Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

Forgiving Dr. Mengele -- Review by Peri Zhand

Tonight, while Brian spent yet another evening working on his new book, "Unconditional? The Call of Jesus to Radical Forgiveness", I watched a documentary called "Forgiving Dr. Mengele."

Eva Kor and her sister Miriam were identical ten year old Jewish twins, and because they were twins they were yanked from their mother as they stood in line to face the crematorium in Auschwitz, Poland. Their mother and every other family member perished. They were saved so that they could be used to be part of medical experiments, cruel barbaric acts of torture devised by a Nazi maniac physician named Dr. Mengele.

The Proper Care and Feeding a an American Messiah - Mocumentary Trailer

War of the Worlds by Kevin Miller

How do we respond to evil? How should we respond to evil? Those are the main questions raised by War of the Worlds, Steven Spielberg’s take on H. G. Wells’ classic tale of invaders from outer space. And nothing could be more evil than the creatures represented in this film: alien life forms who have plotted the annihilation of the human race for centuries, even going so far as to bury their machines of extermination deep under the earth long before humans ever arrived on the scene. Pre-meditated killing at its best.

And yet, for all their technology, these aliens seem surprisingly inefficient, choosing to mow down human beings, buildings, and neighborhoods one at a time rather than taking them out in one, big “schebang.” If humans really are bugs in the aliens’ eyes—as the opening narrative of this film suggests—obviously no one on their planet has ever heard of “Raid.” Mere humans have come up with vastly superior means to wipe out bugs, never mind their fellow human beings. Perhaps these extra-terrestrial killers are as sporting as they are vicious. Eventually, however, it is revealed that the aliens have something more in mind than a simple holocaust—even though holocaust imagery is used throughout the film. Don’t worry: I won’t tell you what that ulterior motive is; because, frankly, I don’t think I really understand it myself!

And that, essentially, is where this film breaks down: when it comes to offering explanations. For example, apart from a few comments in the opening narrative about how the aliens have watched our world with envy over the centuries, we have no idea why these aliens attack. Has their home world gone sour? Did they have a bad encounter with humans in the past? No, it appears they are just plain evil. At least that is what we must assume, seeing as virtually no attempt is made to personify the enemy. Add this to the series of increasingly preposterous coincidences that allow the heroes to survive the onslaught, and this film veers dangerously close to a one-way trip to the remainder bin. The porous script is redeemed somewhat by excellent direction, sound design, acting, and special effects. But when the foundation of the structure is bad, it isn’t long before the entire thing comes crashing down—and it doesn’t take a death ray from outer space to do it.

As I reflected on the spiritual aspect of this film, two things struck me: First, as I have already mentioned, is the depiction of the alien invaders. David Bruce (www.hollywoodjesus.com) points out in his excellent commentary on this film (located elsewhere on this site) that the characterization of the aliens in War of the Worlds is a clear reflection of the times. Back in the 1980s, Stephen Spielberg brought us E.T., a film about an ugly albeit friendly alien who was more bent on exploration than destruction. According to Bruce, this represented our desire to end the Cold War before nuclear proliferation killed us all. What a contrast to the nameless and nearly faceless invaders Spielberg brings us in War of the Worlds. And yet, how appropriate, seeing as that is how our enemies are often portrayed today, especially by propagators of the so-called “War on Terror.” Perhaps Spielberg sees this film as a way to help us expunge some of the fear we experience every time we turn on the evening news.

Unfortunately, rather than serve the film (and the viewer) I think Spielberg’s anonymous depiction of the enemy actually dooms the film instead by essentially confining the action along two dimensions: fight or flight. Both of these responses to evil may be valid under certain circumstances, but they are also instinctive and, therefore, highly uncreative. Even the lowest form of animal—take bugs, for example—will choose one of these two strategies when faced with a threat. But contrary to what the aliens in this film think, we are much more than bugs, aren’t we? If so, doesn’t that demand a more creative, more human response to evil? 

Don’t get me wrong: Fleeing from evil may be effective and necessary for a time, but eventually, as this film demonstrates, we will run out of places to hide. And then what? History contains countless examples of the barbarity humans are reduced to under such circumstances. (Read Josephus’ account of the sack of Jerusalem in ad 70 for example.) Taking a vengeful, “eye for an eye” response to evil is also doomed to failure, because it leads inevitably to escalation—either mutually assured destruction or desperate acts of terror in the face of overwhelming force. This fact is also demonstrated in War of the Worlds as well as in our own War on Terror. So the question remains: What would a more human, more three-dimensional response to evil look like? What would it look like in terms of this film? In terms of real life?

War of the Worlds gives us a partial answer when, at a critical juncture, hero Ray Ferrier stops running from the aliens and actually allows them to capture him instead. For perhaps the first time in this film, mere survival is no longer Ray’s primary motive. Finally, he has found something more important than his own life, and he is willing to risk everything to attain it. Not coincidentally, this is the precise moment when the tide begins to turn against the aliens.

So, we can see that part of the answer to our question is self-sacrifice. Taken either physically or literally, a self-sacrificial response to evil goes beyond an instinctive flight or fight response and asks, “How might we ensure that we not only defeat evil but, in defeating it, not become the evil thing we are trying to overcome?”

Beyond self-sacrificial love for those near and dear to us, however, a second factor must be present if we are to take a truly three-dimensional response to evil, and that is this: self-sacrificial love of enemy. I’ll admit: It’s difficult to love—much less be willing to die for—a nameless, faceless enemy, especially one that is trying to wipe you off the face of the planet. But isn’t that exactly what Christ did on the cross? As the Apostle Paul says in Romans 5:8, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Elsewhere Paul says, “For if, when we were God's enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life!” (Romans 5:10) Anyone who claims to be a follower of Christ must follow this example. And anyone who is not a follower of Christ should give it serious consideration—as did people like Gandhi, with resounding success.

War of the Worlds teeters on the brink of such a three-dimensional response to evil, and that is one of the few times this movie threatens to break out of the two-dimensional prison in which it has confined itself. If we want to break out of the same prison—to respond to evil as human beings, not as mere bugs—then we must be willing to fully embrace this third dimension as well. I’m not saying it will be easy. I love my life and the life of my family and friends as much as anyone. But, like the Apostle Paul, I have also glimpsed the greater good. I realize that whether I live or die is not the most important thing. It’s what I live or die for that really matters.

Constantine by Kevin Miller

Perhaps I was reading too much into the symbolic language of this film, but when the opening shot featured two squatters scrabbling around in the dusty ruins of a Mexican church, I had a feeling institutional Christianity was in for a rough ride. That feeling intensified when one of the squatters broke through the church’s rotting floor and discovered a religious relic wrapped in a Nazi flag, no less. And instead of bringing about healing or redemption, this relic—the so-called “Spear of Destiny” used to pierce Jesus’ side following his crucifixion—brought only death and destruction. In less than 60 seconds, the filmmakers had depicted the church as irrelevant, fascist, superstitious, and lethal. Where were they going to go from here?

As the film progressed, however, I was surprised to discover that Constantine wasn’t as interested in attacking the church as it was in appropriating various aspects of Christian theology and mythology for its own purposes. Using a mixture of Catholic and Protestant tradition as raw material, the filmmakers created their own rather fascinating cosmology, one that posits—not unlike the book of Job—that God and Satan have made a wager with no less than the souls of humankind hanging in the balance. The rules? No interference allowed, just influence. The cosmic super being with the most souls in the end wins. Thrown into the mix is a race of half-breeds—half-human/half-angel or demon. These are the “influence peddlers,” as John Constantine calls them. With full-blooded demons and angels restricted to their respectively hellish and heavenly realms, the half-breeds are the only non-human participants in this celestial game.

Every so often, one of these half-breeds breaks the rules, moving from influence to interference. When this happens, Constantine steps in and “deports” them back to hell. To do so, he employs a combination of pagan and Catholic artifacts and rituals, a fact that is sure to incite those who hold allegiance to the Vatican. How did John Constantine—a mere human—inherit such a role? Since he was a child, the spiritual beings that haunt this world were plainly visible to him, and he to them. Eventually, this “gift” of seeing became so overwhelming that Constantine tried to commit suicide as a way of escape. But rather than offer an escape from hell, his actions delivered him to that place of fire and brimstone instead—them’s the breaks, according to Catholicism’s rules about such matters. Two minutes later, his soul was yanked back to the land of the living. But for Constantine, it felt like he had been gone for an eternity.

Forever altered by his sojourn into hell but knowing he was doomed to return as a consequence for his sin, Constantine has dedicated his life to deporting as many demons as possible in the hope that eventually God will relent and grant him admission to heaven. The point that Constantine keeps overlooking though—as a half-breed angel named Gabriel reminds him—is that you can’t earn your way into God’s good graces. It takes faith and self-sacrifice.

Even before his stint in hell, faith was not something with which John Constantine struggled. Who needs faith when the things hoped for, the things unseen—and the things most feared—are all around you (cf. Hebrews 11:1)? It’s self-sacrifice that poses the real problem to Constantine, but not because he is inherently self-centered. He just doesn’t see the point of it. And who can blame him? With a God who merely toys with the beings he has created, how could anyone take his ethical requirements seriously? God’s apparent indifference to the affairs of Men puts him not only in the same league as the devil but also on the same team. Such a God could not be anything but evil. But not all hope is lost for Constantine. Despite appearances to the contrary, eventually even he comes to believe that God might have a plan for his life, one that doesn’t involve relegating him to eternal damnation.

No doubt, many Christians will be upset that this film takes such license with orthodox theology. This might be a valid criticism if Constantine actually tried to portray its version of the spiritual world as true—the same way author Dan Brown tried to portray The Da Vinci Code’s version of church history as correct. However, the people behind this film make no bones about the fact that they are constructing a fantasy, period. That they treat the church as basically inconsequential in the spiritual battles that rage on this planet is not to be taken lightly. But once again, I do not think it is something to get angry about. If some people feel this way about the church, it is incumbent on Christians to find out why and then address such issues accordingly, not simply lash out because someone dared to criticize our record.

While the theology of this film is far from orthodox, the themes and questions it raises are a different story. Few Christian films have done a better job of depicting the difference between works and grace. And few mainstream films offer such a strong affirmation of the spiritual dimension of life, showing it to be every bit as real and consequential as the physical. Constantine also addresses a number of spiritual questions that seem particularly pressing at this point in time, questions like “Is God good?” “Does he have a plan for me?” “Is he out to get me?” “Is he even there?” and “What must I do to be saved?” 

While I hope viewers won’t blindly accept the deistic, dualistic portrayal of good and evil in this film, I do hope it inspires them to think more seriously about the above questions and the spiritual dimension of life as a whole. Constantine certainly had that effect on me. And for those of you who feel the filmmakers’ depiction of the church in the opening sequence of this film was pretty much dead on, I urge you to give Christianity a second chance. The church’s record is far from unblemished. But it is not nearly the inconsequential, fascist, spiritually bankrupt institution this film makes it out to be.

Not quite The Matrix but infinitely better than Van Helsing, Constantine is that rare supernatural thriller that isn’t afraid to make you think. I’m already looking forward to the sequel.

Million Dollar Baby by Kevin Miller

“Some choices you don’t want to make,” says Scrap, the one-time heavyweight contender who narrates this film. Unfortunately, his boss, boxing trainer Frankie Dunn, is about to be presented with a real doozie.

It doesn’t appear that way at first. In fact, had I not been aware of all the controversy surrounding this film, I would have been disappointed that a brilliant director like Clint Eastwood had devoted one of his few remaining years to craft what was turning out to be a compelling but not quite innovative boxing movie. And then, right when the formula called for a “Rocky-like” character to start shouting “Adrian! Adrian!” with his/her eyes swollen shut and arms raised in victory, Eastwood pulled the old “one-two” and knocked us face-first onto the canvas.

When the world finally came back into focus, we found ourselves in a completely different moral landscape. Up to that point, the film had revolved around a traditional win/lose axis. Now we were in life and death territory, and it didn’t look like there was any escape—at least none that would cost Frankie anything less than his soul.

If it seems like I’m dancing around this film’s subject matter, that’s because I am. To do any differently would be to ruin the viewing experience for those who don’t yet know the story. At the same time, it is difficult to address the compelling questions this film raises without giving away the big plot twist. So if you haven’t seen the movie yet, perhaps you should save the rest of this review for later. If you have seen the film and you’re eager to dig deeper into its themes, read on.

Let me start by saying that, sadly, the response of many Christian critics to this film has been as predictable as a thunderstorm in Saskatchewan. You could see it coming for miles, and it was all dark clouds and thunder. The fact that Eastwood dared to even broach the topic of euthanasia seems to have offended them as much as it offended the priest Frankie consults in this film. And, like the priest, rather than take a thoughtful, compassionate approach to the issue and the people involved, these reviewers simply remind us of the consequences—the rules, as it were—and then leave us to our own devices. However, I think these Christian reviewers are reading this movie all wrong. Even though Frankie turns compassionate executioner in the end, I do not see Million Dollar Baby as an endorsement of euthanasia by any stretch. In fact, I have yet to see a film that does such an effective job of raising an ethical question and then allowing us to form our own conclusions about it rather than hitting us over the head with an opinion. With this film, I do not believe Eastwood is saying assisted suicide is right. He is saying that it is a complicated subject that raises more questions than answers; that it looks a lot different when you are face-to-face with someone begging to die than it does on paper.

