheba is found in the care and concern we have for each other. Community is the cure, but as Sheba demonstrates, it is a cure that we must submit ourselves to again and again, knowing that there will be much along the way to make us want to retreat.
Of course, this kind of analysis is incomplete, and for every film like Scandal that sees a redemptive role for communities, we can find as many films that will show us destructive communities and the evil that they do. But that is simply a reminder of the need for the community itself to live in submission to Someone higher than itself. See, we don’t just need community. We need the Church, the real Church, not just the easy substitutes that we embrace so often today. Without it, the healing that Barbara and Sheba both need to find will always be incomplete.
Perhaps it seems too easy an answer, but I expect the complexity must be found within it. Christ is the answer, whether it is for Barbara's ramblings, Sheba's malaise or Cho's darkness. He is indeed the hope of the world, and the only object worthy of our deepest affections.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Reign Over Me: A Review
I'm weary of the nights I've seen inside these empty halls - Jackson Browne
Over the last few days, since walking out of Reign Over Me, my mind has drifted through the past. Gin Rummy with Dave. Luther’s rib night with Sam. Madden ’92 (and ’93 and ‘94) with Kevin and Chris. The X-Files and Spades with Brien, Erik, and Kyle. The Bayou Kitchen with Jeff. Lupie’s, or the gym, or jogging, or a hundred other things with Brett. These are just a few of the friends that have walked through my paths, and some of the things that we did together.
At the core, I don’t think these kinds of associations are wrong when engaging Reign Over Me, because at its core, the movie is a reflection on the healing power of friendship. It introduces us to two men, Alan Johnson and Charlie Fineman, and lets us see the tender place their friendship has in each other’s lives.
Alan Johnson is a man that we have seen before. He’s making his way in his 40’s and is hitting his professional stride. A dentist, he has a successful Manhattan practice, a beautiful wife, and a kid that seems well-adjusted. He’s playing life at the top of his game, and of course, is completely bored with the whole experience. Alan isn’t really facing a midlife crises so much as a midlife malaise, an inability to look within and find what’s wrong when all around him seems to be going so well.
And so Charlie comes into his life. His old college roommate, Alan sees Charlie one night and tries to run him down. He doesn’t, but then sees him again, and so they reestablish their connection. It’s an odd reunion, as the Charlie he meets is a shadow of his old self, lost in a world of grief after losing his family in 9/11. Now, he is a true eccentric, spending his days constantly remodeling his kitchen, playing video games and music, and surrounding himself with his ever-expanding LP collection.
This is “Charlie World,” and for all the plot points that Reign Over Me works through, “Charlie World” is its strength. It is in this world that we get to dwell with these two men, ably played by Don Cheadle and Adam Sandler, as they fight through Charlie’s erratic madness and his inability to rebuild his life to forge a new friendship.
While the movie centers around Charlie, its success is driven in large part because it successfully develops Alan as a fully orbed character. Alan looks to Charlie with charitable eyes, but the reality is that Alan needs Charlie too. Alan loses himself in “Charlie World,” rediscovering pleasure he had long forgotten in evenings playing video games, laughing at Mel Brooks movies, and jamming to Bruce Springsteen records. For Alan, the drive of career and the responsibilities of family had left him forgetting a part of himself, and it is somewhere in the pleasures of these evenings that he starts to remember.
The movie walks a fine line, because the pieces that help Alan rediscover himself are things that could just as easily derail a man in his place. I doubt most readers think of a video game junkie, an obsessive collector, or a movie hound as the stereotype of a well-adjusted adult male. In fact, it is these very pieces that are Charlie’s escapes from reality, the fantasy world he is able to build up around himself to run from the pain that the real world gave him.
But these tools work for Alan, because in the end they aren’t the real salvation. His salvation is found in the redemptive work of real friendship. Alan’s world, with a good career and a great family was incomplete because of a lack of real male friendship. It is through his journey with Charlie that he is able to understand the ways in which he was running his life largely on autopilot, retreating into self-pity and pulling away from the very people he loved most. Charlie spent his life running away from grief, while Alan spent his running away from boredom. They needed each other to figure out how to engage the world again. The friendship that they forge is built on a healthy investment of fun time together, not on a forced and artificial intimacy that is disconnected from the basic pleasures they find in living.
Watching the movie, I was reminded of Fight Club and Lord of the Rings, two movies that have this constant theme of male friendship, as well as Wild at Heart, a book by John Eldredge that deals with “rediscovering the heart” of Christian men. When Eldredge’s book was published, I knew of a few men that misread his work and decided that they needed to spend their weekends rock-climbing to capture the essence of Christian “manliness.” I don’t think that’s what Eldredge was saying, anymore than Fight Club was an invitation to have spontaneous brawls or Lord of the Rings was an invitation to dress in elven cloaks and run to the woods. But the misinterpretations that each of these works brought about only drive home how elusive this concept of friendship, and particularly male friendship, can be.
We are a nation of lonely men. The solitary nature of our work and commuting lives, the declining number of close friendships outside of the family, and the isolating nature of our technologies, leaves far too many of us without real companionship. And no matter how strong our marriages can be, or how devoted we can be to our families, the absence of real male friendship is a hole in our lives for which there is no real substitute.
My favorite moment in Reign Over Me came in a small conversation towards the beginning of an otherwise uneven and derailing third act. While the movie itself started to doubt its own convictions about this larger theme, as it attempted to solve all of the problems in a formulaic and broad manner, it gives us this small conversation between Alan and Charlie. Alan is playing the role of tender friend, speaking with candor about some of his own frustrations with his own life before turning to Charlie’s problems, probing for a way to help his friend. Charlie, looking down and giving a classic Sandler wry grin, says “Man, I’m more worried about you.”
Did you hear that? Charlie, who threw the rest of his life away when tragedy took its best parts, is more worried about his friend who has the success and family that are miles away from Charlie’s life. The success of the movie, though, is that his statement rings true. Friendship does that, making us care more about the other guy than we do about ourselves.
Jesus himself said that the greatest love we can have is to “lay down our lives for our friends.” His vision, a vision which Reign Over Me echoes in the palest of fashions, is that of a self-denying love, a love that finds its greatest satisfaction in the well-being of the other person.
I walked out of the movie (alone, appropriately enough) with a sense of gratitude for the friends that have made their way through my paths, some for a season and some for a lifetime. I miss them, and am reminded that the gadgets that pervade my existence, the priority of family and ministry, and the tyranny of busyness, schedules, traffic and excuses must not keep me from pursuing that basic need for male friendship, a need for which there is simply no substitute.
Anyone up for barbecue?
