On "Les Mis," "Zero Dark Thirty" & "Django Unchained"

Lately I've been mulling over three films that all made my "Top 10 of 2012" list, but which I have not really written about in depth (until now). Over at Mere Orthodoxy I wrote two articles about these films that you can find by clicking on the titles below:

In Defense of "Les Miserables": A response to some of the outspoken criticisms of the film version of the beloved musical. My take focuses on the unique attributes of the cinematic medium (over the stage, or the page) and attempts to defend the film's emotionalism as a pure and appropriate treatment of the material. Read it here.

Is Depiction Endorsement? Filmmaker Responsibility in "Zero Dark Thirty" and "Django Unchained": An analysis of the controversies that have arisen in these films and an exploration of the larger issue of if and in what manner a filmmaker is responsible to clearly distinguish between "depiction" and "endorsement" in their work. Read it here.

Best Films of 2012

Perhaps appropriately, many of the best films of 2012 dealt in some way with endings. In the year in which the world was to end, many masterpieces explored the idea of ending, finality, conclusion—whether the end of slavery (Lincoln), the end of innocence (Moonrise Kingdom), the end of life (The Grey, Amour, Les Miserables, Skyfall, Killing Them Softly, etc.), the end of an affair (The Deep Blue Sea), a manhunt (Zero Dark Thirty) or the world itself (Turin Horse). And so now, at the end of the year, I list my ten favorite films of the year, commending them all to you (including the honorable mention list: they're all marvelous films!). 

10) Looper: Rian Johnson’s stylish, smart, brain-bending film was one of the most crowd-pleasing of the year. Happily, the genre hybrid (time travel meets gangster meets sci-fi) relied more on deft storytelling than CGI theatrics, doing what good cinema has always done: immersing the viewer in a world at once fanciful and foreseeable, glossy and grimy, foreign and familiar. (my review)

9) Les Miserables: Cynics beware: this film is an explosion of earnestness, popular Broadway music and sometimes ostentatious flourishes of stylistic indulgence. Yes, it’s a bit kitschy at times. It may be emotionally manipulative. But it’s also a magnificent cinematic experience. Victor Hugo’s moving story of grace and forgiveness is told with tenderness and passion by director Tom Hooper and his impressive cast. An excellent screen adaptation of a beloved masterpiece of the stage.

8) Django Unchained: Quentin Tarantino’s latest pop art revisionist bloodbath is less elegant and a bit messier than his last masterpiece, Inglorious Basterds, but perhaps that’s part of its genius. Slavery and racism are not tidy, elegant things. In characteristic over-the-top fashion, Tarantino applies his singular vision to this touchy terrain and gets away with things no director should (right?). The result is offensive, brash, bold, funny, sad, disturbing, and frequently beautiful.

7) The Grey: I didn't expect much more from Joe Carnahan's film than a  typical “angry Liam Neeson” action flick. But man is it more than that. It's a tough-as-nails film; gritty and bloody and masculine to the core. And yet it's also deeply poetic, existential and--in the end--quiet and contemplative. Especially in the last 30 minutes of so, The Grey really punches you in the gut. (my review)

6) Moonrise Kingdom: Wes Anderson's beautiful film is one of the best films about childhood I've ever seen. It captures—in characteristically colorful, deadpan, boxed-in form—the magical spaces in which children dwell: playing, exploring, flirting with danger and adulthood, taking in the world with wonder and curiosity. More than just a stylistic exercise (Anderson's films can sometimes fall in this trap), Moonrise is a somber, poetic "coming of age" story with profound things to observe about how children experience the world. (my review)

5) The Master: Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest American epic is ostensibly a riff on the story of L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology. But of course it’s more than that. What exactly The Master is about is up for interpretation; which is to say that yes, it’s an ambiguous film, but not in a pretentious sort of way. Anchored by spectacular performances by Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman, The Master is a gorgeous tale of American ambition--as vast, contemplative and occasionally ominous as the wide-open-spaces of the land it inhabits. (my review)

4) Amour: Michael Haneke shows off his sentimental (sort of) side with this intimate tale of an elderly French couple at the end of their lives. Haneke unflinchingly shows us the horrors of aging as we witness the post-stroke decline of Anne (Emmanuelle Riva), while her husband Georges lovingly cares for her even as her condition worsens. The film is straightforward in its purposes but far-reaching in its emotional impact. Anyone who has ever experienced the painful final phase of a loved-one’s life will relate, as will anyone who has reflected on life and love through the lens of aging.