Some of the questions Million Dollar Baby raised in my mind are: Is there a pain so great that it negates the reason for living? Can the Angel of Mercy ever look like the Angel of Death? Can the face of the executioner ever be the face of God? Did Frankie deliver Maggie from hell or deliver her (and himself) to it? When do the hands of Man become the hands of God? When do they become the hands of the devil? And how can we know the difference? The priest in this film said that sometimes we need to step out of the way and let God do his work. But aren’t we God’s agents on earth? As Scrap says several times in this film, “In boxing, everything is backwards.” What about life? Perhaps instead of stepping out of the way in such circumstances God is waiting for us to step in and do his work. After all, God has given us the power of life and death over our fellow human beings. Isn’t it possible that there are some instances in which exercising this power is not a sin but a blessing? Many people think so when it comes to war, capital punishment, and abortion. Why not euthanasia?

Lest anyone think that Iam endorsing euthanasia in this review, I am not. I’m not advocating against it either though because, frankly, I don’t think I have answered the above questions well enough for myself yet. However, I do know that as I watched Frankie bend over and kiss Maggie one last time, he had no motive other than love in his heart. I also realized that no matter how miserable she was, there was no way I could have brought myself to reduce this beautiful, spirited girl to nothing but a cold lump of flesh. It just goes to show that when it comes to life and death choices like this, sometimes emotions can cloud your judgment. At other times, though, I think they make things perfectly clear.

Scrap is correct. No one wants to face a choice like this. But with the “right to die” movement growing in strength, I am thankful that Clint Eastwood used this film to give the question of assisted suicide the moral gravity and attention it deserves.

Coach Carter by Kevin Miller

The majority of films are forgettable. A slim minority are entertaining. A precious few are insightful. And then, every so often, a film comes along that is truly significant. Hotel Rwanda is one such film.

Hotel Rwanda is a significant film primarily because it documents an era in history when the system broke down. It was a time when people around the world glanced up at their television sets during dinner, saw images of carnage and genocide, and then calmly resumed their meals. Over a period of 100 days in 1994, nearly one million people were massacred in Rwanda—many of them women and children, and most of them hacked to death by their neighbors with machetes. But, apart from a few NGO’s and religious groups, the world didn’t lift a finger to stop the killing.

Outsiders did not intervene, this film argues, because to most people, Rwandans were not even “niggers,” they were Africans. While racism likely had something to do with our hesitance to intervene, I am certain that bureaucratic squabbling and incompetence were just as significant. But no matter why the world failed to step forward, the fact remains that nearly one million people died, and millions more were injured and/or traumatized by the violence. If there is one message that comes through loud and clear in this film, it is this: Never again. As difficult as it is to imagine, we would be naïve to think that such atrocities will not happen again somewhere in the world. I just pray that we have learned enough from our indifference and incompetence in this situation to respond more appropriately in the future.

Hotel Rwanda is also significant because it shows us that in the midst of the carnage (which the film mostly suggests rather than depicts), there were also people who did care. One of these people was Paul Rusesabagina, manager of the Hotel Des Milles Collines, a four star establishment in Kigali. Paul’s intentions are far from selfless at the beginning of the film. He is more focused on currying favor with the power elite than helping his fellow man. But when the killing begins, he does not hesitate to use his connections to protect Tutsi and Hutu refugees, eventually sheltering 1,286 of them in his hotel. As this film portrays, this was an extraordinary feat, made possible mainly by Rusesabagina’s influence, intelligence, bravery, and wit. Other heroic figures in this film include the embittered UN colonel tasked with watching the massacre but not intervening, a young news cameraman who lays his life on the line to get the story to the world, a Red Cross worker who is forced to witness the execution of the children she is trying to rescue, and numerous unnamed Catholic priests and nuns. With so many films, TV shows, and politicians suggesting revenge as the only appropriate response to evil, it is refreshing to see a film that demonstrates characters who embrace an alternate point of view. While the Hutus and Tutsis were slaughtering each other as a way to settle old scores—trying to overcome evil with evil—Rusesabagina and company were trying to overcome evil with good. And, miracle of miracles, it worked! For those who wonder whether there really is anything good in the midst of all the horror they witness on CNN each week, this film answers with a resounding “Yes!” There is reason for hope. All it takes is for good men and women to act boldly in the face of tragedy.

Finally, this film is significant because it reminds us that no matter how comfortable our lives are over here, there are always people living over there for whom comfort is but a vague thought at the bottom of a long list of primary needs. With the death toll from the South Asian tsunami still rising, this is hardly a new thought. But I am certain it will not be long before we, too, look up from our dinner at the scenes of horror caused by this natural disaster, and then resume our meal. As any aid agency will tell you, people have a tendency to respond generously to such situations out of emotion over the short term. But that response quickly fizzles out as we become immune to the images and resume our normal lives. Hence, we need films like Hotel Rwanda to help us fend off indifference and remind us that giving is not a one-time event. If we truly want to make a difference, if we truly want to prevent tragedies like Rwanda from happening again, generosity must become a lifestyle.

When it comes time for the Oscars this February, I hope Hotel Rwanda is nominated for Best Picture, if only because that means more people will see it. That said; I am doubtful it will win, mainly because from an artistic point of view, it is not exactly a spectacular film. The acting is first-rate, especially by star Don Cheadle, and the script is solid. But director Terry George has chosen dramatic realism over flash and style, which may not impress some voters. I guess it all comes down to what Academy members base their votes on: style or significance. If it is the latter, Hotel Rwanda will definitely go home with the gold.

Hotel Rwanda by Kevin Miller

The majority of films are forgettable. A slim minority are entertaining. A precious few are insightful. And then, every so often, a film comes along that is truly significant. Hotel Rwanda is one such film.

Hotel Rwanda is a significant film primarily because it documents an era in history when the system broke down. It was a time when people around the world glanced up at their television sets during dinner, saw images of carnage and genocide, and then calmly resumed their meals. Over a period of 100 days in 1994, nearly one million people were massacred in Rwanda—many of them women and children, and most of them hacked to death by their neighbors with machetes. But, apart from a few NGO’s and religious groups, the world didn’t lift a finger to stop the killing.

Outsiders did not intervene, this film argues, because to most people, Rwandans were not even “niggers,” they were Africans. While racism likely had something to do with our hesitance to intervene, I am certain that bureaucratic squabbling and incompetence were just as significant. But no matter why the world failed to step forward, the fact remains that nearly one million people died, and millions more were injured and/or traumatized by the violence. If there is one message that comes through loud and clear in this film, it is this: Never again. As difficult as it is to imagine, we would be naïve to think that such atrocities will not happen again somewhere in the world. I just pray that we have learned enough from our indifference and incompetence in this situation to respond more appropriately in the future.

Hotel Rwanda is also significant because it shows us that in the midst of the carnage (which the film mostly suggests rather than depicts), there were also people who did care. One of these people was Paul Rusesabagina, manager of the Hotel Des Milles Collines, a four star establishment in Kigali. Paul’s intentions are far from selfless at the beginning of the film. He is more focused on currying favor with the power elite than helping his fellow man. But when the killing begins, he does not hesitate to use his connections to protect Tutsi and Hutu refugees, eventually sheltering 1,286 of them in his hotel. As this film portrays, this was an extraordinary feat, made possible mainly by Rusesabagina’s influence, intelligence, bravery, and wit. Other heroic figures in this film include the embittered UN colonel tasked with watching the massacre but not intervening, a young news cameraman who lays his life on the line to get the story to the world, a Red Cross worker who is forced to witness the execution of the children she is trying to rescue, and numerous unnamed Catholic priests and nuns. With so many films, TV shows, and politicians suggesting revenge as the only appropriate response to evil, it is refreshing to see a film that demonstrates characters who embrace an alternate point of view. While the Hutus and Tutsis were slaughtering each other as a way to settle old scores—trying to overcome evil with evil—Rusesabagina and company were trying to overcome evil with good. And, miracle of miracles, it worked! For those who wonder whether there really is anything good in the midst of all the horror they witness on CNN each week, this film answers with a resounding “Yes!” There is reason for hope. All it takes is for good men and women to act boldly in the face of tragedy.

Finally, this film is significant because it reminds us that no matter how comfortable our lives are over here, there are always people living over there for whom comfort is but a vague thought at the bottom of a long list of primary needs. With the death toll from the South Asian tsunami still rising, this is hardly a new thought. But I am certain it will not be long before we, too, look up from our dinner at the scenes of horror caused by this natural disaster, and then resume our meal. As any aid agency will tell you, people have a tendency to respond generously to such situations out of emotion over the short term. But that response quickly fizzles out as we become immune to the images and resume our normal lives. Hence, we need films like Hotel Rwanda to help us fend off indifference and remind us that giving is not a one-time event. If we truly want to make a difference, if we truly want to prevent tragedies like Rwanda from happening again, generosity must become a lifestyle.

When it comes time for the Oscars this February, I hope Hotel Rwanda is nominated for Best Picture, if only because that means more people will see it. That said; I am doubtful it will win, mainly because from an artistic point of view, it is not exactly a spectacular film. The acting is first-rate, especially by star Don Cheadle, and the script is solid. But director Terry George has chosen dramatic realism over flash and style, which may not impress some voters. I guess it all comes down to what Academy members base their votes on: style or significance. If it is the latter, Hotel Rwanda will definitely go home with the gold.

Lemony Snicke's "A Series of Unfortunate Events" by Kevin Miller

And the Oscar goes to… Jim Carrey, Jim Carrey, and Jim Carrey.” That’s what I hope to hear come February 27, 2005. One statuette for each character the actor portrays in this film. After all, isn’t it time critics stopped chiding Carrey for super-sizing every performance and started recognizing that is exactly what he was put on earth to do? If this movie also wins awards for production design, costumes, makeup, and directing, it will have been a very good night indeed—and well deserved.

That said; the one award I would withhold from A Series of Unfortunate Events is “Best Picture.” Yes, this is an entertaining film. And it does succeed in creating memorable characters, exciting situations, and a highly innovative fantasy world. But, based as it is on the first three books in the Lemony Snicket series, the movie also suffers from a serious case of “episodism.” What I mean is, the same sorts of scenes and situations keep happening over and over again. After their parents are killed in a mysterious fire that also destroys their mansion, the Bauedelaire children—Violet, who invents things; Klaus, who reads; and two-year-old Sunny, who can bite—are shipped off to one mysterious relative after another. All the while, they are hunted by the evil Count Olaf, leader of a gothic acting troupe who is bent on killing the children and stealing their inheritance. Relying on their wits and a bit of luck, the children manage to escape Olaf again and again, only to be shipped off to yet another mysterious “relative.” The third time this happens, some of the threads begin to sag in what has been up till then a tautly woven adventure. But such problems are endemic to stories that intentionally withhold the climax until a subsequent film.

In the tradition of classic children’s tales like Jacob Two-Two Meets the Hooded Fang or virtually any novel by Roald Dahl, the adults in this film are either clueless or evil. Either way, they cannot be trusted. I’m not sure that I am entirely comfortable with this message. The world being what it is, children today are more in need of assurance than cynicism. Then again, a bit of healthy skepticism when it comes to adults and their intentions is never a bad thing. I also think the Bauedelaire children serve as healthy role models for kids today. Left alone in the world, as it were, they are forced to think for themselves—a skill that many adults struggle to master. The children also demonstrate that everyone has something to contribute to the good of the group, and that we are stronger when we work together than on our own. 

Finally, I also affirm the overall message of this film. For children who may suffer at the hands of adults, as the Bauedelaire children most definitely do, this movie assures them that what might at first seem like a series of unfortunate events may actually be the beginning of a beautiful journey. And even though the world may appear evil, if we look hard enough, we will discover there is much more good than bad. I can’t imagine a more appropriate message for this time of year.

Team America: World Police by Kevin Miller

First of all, Friday Night Lights is a great sports movie. It has everything you expect from a film in this genre: an appealing—albeit motley—bunch of players, each with his own hopes and inner conflicts; a seemingly insurmountable obstacle for the team to overcome during the upcoming season; a coach who drives them hard but who really has a heart of gold; and tons of bone-crunching action that looks as if it came from a ten-year “best of” sports highlight reel. Films like Hoosiers, Remember the Titans, and Miracle set the stage for this genre, but Friday Night Lights has stolen the show.

But Friday Night Lights is more than just a great sports movie; it is a great movie—period. In fact, I would almost say it is a “perfect” film. You’ll have to watch it to know exactly what I mean by that, but it has everything to do with quality. The acting, the directing, the lighting, the script, the camera that won’t stop moving—I could burn through a phone book of superlatives in every one of these areas. More importantly, however, I loved this film because it does exactly what all movies should do: It makes viewers feel something, perhaps more powerfully than they have ever felt it before. In this case, the overwhelming feeling is one of inspiration. Friday Night Lights compels you to examine your life, to make sure you haven’t lost track of why you are living it, and to refocus on doing your best, on striving toward achieving something extraordinary. Although sports is the central metaphor, Friday Night Lights is really about what it means to be human, the things that get in the way of that pursuit, and how those thing might be overcome.