Over the last few days, since walking out of Reign Over Me, my mind has drifted through the past. Gin Rummy with Dave. Luther’s rib night with Sam. Madden ’92 (and ’93 and ‘94) with Kevin and Chris. The X-Files and Spades with Brien, Erik, and Kyle. The Bayou Kitchen with Jeff. Lupie’s, or the gym, or jogging, or a hundred other things with Brett. These are just a few of the friends that have walked through my paths, and some of the things that we did together.
At the core, I don’t think these kinds of associations are wrong when engaging Reign Over Me, because at its core, the movie is a reflection on the healing power of friendship. It introduces us to two men, Alan Johnson and Charlie Fineman, and lets us see the tender place their friendship has in each other’s lives.
Alan Johnson is a man that we have seen before. He’s making his way in his 40’s and is hitting his professional stride. A dentist, he has a successful Manhattan practice, a beautiful wife, and a kid that seems well-adjusted. He’s playing life at the top of his game, and of course, is completely bored with the whole experience. Alan isn’t really facing a midlife crises so much as a midlife malaise, an inability to look within and find what’s wrong when all around him seems to be going so well.
And so Charlie comes into his life. His old college roommate, Alan sees Charlie one night and tries to run him down. He doesn’t, but then sees him again, and so they reestablish their connection. It’s an odd reunion, as the Charlie he meets is a shadow of his old self, lost in a world of grief after losing his family in 9/11. Now, he is a true eccentric, spending his days constantly remodeling his kitchen, playing video games and music, and surrounding himself with his ever-expanding LP collection.
This is “Charlie World,” and for all the plot points that Reign Over Me works through, “Charlie World” is its strength. It is in this world that we get to dwell with these two men, ably played by Don Cheadle and Adam Sandler, as they fight through Charlie’s erratic madness and his inability to rebuild his life to forge a new friendship.
While the movie centers around Charlie, its success is driven in large part because it successfully develops Alan as a fully orbed character. Alan looks to Charlie with charitable eyes, but the reality is that Alan needs Charlie too. Alan loses himself in “Charlie World,” rediscovering pleasure he had long forgotten in evenings playing video games, laughing at Mel Brooks movies, and jamming to Bruce Springsteen records. For Alan, the drive of career and the responsibilities of family had left him forgetting a part of himself, and it is somewhere in the pleasures of these evenings that he starts to remember.
The movie walks a fine line, because the pieces that help Alan rediscover himself are things that could just as easily derail a man in his place. I doubt most readers think of a video game junkie, an obsessive collector, or a movie hound as the stereotype of a well-adjusted adult male. In fact, it is these very pieces that are Charlie’s escapes from reality, the fantasy world he is able to build up around himself to run from the pain that the real world gave him.
But these tools work for Alan, because in the end they aren’t the real salvation. His salvation is found in the redemptive work of real friendship. Alan’s world, with a good career and a great family was incomplete because of a lack of real male friendship. It is through his journey with Charlie that he is able to understand the ways in which he was running his life largely on autopilot, retreating into self-pity and pulling away from the very people he loved most. Charlie spent his life running away from grief, while Alan spent his running away from boredom. They needed each other to figure out how to engage the world again. The friendship that they forge is built on a healthy investment of fun time together, not on a forced and artificial intimacy that is disconnected from the basic pleasures they find in living.
Watching the movie, I was reminded of Fight Club and Lord of the Rings, two movies that have this constant theme of male friendship, as well as Wild at Heart, a book by John Eldredge that deals with “rediscovering the heart” of Christian men. When Eldredge’s book was published, I knew of a few men that misread his work and decided that they needed to spend their weekends rock-climbing to capture the essence of Christian “manliness.” I don’t think that’s what Eldredge was saying, anymore than Fight Club was an invitation to have spontaneous brawls or Lord of the Rings was an invitation to dress in elven cloaks and run to the woods. But the misinterpretations that each of these works brought about only drive home how elusive this concept of friendship, and particularly male friendship, can be.
We are a nation of lonely men. The solitary nature of our work and commuting lives, the declining number of close friendships outside of the family, and the isolating nature of our technologies, leaves far too many of us without real companionship. And no matter how strong our marriages can be, or how devoted we can be to our families, the absence of real male friendship is a hole in our lives for which there is no real substitute.
My favorite moment in Reign Over Me came in a small conversation towards the beginning of an otherwise uneven and derailing third act. While the movie itself started to doubt its own convictions about this larger theme, as it attempted to solve all of the problems in a formulaic and broad manner, it gives us this small conversation between Alan and Charlie. Alan is playing the role of tender friend, speaking with candor about some of his own frustrations with his own life before turning to Charlie’s problems, probing for a way to help his friend. Charlie, looking down and giving a classic Sandler wry grin, says “Man, I’m more worried about you.”
Did you hear that? Charlie, who threw the rest of his life away when tragedy took its best parts, is more worried about his friend who has the success and family that are miles away from Charlie’s life. The success of the movie, though, is that his statement rings true. Friendship does that, making us care more about the other guy than we do about ourselves.
Jesus himself said that the greatest love we can have is to “lay down our lives for our friends.” His vision, a vision which Reign Over Me echoes in the palest of fashions, is that of a self-denying love, a love that finds its greatest satisfaction in the well-being of the other person.
I walked out of the movie (alone, appropriately enough) with a sense of gratitude for the friends that have made their way through my paths, some for a season and some for a lifetime. I miss them, and am reminded that the gadgets that pervade my existence, the priority of family and ministry, and the tyranny of busyness, schedules, traffic and excuses must not keep me from pursuing that basic need for male friendship, a need for which there is simply no substitute.
Anyone up for barbecue?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
300: A Review
300 is a difficult movie to review. I got into the experience, which is primarily a 2 hour testosterone-fueled adventure. Perhaps the most faithful response to the experience would be to simply offer a pronounced, guttural roar and move on. Certainly that response would be consistent with the intent of the marketing machine behind the movie, and perhaps of the director’s purposes.
The source material for 300 is a graphic novel by Frank Miller, a beloved comic book artist turned film director. That the movie grounds itself in the graphic novel rather than the famous Battle of Thermopylae, where a Spartan-led small army held off the Persian army for days, is significant to understand the movie’s ways. Miller made a name for himself in the world of graphic novels (read “comic books” for the less sympathetic) as a master of mood, drawing people into his worlds and stories through visceral art that captured the imagination, at times regardless of the strength of the story he was telling. This emphasis on the visual, a major reason why the comic book medium itself translates well into blockbuster films, comes through in 300. The movie is exciting storytelling, building on the fascinating and unique images from Miller’s work, much like Miller and Robert Rodriguez accomplished in the masterful Sin City, but expanding on the novel with a more interesting back story and character than the book originally offered.