3) Zero Dark Thirty: Kathryn Bigelow’s follow-up to The Hurt Locker is every bit as taut, thrilling and realistic as that Oscar-winning film. A chronicle of the CIA’s 9-year manhunt for Osama bin Laden, beginning with 9/11 and ending with the Pakistan raid that resulted in the death of “UBL,” Zero Dark Thirty is a fascinating look at the tips, clues, red herrings and missteps that characterized the arduous search. Too much has been made of the film’s depiction of torture. The film depicts torture, yes, because for better or worse it was a part of the story in the early days after 9/11; but the film does not suggest that torture produced the key evidence in finding bin Laden. More than anything the film is praiseworthy for its expert storytelling, conveying a complicated narrative in three well-paced hours.

2) Lincoln: Steven Spielberg’s excellent historical epic is not a biopic in the traditional sense. It focuses only on the final months of Abraham Lincoln’s too-short life, especially his political effort to get the Thirteenth Amendment passed. Even so, the film—and particularly Daniel Day Lewis’ impeccable performance as the man himself—manages to bring Lincoln to life in a way we haven’t seen before. Beautifully rendered with the photography, music, costumes, sets and supporting performances an old-school period piece like this requires, Lincoln is an insightful, inspiring, and concisely told story of the brilliance of a great American leader at one of America’s most pivotal points. (my review)

1) The Kid With a Bike: The latest from Belgian brother filmmakers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne is perhaps their most masterful yet. No other film this year affected me as much as this, a deeply humane portrait about a father, his son, a bike, and a search. Riffing on Vittorio De Sica's Italian neo-realist masterpiece, Bicycle Thieves, the Dardennes offer up a characteristically nuanced, minimalist, jarring look inside a world both foreign and intensely familiar. The film is ostensibly about longing for one’s father, but it’s really about God’s grace: the way it chases us even when we resist it, soothing us like a balm in our most vulnerable and self-destructive moments.  (my review)

Honorable Mention: Bernie; Wuthering Heights; Killing Them Softly; On the Road; The Impossible; Turin Horse; Holy Motors; Skyfall; The Deep Blue Sea; Oslo, August 31st

75 Best Film Performances of 2012

There were only a handful of iconic film performances in 2012, but there were a good number of excellent performances, often in smaller roles. I thought it'd be fun to make a list of the best 75 performances from films that I saw in 2012. Below are my picks. If there are other noteworthy performances that you think should be on here, let me know in the comments section!

75) Tom Holland, The Impossible 74) Tilda Swinton, Moonrise Kingdom 73) Susan Sarandon, Arbitrage 72) Jennifer Ehle, Zero Dark Thirty 71) Dwight Henry, Beasts of the Southern Wild 70) Mark Duplass, Your Sister's Sister 69) Tom Hardy, Lawless 68) Noomi Rapace, Prometheus 67) Scoot McNairy, Killing Them Softly 66) Gina Carano, Haywire 65) Bruce Willis, Looper 64) Tom Hanks, Cloud Atlas 63) Anders Danielsen Lie, Oslo, August 31 62) Shirley MacLaine, Bernie 61) Edward Norton, Moonrise Kingdom 60) Kaya Scodelario, Wuthering Heights 59) Isabelle Huppert, Amour 58) Ray Liotta, Killing Them Softly 57) Alan Arkin, Argo 56) Eddie Redmayne, Les Miserables 55) Sam Riley, On the Road  54) Daniel Craig, Skyfall 53) Tom Hardy, The Dark Knight Rises 52) Bruce Willis, Moonrise Kingdom 51) Suraj Sharma, Life of Pi 50) Mark Ruffalo, The Avengers 49) Robert Pattinson, Cosmopolis 48) Jude Law, Anna Karenina 47) Jim Broadbent, Cloud Atlas 46) Quvenzhane Wallis, Beasts of the Southern Wild 45) Christian Bale, The Dark Knight Rises 44) Rosemarie DeWitt, My Sister’s Sister 43) Jamie Foxx, Django Unchained 42) Matthias Schoenaerts, Rust & Bone 41) Brad Pitt, Killing Them Softly 40) Muhammet Uzuner, Once Upon a Time in Anatolia 39) Emily Blunt, Looper 38) Greta Gerwig, Damsels in Distress 37) Anne Hathaway, The Dark Knight Rises 36) Michael Caine, The Dark Knight Rises 35) Thomas Doret, The Kid With the Bike 34) Judi Dench, Skyfall 33) Garrett Hedlund, On the Road 32) Samuel L. Jackson, Django Unchained 31) Jennifer Lawrence, Silver Linings Playbook 30) Ewan McGregor, The Impossible 29) Hugh Jackman, Les Miserables 28) Keira Knightley, Anna Karenina 27) James Howson, Wuthering Heights 26) Bradley Cooper, Silver Linings Playbook 25) Richard Gere, Arbitrage 24) Guy Pearce, Lawless 23) Rachel Weisz, The Deep Blue Sea 22) Anne Hathaway, Les Miserables 21) Sally Field, Lincoln 20) Amy Adams, The Master 19) Leonardo DiCaprio, Django Unchained 18) Denzel Washington, Flight 17) Jean-Louis Trintignant, Amour 16) James Gandolfini, Killing Them Softly 15) Michael Fassbender, Prometheus 14) Liam Neeson, The Grey 13) Christoph Waltz, Django Unchained 12) Jessica Chastain, Zero Dark Thirty 11) Javier Bardem, Skyfall 10) Cecile De France, The Kid With the Bike 9) Naomi Watts, The Impossible 8) Jack Black, Bernie 7) Tommy Lee Jones, Lincoln 6) Marion Cotillard, Rust & Bone 5) Philip Seymour Hoffman, The Master 4) Denis Lavant, Holy Motors 3) Emmanuelle Riva, Amour 2) Joaquin Phoenix, The Master 1) Daniel Day Lewis, Lincoln