Hell is a small town in this film, and its name is Odessa, Texas. The only means of salvation are to get out (if you’re smart enough or rich enough) or to make it big playing football. Since few people are able to do either one, most resign themselves to “memories and babies” and spend the rest of their lives reflecting on the glory days while living out their vanquished dreams through the local high school football team. Having failed to achieve anything of consequence themselves, they feel their only hope for significance is for the Permian Panthers to have a winning season. And they will do everything they can to ensure that happens. As a Canadian, I’ve always wondered why small town America is so obsessed with high school football. This film gave me at least a partial answer as to why.

As you can imagine, such expectations put an enormous amount of pressure on the young men who make up this team. For most of the guys, football ceased to be about fun a long time ago. Coach Gary Gaines wears his role like a death sentence, at one point telling his guys, “You have the responsibility of protecting this team and this school and this town.” Whew. Anyone up for a little two-hand touch? Consequently, the upcoming season isn’t really something to look forward to; it’s just something to endure, to survive. If the Panthers win State, then the pressure is off. If not, well, as one of the team’s boosters tells Gaines, “Things won’t go well for you.” Despite the pressure, it’s obvious that Gaines and his boys really do love the game. If only people would leave them alone long enough so they could relax and enjoy the experience. Who knows? Perhaps they might even become a better team as a result.

The pressure to perform affects each character differently. Gaines is more disappointed than intimidated by the constant harassment and abuse. He seems to be operating from a set of inner convictions that few other characters in this film possess. Quarterback Mike Winchell is another story. Driven by a football-obsessed mother at home and a fan base that celebrates him one moment and then vilifies him the next, his every look and mannerism tells you he just can’t wait for this show to be over. Then there’s Boobie Miles, the NFL-bound star who blows his chance at the big-time for a shot at small-town glory. Finally, you have Don Billingsly. He’s so wound up most of the time due to his abusive, former State Champion father that he can’t even hold onto the football. Indeed, whatever dysfunctions are present in Odessa, they all manifest themselves in this football team in one way or another. And it’s all the players can do just to hold things together.

At one point, Coach Gaines senses Winchell is about to crack, so he decides it’s time for a little “man-to-man” with his quarterback. During their conversation, Coach Gaines tells Winchell that he is old enough by now to realize that sometimes life gives you the short end of the stick. The question is: What are we going to do about it? Will we allow it to define the rest of our lives, as some characters in this film do, or are we going to find some way to overcome it? For Gaines, it all comes down to where you find your identity. On what will you base your life? Winning? That didn’t work so well for people like Don Billingsly’s dad. When his team won State, he was the centre of everyone’s hopes and dreams. But when the season ended, he was faced with the glaring question: What do you do when the cheering stops? By the time we meet him, he is still trying to find a satisfactory answer to that problem, one that goes beyond self-medication, that is.

So if not winning, then what? Coach Gaines’s answer sounds frustrating at first: Perfection. By this, however, he does not mean flawlessness. To him, perfection means knowing that you did your best, knowing that there wasn’t one more thing you could have done to achieve your objective. It means having love and joy in your heart for your fellow players and your fellow man. For Gaines, true victory is a victory of character. It’s not whether you win or lose or even how you play the game. It’s about who you become as a result.

Interestingly, Jesus made a similar entreaty to his disciples: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). I’ve always found this verse somewhat frustrating as well. Who can be perfect? Doesn’t the mere attempt just lead to striving and guilt? But when you look at it the way Coach Gaines does, suddenly it makes “perfect” sense. Jesus isn’t saying that life—being human—is about being the best. It’s not even about performing "your own personal best." It’s about allowing the challenges you face to mold you into the best person you can be.

This is accomplished not through striving or guilt but by inviting God to manifest his perfect character through you during such circumstances. “We all dig our own holes,” says Gaines. If so, then perhaps yielding to this sort of perfection is the key to digging our way out.

Friday Night Lights by Kevin Miller

First of all, Friday Night Lights is a great sports movie. It has everything you expect from a film in this genre: an appealing—albeit motley—bunch of players, each with his own hopes and inner conflicts; a seemingly insurmountable obstacle for the team to overcome during the upcoming season; a coach who drives them hard but who really has a heart of gold; and tons of bone-crunching action that looks as if it came from a ten-year “best of” sports highlight reel. Films like Hoosiers, Remember the Titans, and Miracle set the stage for this genre, but Friday Night Lights has stolen the show.

But Friday Night Lights is more than just a great sports movie; it is a great movie—period. In fact, I would almost say it is a “perfect” film. You’ll have to watch it to know exactly what I mean by that, but it has everything to do with quality. The acting, the directing, the lighting, the script, the camera that won’t stop moving—I could burn through a phone book of superlatives in every one of these areas. More importantly, however, I loved this film because it does exactly what all movies should do: It makes viewers feel something, perhaps more powerfully than they have ever felt it before. In this case, the overwhelming feeling is one of inspiration. Friday Night Lights compels you to examine your life, to make sure you haven’t lost track of why you are living it, and to refocus on doing your best, on striving toward achieving something extraordinary. Although sports is the central metaphor, Friday Night Lights is really about what it means to be human, the things that get in the way of that pursuit, and how those thing might be overcome.

Hell is a small town in this film, and its name is Odessa, Texas. The only means of salvation are to get out (if you’re smart enough or rich enough) or to make it big playing football. Since few people are able to do either one, most resign themselves to “memories and babies” and spend the rest of their lives reflecting on the glory days while living out their vanquished dreams through the local high school football team. Having failed to achieve anything of consequence themselves, they feel their only hope for significance is for the Permian Panthers to have a winning season. And they will do everything they can to ensure that happens. As a Canadian, I’ve always wondered why small town America is so obsessed with high school football. This film gave me at least a partial answer as to why.

As you can imagine, such expectations put an enormous amount of pressure on the young men who make up this team. For most of the guys, football ceased to be about fun a long time ago. Coach Gary Gaines wears his role like a death sentence, at one point telling his guys, “You have the responsibility of protecting this team and this school and this town.” Whew. Anyone up for a little two-hand touch? Consequently, the upcoming season isn’t really something to look forward to; it’s just something to endure, to survive. If the Panthers win State, then the pressure is off. If not, well, as one of the team’s boosters tells Gaines, “Things won’t go well for you.” Despite the pressure, it’s obvious that Gaines and his boys really do love the game. If only people would leave them alone long enough so they could relax and enjoy the experience. Who knows? Perhaps they might even become a better team as a result.

The pressure to perform affects each character differently. Gaines is more disappointed than intimidated by the constant harassment and abuse. He seems to be operating from a set of inner convictions that few other characters in this film possess. Quarterback Mike Winchell is another story. Driven by a football-obsessed mother at home and a fan base that celebrates him one moment and then vilifies him the next, his every look and mannerism tells you he just can’t wait for this show to be over. Then there’s Boobie Miles, the NFL-bound star who blows his chance at the big-time for a shot at small-town glory. Finally, you have Don Billingsly. He’s so wound up most of the time due to his abusive, former State Champion father that he can’t even hold onto the football. Indeed, whatever dysfunctions are present in Odessa, they all manifest themselves in this football team in one way or another. And it’s all the players can do just to hold things together.

At one point, Coach Gaines senses Winchell is about to crack, so he decides it’s time for a little “man-to-man” with his quarterback. During their conversation, Coach Gaines tells Winchell that he is old enough by now to realize that sometimes life gives you the short end of the stick. The question is: What are we going to do about it? Will we allow it to define the rest of our lives, as some characters in this film do, or are we going to find some way to overcome it? For Gaines, it all comes down to where you find your identity. On what will you base your life? Winning? That didn’t work so well for people like Don Billingsly’s dad. When his team won State, he was the centre of everyone’s hopes and dreams. But when the season ended, he was faced with the glaring question: What do you do when the cheering stops? By the time we meet him, he is still trying to find a satisfactory answer to that problem, one that goes beyond self-medication, that is.

So if not winning, then what? Coach Gaines’s answer sounds frustrating at first: Perfection. By this, however, he does not mean flawlessness. To him, perfection means knowing that you did your best, knowing that there wasn’t one more thing you could have done to achieve your objective. It means having love and joy in your heart for your fellow players and your fellow man. For Gaines, true victory is a victory of character. It’s not whether you win or lose or even how you play the game. It’s about who you become as a result.

Interestingly, Jesus made a similar entreaty to his disciples: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). I’ve always found this verse somewhat frustrating as well. Who can be perfect? Doesn’t the mere attempt just lead to striving and guilt? But when you look at it the way Coach Gaines does, suddenly it makes “perfect” sense. Jesus isn’t saying that life—being human—is about being the best. It’s not even about performing "your own personal best." It’s about allowing the challenges you face to mold you into the best person you can be.

This is accomplished not through striving or guilt but by inviting God to manifest his perfect character through you during such circumstances. “We all dig our own holes,” says Gaines. If so, then perhaps yielding to this sort of perfection is the key to digging our way out.

The Forgotten by Kevin Miller

Without giving away too much, The Forgotten is about what happens when a mother who is grieving over her dead son suddenly discovers that all evidence of her son’s existence has disappeared—photos, newspaper reports, home videos, everything. At first, she suspects her husband and psychiatrist of perpetuating an elaborate hoax to help her overcome her grief. But when confronted, they tell her she never actually had a son, that her “memories” of him are a figment of her imagination. Unwilling to accept that she might be going crazy, she sets out on a wild, adrenaline-driven journey that eventually leads to an explanation far weirder than she could have ever imagined.

I would put this film into the same category as the recent sci-fi thriller Godsend. Take away the modern trappings, and both films could easily have served as episodes in the original Twilight Zone TV series. That would be a compliment were it still 1957. Unfortunately, the same plot devices that worked back then don’t really cut it today. Thus, even though both The Forgotten and Godsend still offer a lot of entertainment value, the films ultimately fail due to half-baked story development and endings that are so conventional you just wish the screenwriters had thought to give M. Night Shyamalan a call. That said; The Forgotten is definitely the superior of the two films. Not only are the premise and script more compelling, the overall look and feel of the film make it abundantly clear that director Joseph Ruben is ready to move on to bigger and better things.

The Forgotten effectively plays on a number of fears—fear of losing a child, fear of losing your mind, even fear of the government. But most of all, it plays on our fear that the ultimate power in the universe may not be good after all, that “God,” or whoever happens to be in charge, is merely toying with us in one grand, cosmic experiment. While the film does not offer any assurance that that isn’t the case, it does offer hope in the form of a familiar, four-letter word: L-O-V-E. And that is more than I can say about most episodes of The Twilight Zone.

Godsend by Kevin Miller

If Godsend had been made 50 years ago in black and white, it would be exactly the kind of thing I enjoy watching late on Saturday nights when there’s nothing else on TV. That’s because it’s full of the same campy plot devices and characters that make those old films so great—a mad scientist, a “monster” (the product of science gone wrong), non-stop “Don’t open that door!” suspense, and a musical score that’s always ready to jump up and scare you even if nothing else will. Like many sci-fi and horror films of the 1950s and 1960s, Godsend is also a cautionary tale, not so much about cloning—which is Godsend’s main subject—but about what happens when the power to do such “godlike” acts falls into the wrong hands. In an era where technology borders on the miraculous, this is truly a parable for our times.

However, viewers today are a lot more sophisticated than they were in the 1950s. They’re not as apt to buy in to the faulty premises and dubious science that make those old films so laughable today. The intermittent titters I heard emanating from the audience during scenes that were supposed to make them cover their eyes in horror was ample evidence of that. Unfortunately, such devices are exactly what the makers of this film expect us to take seriously. And it just doesn’t work.

That is not to say Godsend is completely without suspense. Similar to films like The Omen, The Shining, and Village of the Damned, this thriller gets most of its mileage out of “creepy kid shots”—close-ups of the child/clone Adam (played brilliantly by nine-year-old newcomer, and fellow Canadian, Cameron Bright) as he tries to sort out who or what is messing with his head. It also includes its fair share of “Gotcha!” moments that usually don’t amount to anything but still give viewers a healthy shot of adrenalin.

Godsend also raises some important questions about science, free will, and the conflict between moral choices and human ability. For example, at a high point in the film, Adam’s father (Greg Kinnear) confronts Dr. Wells (Robert DeNiro), who cloned Adam, with the gravity of what he has done. Dr. Wells defends himself, saying, “If I’m not supposed to do this, then why is it that I can?” Interestingly, this confrontation happens in a church. And when it’s over, the entire building goes up in flames, as if to signify that our ability to completely control the reproduction process through cloning means we won’t be needing God’s services anymore, thank you very much.

The problem is, Dr. Wells’ defense is essentially a copout. Just because we can do something doesn’t mean we should. I could go out and kill someone anytime I want, but does that make it right? Of course not. We can’t assume God condones such activities just because he doesn’t stop us from doing them. In addition to blessing us with tremendous abilities in science, technology, the arts, and so forth, God also gave us the power of reason and an inherent sense of right and wrong with which to regulate those abilities. Thus, it is up to us, not God, to decide what we should and should not do. God isn’t about to step in like an overprotective parent and make such decisions for us. If he did, how could we ever grow and mature? However, like a good parent, God does provide us with wisdom and guidance—if we are willing to listen to it. But in the end, how we use that information is up to us. God respects our powers of self-determination that much.