That being said, historians will no doubt scoff at the picture. The movie takes huge liberties with the events themselves, the characters who played a part, and the cultures in view. Indeed, it is this last part that is currently catching the world’s attention, as the Iranian press proclaimed that “Hollywood declares war on Iran” through its depiction of the Persian Empire and its king. For those who have a love for history or an affinity for the cultures that are this movie’s villains, there are a lot of toes to step on, and 300 dances away.
But 300 doesn’t dance on these toes merely to offend, as these realities are a byproduct of the efforts to turn the participants in the Battle of Thermopylae into caricatures of heroes and villains. The Spartans are intensely devoted and passionate warriors, creating a culture that is perfectly geared to fight. King Leonidas, our film’s hero, is a passionate idealist, devoted to the freedom of Sparta and to his wife and child. His sacrifice, and the sacrifice of the other 300, is centered around their fight for freedom, for the triumph of “rationalism” over “mysticism.” The heroes of 300 wear no warts, and present a courage that is as sculpted as their bodies.
The villains also are as simple to understand. The Persian army is literally held up on the backs of slaves. Xerxes, the giant God-King, draped in gold and speaking with a thundering bass voice, reminds us of this as he steps on the slaves heads and backs as he walks down his “stairs” to meet Leonidas. Sexuality becomes one of the ways 300 depicts good and evil, as the Persians offer a decadent culture with apparent widespread homosexuality. One of the Spartans even makes reference to the Athenian “boy-lovers,” presenting us with the Spartans as the one noble, and heterosexual, culture. This, too, is a complete change from the historical realities for the Spartan culture. But this isn’t about their culture anymore. It is about ours.
What makes a hero? This is a question that could be asked of many movies, and especially of the summer, blockbuster fare (of which this movie fits in extraordinarily well). For 300, that answer lies in the clarity of conviction, in a courage to stand, in passionate love within monogamous (and apparently, heterosexual) relationships. Within Sparta, evil is found in the mystics who rely on superstition (that is, religion) rather than logic, in politicians who use their power to pursue their own ends at the expense of their people, and a deformed traitor who refuses to accept his place supporting the Spartan army.
These are clear lines that I expect many would resonate with, so long as it is not their own ancient culture that is the object of the caricature. These clear lines and defined roles make for enjoyable movie-viewing. It is fun at times to escape into a world where the lines between hero and villain are so easy to see, and all that is left is for the hero to draw the only line that he can draw. This is unambiguous and a place where good can triumph before the credits roll.
The Iranian response to the film, misguided though it may be, is a reminder of the limits of this hero’s journey. The reality that we live in rarely offers the kind of clarity that 300 depicts. The mistake comes when we attempt to draw the untextured reality of a world like this and bring it into our own world. Our current political climate, which seems to be sustained on polarization and radically simplified analysis of the world, commits this exact kind of mistake every day, as it asks us to divide the world into heroes and villains, to see the issues we face with a black-and-white clarity, and to stand firm against the evil that we face.
It is not that I disagree with this last value, only that I question my clarity on the first two. I want the kind of courage, loyalty, and heroic faith that Leonidas and the heroes of 300 embody. But I want to bring that character into a world where the politics are complex, and where my personal call is to love my enemies and to demonstrate to the world the love of God through the love that I have for other people. The “cowboy” hero, which is what the 300 hero embodies, has little room for these kinds of values, and so my search for heroism must go deeper, and will look different, than the heroes that emerge from the vivid world of the big screen. It is not, then, that 300 fails, in fact in many ways it is a great success. It is only that is asking questions that need deeper answers than what it is prepared to offer. Some of our answers will be written with periods rather than exclamation points, and most won't need a roar to accompany them.
The source material for 300 is a graphic novel by Frank Miller, a beloved comic book artist turned film director. That the movie grounds itself in the graphic novel rather than the famous Battle of Thermopylae, where a Spartan-led small army held off the Persian army for days, is significant to understand the movie’s ways. Miller made a name for himself in the world of graphic novels (read “comic books” for the less sympathetic) as a master of mood, drawing people into his worlds and stories through visceral art that captured the imagination, at times regardless of the strength of the story he was telling. This emphasis on the visual, a major reason why the comic book medium itself translates well into blockbuster films, comes through in 300. The movie is exciting storytelling, building on the fascinating and unique images from Miller’s work, much like Miller and Robert Rodriguez accomplished in the masterful Sin City, but expanding on the novel with a more interesting back story and character than the book originally offered.
That being said, historians will no doubt scoff at the picture. The movie takes huge liberties with the events themselves, the characters who played a part, and the cultures in view. Indeed, it is this last part that is currently catching the world’s attention, as the Iranian press proclaimed that “Hollywood declares war on Iran” through its depiction of the Persian Empire and its king. For those who have a love for history or an affinity for the cultures that are this movie’s villains, there are a lot of toes to step on, and 300 dances away.
But 300 doesn’t dance on these toes merely to offend, as these realities are a byproduct of the efforts to turn the participants in the Battle of Thermopylae into caricatures of heroes and villains. The Spartans are intensely devoted and passionate warriors, creating a culture that is perfectly geared to fight. King Leonidas, our film’s hero, is a passionate idealist, devoted to the freedom of Sparta and to his wife and child. His sacrifice, and the sacrifice of the other 300, is centered around their fight for freedom, for the triumph of “rationalism” over “mysticism.” The heroes of 300 wear no warts, and present a courage that is as sculpted as their bodies.
The villains also are as simple to understand. The Persian army is literally held up on the backs of slaves. Xerxes, the giant God-King, draped in gold and speaking with a thundering bass voice, reminds us of this as he steps on the slaves heads and backs as he walks down his “stairs” to meet Leonidas. Sexuality becomes one of the ways 300 depicts good and evil, as the Persians offer a decadent culture with apparent widespread homosexuality. One of the Spartans even makes reference to the Athenian “boy-lovers,” presenting us with the Spartans as the one noble, and heterosexual, culture. This, too, is a complete change from the historical realities for the Spartan culture. But this isn’t about their culture anymore. It is about ours.
What makes a hero? This is a question that could be asked of many movies, and especially of the summer, blockbuster fare (of which this movie fits in extraordinarily well). For 300, that answer lies in the clarity of conviction, in a courage to stand, in passionate love within monogamous (and apparently, heterosexual) relationships. Within Sparta, evil is found in the mystics who rely on superstition (that is, religion) rather than logic, in politicians who use their power to pursue their own ends at the expense of their people, and a deformed traitor who refuses to accept his place supporting the Spartan army.