Best Documentaries of 2012

My best films list will be finished early next week (still a few films to see!) but I’ll go ahead and list my picks for the five best documentaries of the year. Many of these are available on Netflix Instant, and I heartily recommend them to you.

5) Indie Game: The Movie (dir. Lisanne Pajot and James Swirsky): Anyone who says that videogames are not a valid artform needs to see this film, which follows a handful of independent videogame developers as they work to complete and release their games to the world. The characters in the film are gamer nerd hipsters and the games they create are as eccentric and edgy as they are. The film is concise, funny, endearing and informative — everything a good documentary should be.

4) Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry (dir. Alison Klayman): This portrait of Chinese contemporary artist and activist Ai Weiwei is absolutely fascinating. I love profiles of artists, because they are usually quite colorful and complex personalities. But Weiwei’s story is interesting not only for all the typical “artist” reasons, but because of the Chinese political/cultural context against which his art and persona are set. His activism (largely organized via social media) is given as much attention in the film as his art, but it all works together to paint a compelling picture of the paradoxes that characterize contemporary Chinese life.

3) The Queen of Versailles (dir. Lauren Greenfield): A fabulously wealthy owner of a vacation rental business and his large family are building a massive mansion in Orlando, Florida — it will be the largest single family home in America, in fact. Midway through construction, however, the 2008 financial crash happens and the bottom drops out of their real estate business. This film depicts the hilarious and sometimes sad adjustments the family must make when money suddenly becomes tight and life as “the 1%” falls apart as they know it.

2) Undefeated (dir. Daniel Lindsay and T.J. Martin): Essentially a documentary version of the latter seasons of Friday Night Lights, this Oscar-nominated film follows the 2009 football season of Manassas High School in North Memphis, a school more familiar with metal detectors and juvenile detention than with winning football games. The narratives of Coach Bill Courtney and a handful of players he shapes and mentors are utterly compelling and emotionally wrenching. It’s a hard film to watch with dry eyes. (my review)

1) The Imposter (dir. Bart Layton): A thirteen-year-old boy in Texas disappears in 1994. Three years later, in 1997, he apparently shows up in Spain. His family goes to meet him and bring him back to the states, convinced that he is indeed their long-lost son (even though he looks vastly different). But he isn’t. This unsettling documentary depicts a stranger-than-fiction story of identity theft, breached security, and (most disturbingly) one family’s willful self-deception. It’s a brilliant mystery story packed with excellent tension and intriguing characters.

Honorable Mention: The Invisible War, Head Games, 30 for 30: There’s No Place Like Home

Looper

Movies like Looper give me hope for American cinema. Rian Johnson's film is a tight, stylish, deftly scripted crowd pleaser, a clever film that engages the audience viscerally, cognitively and emotionally. Its also a film that takes a schoolboy's delight in the magic and thrill of cinema. Rian Johnson is film nerd, fanboy, and B-movie genre postmodern in the vein of Tarantino, with a smidge less irony and a bit more Raymond Chandler noir. His films (Brick, The Brothers Bloom) are characterized by anachronistic pop culture pastiche and the merging of multiple genre tropes.