Adam’s parents, Paul and Jessie Duncan, are slightly more willing than Dr. Wells to face up to the moral consequences of their choices. However, like him, their ability to do so is clouded over by grief. Like a child whose pet has just died, Adam’s mother (Rebecca Romjin Stamos) cries that she doesn’t want another child; she wants Adam! And, like a child, her reasons are pretty much self-centered. She feels pain, and she believes getting “another” Adam will make that pain go away. But there’s something sick about the idea of parents who are willing to go to such lengths just to restore their peace of mind, to believe a lie so strongly that eventually they have difficulty discerning it from the truth. I felt incredibly sorry for “Adam 2” during most of this film. Not only was he battling for his soul as a result of a sinister interference in the cloning process, he also had to carry the emotional burden of two painfully needy adults whose real problem wasn’t so much the loss of their first son as their inability to face up to their own emotional deficits. Thankfully, the filmmakers had enough sense to show that such denial of the truth will jump up and bite us sooner or later.

At the same time, I am fairly certain that the choice the Duncans face in this film is one that many couples will be facing in the not-too-distant future. Films like this are useful when it comes to helping us think about how we would respond under identical circumstances. It may begin with pets. That is, perhaps little Jimmy really will be able to get his old dog back through the power of cloning. But let’s be honest: If the ability to clone humans does become widely available (as I suspect it will), do you really think we will be able to keep ourselves from opening this “Pandora’s Box”? Like the Duncans, I suspect many other grieving parents will be unable to resist the temptation to “replace” the child they lost rather than walk through the grieving process. And their judgment will be similarly clouded. I can’t help but think of the emotional and psychological consequences for these cloned children. Think of the identity crisis they will go through when they discover they are nothing more than a “replacement.” No matter how much their parents dote on them, they will know their parents don’t really love them; they merely love the memory of the child that was lost.

Early on in the film, Paul, who is a high school biology teacher, is considering a move from the tough inner-city school in which he works to a better paying job in the suburbs. He realizes it is a good opportunity for his family, but he feels such a strong loyalty to his students that taking the job would be akin to selling out. Jessie disagrees. She wants to move out to the suburbs, because she doesn’t like the thought of raising Adam in the city. In what is supposed to be a heartwarming scene, she tells Paul she respects his ethics, but when it comes to your children, sometimes ethics have to take a back seat. Yikes. Fortunately, the rest of this film is a powerful refutation of such fallacious moral reasoning.

Man on Fire by Kevin Miller

Following in the tradition of classics like Lawrence of Arabia and Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai is yet another film that portrays a “white” soldier who finds his true calling and identity in the midst of a foreign culture. Predictably, this realization leads the hero—in this case, Captain Nathan Algren, an American civil war veteran who is haunted by his military past—to side with his new allies—the last remaining band of samurai—and lead them in a final, glorious revolt against the corrupt, oppressive culture Algren only recently served with such valour.

Not surprisingly, America is portrayed throughout the film as a seductive, corrupting force, undermining the ancient Japanese code of honor—bushido—in the pursuit of cold hard cash. This plays perfectly into the hands of Japanese industrialists who are eager to modernize their country and make a quick buck in the process.

The conflict between the old Japan and the new, Americanized version of the country is most poignant when Japanese businessman/minister Omura frantically orders his troops—freshly trained by American mercenaries—to pull out the “new machines” to stop an oncoming army of samurai. These new machines turn out to be hand-cranked Gatling guns (recent purchases from America) that are capable of firing 200 rounds per minute. Omura’s troops proceed to turn an entire battery of these guns on the samurai—who are armed only with swords and bows—mowing them down until not a single man remains. When it is all over, instead of celebrating their victory, Omura’s soldiers fall to their knees in a tearful tribute to Katsumoto, the leader of the samurai. Even Omura realizes that he and his troops have done more than squelch a small uprising of rebels that day. They’ve obliterated the core of their nation’s soul. And there’s no going back from here.

True to its genre, this film also romanticizes the samurai, depicting them as disciplined, enlightened people whose entire lives are based around the strict bushido code and martial arts training. Add in the fact that they live in a peaceful, remote mountain village, and it’s almost as if Capt. Algren has stumbled across paradise when they take him captive there. But lest we forget the dark shadow of death that lurks beneath this seemingly idyllic world, the filmmakers wisely place Capt. Algren in the home of a man he killed during his capture. There, Algren is forced to live with the dead man’s wife and two young sons for an entire winter. This shattered family serves as a constant reminder to both Algren and the viewer that those who live by the sword may also die by it; but it is those left behind who pay the ultimate price for the honor these strong men hold so dear.

The Last Samurai by Kevin Miller

Following in the tradition of classics like Lawrence of Arabia and Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai is yet another film that portrays a “white” soldier who finds his true calling and identity in the midst of a foreign culture. Predictably, this realization leads the hero—in this case, Captain Nathan Algren, an American civil war veteran who is haunted by his military past—to side with his new allies—the last remaining band of samurai—and lead them in a final, glorious revolt against the corrupt, oppressive culture Algren only recently served with such valour.

Not surprisingly, America is portrayed throughout the film as a seductive, corrupting force, undermining the ancient Japanese code of honor—bushido—in the pursuit of cold hard cash. This plays perfectly into the hands of Japanese industrialists who are eager to modernize their country and make a quick buck in the process.

The conflict between the old Japan and the new, Americanized version of the country is most poignant when Japanese businessman/minister Omura frantically orders his troops—freshly trained by American mercenaries—to pull out the “new machines” to stop an oncoming army of samurai. These new machines turn out to be hand-cranked Gatling guns (recent purchases from America) that are capable of firing 200 rounds per minute. Omura’s troops proceed to turn an entire battery of these guns on the samurai—who are armed only with swords and bows—mowing them down until not a single man remains. When it is all over, instead of celebrating their victory, Omura’s soldiers fall to their knees in a tearful tribute to Katsumoto, the leader of the samurai. Even Omura realizes that he and his troops have done more than squelch a small uprising of rebels that day. They’ve obliterated the core of their nation’s soul. And there’s no going back from here.

True to its genre, this film also romanticizes the samurai, depicting them as disciplined, enlightened people whose entire lives are based around the strict bushido code and martial arts training. Add in the fact that they live in a peaceful, remote mountain village, and it’s almost as if Capt. Algren has stumbled across paradise when they take him captive there. But lest we forget the dark shadow of death that lurks beneath this seemingly idyllic world, the filmmakers wisely place Capt. Algren in the home of a man he killed during his capture. There, Algren is forced to live with the dead man’s wife and two young sons for an entire winter. This shattered family serves as a constant reminder to both Algren and the viewer that those who live by the sword may also die by it; but it is those left behind who pay the ultimate price for the honor these strong men hold so dear.

Gangs of New York by Kevin Miller

In Gangs of New York, veteran filmmaker Martin Scorsese does an impeccable job of recreating New York City circa 1846-1863, highlighting a bloody, little known period of American history. It was a time when the civil war, anti-immigration sentiment, political corruption, poverty and religious differences mixed together to create a simmering stew that eventually boiled over into the anti-draft riots that nearly destroyed the city in 1863. Unfortunately, the tale of revenge that Scorsese sets against this rich historical backdrop is depicted with such excessive brutality and gore that the historical value of his story is nearly drowned by the amount of blood spilled in the telling.

The film opens with a gruesome gang battle for control of “Five Points,” an impoverished area of lower Manhattan that was a flashpoint for tensions between, “Nativists”—Anglos and Dutch who were born in America—and Irish immigrants who were arriving by the boatload each day. When Amsterdam, the young son of the Irish gang leader, sees his father cut down by Bill “the Butcher” Cuttings, ruthless leader of the Natives, he vows to come back one day for revenge.

Sixteen years later, Amsterdam returns to find Bill still ruling the area. Keeping his identity a secret, Amsterdam gains Bill’s trust, becoming an adopted son of sorts, all the while waiting for the ideal time to fulfill his vow. But when Amsterdam finally does make his move, Bill manages to turn the tables. Barely escaping with his life, Amsterdam eventually manages to resurrect his father’s old gang and put a final challenge to Bill’s rule of Five Points.

Martin Scorsese has long been celebrated for his ability to document the sordid side of life in graphic detail. However, this film is so brutal that it forces one to ponder wonder when such graphic depiction of violence begins to harm rather than help a story. Gangs of New York is an exceptionally well-made film that raises many interesting issues. But that fact will matter little to those who aren’t willing to wade through a river of blood in order to appreciate what it is trying to say.

Bowling for Columbine by Kevin Miller

Although at times it is as sloppy as Michael Moore’s appearance, Bowling for Columbine deserves all the attention it has received; if only because for two chilling and often humorous hours, it forces viewers to ponder one very important question: Why are so many Americans shooting each other?

Moore’s search for answers takes him on a trek from his home state of Michigan to Littleton, Colorado, site of the 1999 Columbine High School massacre. Along the way, Moore encounters a bizarre variety of characters, including: members of the infamous Michigan militia; James Nichols, wild-eyed older brother of Oklahoma City bomber Terry Nichols; NRA president Charlton Heston; and a Michigan teen who makes five-gallon drums of napalm in his spare time.

Moore also considers a number of arguments for America’s exceptionally high murder rate, including rock music, violent video games and movies, and the easy availability of guns. But none of these potential causal factors wholly explain the problem, because each factor is shared by most other Western countries, including Canada, which is depicted throughout the film (although not always accurately) as the “antithesis” of America.

It is not until Moore chats with none other than Marilyn Manson that he finds a potential answer. In a surprisingly eloquent speech, Manson states that the root of the problem is fear. Politicians, news organizations, and advertisers all strive to keep Americans in a perpetual state of fear. Why? “Because if you keep everyone afraid, they will consume.” And what do they consume? To quote Neo from The Matrix: “Guns—lots of guns.”

Moore’s attempt to flesh out this theory is powerful, largely because of the images he uses to support it, such as security camera footage from the Columbine massacre. But despite its emotional impact, his argument still rings hollow, because, among other things, it fails to account for several social factors that lead to violent crime. Nevertheless, it still beats the pathetic ramblings of Charlton Heston at the end of the film.

Bowling for Columbine does not score a strike, but it is definitely an earnest attempt to sort out a difficult problem. Perhaps it will inspire others more qualified to do the same.

The Passion of the Christ by Kevin Miller

To say this film has divided audiences—both Christian and non-Christian alike—is an understatement of biblical proportions. Like Jesus, the person whose final twelve hours on earth this movie portrays, The Passion of the Christ has been criticized from virtually every angle you can imagine. On one hand, it’s been condemned as anti-Semitic, obsessed with gore and blood, pro-Catholic to the point of distraction and historically inaccurate. Others have called it uplifting, inspiring and one of the most effective evangelistic tools ever made. This controversy is fitting, seeing as reactions to Jesus himself varied from those who wanted to crown him as king to those who wanted to execute him as a traitor and blasphemer. It’s no wonder this film has received similar treatment. But, as with Christ, the question remains: Whose version of the truth are we to believe?

Visually speaking, The Passion of the Christ ranks as perhaps the best “Jesus film” ever made. Featuring brilliant performances from its mostly unknown cast, superb cinematography, meticulous accurate costuming and set design, and a camera that refuses to waver even as chunks of flesh are torn from Christ’s body, this film succeeds in capturing the brutality of Jesus’ treatment at the hands of his Jewish and Roman captors like never before. Further enhancing the sense of realism is the fact that all dialogue is spoken in the original Aramaic, Jewish and Latin languages. If you’ve ever wondered what it would have been like to be there on location during Christ’s trial, torture and execution, this film is for you. But be warned: Everything you’ve heard about the violence is true—and then some. So please, please, leave the kids at home. I’m not one to whitewash the truth, but I wouldn’t take my children to a public execution either just so they could see what it was like.

Historical accuracy from a visual point of view is one thing. But remaining true to Jesus’ life from a factual point of view is quite another. In this case, The Passion of the Christ is a far cry from such “literal” retellings of Jesus’ life as The JESUS Film. Drawing from his own Catholic tradition as well as the writings of St. Anne Catherine Emmerich and St. Mary of Agreda, Gibson adds his fair share of literary and theological embellishments to the gospel accounts. For example, Satan (played by a woman, no less) keeps popping up at key moments in the film, as do a pack of child-like demons. Flashbacks to Jesus’ earlier life as a young child, as a “pre-ministry” adult and as leader of the disciples are also interwoven into the passion narrative. The film also includes such apocryphal scenes as Mary and Mary Magdalene mopping up Jesus’ blood after his flogging, the meeting between Jesus and St. Veronica on the way to Golgotha (one of the stations of the cross), the prolonged interaction between Jesus and Simon of Cyrene and the raven plucking out the thief’s eye after he question’s Jesus authority while hanging on the cross. Most viewers probably won’t notice such additions to the biblical accounts. But be prepared for questions afterward as people try to parse out what the Bible says versus fiction and/or Catholic tradition.