These are clear lines that I expect many would resonate with, so long as it is not their own ancient culture that is the object of the caricature. These clear lines and defined roles make for enjoyable movie-viewing. It is fun at times to escape into a world where the lines between hero and villain are so easy to see, and all that is left is for the hero to draw the only line that he can draw. This is unambiguous and a place where good can triumph before the credits roll.
The Iranian response to the film, misguided though it may be, is a reminder of the limits of this hero’s journey. The reality that we live in rarely offers the kind of clarity that 300 depicts. The mistake comes when we attempt to draw the untextured reality of a world like this and bring it into our own world. Our current political climate, which seems to be sustained on polarization and radically simplified analysis of the world, commits this exact kind of mistake every day, as it asks us to divide the world into heroes and villains, to see the issues we face with a black-and-white clarity, and to stand firm against the evil that we face.
It is not that I disagree with this last value, only that I question my clarity on the first two. I want the kind of courage, loyalty, and heroic faith that Leonidas and the heroes of 300 embody. But I want to bring that character into a world where the politics are complex, and where my personal call is to love my enemies and to demonstrate to the world the love of God through the love that I have for other people. The “cowboy” hero, which is what the 300 hero embodies, has little room for these kinds of values, and so my search for heroism must go deeper, and will look different, than the heroes that emerge from the vivid world of the big screen. It is not, then, that 300 fails, in fact in many ways it is a great success. It is only that is asking questions that need deeper answers than what it is prepared to offer. Some of our answers will be written with periods rather than exclamation points, and most won't need a roar to accompany them.
Zodiac: A Review
There is a moment later in the movie Zodiac where Robert Graysmith, the political cartoonist turned self-appointed investigator, ably played by Jake Gyllenhaal, shows up at the home of Inspector David Toschi, played by Mark Ruffalo. Energetically offering ideas and asking questions about the investigation of a serial killer now several years stale, he is rebuffed by the detective, who asks him if he knows how many murders have been committed in the San Francisco area since the Zodiac killer’s last murder. “Hundreds,” the inspector answers his own question. Hundreds of grieving families. Hundreds of killers to bring to justice. Hundreds of cases with the same degree of importance as the case that both fascinates, then consumes, then haunts these men. Why, then, should they continue to chase trails that grow ever colder in pursuit of a resolution that may never be found?
This is the question that stands at the center of David Finch’s exceptional Zodiac. Having offered a genre-defining psychological exploration of a serial killer in Seven, he returns to the genre years later with a radically different approach. Moving away from the dark mood and the seedy world that inhabited his earlier effort, he instead offers us a way into a vibrant and energetic San Francisco of the late ‘60’s. The characters he brings to life on screen must be an actor’s dream, offering rich variety and texture. From the flamboyant and self-destructive reporter Paul Avery, played by Robert Downey, Jr., to Graysmith’s clean-cut family man and quiet cartoonist, to the detectives each filled with personality. These are generally likeable people, who come to the case with their own interests and objectives, their own histories, each to be molded by a case that will never be solved.
It is this last fact that will shape much of the response to the film. I’m not spoiling anything, mind you, or at least it isn’t the kind of spoiler that should count. I still laugh at the friend who walked out of Titanic and said to his friend, “I’m glad they finally sunk that ship,” only to have a patron in line shout, “Thanks for telling us!” You’re on notice when you’re dealing with history, and your own wiki-research, if not your own knowledge of the events, will quickly turn up that no one was ever charged in the cases that are the subject of the movie. Fincher takes a particular spin on this case, and that I won’t spoil, but he doesn’t abandon entirely the futility and madness that must define this case.
Instead, what he offers us is a long tale that slowly draws in person after person, all having their own season of fascination at the case’s mysteries. Early on, we see vivid portrayals of two of the murders. Their violence isn’t gratuitous, but they are excruciating to watch. In taking us through this, he captivates our attention as much as the people who became consumed with the case. Tossing back and forth between the investigation of the San Francisco Chronicle, the paper who received the killer’s letters, and the detectives who inherited the case when the killer turned his attention to San Francisco, we are never invited to settle on a single hero, but instead walk through various perspectives, each person finding their own end of futility.
The experiences of these different players struck me vividly and personally. I can remember, working as a prosecutor, the first time I saw a judge work his way to a wildly incorrect decision (it only took about a week on the job to see this). Watching the defendant walk out the back door when he should have been taken away in cuffs was absolutely dumbfounding. Of course, seeing things like that happen on a near daily basis, the shock grew muted, which may not have been a good thing. That “adjustment,” though, was the common coping mechanism I witnessed among most who lived and worked inside the system. Indeed, it was a survival skill that they had to have to come back to work the next day.
Zodiac has its share of these kinds of people, those who have a realistic perspective on the limits of the system and of their own abilities to ascertain and expose truth. I was impressed that Fincher was able to bring this to bear with a relatively uncynical eye, something I rarely could do in my own time as an insider. But he also provides us with the bystander’s view, through Gyllenhaal, who is driven to find truth without the incentive of career or acclaim. Indeed, as Avery points out to him early in the movie, he is the one “hero” in the movie that has no “angle” to be involved in the case.
In this sense, then Gyllenhaal is the voice for most of us who stand outside of the world of crime and must only read about it, or watch the cleanup efforts on television. As we see evil come before us, there is an innate cry for justice, and what we expect from those insiders, as we should, is their own best efforts to pursue the ends of justice, with all the complexities that that entails.
And here is where the movie succeeds most. It draws us into the madness of world of crime and the intricacies of the world of evidence and investigation, and then lets us experience in some way the frustration that insiders see every day. At the end of the day, injustice reigned because the system just couldn’t find the killer. No evil judge, or incompetent jury, no sadistic cop, or prejudiced prosecutor killed this case. All of those things may happen, but here, the limits were experienced mainly by people who were depicted as competent and conscientious, dedicated to their jobs and serious about finding the killer. They just couldn’t do it.
The reality of our world is that we will know injustice. We will see it, and if we aren’t seeing it, it is probably simply because we are closing our eyes. The best system that we can assemble, and ours is far from that, will not be able to change all of the realities of injustice. Just as we will always have the poor with us, we will always have injustice with us. And so, like Zodiac, the impulses that drive the Toschis and the Graysmiths to lay down their lives in the pursuit of truth and justice will necessarily encounter an ellipse when that search is confined to this life. We know injustice in the end because the source of Justice has not made His final move. And until He does, we will know more of these long journeys that offer only an unsatisfying ending.