His latest, Looper, borrows from time travel, gangster and sci-fi genres. It feels like Back to the Future meets Blade Runner meets Road to Perdition, with a little bit of X-Men. There are gangs, hit men, hovercrafts, pocket watches, rural roadside diners, seedy underworld clubs, drugs, guns, and even some telekinesis.

Above all, though, Looper is a brain-twister. In the head-scratching spirit of Christopher Nolan's headier narrative mazes (Inception, Memento), Johnson's Looper takes the viewer on a loop-de-loop tour back and forth in time, on multiple levels and layers of reality as we observe the paradoxical meeting of a man (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and his future self (Bruce Willis), who he is being paid to kill. If it already sounds confusing, just wait. By the end of the film, my fiancee and I literally had to sit down at coffeeshop and draw diagrams of the plot and story lines to make sense of what we just saw. Which is awesome. I can't remember the last film that made me work so hard to piece together the narrative, which I think is a great thing. Maybe The Tree of Life was the last one.

I love films that play with time, experimenting with new ways of arranging things temporally. Tarkovsky said cinema is "sculpting in time," and I think he is right. Films can take us back and forth hours, days, years and (in the case of The Tree of Life) millennia, in the span of minutes of screen time. Cinema of all the arts, I believe, is most well-equipped to do interesting things with the story vs. plot, or, as the Russian formalists call it, the fabula vs. sjuzhet. Story/fabula refers to the actual happenings, in chronological order, of the story one is telling. Plot/sjuzhet refers to the what we see on screen, sometimes in fragmented or non-chronological order. When I was drawing diagrams for Looper (which, appropriately, ended up looking like loops), I was trying to reconcile the plot and story. Some may not enjoy doing the work to "figure out" a film in this way, but I do.

Looper is more than just a brain-teasing intellectual exercise, however. It has some excellent action sequences and great tension, and some pretty interesting thematic ideas about nature/nurture, violence, fate and parenting. I'd say it's the best time travel-related action film since at least Terminator 2, and certainly one of the most satisfying films of the year thus far.

Below: My diagram to make sense of the story/plot immediately after watching the film.

What We Know About Malick's To the Wonder

Just over a year after his magnificent Tree of Life debuted, Terrence Malick is about to unveil his sixth film, To the Wonder. For longtime Malick devotees like myself, it's hard to even believe this is true. Sadly, while the film will be seen at two different festivals in coming months (Venice and Toronto), it has yet to secure a distributor and theatrical release date, which means in all likelihood we won't be seeing it in 2012. 

Typical for a Malick film, very little is known about To The Wonder, and until critics see it and write/tweet their first impressions of it after the world premiere in Venice on Sept. 2, very little will be known.

What we do know about the film is this:

• It was filmed in 2010 in Oklahoma, around the Bartlesville and Pawhuska areas and briefly in Tulsa. Some reports suggest additional filming took place in Paris.
• The film is 112 minutes long -- Malick's first film under two hours in length since 1978!
• It's Malick's first film to be rated R, "for some sexuality/nudity."
• The film's cast includes Ben Affleck, Rachel McAdams, Javier Bardem, Rachel Weisz, Olga Kurylenko, Michael Sheen, Amanda Peet, Barry Pepper, and Malick's stepson Will Wallace.
• Many of Malick's longtime collaborators returned for To the Wonder, including Jack Fisk (production design), Emmanuel Lubezki (cinematography), Sarah Green (producer), Jacqueline West (costume design), and David Crank (art direction).
• Malick chose a young, up-and-coming composer from Austin to score the film: Hanan Townshend. Townshend previously contributed a small piece of music to The Tree of Life. 
• In an interview, cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki described To the Wonder as “abstract,” adding that the film is “less tied to theatrical conventions and more purely cinematic than any prior film Terry has made.”
• The film's official brief synopsis is as follows: "After visiting Mont Saint-Michel — once known in France as the Wonder — at the height of their love, Marina (Kurylenko) and Neil (Affleck) come to Oklahoma, where problems soon arise. Marina makes the acquaintance of a priest and fellow exile (Bardem), who is struggling with his vocation, while Neil renews his ties with a childhood friend, Jane (McAdams). An exploration of love in its many forms."
• From this description it appears that Malick is following his semi-autobiographical turn in The Tree of Life with another film based on his own life experiences. Malick, like Affleck's character of "Neil," had a romance with a woman in France in the 80s named Michèle Morette (like Kurylenko's character of "Marina"), married her in 1985 and then moved back to Texas with her. They divorced in 1998, however, and Malick reconnected with Alexandra "Ecky" Wallace, a former high school sweetheart (like McAdams' "Jane") from his days at St. Stephen's school in Austin, Texas.
• That the film was primarily shot in Bartlesville, Oklahoma supports the notion that this will be a very personal film for Malick. He grew up in Bartlesville and his father, Emil, still lives there. Bartlesville is also the town where the only (to my knowledge) known Q&A with Malick and an audience occurred, in 2005 when The New World came out. 
• The film title appears to be a nod to Mont Saint-Michel--a monastery in Normandy, France which has been called "The Wonder of the West."
• That the film includes a monastery and two characters who are priests/clergy (Bardem and Pepper) seems to suggest that Malick will continue the religious explorations and liturgical tones so beautifully rendered in The Tree of Life. 
• Venice Film Festival director Alberto Barbera has said that the film's "main recurring theme is the crisis... The economic crisis, which is having devastating social effects, but also the crisis of values, the political crisis.”
• The Toronto Film Festival website notes that To the Wonder "continues [Malick's] exploration of the vagaries of desire and regret that shape our time on this planet" and explores themes of spirituality and ethics, politics and faith. "As Malick liberates himself more and more from the restrictions of conventional narrative and pursues a more associative approach, he gets closer to eliciting pure, subconscious responses from his viewers."