Perhaps because of Gibson’s Catholic background, this is also very cross-centered, gore-obsessed film. In this respect, the movie tends to spend an inordinate amount of time dwelling on the torture and crucifixion of Christ and very little time describing the purpose for his suffering or the glorious resurrection that followed. While many hail the torture sequence as an unflinching account of Jesus’ actual experience, the beating Jesus receives in this film is so brutal and prolonged it borders on the implausible. I’d really like to hear a physician’s opinion on the likelihood of anyone even surviving never mind remaining conscious and carrying his cross after receiving the sort of beating Jesus does in this film. I’d also like to hear a theologian’s opinion on the accuracy of this sequence, because, to my understanding, thirty-nine lashes were all that was allowed under Roman law. But in this film, Jesus got more like seventy times seven. Thus, at a certain point, it begins to feel like director Mel Gibson has mistaken the degree of suffering Jesus experienced as being more important than the identity of the person being punished. The way I see it, the emphasis of the gospels is not that Jesus suffered more than any person who ever lived but that Jesus was God and yet he willingly turned himself over to his creation and let them do with him as they wished. In no way do I want to downplay what Jesus went through, but I don’t think overstating the case does us any good either. And that’s exactly what I think Gibson does in this film.

Taken as one man’s interpretation of Christ, this film merits much discussion and debate. An entire book could be written on Gibson’s unique approach to this compelling story. Indeed, there’s already been as much ink spilled about this film as there was artificial blood in making it. So if all Gibson hoped to do was re-ignite public dialogue about the person and mission of Christ, he has already succeeded. And if he wanted to make a lot of money in the process, more power to him. He’s scored big on that front as well.

Beyond mere controversy or box office numbers, however, Gibson should also be congratulated on an artistic level. Not only has he remained true to his original vision throughout a storm of opposition, the final product is a powerful piece of religious cinema that will definitely stand the test of time. While in many cases the artistic license he has taken with the passion narrative serves to enhance the story, at times it also tends to muddy the waters. So if you want to get the straight goods on Jesus, I recommend you return to the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John in the Bible. Prepare to be surprised though: You just may discover a Jesus you never knew.

The Alamo by Kevin Miller

In making The Alamo, director John Lee Hancock faced a task similar to James Cameron when he made The Titanic. Both films are based on historical events where the outcome is certain. Thus, the challenge is not so much to surprise viewers as to depict characters and events as dramatically and as realistically as possible so when the end does come, we feel as if we’ve lived the adventure ourselves.

So how does Hancock score? Pretty well on some counts, not so good on others. This film gets high marks for costumes, sets, props, and battle sequences. If The Alamo were a painting, it would fall into the category of photo-realism. And it would earn top dollar.

Hancock wins bonus points for presenting a fairly balanced depiction of the conflict. Instead of painting the “Texians” as heroes and the Mexicans as bad guys, he makes it clear that each side had only its self-interest in mind, and both were willing to kill for it. What made the Texians different was that they were fighting for liberty—even though their gaining liberty meant depriving others of the same. Then again, I guess you could say the same thing about the Mexicans…

On a character level, the Mexican General Santa Anna definitely comes off as the villain here. But, this being an attempt at revisionist history, he isn’t the only one with his warts on display. When we first meet Colonel William Travis, the young officer charged with defense of the Alamo, he’s signing the papers that will allow him to abandon his pregnant wife and two children. The reason? He’d rather have a few days of glory in Texas than a lifetime without a “name.” It’s hard to believe we’ll care when this guy bites it. But we do, if only because of how much his death will devastate his son.

It is a little more difficult to care about James Bowie, famed knife-fighter. That’s no slam against Jason Patric who portrays him. It’s just that after resolving a leadership dispute with Travis, Bowie basically retires to his deathbed for the remainder of the film. In addition to tuberculosis, I got the sense Bowie’s character also fell victim to the slash and burn editing process this film was forced to undergo between its original release date of December 2003 and today.

Our greatest sympathies go to Davy Crockett, played with a delicate mixture of bravado and introspection by Billy Bob Thornton. Crockett arrived at the Alamo not even realizing a war was going on. He just wanted the 640 free acres of land promised to anyone who signed up for the Texas militia. The burden of Crockett’s celebrity also weighs heavily upon him. Not only does this make it impossible for Crockett to flee when the opportunity arises (What would people think?), his presence inspires the other men to glorify the position they find themselves in. But Crockett knows all they have to look forward to is killing and death. Glory may come, but they won’t be around to experience it. He tries to tell them the truth, but the men merely clamor for the fictional version of his life.

Despite these engaging character studies, this film ultimately fails from a structural point of view. By presenting the fall of the Alamo as one long flashback book-ended by General Sam Houston’s response, the pacing just doesn’t work. It’s anti-climactic, slow to get going, and far longer than it needs to be. One gets the sense that the footage was there, but things never really came together in the editing room. Perhaps they spent too much time working on it.

As one might expect in a story that takes place in a Spanish Catholic mission, the cross is an ever-present icon in this film. We first encounter it at night when Bowie leads a small scouting party through a graveyard of crooked wooden crosses just outside the Alamo. Later, a crucifix hangs over Bowie’s deathbed as a Mexican folk healer makes the sign of the cross over him with an egg and then cracks it into a glass of water. A cross-shaped window also lights Bowie’s room. From time to time, we even view the action outside through this glowing symbol. But never once does Bowie acknowledge it or his need for a savior. Though barely conscious, his attention remains fixed solely on protecting his self-interest, to the point where his last act is to kill those who would deprive him of his final hours of life.

Perhaps that is the problem with everyone in this film, “Texians” and Mexicans alike: They’re all looking out for number one. The Texas Rebellion, of which the battle for the Alamo was but a part, was led by Americans who had recently broken away from the British Empire. Now they wanted to gain independence from Mexico, which had recently won independence from Spain. But there was no way Mexico’s Santa Anna was about to extend the same freedoms his own people had just obtained. For, in a moment of prescience, he states, “If we lose this war, we will forever be begging crumbs from the Americans’ table.” Seems he understood the stakes perfectly well. The question is: Where does the battle for independence end? And at what point does the number of lives lost negate the freedoms gained?

There is no question the defenders of the Alamo were in a dire situation. But as the cross kept reappearing in this film, I couldn’t get over the fact that the solution to this conflict was right in front of them, and yet no one was able to see it. They came close though. During what is perhaps the film’s most poignant scene, Crockett plays his fiddle to accompany a song the Mexican army plays every night before shelling the Alamo. The Mexicans are so touched by the gesture they forego the attack for that night. “It’s amazing what a little harmony can do,” Crockett remarks afterwards. Indeed. For a moment, both sides seem to discover the common bond of humanity that unites them. They may be at war, but they are all fighting for the same basic principles: freedom, dignity, and the chance to create a better life for their families. Perhaps if they had looked to the cross—to Christ—they would have realized this, set aside their arms, and worked out a more creative solution to their conflict. In a world where violence only begets more violence—both at home and overseas—it would behoove us all to do the same.

In America by Kevin Miller

In a film full of great moments, it is difficult to choose one that defines what In America is all about. Perhaps the most poignant is a scene where eleven-year-old Christy Sullivan sings the Eagles’ song “Desperado” at her school talent show. As she delivers her angelic rendition of that classic tune, her father, Johnny, zooms his camcorder in on her face during the closing verse: “Desperado, why don't you come to your senses? Come down from your fences; open the gate. It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you.
You better let somebody love you; let somebody love you. You better let somebody love you, before it's too late.”

Although Johnny doesn’t realize it at the time, this is exactly what he needs to do if he ever hopes to find peace: allow someone (namely, his family) to love him. But before this can happen, he will have to let go of the pain and grief over his son Frankie’s death. Unfortunately, that is easier said than done.

Johnny isn’t the only one who needs to deal with his grief. The entire Sullivan family—Frankie, his wife Sarah and their two daughters—has been stuck in a state of denial for the past year. Seeking to escape their anguish, they sneak across the Canada-US border and attempt to build a new life for themselves in a run-down apartment in the Hell’s Kitchen area of New York City. Struggling against poverty, limited career opportunities (Johnny is an aspiring actor), and the stigma of being “different,” the Sullivan’s try valiantly to squeeze the last few drops of juice from the shriveled up lemons they’ve been given. However, faking it can only get you so far. Sooner or later, they will have to face up to the issues that have haunted them all the way from Ireland to the Big Apple. For if they don’t, they risk becoming nothing more than hollow shells, ghosts that merely haunt the earth for the rest of their days.

The Sullivan’s unlikely ally in this struggle is Mateo; also known as “the man who screams.” A struggling African-American artist, Mateo is battling his own demons in the dark reaches of his apartment below. Despite his hard exterior, the precocious Sullivan girls win him over when they tell him about Frankie’s death. This begins Mateo’s tumultuous incorporation into the Sullivan family, wherein he acts as a catalyst to thaw out their frozen emotions. This experience also helps Mateo overcome his own misery.

Despite these positive developments, death continues to plague the Sullivan’s every step. Even when Sarah becomes pregnant with another child, there is a risk that one or both of them won’t survive the delivery. And then Mateo is hospitalized with advanced HIV/AIDS. One gets the sense that the only way death will leave is if someone—namely Johnny—finally turns around to face it. But can he? And if he does, will anything really change? You’ll have to watch the movie to find out. But I can tell you that seeing as the film is told from a child’s perspective, there’s plenty of room for magic and miracles just when you think all hope is lost.

In the end, we realize that Johnny’s journey is really our journey—or perhaps the journey of all humankind. All of us are packing a world of hurt on our shoulders, struggling like the mythological Atlas to find some place where we can lay our burden to rest. However, having carried it for so long, we are often loath to let it go. As painful as it may be, we’re afraid of what life will be like without it. We’ve lost hope, unable to believe things could ever again be as they were. Tragically, this reluctance to embrace change is precisely what prevents us from receiving the only thing that can offer a permanent solution to our pain: love. Love from others and, ultimately, love from God. Thus, like Johnny, if we ever hope to find that all-elusive peace, we also need to come to our senses, come down from our fences and open the gate. We need to let someone love us before it’s too late.

Cold Mountain by Kevin Miller

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as depressed walking out of a movie theatre as I did after viewing this film. Not only did it feature one of the most horrifying civil war scenes ever filmed, it also—unwittingly, I think—conveyed such a strong sense of hopelessness regarding humanity’s predilection toward violence that, for a moment, it made me seriously question whether or not there really is any good thing deep in the heart of man.

This film is supposed to be a love story between a simple carpenter named Inman and an upscale southern belle named Ada, with whom he has a passing romance prior to being drafted into the Confederate army. After months on the battlefield, Inman is seriously wounded in a daring night raid. While in the hospital, he receives a letter from Ada—who is now hundreds of miles away—begging him to leave the war and return to her. Totally unequipped for life outside of the city, Ada is struggling to survive in the small town of Cold Mountain, South Carolina after her father dies of a heart attack. With the help of a young female drifter, Ada is able to make ends meet—barely. But she also has her hands full fending off the advances of the Confederate Home Guard, a self-appointed group of thugs who hunt down and kill any able-bodied men they find, presuming them to be deserters.

Once Inman is strong enough to leave the hospital, he acquiesces to Ada’s wishes and walks away from his unit, beginning a long and perilous journey home that many have referred to as an interpretation of Homer’s Odyssey. Like Odysseus, Inman meets all manner of strange characters along the way, some of whom help him along the journey and others who continue to manifest the brutality Inman encountered on the battlefield. He also encounters some of the victims of war, most poignantly in the form of a single mother and her sickly baby who live at the mercy of marauding soldiers. What’s remarkable is how quickly such victims take up the gun once the opportunity affords itself, proving once again how easily the abused can become the abuser.

It’s inevitable in such a story that Inman will finally make it home to his beloved. But from the beginning, there’s been a dark pall hanging over this reunion, taking the form of a vision Ada had in which Inman is stumbling along a mountain path surrounded by crows. Thus, after a brief, passionate reunion, the film moves into its final, unavoidable sequence: a showdown between the hero and the evil men who have been threatening his love.

While this film attempts to use the love story as a way of infusing hope into this otherwise dark tale, whatever redeeming power this thinly sketched relationship has is completely lost amid a blood-stained depiction of a period of American history that is best described by political philosopher Thomas Hobbes as ”an existence of continual fear and danger of violent death… solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” This movie offers virtually no hope to its characters, except perhaps a quick and painless death. But considering the villains that stalk the frames of this film, such an act of mercy is far from likely.

Cold Mountain is a graphic reminder that although Americans love to think of themselves as a peaceful people, the reality is, the foundations of their nation are slaked in blood. Whether you consider the Civil War this film depicts, the conquest of Texas (a blatant land grab from Mexico that is about to be romanticized in The Alamo), the colonization of Hawaii, the Vietnam War or, most recently, America’s invasion of Iraq, at every stage of its development, America has consistently resorted to violence as a way of solving its problems and reaching its goals. They’re supposed to be the good guys, “one nation under God.” But how can that be true when the methods they use to achieve their ends are virtually indistinguishable from those of their enemies? They’re more efficient, maybe, but no less brutal. Like the hero in this film, they may overcome the bad guys in the end. But as they stand over their vanquished foes, smoking gun in hand, they can’t escape the fact that now they have also become murderers. And if their means are no different than those of the people they oppose, doesn’t this call their goals into question as well? 