This is the question that stands at the center of David Finch’s exceptional Zodiac. Having offered a genre-defining psychological exploration of a serial killer in Seven, he returns to the genre years later with a radically different approach. Moving away from the dark mood and the seedy world that inhabited his earlier effort, he instead offers us a way into a vibrant and energetic San Francisco of the late ‘60’s. The characters he brings to life on screen must be an actor’s dream, offering rich variety and texture. From the flamboyant and self-destructive reporter Paul Avery, played by Robert Downey, Jr., to Graysmith’s clean-cut family man and quiet cartoonist, to the detectives each filled with personality. These are generally likeable people, who come to the case with their own interests and objectives, their own histories, each to be molded by a case that will never be solved.
It is this last fact that will shape much of the response to the film. I’m not spoiling anything, mind you, or at least it isn’t the kind of spoiler that should count. I still laugh at the friend who walked out of Titanic and said to his friend, “I’m glad they finally sunk that ship,” only to have a patron in line shout, “Thanks for telling us!” You’re on notice when you’re dealing with history, and your own wiki-research, if not your own knowledge of the events, will quickly turn up that no one was ever charged in the cases that are the subject of the movie. Fincher takes a particular spin on this case, and that I won’t spoil, but he doesn’t abandon entirely the futility and madness that must define this case.
Instead, what he offers us is a long tale that slowly draws in person after person, all having their own season of fascination at the case’s mysteries. Early on, we see vivid portrayals of two of the murders. Their violence isn’t gratuitous, but they are excruciating to watch. In taking us through this, he captivates our attention as much as the people who became consumed with the case. Tossing back and forth between the investigation of the San Francisco Chronicle, the paper who received the killer’s letters, and the detectives who inherited the case when the killer turned his attention to San Francisco, we are never invited to settle on a single hero, but instead walk through various perspectives, each person finding their own end of futility.
The experiences of these different players struck me vividly and personally. I can remember, working as a prosecutor, the first time I saw a judge work his way to a wildly incorrect decision (it only took about a week on the job to see this). Watching the defendant walk out the back door when he should have been taken away in cuffs was absolutely dumbfounding. Of course, seeing things like that happen on a near daily basis, the shock grew muted, which may not have been a good thing. That “adjustment,” though, was the common coping mechanism I witnessed among most who lived and worked inside the system. Indeed, it was a survival skill that they had to have to come back to work the next day.
Zodiac has its share of these kinds of people, those who have a realistic perspective on the limits of the system and of their own abilities to ascertain and expose truth. I was impressed that Fincher was able to bring this to bear with a relatively uncynical eye, something I rarely could do in my own time as an insider. But he also provides us with the bystander’s view, through Gyllenhaal, who is driven to find truth without the incentive of career or acclaim. Indeed, as Avery points out to him early in the movie, he is the one “hero” in the movie that has no “angle” to be involved in the case.
In this sense, then Gyllenhaal is the voice for most of us who stand outside of the world of crime and must only read about it, or watch the cleanup efforts on television. As we see evil come before us, there is an innate cry for justice, and what we expect from those insiders, as we should, is their own best efforts to pursue the ends of justice, with all the complexities that that entails.
And here is where the movie succeeds most. It draws us into the madness of world of crime and the intricacies of the world of evidence and investigation, and then lets us experience in some way the frustration that insiders see every day. At the end of the day, injustice reigned because the system just couldn’t find the killer. No evil judge, or incompetent jury, no sadistic cop, or prejudiced prosecutor killed this case. All of those things may happen, but here, the limits were experienced mainly by people who were depicted as competent and conscientious, dedicated to their jobs and serious about finding the killer. They just couldn’t do it.
The reality of our world is that we will know injustice. We will see it, and if we aren’t seeing it, it is probably simply because we are closing our eyes. The best system that we can assemble, and ours is far from that, will not be able to change all of the realities of injustice. Just as we will always have the poor with us, we will always have injustice with us. And so, like Zodiac, the impulses that drive the Toschis and the Graysmiths to lay down their lives in the pursuit of truth and justice will necessarily encounter an ellipse when that search is confined to this life. We know injustice in the end because the source of Justice has not made His final move. And until He does, we will know more of these long journeys that offer only an unsatisfying ending.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Breach: A Review
Perhaps the most important image from the movie Breach is prayer. “Pray more” is the answer given by Robert Hanssen, the FBI agent who was arrested in 2001 for selling information to the Soviet Union and to Russia over at least 15 years, to Eric O’Neill, the young agent recruited to aid Hanssen’s investigation, over the stress he was experiencing in his job. “Pray for me” Hanssen cries after he is caught. Indeed, Hanssen does just that, as we see him praying throughout the film, prayers that only reveal the haunted nature of his life. We are told the outcome at the beginning of the film, and so even those that don’t know the history can engage the film with a sense of doom as we watch this duplicitous character’s life unfold.
The Hanssen of the movie appears to be a deeply religious person. He attends daily mass, and speaks with disapproval on O’Neill’s comment about an attractive woman. He is deeply concerned about O’Neill’s Catholic faith and about the faith and church membership of O’Neill’s wife, a disinterested Protestant. He is devoted to his wife, loved by his grandchildren, and offers a faith that informs his conversation, and changes how he acts in his daily life. He is the model of a “good Catholic,” and a good Christian.
Of course, there is an edge to this brand of faith. He is stern in his discipline, and looks down on those that don’t share his discipline. While he would fiercely fend off various sins, he seems victim to the fundamental sin of pride. In this, he fits a Hollywood stereotype, a judgmental Christian, devoted in his faith and dismissive of lesser versions. That, of course, and the hypocrisy that underlies his very existence. For all the surface faith and practice, Hanssen is a master at betrayal. He betrays his country, selling secrets while persuading himself he is a patriot for doing so, and betraying his wife, videotaping their sexual encounters and mailing them to others, and describing their sexual encounters online. He betrays those closest to him as a matter of course, leaving us to make sense of this complex character.
The script frames the story around O’Neill’s slow discovery of these details. While Ryan Phillipe does a good job in this role, it is Chris Cooper’s Robert Hanssen that is the real interest. The movie does not want to answer the question that most of us wonder about most, that is, the question of why. Instead, we are exposed to glimpses of the duplicity and the at times conflicting reasons that Hanssen might give. He is obviously bitter at a career route that left him behind, while the ones with more personality succeeded. He reveals an arrogance about his own capabilities that his long success as a mole would seem to confirm. But in all of this, there is a captivity, as Hanssen appears haunted by something that hours of mass, prayer and confession can’t quite cure.
As I said, the Hanssen of Breach is a Hollywood stereotype, a hypocritical Christian who substitutes integrity for judgment. Of course, the challenge in the stereotype is that in this case it is largely true. The real Robert Hanssen did attend mass daily, did speak of an intensely serious faith, did betray his country for most of his 25-year career, and did betray his wife. He was a man of contradictions, contradictions that challenge us to explain this conflict.