I will add to this post as additional details and tidbits about the film are made known!

Batman, Dickens, and Resurrection

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

These are the iconic last words we hear from Sydney Carton before he is sacrificially guillotined in Charles Dickens' classic, A Tale of Two Cities—a book which ends up being a rather important inspiration for Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight Rises. [Read no further if you haven't seen the film!] The Carton quote is repeated in Rises near the end, as are other lines that reference sections of Carton’s last monologue (“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy...”).

The Tale of Two Cities parallels don’t stop there, however. The whole film seems infused with the social upheaval, revolutionary unsettledness, and literary elegance of Dickens’ novel, as well as its themes of death, resurrection, and the desire to rebuild (or reboot, perhaps) from amidst destruction and ashes.

There is an uneasy peace at the opening of Rises. One could say (to quote the famous opening line of Tale) that it was “the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Crime is low, Batman is unnecessary, and the wealthy galas go on at Wayne Manor. But as the aristocrats enjoy their comfort, the growing “other half” (or “99%” if you want to go with the Occupy language) is increasingly discontented. An army grows underground—led by a coalition of terrorists (Bane), corrupt billionaires, and involving everyday criminals and malcontents (like the “adaptable” Catwoman). As Selina Kyle (Catwoman) tells Bruce Wayne: “A storm is coming, Mr. Wayne. You and your friends better batten down the hatches. Because when it hits, you’re all going to wonder how you thought you could live so large, and leave so little for the rest of us.”

This line has been read by some to be the film’s most resonant “Occupy” line, reflecting the growing tension and disparity between the haves and have-nots. And indeed it does reflect that. But the “storm” of class warfare is also an allusion to the French Revolution, the setting of Tale and perhaps western civilization’s most harrowing collision of have and have-nots. The third section of Tale, after all, is called “The Track of a Storm.” It’s a testament to the savvy of Christopher and Jonathan Nolan (the film’s screenwriters, who wrote the script for Rises years before “Occupy” movement became a thing) that they identified Dickens' Tale as a timeless and yet timely inspiration for the epic conclusion of their trilogy, which has always been as much about classic hero myths as about the specific context (terrorism, media, corporate greed, worrisome surveillance trends, etc.) of our unsettled day-and-age.

The Nolans weave references to Tale into their film in various ways. Sequences of sentencing “hearings” at populist tribunals (“exile or execution”) and images of “1%” aristocrats being dragged out of their posh mansions by the mob are clearly nods to the revolutionary tribunals and general chaos of the French Revolution’s “Reign of Terror.” A final "war" scene between the cops and occupiers evokes 18th century battle tactics. The film even gives a nod (perhaps unintended) to the French Revolution by casting a French actress (Marion Cotillard) as one of the most significant new characters.