In addition to offering a critique of America, this film also caused me to look deep inside my own heart to see if, given the right conditions, even I could be reduced to the type of behavior depicted in this film. Surely not, I objected. That sort of thing is so uncivilized, so barbaric. Surely we’re beyond that kind of brutality by now.

But then I began to consider that the Civil War—the bloodiest in America’s history—was fought by ordinary men. They weren’t trained killers or murderers; at least they didn’t start out that way. They were farmers, carpenters, and blacksmiths, ordinary people. I also began to think about the many atrocities we read about or hear about on the news each day, also committed largely by “ordinary people,” and I realized we aren’t beyond this sort of behavior at all. In fact, since the Civil War, all we’ve done is refine our ability to kill and maim the enemy, making it as efficient—and sanitary—as possible. So, to be honest, take away the constraints of faith and society under which we all live, and I doubt even the best of us would be distinguishable from the thugs portrayed in this film. But still more frightening is to think that even within the bounds of faith and society, we still engage in systematic “push-button” mass murder that is celebrated in presidential cabinets and pulpits alike.

So if all of us, given the right conditions, are prone to acts of violence, seeking to end violence through violence is never going to work. That’s because if such evil lurks in the heart of every person, then it can only be truly eliminated when every person is dead, including me—including you. No, the only way I see of escaping our inclination toward destruction of self and others is by laying down our weapons, submitting to God, and refusing to fight fire with fire. In God, we have the ultimate example of how to deal with our enemies; not by overcoming them with superior weaponry—as God, the ultimate “superpower,” could easily have done with us—but by overcoming evil with good (Romans 12:21). As the Apostle Paul also says in Romans, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). That’s right, while we were God’s enemies, all he could think about was how to end the war we had started, how to reconcile himself to his children. Thus, instead of fighting us, he chose to sacrifice the life of his own Son instead, thus bridging the uncrossable chasm between humanity and God—a chasm we created through our own disobedience. If this act of reconciliation is the foundation of our faith, can we really call ourselves Christians if we do anything less for our enemies? I think not, for only by loving our enemies do we begin to resemble our Heavenly Father. And only those whom our Father recognizes as his own children will be granted the honor and joy of spending eternity with him (Matthew 7:21–23).

I hope more people, Christians and otherwise, catch on to this reality, because I can’t think of anything worse than having to live in “continual fear and danger of a violent death” as the characters do in this film—except perhaps to spend eternity spent in this state. And I can’t think of any way to avoid such a fate except by following God’s example.

The Manchurian Candidate by Kevin Miller

Could there be a more appropriate time for a film like this? Released one month after Fahrenheit 9/11 with conspiracy theories about George W. Bush—“the Arabian candidate,” as he has been called—running at an all-time high, The Manchurian Candidate is a masterpiece of cinematic timing. Thankfully, it is also a great movie. Based on the 1962 classic starring Frank Sinatra, this remake retains all of the suspense of the original but updates the context so that it has that ring of truth that makes you believe something like this really could happen—almost.

It all begins with Captain Bennett Marco, a Gulf War vet who cannot seem to leave the war behind. Diagnosed with “Gulf War syndrome” and “post-traumatic stress disorder,” Marco has been relegated to giving speeches to Boy Scout troops about the Congressional Medal of Honor. At the same time, he is plagued by a recurring dream full of horrific images. When he meets up with an old war buddy who is suffering from exactly the same affliction, Marco begins to suspect that maybe he is not crazy. Perhaps the dream is reality, and what he has always been led to believe about his tour of duty in Kuwait is nothing more than a fabrication, a memory implanted in his mind by an unknown entity for unknown reasons.

When the body of Marco’s war buddy turns up in the river, he is even more certain a conspiracy is underfoot. Desperate for answers, Marco seeks out the only other surviving member of his platoon: Raymond Prentiss Shaw, who was decorated with the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving Marco and his platoon when they were ambushed in Kuwait. Shaw is currently on a fast track to the White House, thanks to his pit bull mother, and is not interested in Marco or his theories at first. But when Shaw begins to have nightmares as well, he realizes Marco may be on to something.

Meanwhile, Marco has discovered some nefarious connections between what he “remembers” about the brainwashing experience in the Gulf and one of Shaw’s largest campaign sponsors: Manchurian Global. He comes to believe that Manchurian has somehow preprogrammed Shaw to be a “sleeper” in the White House, a pawn that they can activate at will. Marco has no idea what Manchurian is up to, but he is not about to wait around and find out. However, just as Marco is about to make his move, another dimension of Manchurian’s conspiracy is revealed, placing Marco and his plans in jeopardy.

I will not reveal anything further about the film save this: Hollywood has been pumping out some smart thrillers lately, and The Manchurian Candidate is one of them. While the premise of this film is more fun than feasible, the idea that big business wields tremendous clout in Washington is far too real to ignore. Power and money go hand-in-hand—you can’t have one without the other. And this film paints a grim picture of what happens when money and blind ambition get in the way of the common good—or, worse, what happens when people in power begin to believe that their money and their ambition are the common good. Rather than encourage conspiracy theories of this ilk, however, The Manchurian Candidate is more like a classic, sci-fi cautionary tale, a parable rather than a docudrama. In this sense, I think it does far more than Fahrenheit 9/11—a purportedly non-fiction film—will ever do to raise awareness about what is really going on in the world.

Then again, perhaps I am just not paranoid enough…

The Village by Kevin Miller

Writer, producer, director M. Night Shyamalan is known for two things: high concept premises and surprise, twist endings. After his breakthrough hit The Sixth Sense, Shyamalan has used this same approach to make Unbreakable, Signs, and now The Village. Unfortunately, while Shyamalan appeared to be a fresh new voice when he first broke onto the scene, each successive film is making him look more and more like a one-trick pony, at least from a writing point of view.

To be fair, following up a film like The Sixth Sense is no easy task. Perhaps Shyamalan would have been wiser to go in an entirely different direction rather than attempt to top what many believe to be the best thriller of all time. However, Shyamalan seems determined to prove that The Sixth Sense was not a fluke but the beginning of a long line of modern-day “Hitch*censored*ian” classics. Thus, we come to The Village.

The Village differs from Shyamalan’s previous films in that it is a period piece. It appears to be set at the turn of the century in a small community called Covington that is surrounded by a mysterious forest. The rules of the village are simple: The people of Covington stay out of the woods and avoid using the “bad color” (red), and the creatures that purportedly inhabit the woods refrain from killing and eating the villagers. If ever an uneasy truce had been forged, this one is it.

With such rigid rules in place, it is only a matter of time before villagers begin testing them and, eventually, breaking them outright. While the young boys of the village are content to play a game at night where they stand on a stump with their back to the edge of the forest until their nerves can’t take it anymore, one young man—Lucius Hunt—has had enough of games. He approaches the elders of the village and requests permission to cross through the woods to “the towns,” where he hopes to obtain medicine to prevent tragedies like the funeral scene that opens the film. Lucius feels the creatures in the forest will let him pass, because he believes they will know his intentions are pure. But the elders refuse to honor Lucius’ requests. Never mind the creatures, they seem even more afraid of the towns and what will happen to anyone who goes there. Years ago, the elders left the wickedness and corruption of the towns, vowing never to return. They established Covington as a place to rebuild the innocence they had lost, to create a better life for them and their children. In that sense, the creatures are more of a blessing than a curse, serving to reinforce Covington’s boundaries in a way the elders never could. 

Frustrated with the elders’ reticence, Lucius takes things into his own hands one day and crosses the boundary of the village into the forest, where he plucks some forbidden red berries from a bush. Unfortunately, his actions do not go unnoticed by “the things that we do not speak of.” That night, Covington goes into panic mode when a sentry spots one of the creatures slinking out of the trees and into the village. The next morning, the villagers emerge from their fortified homes to find red slashes painted across every door. A warning has been issued. The villagers had better heed it or die.

Lest you think I have spoiled the story for you, nearly all of what I have written so far is presented in the trailer to this film. This is all still set-up, and a good one at that. At this point, The Village just bristles with questions: What is the nature of these creatures? How did the people of Covington ever make it to their present location? What is the significance of the color red? What are the towns really like? Will Lucius make a break for the towns? What will happen to him if he does?

I will leave you to discover the answers to these questions yourself. As for me, knowing what I do of Shyamalan, I guessed the “surprise” ending about a third of the way into the film, and I think I had suspicions even before that. That is not to say I am inordinately clever, just that there were only so many ways this film could go, and the path Shyamalan chose seemed the most likely option. If anyone else had made this film, I doubt I would have been so quick to guess the ending. Likely, I would have been so drawn into the story that I would have been rewarded with that delightful “Aha!” moment that I had when the premise of The Sixth Sense was finally revealed. Thus, my disappointment at the way Shyamalan chose to resolve this film is not so much a comment on the structure of the story itself, which is reasonably sound, but that it was just so “Shyamalanian.” Perhaps he would have more success at surprising us these days if he began writing films under an assumed name. That way we would not see him coming.

Apart from “predictable unpredictability,” something else Shyamalan is known for is inserting not-so-subtle spiritual messages into his films, and The Village is no exception. What we have here is a group of people, who have withdrawn from the wider culture to establish their own ideal society, the boundaries of which are reinforced by fear. Sound familiar? It should. Covington looks and feels very much like an Amish, Mennonite or Hutterite community—if you don’t count the bloodthirsty monsters prowling the borders, that is. The renunciation process required to join the community demands that each elder retain a small box of mementos from their past life to remind them of their sins, “lest they be reborn in another form.” But sins were never meant to be boxed up. And once the corruption and death that haunted them in the towns begins to creep into their village, the elders of Covington come to realize that sin is not in the towns, it is in them. Running away from their past or trying to stuff it in a box will not solve anything. Sin thrives in fear and secrecy. Thus, the only way to overcome sin is to bring it out into the open, confess it, and then embrace the freedom that follows.

Despite a golden opportunity to do just that; the elders choose to maintain the façade of their existence instead. While they realize doing so may prevent them and their children from embracing life to the fullest, better that than having to return to the towns and attempt to be salt and light in a society that repudiates all they hold dear.

It was difficult to watch the elders make such a decision. But as I did, I could not help but think of how many times we Christians have done exactly the same thing. Rather than work to transform society from the inside, as we have been called, we have withdrawn from it into segregated communities dominated by fear and control. Like the elders, we have chosen a lesser existence rather than risk being polluted or rejected by the world. However, also like the elders, we must realize that sin is not “out there.” It is right here, in us. Only when we are able to face that fact and bring our secrets into the light will we truly become the people God has called us to be. 

Michael Moore Delivers a New Type of Fear by Kevin Miller

I arrived at the theatre at 7:22 p.m. Fahrenheit 9/11 was scheduled to start at 7:30. The film was showing on two screens that night, one of which, I discovered, was already sold out. When I got inside, I realized I should have come earlier. Way earlier. The place was packed. It was all I could do to find a seat.

During the previews, I was astounded as I looked around at the crowded theatre. This was a Saturday night, in Canada. By all accounts, we should have been out drinking beer and participating in some sort of hockey-related event. But we were all here to watch a documentary. About the United States, no less. On a Saturday night. Perhaps what Michael Moore said during his Oscar acceptance speech for Bowling for Columbine was true, I thought. Perhaps we really do prefer non-fiction to fiction. The question remained, however: In which category did this film fall?

That question was answered for me over the next two hours as I watched what could best be described as an exercise in fear mongering of the worst kind. Even though this film won the Palme d’Or in Cannes, I have to say that, as a documentary, Fahrenheit 9/11 is not particularly good. As a purportedly non-fiction film, it scores even worse. And as entertainment? Let’s just say it’s no Bowling for Columbine.

Without going into too much tiresome detail, and at the risk of piling up a small mountain of adjectives, my summary of Fahrenheit 9/11 goes something like this: unfocused, snide, contradictory, paranoid, emotionally manipulative, exploitive, and, at some points, outright delusional. By now, we all expect a certain amount of chutzpah from Moore. That’s what I love about him. He never fails to see the humorous side of the serious issues he explores. He’s a master at mixing information with entertainment, and he isn’t afraid to go out on a limb to stir up controversy and discussion. But this time, I fear the limb may have snapped. Rather than tackle a serious issue in a semi-serious way, as he did with Bowling for Columbine and Roger and Me, Moore attempts to place George W. Bush at the center of the biggest boondoggle of all time. For two painstaking hours, Moore does his best to convince us that Bush is some kind of "Manchurian Candidate" planted in the White House to serve the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. And he has all sorts of goofy looks and menacing music to prove it!