Hanssen invites us to deepen our own understanding of duplicity. The testimony of the Christian faith is that the darkness of human sin is a universal reality. We should all expect to encounter duplicity in ourselves because we are simultaneously sinner and saint, the battleground for the war between human depravity and the redeeming work of the Holy Spirit. While Scripture testifies that this war has a clear end in the lives of Christians, it is a war that is experienced with great intensity while we endure it.
It is interesting to consider that Hanssen’s time at mass, and his apparent devotion to the church may have had little to do with a front. Is it possible that his faith was genuine? That in that time at mass or in confession, he was seeking an escape from himself? Perhaps Hanssen offers us a glimpse at the difference, once known in Christian circles but now often overlooked, between an authentic seeker and an authentic disciple. It is possible that Hanssen was the former, though the fruit in his life casts serious doubts on whether he was the latter.
We live with a temptation in the modern church of reducing faith to simple decisions and clean processes that people can follow. The problem with this, the problem that Breach exposes, is that sin is deeper than this, and can’t reliably be uprooted from the human soul through mechanistic processes. The freedom from the kind of duplicity that defines Hanssen’s life requires a supernatural work, a work that offers a far deeper vision of transformation that Hanssen ever found in his hours of devotion.
The Hanssen of the movie appears to be a deeply religious person. He attends daily mass, and speaks with disapproval on O’Neill’s comment about an attractive woman. He is deeply concerned about O’Neill’s Catholic faith and about the faith and church membership of O’Neill’s wife, a disinterested Protestant. He is devoted to his wife, loved by his grandchildren, and offers a faith that informs his conversation, and changes how he acts in his daily life. He is the model of a “good Catholic,” and a good Christian.
Of course, there is an edge to this brand of faith. He is stern in his discipline, and looks down on those that don’t share his discipline. While he would fiercely fend off various sins, he seems victim to the fundamental sin of pride. In this, he fits a Hollywood stereotype, a judgmental Christian, devoted in his faith and dismissive of lesser versions. That, of course, and the hypocrisy that underlies his very existence. For all the surface faith and practice, Hanssen is a master at betrayal. He betrays his country, selling secrets while persuading himself he is a patriot for doing so, and betraying his wife, videotaping their sexual encounters and mailing them to others, and describing their sexual encounters online. He betrays those closest to him as a matter of course, leaving us to make sense of this complex character.
The script frames the story around O’Neill’s slow discovery of these details. While Ryan Phillipe does a good job in this role, it is Chris Cooper’s Robert Hanssen that is the real interest. The movie does not want to answer the question that most of us wonder about most, that is, the question of why. Instead, we are exposed to glimpses of the duplicity and the at times conflicting reasons that Hanssen might give. He is obviously bitter at a career route that left him behind, while the ones with more personality succeeded. He reveals an arrogance about his own capabilities that his long success as a mole would seem to confirm. But in all of this, there is a captivity, as Hanssen appears haunted by something that hours of mass, prayer and confession can’t quite cure.
As I said, the Hanssen of Breach is a Hollywood stereotype, a hypocritical Christian who substitutes integrity for judgment. Of course, the challenge in the stereotype is that in this case it is largely true. The real Robert Hanssen did attend mass daily, did speak of an intensely serious faith, did betray his country for most of his 25-year career, and did betray his wife. He was a man of contradictions, contradictions that challenge us to explain this conflict.
Hanssen invites us to deepen our own understanding of duplicity. The testimony of the Christian faith is that the darkness of human sin is a universal reality. We should all expect to encounter duplicity in ourselves because we are simultaneously sinner and saint, the battleground for the war between human depravity and the redeeming work of the Holy Spirit. While Scripture testifies that this war has a clear end in the lives of Christians, it is a war that is experienced with great intensity while we endure it.
It is interesting to consider that Hanssen’s time at mass, and his apparent devotion to the church may have had little to do with a front. Is it possible that his faith was genuine? That in that time at mass or in confession, he was seeking an escape from himself? Perhaps Hanssen offers us a glimpse at the difference, once known in Christian circles but now often overlooked, between an authentic seeker and an authentic disciple. It is possible that Hanssen was the former, though the fruit in his life casts serious doubts on whether he was the latter.
We live with a temptation in the modern church of reducing faith to simple decisions and clean processes that people can follow. The problem with this, the problem that Breach exposes, is that sin is deeper than this, and can’t reliably be uprooted from the human soul through mechanistic processes. The freedom from the kind of duplicity that defines Hanssen’s life requires a supernatural work, a work that offers a far deeper vision of transformation that Hanssen ever found in his hours of devotion.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
The "Rubbish" of Culture
I returned last night from three days in Minneapolis, attending the 2007 Desiring God Pastor’s Conference, sponsored by Bethlehem Baptist Church and Desiring God Ministries (http://www.desiringgod.org/Events/PastorsConferences/2007). It was a gathering of about 1300 Calvinist pastors from a variety of denominations. When I got on the plane to head up there, it was -16 in Minneapolis. It gave me a whole new meaning of the term “Frozen chosen” (drum roll, please).
The theme was “The Holiness of God,” and featured R.C. Sproul. One of Sproul’s most popular of his 60 books is a book by the same title, so he has made the rounds for years giving talks on the theme. I’d heard him give talks on the same texts with similar themes before, but nonetheless found the time immensely encouraging. Walking among missional Calvinists like Sproul and Piper, who share a deep love for the Puritans and for the doctrines of grace, is to breath rich air. The speakers, and so many of the pastors I spoke to, emanate a love for God and a desire to see a deeper form of the faith take hold among their people. It was powerful to join in a chorus of voices from across various denominations that share a penetrating vision for their churches and their people. I certainly left encouraged.
One of the more interesting points in the week came on the last day. Each year, one of the speakers focuses on the theme of mission. This year featured William Mackenzie, a Scottish pastor who is doing a marvelous work from the UK to distribute Christian literature throughout the world. He told story after story of the power of good Christian books, and the need for people to read more, and to read more quality works. It is his passion and mission to put some of these quality works into their hands.
The fascinating point came as he offered his assessment of contemporary culture. As one might expect from an advocate for reading, one of his great enemies was television and film. He cited the current box office numbers in England for the movie Borat, and pointed the number of people who were seeing this movie. He even pointed out (shock!) that he PERSONALLY spoke to a pastor (yes, that’s a Christian pastor!) who had not only SEEN the movie, but thought it was hilarious! Hilarious, even though the movie was “rubbish!” (please fill in your best Scottish brogue to complete the experience).