But perhaps the most important theme from Tale that informs Rises is the concept of rebirth or resurrection. [Major spoilers ahead!] We see this even in the film’s title: The Dark Knight Rises. Everything in the film speaks to the belief or desire for rebirth. Just as the French revolutionaries sought to totally destroy the old regime and rebuild a new society, so too do the villains in Rises seek the destruction of Gotham and the birth of a new order. Catwoman seeks a reboot of her own life—where her past is erased and her future is a chance to make something better (and less criminal?) of herself. The very idea of cats and Catwoman—nine lives—implies second (and third and fourth, etc.) chances. Joseph Gordon-Levitt's John Blake also experiences something of a rebirth in his identity and purpose—though I will say absolutely no more about that ;)

And then there’s Batman himself, whose arc in the film is a series of “deaths” and “rebirths,” from his start as an out-of-commission recluse to his flashy return as Batman, to his broken-back defeat by Bane and subsequent imprisonment in the prison “pit,” to his rise out of the darkness and defeat of evil, to his final act of sacrifice and, well, that last scene.

As dark as the film is, it presents such a faith in resurrection. The light above the pit speaks to the hope which animates one’s purpose even in the midst of despair.  In contrast to Bane, who sees hope as a liability that only adds to one's despair, John Blake and Batman see it as the only thing that can answer fear and evil. When Blake is caring after the orphans and it looks as though Gotham will be soon destroyed by the bomb, he insists on keeping the boys' spirits up, unwilling to let them die thinking there is no hope.

Without hope—without the possibility for redemption and renewal—what would keep any of us going? Hope is what helps any of us deal with the ugly realities of day-to-day life. It's what we need to move through the horrors and traumas of planes going into buildings, fires destroying our livelihoods, babies dying in the womb, deranged killers opening fire on crowds of moviegoers.

Life is such a series of frights, disappointments, failures, imprisonments (physically, emotionally, spiritually). It’d be unlivable without that hope of beginning again, that hope of resurrection and renewal, that Phoenix-like desire to rise out of the shackled prison pit our own fear, despair and brokenness.

The impulse toward resurrection is grand motif of human existence: it's the arc of all creation and everyone within it, groaning and aching for the dawn of better days, when all is put to rights and evil is subdued. The hope of resurrection is the thing Sydney Carton takes refuge in before his own death in A Tale of Two Cities, as he rests in the truth of John 11:25-26:

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die."

That's the hope we have. He rose, and in Him we can all rise. The Dark Knight Rises stirs us so because it taps into that hope, as does Dickens (more directly, perhaps) in A Tale of Two Cities. It's a hope our world needs.

Beasts of the Southern Wild

Beasts of the Southern Wild was the hit of Sundance 2012, and so it was with great anticipation that I attended a press screening of it a few months back. I'd heard it compared to the Southern Gothic abstractions of pre-sellout David Gordon Green, or even the dreamy lyricism of Terrence Malick. Perhaps my expectations were too high, however, because Beasts did not connect with me at all.

I'll say this for the film: it's definitely unique; certainly visionary. Director Benh Zeitlin's debut is set in a magic-realist environment somewhere between post-Katrina New Orleans and Where the Wild Things Are, and it features a memorable central character in Hushpuppy (Quvenzhané Wallis), a 6-year-old girl trying to survive some sort of melting icecaps apocalypse in a town called Bathtub, with her volatile father Wink (Dwight Henry).

But while Beasts succeeds at immersing the audience in a curious, evocative American world--a kind of mishmash between the rundown Americana of Green's George Washington, the river adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and (cringe) Kevin Costner's Water World--the film fails to tie its abundance of motifs, allusions, and themes together in a coherent, compelling story.

There are too many ideas going on in this film, and most of them feel dropped in haphazardly. There are notions of global warming hinted at, references to levees and the race/class frictions churned up by Katrina, jabs at bureaucracy and welfare, and all manner of unintelligible voiceover philosophizing (again, hat tip Malick and D.G. Green) like “When all goes quiet behind my eyes, I see everything that made me flying around in invisible pieces.” Then there are the “we're all just beasts!” themes that riff on Darwin and make commentary on the survival instincts which bind man and animal. Does any of it make sense? Is it meant to? Probably not.

Adding to the confusion is the fact that the film's sense of reality is intentionally ambiguous: We know the narrative is in some sense from Hushpuppy's point of view, but it's unclear whether some or all of it is in her imagination. Which may very well be the point. But regardless, it comes across more as a frustrating mess than a "just enjoy the ride" impressionistic tone poem (which I think it aspires to be).

I loved the world of this film, and the photography and (sometimes) the music. The first ten minutes or so are really superb. And I'll be darned if Hushpuppy isn't the most adorably precocious, pint-sized heroine since Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine.