While I am not a big fan of George Bush’s administration or the war in Iraq, Moore lays things on a little too thick in Fahrenheit 9/11, even for an avowed fan like me. For example, at one point Moore asks us to believe that “Big Tobacco” pressured the Department of Homeland Security to allow matches and cigarette lighters onboard commercial flights so that smokers could light up immediately upon landing, even though such items could be used to ignite bombs like the one convicted terrorist Richard Reid hid in his shoes. Or how about this: After outlining the admittedly extensive connections between the Bushes, the Bin Ladens, and the Saudi royal family, Moore asks something along the lines of: “If someone is paying you $400,000 per year to lead their country but, over the years, the Saudis have paid your family $1.4 billion, when you wake up in the morning, who are you going to worry most about pleasing: The Saudis or the American people?” Moore’s premise here is that the only thing that motivates George W. Bush is money. However, as I listened to Moore draw this conclusion, I began to wonder who was more concerned about making money off the Saudi-Bush connection: George W. or Michael M.? As with any blame game, it isn’t long before the finger you are pointing at others turns around and starts pointing back at you. (In fact, there's probably a big, fat finger pointing back at me right now!)

Refreshingly, Fahrenheit 9/11 does include a couple of Moore’s trademark publicity stunts, such as when he rides around the Capitol building in an ice cream truck while reading the Patriot Act over a loudspeaker or when he approaches congressmen on the street and asks them to enlist their children to serve in Iraq. Once again, if Moore had resorted to more of these antics instead of using a conspiracy theory approach, the opinions he expresses in this film would have been much easier to swallow, because it would be obvious that he considers them just that: opinions. Instead, he presents his opinions as facts, and he expects us to embrace them as such. I’m sorry, but in this age of 24-hour news and the Internet; such obvious propagandizing just doesn’t cut it.

That’s not to say Fahrenheit 9/11 does not have its moments. The footage of young American soldiers talking about the type of music they like to listen to as they blow up Iraqi neighborhoods with their tanks is one of the most chilling things I have ever seen. War as a video game come to life.

Thankfully, Moore balanced these interviews with the accounts of soldiers for whom killing had become a face-to-face affair. Their disturbing version of the conflict led me to believe that the pimple-faced push-button killers in the tanks had yet to encounter the victims of their carnage firsthand. Taken together, their testimonies, as well as Moore’s coverage of grieving mothers on both sides of the conflict, present a grim picture of modern war and its effect on us—equal parts desensitization and soul-rending tragedy. If Moore had only stuck with something along these lines, I think this film really would have amounted to something.

Recently, I expressed my doubts that Fahrenheit 9/11 would change anyone’s mind about George Bush or Michael Moore. Having been pre-conditioned by the media to hate one or the other, I proposed that viewing the film would only solidify people’s preconceptions, because most would go into the theatre looking to confirm their particular point of view rather than challenge it. However, in my case at least, viewing the film had exactly the opposite effect. I went in a Michael Moore fan. And while I didn’t emerge as a convert to the George W. gospel, I definitely lost a lot of respect for Moore and his ability to play fair with the facts. I also have serious doubts about his preference for non-fiction over fiction. His film may feature real people and real events, but you don’t have to dig too deep to realize the yarn he attempts to weave out of this mish-mash of footage and fallacies is anything but the truth.

At the same time, I cannot dispute that Moore has tapped into at least one fundamental truth: People are outraged with a political system that strives to keep them ignorant and powerless. They are tired of an administration that withholds information from the very people who elected it, one that uses fear to manipulate them into sanctioning its agenda, for good or for evil. People want the truth; they demand it. Sadly, however, truth appears to be in short supply these days. We live in an age of inquiries and commissions, conspiracies and suspicion. As an auto mechanic featured in this film says, “You should never trust anyone you don’t know. In fact, you probably shouldn’t even trust the people you do know.”

Many people hoped to find the truth in Fahrenheit 9/11. An astounding number, actually. Even though the film opened on less than a quarter of the screens of its closest rival, it still topped the weekend box office. Unfortunately, while people may believe they have found the truth in Fahrenheit 9/11—people actually applauded the film where I viewed it—I fear they may have unwittingly bought into the very thing Moore’s film purportedly condemns: Fear packaged as truth in order to sway them in a particular direction. This time, however, they weren’t taught to fear Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, or a host of nameless, faceless Middle Eastern terrorists. They were taught to fear George Bush, the American government, their neighbors—even themselves. Jesus said, “the truth will set you free.” In this case, however, Moore’s “truth” doesn’t offer freedom. All it provides is a different type of bondage.

A Few Comments about Fahrenheit 9/11 by Greg Wright

This contribution is excerpted from a series of emails exchanged between staff writers and editors at www.hollywoodjesus.com.

First, I am a Michael Moore fan.

Second, I believe Fahrenheit 9/11 is his weakest film to date, not so much for what it says but for how it is constructed. In interviews, Moore has as much as admitted that there is nothing really new in it as far as content goes. What is new is how the content is assembled, and that is little more than any conspiracy theorist might have done.

Fahrenheit 9/11 is also derisively speculative (Was Bush thinking, “What’s that kink in my underwear? What field day is Michael Moore going to have with this footage?”), inconsistent (Is Bush a genius, brilliant enough to pull off one of the most stupendous dupings of the voting public in history, or an indecisive dolt?), and pointlessly inflammatory (That beheading in Saudi Arabia that Moore had us watch, which maybe some of us missed—what was the point of that?).

Disdain is not a value I hold dear, no matter what the source or whether I share it. It is possible to both criticize and show respect. Unfortunately, Moore does not seem to share this view.

Third, I agree wholly that, as www.hollywoodjesus.com reviewer Mike Furches put it, “The real debate is: do the Democrats really offer any solutions to the issues [Moore] brings up? Deep down, I don’t think they do, and that is a large part of the struggle.”

However, I do not agree with Mike’s statement that, “Politics as usual, by both parties, is certainly something that spells doom for a large portion of the population that Jesus loves.”

Our hope and the world’s hope has never been the Republicans, Democrats, Michael Moore, the Green Party, politics, America or any other human institution—including the institutionalized church, if you catch my drift.

There are very real reasons to be concerned about what is going on in the world—and there always have been. Nevertheless, there are no reasons to be pessimistic or to abandon hope. The solution is the power of God working in the lives of individuals—each one of us. It is not where we are that matters but where we are headed. And the gates of hell itself cannot prevail against that.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Kevin Miller

In terms of my childhood influences, Roald Dahl occupied the same rare air as J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Dr. Seuss. He was a master storyteller; one whose work I savored much like Charlie Bucket savored his Whipple Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight chocolate bar on his birthday each year—bit by precious bit. Needless to say, then, when someone like Tim Burton ventures to bring a book like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to the big screen, for me and countless other former children, he is treading on holy ground. Thankfully, even though Burton’s account of the gospel of Wonka is eerily unorthodox, he avoids falling into full-blown heresy. I wouldn’t necessarily call the changes he has made to the story improvements, but Burton’s film is definitely an intriguing adaptation of Dahl’s beloved children’s tale.

One of the most significant and fascinating deviations from the book is Burton’s characterization of Willy Wonka. As written by Dahl, Wonka was a mysterious, delightfully childlike man with a heart like Santa Claus and a face like Uncle Sam. He was also a genius, a “magician with chocolate,” according to Charlie’s Grandpa Joe. In Burton’s film, Wonka is still a genius, but he has more in common with Howard Hughes or Michael Jackson than Santa Claus. And his face, well… Let’s just say it’s more disturbing than comforting. Burton’s Wonka is also childlike in his own way. But rather than portray him as an old man who has managed to retain his sense of childlike wonder, Burton depicts him as more of a man-child who hasn’t really gotten over the trauma of his early years but who doesn’t know how to grow up either. He is clumsy, gawky, unsure of how to relate to others, and uncertain if he even wants to. He doesn’t seem to like children, so it’s a wonder he ever issues the invitation for the children to tour his chocolate factory at all. But perhaps it’s his way of reaching out, a desperate cry for help from a troubled man who realizes he is losing his grip on reality and that somehow only the wisdom of a child can bring him back.

In these and other ways, Burton’s take on Wonka couldn’t be more different from Dahl’s original vision. However, even though I regard myself as somewhat of a Dahl purist, I don’t see these changes as intrinsically negative. Not only have Burton and actor Johnny Depp managed to create an entirely original character who is captivating in his own right, the choices they made also enabled them to showcase Dahl’s delightfully wicked sense of humor, which is one of the most attractive features of his work. In fact, my only real complaint about the film is the superfluous backstory that explains how Willy Wonka became the troubled genius we see on screen. Mystery, says screenwriter William Goldman, is one of the key ingredients of an effective character. While Burton’s Wonka definitely starts out as an enjoyable enigma, eventually it is revealed that he is nothing more than the product of a (yawn) troubled childhood. As I’ve stated elsewhere in regard to George Lucas’s laborious exposé of Darth Vader’s origins in Star Wars Episodes I–III, sometimes you just need to leave well enough alone.

That said; Burton’s ambiguous depiction of Willy Wonka does lead to some interesting spiritual reflections. But before I get to those, a bit of set-up: In terms of structure, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory bears a strong resemblance to C. S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce. In Lewis’s tale, a group of people gets the chance to take a bus from hell to heaven. If they like it there, they will be allowed to stay. If not, they are free to return to the dreary, rainy place from whence they came. Strangely enough, after a short stint in Paradise, one-by-one, each passenger decides they were much happier down below where they were free to pursue their vices, so back on the bus they go. Only one character decides to stay, and he is gloriously transformed as a result.

Similarly, in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, five children and their guardians are invited to leave the dreary, hopelessness of their lives (hell) and visit Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory (heaven). At the end of the tour, Wonka (an admittedly bizarre stand-in for God) promises that one of the children will receive a prize far greater than they can imagine. However, as in The Great Divorce, one-by-one, the children fall victim to their vices—whether gluttony, greed, pride or anger—turn their back on Wonka and the factory and return to the world from whence they came. In the end, only Charlie remains. By virtue of his stalwart character, he has proven himself worthy to receive the prize, which is nothing less than Wonka’s glorious chocolate factory itself!

However, in a surprising departure from the original story, rather than give the factory to Charlie outright, Wonka reveals one final stipulation: To inherit the factory, Charlie must say goodbye to his family forever. Suddenly, what appeared to be a gift from God looks more like a deal with the devil. Charlie refuses, and Wonka goes away angry. But he is also troubled. How could Charlie turn down such an offer? Never having experienced familial love himself, he simply cannot understand Charlie’s motivation. Only when Charlie helps Wonka reunite with his own father does he finally see what Charlie was on to.

To my mind, Wonka’s surprising about-face is an accurate reflection of our current feelings of uncertainty toward God. In Dahl’s book, Wonka is similar to the version of God I heard about in Sunday school—all knowing, all loving, and so forth. In Burton’s film, however, Wonka is nasty, confused, and socially awkward—hardly what you would call divine attributes. At times, you can’t help but wonder, is Wonka God or is he the devil? Are his Oompa Loompas angels or demons? Is the chocolate factory heaven or hell? Should the children love Wonka or fear him?

Some of our depictions of God bring to mind the same questions. Does God delight in seeing us fall victim to our vices? Is he some sort of eccentric misfit who needs us as much, or more, as we need him? Could it be that, like Wonka, God has a thing or two to learn from us as well? Can he be trusted? At times, we may see him as unable or unwilling to relate to common people like ourselves, as Wonka was unable to do. We may also suspect that, like Wonka at the opening of the factory tour, God is just putting on a show for his own amusement—and not a very good show at that.

I much prefer images of God closer to Dahl's original description of Wonka—a kindly, self-assured being with an eye to celebrating redemption rather than glorying in defeat. A God of grace and constancy certainly has been my experience. Faced with a double-dealing God similar to Burton's version of Wonka, the choice to re-board the bus back to hell would almost seem to make sense.

A History of Violence by Kevin Miller

Just to prove that I can be as small-minded as the next person, my first comment upon emerging from A History of Violence was, “Well, that was… gratuitous.” From the lingering shots of bullet-riddled heads to sex scenes that went places few mainstream films have gone before, I shook my head as I walked through the lobby and thought, “That’s Cronenberg for you.” What else could I expect from the man who brought us films like Videodrome, The Fly, Naked Lunch, and Crash (1996)—the latter being about a subculture of people who get sexually aroused by car accidents?

And yet, as much as Cronenberg’s films have pushed the limits of good taste, they have always been about much more than grossing out an audience. Sexuality, identity, alienation, technology, spirituality, violence, and the very nature of existence itself are merely some of the areas Cronenberg has explored through film. You may not always agree with his conclusions; but you have to admit that he have a knack for getting the discussion started—or at least creating awkward silences at *censored*tail parties. So you can imagine that as I walked into A History of Violence—a movie I had been eagerly anticipating for months—I was ready for him to lob yet another grenade into our ever more conservative midst and ignite a firestorm of controversy, argument, and disgust.

Instead of an explosion, however, what I heard instead was a mind-numbing thud. When the movie was over, the grenade just lay there on the ground. I thought that perhaps Cronenberg had forgotten to pull the pin. So I bent down to pick it up, turning it over in my hands. Nope, no pin. But no explosion either. Weird. Could it have been a dud? The disgust portion of the film had definitely registered. But where was the scintillating intellectual and artistic statement? In contrast to Cronenberg’s previous work, this film seemed to be about nothing more than it was on the surface—a man with a violent past that finally catches up to him. What a bummer. Had Cronenberg finally sold out?