How marvelous. There is nothing like hearing a Scotsman call something rubbish and mean it. While I found the rest of the talk illuminating, I pondered over this comment for awhile. He got a few “amens” on the comment, and no doubt many more were nodding their heads in agreement, but I wonder if he went for too much in his example.
I’ve seen Borat. I, too, found it hilarious. Many parts were indeed “rubbish,” though I don’t think me saying it has quite the same impact. But there was something underneath the offensive content that was provoking. In the course of his guerilla comedy, Sacha Baron Cohen provided a context for people to expose a piece of themselves they may not always want to show in public. And, in the midst of theaters full of laughter, America blushed. He exposed the xenophobia, homophobia, racism, and sexism that winds its way through our culture. These are undercurrents that rear their head at times, but perhaps don’t always get the raw kind of exposure he was able to bring out in his shocking, and at times offensive, comedy.
Mackenzie’s analysis of culture was to point out the shallowness of our culture, and the need for more reading of better books as a part of the cure. I support his prescription, but expect that there is more that is needed. Borat may actually be part of the solution, not part of the problem. There is power in comedy, and there is power in film that is simply different from the power of the written word. Ellison’s Invisible Man is certainly more profound, and offers the ability to change lives in a way Borat can’t, but Borat may provoke people to laugh at racism, or whatever “-ism” it points its finger at. Somewhere in that mockery is something that may guide people to the right place to start exposing the darker corners of their own heart to the Light.
There has been something of a renewed interest in Reformed theology over the last few decades, and it has created a rich and vibrant community of Christians who share a theological commitment and are trying to live out that commitment in their own faith communities. There is a great challenge within this community to read the works of great thinkers of the past, and to bring “dead” theology alive and let it live in this culture. I walk with them into that place, but there is a danger in this process of dismissing the culture entirely. I’m not ready to do that. The answers that the culture offers are always imperfect, and many times just complete “rubbish.” But sometimes the questions they’re asking are the right ones to be asking. That alone makes the conversation worth having.
The theme was “The Holiness of God,” and featured R.C. Sproul. One of Sproul’s most popular of his 60 books is a book by the same title, so he has made the rounds for years giving talks on the theme. I’d heard him give talks on the same texts with similar themes before, but nonetheless found the time immensely encouraging. Walking among missional Calvinists like Sproul and Piper, who share a deep love for the Puritans and for the doctrines of grace, is to breath rich air. The speakers, and so many of the pastors I spoke to, emanate a love for God and a desire to see a deeper form of the faith take hold among their people. It was powerful to join in a chorus of voices from across various denominations that share a penetrating vision for their churches and their people. I certainly left encouraged.
One of the more interesting points in the week came on the last day. Each year, one of the speakers focuses on the theme of mission. This year featured William Mackenzie, a Scottish pastor who is doing a marvelous work from the UK to distribute Christian literature throughout the world. He told story after story of the power of good Christian books, and the need for people to read more, and to read more quality works. It is his passion and mission to put some of these quality works into their hands.
The fascinating point came as he offered his assessment of contemporary culture. As one might expect from an advocate for reading, one of his great enemies was television and film. He cited the current box office numbers in England for the movie Borat, and pointed the number of people who were seeing this movie. He even pointed out (shock!) that he PERSONALLY spoke to a pastor (yes, that’s a Christian pastor!) who had not only SEEN the movie, but thought it was hilarious! Hilarious, even though the movie was “rubbish!” (please fill in your best Scottish brogue to complete the experience).
How marvelous. There is nothing like hearing a Scotsman call something rubbish and mean it. While I found the rest of the talk illuminating, I pondered over this comment for awhile. He got a few “amens” on the comment, and no doubt many more were nodding their heads in agreement, but I wonder if he went for too much in his example.
I’ve seen Borat. I, too, found it hilarious. Many parts were indeed “rubbish,” though I don’t think me saying it has quite the same impact. But there was something underneath the offensive content that was provoking. In the course of his guerilla comedy, Sacha Baron Cohen provided a context for people to expose a piece of themselves they may not always want to show in public. And, in the midst of theaters full of laughter, America blushed. He exposed the xenophobia, homophobia, racism, and sexism that winds its way through our culture. These are undercurrents that rear their head at times, but perhaps don’t always get the raw kind of exposure he was able to bring out in his shocking, and at times offensive, comedy.
Mackenzie’s analysis of culture was to point out the shallowness of our culture, and the need for more reading of better books as a part of the cure. I support his prescription, but expect that there is more that is needed. Borat may actually be part of the solution, not part of the problem. There is power in comedy, and there is power in film that is simply different from the power of the written word. Ellison’s Invisible Man is certainly more profound, and offers the ability to change lives in a way Borat can’t, but Borat may provoke people to laugh at racism, or whatever “-ism” it points its finger at. Somewhere in that mockery is something that may guide people to the right place to start exposing the darker corners of their own heart to the Light.
There has been something of a renewed interest in Reformed theology over the last few decades, and it has created a rich and vibrant community of Christians who share a theological commitment and are trying to live out that commitment in their own faith communities. There is a great challenge within this community to read the works of great thinkers of the past, and to bring “dead” theology alive and let it live in this culture. I walk with them into that place, but there is a danger in this process of dismissing the culture entirely. I’m not ready to do that. The answers that the culture offers are always imperfect, and many times just complete “rubbish.” But sometimes the questions they’re asking are the right ones to be asking. That alone makes the conversation worth having.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Broken Trail: A Review
“Never judge wealth with money.” - Prentice Ritter
It is a dangerous to typecast an actor with as storied and diverse career as Robert Duvall. Nonetheless, his work in Broken Trail, a movie/mini-series produced by AMC for its cable station, is a significant contribution to a body of work that have included rich characters that embody grace. His Oscar-winning performance in Tender Mercies as Mac Sledge, an alcoholic country music singer, gave us a man who finds peace and healing in the quiet ministry of grace through a gentle Christian woman and her son. He gave us a powerful statement of the way grace can work its way into the most flawed of lives through the character of Sonny “The Apostle” Dewey, a murderer/adulterer/preacher who somehow finds himself back in conversation with the God that he continues to let down. Now, he gives us Prentice Ritter, a turn-of-the-century cowboy, who embodies a tale of grace that is rare and noteworthy in contemporary cinema.
The story begins in California, with Prentice showing up at a ranch where his nephew Tom, played with elegance by Thomas Haden Church, is working as a hand. He tells him that his mother has died, and that she, for reasons we learn over time, has left the farm and all of her modest wealth to Prentice. He makes a proposition, borrowing money against the farm to purchase a herd of young horses to drive to Wyoming, where a buyer waits with the promise of a rich reward. Tom agrees, and they set out on their ride across the rugged West.