But as the film goes on it feels more and more contrived, with emotional highs and lows that the film doesn't earn and audiences shouldn't be expected to be moved by. In the end, the film's utopian, dream-like celebration of Southern culture and a sort of "it takes a village" communitarianism rings somewhat false. Sure, it may be Zeitlin's goal to offer audiences a hopeful, idealistic vision in the midset of cynical times; but hopeful visions only work if they feel authentic. In the case of Beasts, I agree with Slate critic Dana Stevens that "Zeitlin’s adoring gaze on the Bathtubbers’ chaotic-yet-joyous way of life smacks of anthropological voyeurism: Rousseau’s 'noble savage' nonsense all over again, but with crawdads and zydeco."

Fans of the film may disagree and say I'm reading too much into Beasts--that it's a film not to be understood but to be experienced. And indeed, I suspect that Zeitlin had an "experience" film in mind here. But I've seen (and loved) far more abstract "experience" films about childhood (George Washington, Paranoid Park, Ratcatcher, to name a few) than this, and they worked for me. I think that's because the most successful "experience" films have as much restraint as they have experimental vision. They don't try to overstuff the film with ideas, but rather focus on perfecting the tone and letting beautiful sequences and aesthetic brushstrokes lead the way in the creation of a mood.

The problem with Beasts is that it raises too many distracting questions in the viewer's mind to allow them to be fully present in the experience. The aesthetics are great but not great enough to pull us out of our cognitive impulses to understand what is happening and why. And ultimately, the world is too foreign and whimsical to relate to anyway. Unless you surved Katrina in the Lower Ninth Ward by living in a treehouse trailer. But even then I bet Beasts feels forced.

Best Films of the First Half

Another year half-way through, another pause to reflect on the best films of the first half. Last year by this time, The Tree of Life topped my list, followed by Meek's Cutoff. Below are my picks for the five best films I've seen in theaters in the first six months of 2012:

1) The Kid With a Bike: The latest from Belgian brother filmmakers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne is perhaps their most masterful yet. No other film this year affected me as much as this, a deeply humane portrait about a father, his son, a bike, and a search. Riffing on Vittorio De Sica's Italian neo-realist masterpiece, Bicycle Thieves, the Dardennes offer up a characteristically nuanced, minimalist, jarring look inside a world both foreign and intensely familiar. The little bursts of Beethoven are just icing on the cake. (my review)

2) Moonrise Kingdom: Wes Anderson's beautiful film is one of the best films about childhood I've ever seen. It captures--in characteristically colorful, deadpan, boxed-in form--the magical spaces in which children dwell: playing, exploring, flirting with danger and adulthood, taking in the world with wonder and curiosity. More than just a stylistic exercise (Anderson's films can sometimes fall in this trap), Moonrise is a somber, poetic "coming of age" story with profound things to observe about how children experience the world. (my review)

3) The Grey: I didn't expect much more from Joe Carnahan's film than a  typical “angry Liam Neeson” action flick. But man is it more than that. It's a tough-as-nails film; gritty and masculine to the core. And yet it's also deeply poetic, existential and surprisingly emotionally jarring. Especially in the last 30 minutes of so, The Grey really punches you in the gut. (my review)

4) Bernie: Richard Linklater's true crime tragicomedy is one of the year's most pleasant surprises. Not only does it feature a remarkable performance from Jack Black as the title character (by far Black's best acting to date), but it also tackles pretty weighty questions about morality and justice. Linklater's affection for the particularities of small-town Texas (his home state) also lends Bernie a special personality that makes it stand out as a truly fresh and original, rather uncategorizable film.

5) Undefeated: Essentially a documentary version of the latter seasons of Friday Night Lights,  this Oscar-nominated film follows the 2009 football season of Manassas High School in North Memphis, a school more familiar with metal detectors and juvenile detention than with winning football games. The narratives of Coach Bill Courtney and a handful of players he shapes and mentors   are utterly compelling and emotionally wrenching. It's a hard film to watch with dry eyes. (my review)

Honorable Mention: Damsels in Distress, Prometheus, The Avengers, Haywire, Cabin in the Woods

Prometheus

The Avengers was a great, entertaining summer film, and yet I'm pretty sure I stopped thinking about it before I even pulled out of the parking lot of the movie theater. Ridley Scott's Prometheus is also great entertainment, and yet two days after seeing it I have yet to stop thinking about it. This is not to say that the latter is smarter than the former. Both of these films are smart as well as entertaining. But Prometheus actually wrestles with interesting questions and asks the audience to wrestle with them as well, which I almost always prefer to the "that was fun!" one-off popcorn movie.