I carried the grenade around for about three days before it finally went off. That’s when I realized pulling a pin wouldn’t detonate it; it used a timer. The explosion occurred while I was voicing my disappointment about the film to a friend.

“Wait a second,” he said. “I think you’re missing something.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Just imagine if Tom Stall is America.”

I thought about it for a moment. Tom Stall as America… Of course!

KABOOM!

When the smoke cleared, suddenly an entirely new vista opened up to me. Tom Stall was America! The parallels were too obvious to ignore. Like Tom, America likes to think it is all about small towns and apple pie, but it has a history of violence as well! All it takes to reveal that history is a “clear and present danger.” For Tom, it was two hit men with guns in his diner. For America, it could be anything—9/11 perhaps? It doesn’t matter, because at that point, instinct kicks in, and the enemy is dispatched in an efficient albeit ghastly manner. (That’s the reason for the lingering shots of gore, says Cronenberg. Too often we cheer for the good guys without facing up to the true cost of victory.)

Bad guys dead, problem solved, right? Not by a long shot. The immediate threat is removed, but it turns out these guys had friends—powerful friends—and Tom may have a history of violence with them as well. Sound familiar in terms of America? If not, just think about it for a while… Suddenly, more bad guys show up. Now Tom and his apple pie-loving small town have a huge problem on their hands. Where life used to be about faith, family, and football, now all anyone is concerned about is security. Getting the picture now?

And look what’s happening to the next generation! Preferring to live a peaceful existence, Tom’s son used to let the local bully push him around. But when his father’s actions at the diner make him a hero, Tom’s son decides to follow in his father’s footsteps and fight back, putting the bully in the hospital. Later on, he even takes out one of the bad guys with a shotgun. Now he’s a cold-blooded killer, too, just like daddy. But instead of making him happy, suddenly, he couldn’t be more miserable! Worst of all, he realizes his father has been lying to him. He isn’t about apple pie at all. He’s as bad as the guys he’s been killing, if not worse.

And the sex! Could it be that a history of violence has intruded upon this sacred act as well? Nonsense, you say. Oh really? Cronenberg begs to differ, via his infamous “scene upon the stairs.” I’m still trying to decide which term best describes what goes on there—sex or violence—but I do know this much: the scene is profoundly disturbing.

By the end of the film, Tom Stall manages to gun down or otherwise slaughter every last one of his enemies—including his brother, who was behind the whole thing. (Hmm… Now what could that mean in terms of our Tom Stall/America connection?) At this point, we should be happy for him. The enemy is gone, his family is safe, and their small town should be free to go back to their apple pie loving ways. 

But can we really get off the hook that easily? Can Tom? He may have eliminated his enemies, but he has paid a terrible price. When he returns from the carnage, in place of the friendly, family man we used to know is a steely-eyed killer, a man who reaches out with hands of love but only causes others to shrink back in fear now that they know full well what other things those hands are capable of doing.

Is there a lesson here for America as well? Perhaps, but who am I to say? I’m merely a Canadian, as is Cronenberg, and we can be very bit as small-minded as our neighbors to the south—gratuitous, too, in our praise as well as our critiques. But this isn’t about standing along the border and pointing fingers. Canadians have a history of violence as well. Just ask our First Nations people. Therefore, rather than seek to lay blame, if anything, this film should prompt us toward self-examination. Are we actively seeking to prevent a history of violence from continuing, or are we tacitly allowing it to persist, both at home and abroad? Are we, like Tom, living in denial about our true nature? Not a comfortable thought, but thank God for people like Cronenberg who are willing to toss the occasional grenade into the midst of a crowded *censored*tail party. Rather than destroy us, such intrusions may be exactly what is required for our salvation.

King Kong - Review by Kevin Miller

Let me address the obvious criticism first: Was this movie an over the top, overly long, self-indulgent piece of filmmaking? You bet it was. And thank God for that. After all, this is a story about a 25-foot gorilla that winds up on top of the Empire State Building batting planes out of the air. This is no time for restraint. It’s also a project that director Peter Jackson has dreamed of working on since he was a kid. Peter Jackson, boys and girls—the man who is to directing what Jim Carrey is to acting—so what else did you expect? Sure, doubters will complain that some scenes, such as when Kong fights three dinosaurs while falling through a web of vines, go on for too long. But that only shows lack of appreciation for the sheer breath of imagination and industry required to create such moments. As for me, about midway through the cavalcade of brontosaurs and humans, I wanted to stand up and cheer. King Kong is the blockbuster of all blockbusters. It’s the reason why megaplexes exist. It’s Hollywood at its best. Its all systems go. It’s $207 million well spent. And I loved it!

What made me love this film even more was the depth of insight and emotion Jackson managed to extract from his source material. Like Jackson, I’ve been a huge fan of King Kong since I was a kid. I even stayed home from a family camping trip one summer so I could catch the 1976 remake on TV. Despite my fascination, I never really thought of Kong as anything but a cool, effects-driven monster flick. However, in Jackson’s hands, King Kong becomes a powerful parable about our schizophrenic relationship with the environment, a dire warning that we ignore at our peril.

The parable begins when filmmaker Carl Denham—played with delightful panache by Jack Black—speaks boldly and eloquently of his desire to “view the beast unshackled” in the wilderness, something only a few brave souls like him are willing to do. But after a brief, firsthand taste of Kong and Skull Island’s other monstrous, unshackled inhabitants, Denham’s romantic ideals are quickly scuttled by the drive to survive, subdue, and, perhaps, to profit.

Meanwhile, Anne Darrow, the woman offered up to Kong by the terrifying natives of Skull Island, begins to develop the strangest case of Stockholm syndrome you’ve ever seen. And who can blame her? The blustering, bellowing ape is irresistible. A triumph of animation and characterization, to see Kong is to love him. Whether he’s ripping dinosaurs in two, beating his chest in triumph or taking time out to enjoy the sunset, Kong is truly a king among beasts. Despite his ferocity, Darrow is uniquely able to appreciate him as such.

Sadly, Denham and his companions are not similarly gifted. Rather than respond to Kong with the awe and respect he deserves, they seek only to subdue him, to tame him, to kill him if they must. That they are able to bring him down at all is truly a triumph of Man over Nature. But for some reason, this accomplishment evokes little urge to celebrate. “We’re millionaires, boys,” says Denham as he stands over Kong’s unconscious form. Perhaps, we wonder, but at what cost? Nothing less than the wonder and awe that drew Denham to Kong in the first place.

Listless and lifeless, when Kong is put on display in New York, he is nothing but a grim shadow of his former self. The fire that drove him previously has all but gone out. Tragically, when that fire is reignited again, we know it can only lead to his doom. New York is no place for an artifact of unbridled nature like Kong, after all. And it is only a matter of time before Kong meets his fate atop the pinnacle of humankind’s triumph over the very essence of what he represents.

As I see it, Darrow and Denham signify two sides of our split personality regarding the environment. On the one hand, we love and appreciate nature in all of its unfettered beauty and power. But few of us can leave it at that. The drive to subdue and exploit is irresistible. While we tend to celebrate our ability to do so, this film seems to question whether or not we’ve gone too far. King Kong is a call to repentance, a call to return to a sense of wonder and awe in the face of nature. It is also a warning that if we continue our attempts to shackle nature, as Denham attempted to do, sooner or later it will come back to bite us.

With such a strong environmentalist message embedded throughout the film, I was a little confused about why Jackson retained the original film’s final line about how it “’twas beauty that killed the beast.” Clearly, it wasn’t beauty but greed that was responsible for Kong’s death. Or, as another character put it, it was Denham’s “unfailing ability to destroy the things he loves.” Perhaps this was simply a case of sentiment trumping theme. The real question though is where our unfailing ability to destroy comes from. Why this love/hate relationship with our environment? Why are beauty and wonder so often overcome by fear and greed? As I pondered this, I was drawn back to another classic tale of Man and Nature—the Garden of Eden. If you pay close attention to the curse God utters to Adam and Eve just prior to expelling them from the Garden (Genesis 3:14–19), you will note that their disobedience ruptured their relationships on three levels: God and Man, man and woman, and Man and Nature. Where there used to be harmony, trust, and love, there was now conflict, distrust, and hatred. Where Man used to be able to sit back and enjoy the bounty of Nature, now he had to work and toil for every scrap.

Not a pretty picture. But the story doesn’t end there. If it took an act of disobedience to rupture these relationships, it follows that an act of obedience may be all that’s required to make them right again. So perhaps our inner “Carl Denham” doesn’t have to win the day after all. All we need to do is unleash our inner “Anne Darrow.”

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - Review by Kevin Miller

If you were a beaver and four humans showed up on your doorstep wearing fur coats, would you let them in? I certainly would have second thoughts. Funny how that idea never occurred to me before, even though I’ve read about the Pevensie children’s first encounter with the talking beavers of Narnia countless times. It just serves to illustrate the difference between experiencing a work of literature in your imagination and viewing it on the big screen. Suddenly things look a whole lot different—some better, some worse. It also raises the question as to whether such stories are best left to the imagination. I’m still trying to decide in terms of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Perhaps the choice would have been easier if I had enjoyed the film more than I did…

It’s difficult to put my finger on exactly why I failed to connect with this movie. It certainly wasn’t for lack of solid visual effects. They were everything a Narnia fan could hope for—centaurs, fauns, Cyclops, minotaurs, talking beavers and horses—all looking as real as the humans with whom they interacted. Aslan, in particular, exceeded expectations, as well he should have. With more than five million individually rendered hairs and up to fifty animators working exclusively on him alone, anything less than virtual realism would have been a tragic disappointment. But as stunning as Aslan and a number of the other creatures were, most of them were really nothing more than beautifully rendered extras—fodder for the battle sequences, background actors with one or two lines or a brief close-up to add a sense of realism. They looked great, but we never really got a chance to connect with them emotionally, and so I found it difficult to care what happened to them in the end.

The same could be said for most of the human characters. For the most part, the acting was serviceable, but at times it felt like the performers were struggling within the confines of a mediocre script. Surprisingly, Tilda Swinton, who plays the White Witch, seemed to have the most trouble. After seeing Swinton’s scintillating performance as the quasi-evil half-angel Gabriel in Constantine, I was eager to see her go all the way over to the dark side in her portrayal of the White Witch. While she definitely looked the part, whenever she spoke, it seemed like she was reaching for a sense of significance that the lines just couldn’t give. The one exception is the scene where she kills Aslan. This was one of the rare moments when she came close to realizing the full potential of her character. Even then, however, the scene lacked the sense of cosmic significance that undergirded nearly every moment of Narnia’s literary and cinematic cousin, The Lord of the Rings.

I think that is the real problem with this film: It lacks gravitas. Even at 132 minutes, it just didn’t seem long enough for us to really get to know the main characters or the underlying mythology of Narnia. The best it can do is tell us that four human children are needed to fill the thrones at Cair Paravel, but it never tells us why. We’re left wondering why four children are required, who sat in the thrones before the children arrived, who built Cair Paravel, and how the White Witch gained control of Narnia in the first place. I fully realize that these same answers are missing from the novel. But couldn’t the filmmakers have taken a few liberties with the text to clarify things, much like Peter Jackson did by inserting some of the background material into The Lord of the Rings to flesh out Aragorn’s identity? Surely Lewis addressed these questions elsewhere in his writings, and I don’t think too many people would have objected if his explanations were introduced into the film.

As it stands, without these answers on screen, it’s difficult to become caught up in events like the epic battle sequence that forms the climax of this film. We know the good guys are going to win, and we know that will be a positive thing for Narnia. But it would mean a lot more if, as with The Lord of the Rings, we knew what was at stake if they failed—and that there was a good chance they might do just that. I realize that some people may think that such comparisons to Tolkien’s epic are unfair, seeing as Tolkien wrote for adults and Lewis wrote Narnia for children. However, I see no reason why children’s literature or movies should be held to a lesser standard. Good storytelling is good storytelling no matter who your target audience is. If anything, books and films aimed at children should be held to a higher standard, because they become a child’s primal reading/viewing experience.

Despite my overall disappointment with this film, one aspect of my past reading experience that it did manage to tap into, at least momentarily, was the sense of wonder and excitement I felt about the possibility that there might be more to the world than I originally assumed—far more, in fact. Not only that, this story was one of the first to make me hope that there might also be more to me than I originally thought. Like Lucy, Edmund, Peter, and Susan, I may have a sense of purpose and destiny far beyond anything I had ever imagined. That is the true power of stories like Narnia or Harry Potter, I think. While we all sense there’s more to life than meets the eye, the characters in these stories actually get to witness this deeper reality firsthand, and that fills us with a sense of hope and excitement that we can make the same sort of discovery one day. And I definitely believe that we can.

That said, when adapting such a universally renowned book—probably the best piece of children’s literature ever written—you can’t be content to make a good film. It has to be a great film, or not at all. Unfortunately, the makers of this film didn’t seem to be aware of that fact. I have no doubt that someone could have made a cinematic masterpiece out of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. However, that someone just happened to be too busy adapting another work about a fifty-foot ape. Too bad, because I doubt we will get this chance again. Perhaps it’s for the best though, because rather than letting some filmmaker do the imagining for us, if we want to experience the true magic of Narnia, we will just have to read the books for ourselves.