Their journey is interrupted by another traveller, this one a mercenary who is carrying five young Chinese girls who have been purchased in the underground slave market of California. They are making their way to a small mining town, where they will become a lucrative part of the prostitution business of “Big Rump Kate” (certainly one of the great names of recent film).
Through a series of events, “Uncle Prentice” and Tom free the girls, and so the journey begins in earnest, as what was once a business venture becomes a string of interruptions, where they encounter one challenge after another. It is Ritter’s response to these interruptions that not only form the life of the movie’s dramatic tensions, but also reveal his true heart. Playing true to the cowboy stereotype, Ritter says so little, it can at times seem hard to understand what is going on in his head. But his actions speak true, and over time we see him unwittingly building a family. When given the opportunity to go with the law, the girls beg him not to turn them over, instead wanting to stay with him.
Others enter into this family, including a wounded prostitute played by Greta Scacchi, who gives us a tired woman, weary from her personal trail of tears. It is in the presence of Prentice that she begins to find renewed hope, and life that did not seem possible.
The story avoids many of the cliches it could have followed, but the power in the adventure lies centrally in Duvall’s performance and the character of Prentice Ritter. He is a man who treats the “slings and arrows” that life throws his way as opportunities, and with the simple consistent response of a wise kindness, he brings life, and turns strangers into friends and family, then changes their lives for the better.
Ritter carries his own wounds, and even as we see those revealed, they only serve to enhance our admiration for the grace that has survived and thrived in him despite, and perhaps at times because of, the sorrow that life has brought him. He at times clings to that sorrow, which robs him of joy that he could otherwise have known. And so we see his weakness, and we are reminded of his humanity. But grace can thrive even in flawed people, and Ritter becomes a great testament to that truth.
It has been awhile since we’ve seen a powerful Western. This is perhaps the best since Eastwood’s Unforgiven, and each are in their own way offering a challenge to the American Western monomyth that often celebrates rugged individualism and the power of a “justice of vengeance.” Ritter moves through this tough land with a wisdom that allows him to survive. But he rises above his world, and somehow still has a heart that survives the ravages of the Western sun.
The stories that we saw of Mac and Sonny allowed us to focus on their challenges and the ways in which they experienced redemption in the midst of their mistakes. Ritter’s story shows us a life that is pouring out grace to others. He draws people to himself by emanating this kindness. Indeed, he is in many ways the kind of person that I want to be.
Broken Trail is a movie that deserves to rise above its genre, and certainly rises far above what we normally expect from a cable television mini-series. Most importantly, it offers yet another extraordinary example of what a life transformed by Christ looks like. Duvall, regardless of his own personal faith commitments, has given us at least three of these examples. We are richer because he has done so.
It is a dangerous to typecast an actor with as storied and diverse career as Robert Duvall. Nonetheless, his work in Broken Trail, a movie/mini-series produced by AMC for its cable station, is a significant contribution to a body of work that have included rich characters that embody grace. His Oscar-winning performance in Tender Mercies as Mac Sledge, an alcoholic country music singer, gave us a man who finds peace and healing in the quiet ministry of grace through a gentle Christian woman and her son. He gave us a powerful statement of the way grace can work its way into the most flawed of lives through the character of Sonny “The Apostle” Dewey, a murderer/adulterer/preacher who somehow finds himself back in conversation with the God that he continues to let down. Now, he gives us Prentice Ritter, a turn-of-the-century cowboy, who embodies a tale of grace that is rare and noteworthy in contemporary cinema.
The story begins in California, with Prentice showing up at a ranch where his nephew Tom, played with elegance by Thomas Haden Church, is working as a hand. He tells him that his mother has died, and that she, for reasons we learn over time, has left the farm and all of her modest wealth to Prentice. He makes a proposition, borrowing money against the farm to purchase a herd of young horses to drive to Wyoming, where a buyer waits with the promise of a rich reward. Tom agrees, and they set out on their ride across the rugged West.
Their journey is interrupted by another traveller, this one a mercenary who is carrying five young Chinese girls who have been purchased in the underground slave market of California. They are making their way to a small mining town, where they will become a lucrative part of the prostitution business of “Big Rump Kate” (certainly one of the great names of recent film).
Through a series of events, “Uncle Prentice” and Tom free the girls, and so the journey begins in earnest, as what was once a business venture becomes a string of interruptions, where they encounter one challenge after another. It is Ritter’s response to these interruptions that not only form the life of the movie’s dramatic tensions, but also reveal his true heart. Playing true to the cowboy stereotype, Ritter says so little, it can at times seem hard to understand what is going on in his head. But his actions speak true, and over time we see him unwittingly building a family. When given the opportunity to go with the law, the girls beg him not to turn them over, instead wanting to stay with him.
Others enter into this family, including a wounded prostitute played by Greta Scacchi, who gives us a tired woman, weary from her personal trail of tears. It is in the presence of Prentice that she begins to find renewed hope, and life that did not seem possible.
The story avoids many of the cliches it could have followed, but the power in the adventure lies centrally in Duvall’s performance and the character of Prentice Ritter. He is a man who treats the “slings and arrows” that life throws his way as opportunities, and with the simple consistent response of a wise kindness, he brings life, and turns strangers into friends and family, then changes their lives for the better.
Ritter carries his own wounds, and even as we see those revealed, they only serve to enhance our admiration for the grace that has survived and thrived in him despite, and perhaps at times because of, the sorrow that life has brought him. He at times clings to that sorrow, which robs him of joy that he could otherwise have known. And so we see his weakness, and we are reminded of his humanity. But grace can thrive even in flawed people, and Ritter becomes a great testament to that truth.
It has been awhile since we’ve seen a powerful Western. This is perhaps the best since Eastwood’s Unforgiven, and each are in their own way offering a challenge to the American Western monomyth that often celebrates rugged individualism and the power of a “justice of vengeance.” Ritter moves through this tough land with a wisdom that allows him to survive. But he rises above his world, and somehow still has a heart that survives the ravages of the Western sun.
The stories that we saw of Mac and Sonny allowed us to focus on their challenges and the ways in which they experienced redemption in the midst of their mistakes. Ritter’s story shows us a life that is pouring out grace to others. He draws people to himself by emanating this kindness. Indeed, he is in many ways the kind of person that I want to be.
Broken Trail is a movie that deserves to rise above its genre, and certainly rises far above what we normally expect from a cable television mini-series. Most importantly, it offers yet another extraordinary example of what a life transformed by Christ looks like. Duvall, regardless of his own personal faith commitments, has given us at least three of these examples. We are richer because he has done so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)