Prometheus has a lot going on. A lot of big-picture, metaphysical questions about  existence, creation, evolution, etc. Questions come fast in furious in the film, far more than answers do. It's a film that--like any given Lost episode--allows the audience to merely see one part of what is obviously a much bigger reality (Lost's Damon Lindelof wrote Prometheus). I won't speculate here about what lies beyond the limited field of view of this film (I'm not a fanboy), but I do have some  scattered thoughts on what we do see in Prometheus, and I'll share some of them below (SPOILERS ahead!).

I think the film can be read as a dark, secularist's perversion of the Christian narrative--particularly the theology of Incarnation. Images of Christmas and Incarnation abound in the film, albeit with a horrific twist. The Christmas tree aboard the ship tips us off to this motif. The events of the film unfold (not coincidentally) during Christmas. But the most visceral nod to Incarnation is the actual literal entrance of the alien species into the body of the film's heroine, Dr. Shaw (Noomi Rapace).

Christians celebrate Christmas as the moment that the Creator took up residence within his creation, humbling himself to the place of a tiny fetus within Mary's womb. In Prometheus, we are led to believe that the creatures the humans encounter are in some sense their own Creator Gods ("Engineers"), and yet when one of their biological creations sprouts inside Dr. Shaw's womb, the results are far less "Emmanuel" than they are "Get this monster out of me!"

In Prometheus, Scott's vision of the relationship between Creator and created is one of spite and hostility. In the Christian narrative, God is a benevolent creator who takes on the form of his creation so he can rescue and redeem those he created in his image. In Prometheus, the "gods" also seem to have created man in their image, and yet they despise humanity and want to destroy it. Incarnation for the purposes of redemption is re-imagined as infection for the purposes of eradication.

The hubris of the humans in the film is that they assume that once contact is made with the "Engineers," it will be a pleasant experience--that Creator and created will be reunited in a lovely moment of discovery and redemption. But of course, it doesn't turn out that way.

Meanwhile, the humans are themselves "engineers/creators," having spawned robot creators like "David" (the phenomenal Michael Fassbender) in their own image. But the humans resent David because he is fundamentally different than them: lesser, devoid of soul. Why should they expect that those who engineered humanity would feel any differently toward their "lesser" offspring? Indeed, Scott's vision of the "Creator" perspective on creation is one of resentment, disgust and hostility rather than sacrificial love. Humans are misguided, pride-driven fools if they expect to be welcomed with open arms by the vastly superior Engineers whocreated them, Scott seems to suggest.

Certainly Scott is correct to chastise the pride of man and his penchant toward self-destructive hubris; and he's also right to paint in more favorable light the characters who shun the need "to know" and end up saving mankind when they sacrifice their lives to prevent the alien ship from leaving for earth.

Yet Scott also seems to critique the very notion of curiosity and discovery--man's wiring to inquire about his origins and his Creator. Is it science Scott is critiquing? Religion? Both seem to drive the Prometheus and its crew in their ill-fated expedition.  If the film has a bone to pick with Christianity, it has at least as much of a beef with science and industry--the innovations of mankind which are simultaneously his most crowning glory and most explosive source of destruction. Indeed, Prometheus is on one hand a showcase for the impressive creativity and reach of mankind (the technology, the ship, the weapons, the robots are given more than just passing screentime). But on the other hand, the film's quick "in over their heads" descent into hell demonstrates the humility of mankind against the vast mysteries of the universe that remain outside our reach.     The film seems to go outside of its way to hammer home the point that--in juxtaposition to other alien species and unexplained phenomena--earthlings are not especially savvy, adaptive or impressive.

Scott may well intend all of this to add up to a cynical view of humanity, religion, and our hapless tendency to destroy that which we create. And yet something about the film also evokes--perhaps inadvertently--a sense of wonder and worship. What does lie beyond? The unapologetic open-endedness of the film's inquiries puts man in his place and yet affirms the validity of our skyward-gaping curiosity. The film may slap humanity on the wrist for its reckless hubris, yet ultimately it seems to suggest that there is something valuable to discover in our search for answers. And though many may die trying, it might still be worth the pursuit.

Memorial Play

A few hours before I watched Wes Anderson's new film, Moonrise Kingdom, I was watching the undergraduate commencement ceremony at Biola University. It made me nostalgic to see 670 seniors receive their diplomas and officially conclude a long chapter in their journeys. I remember being there myself, seven years ago at Wheaton College, "commencing" a pivotal new chapter as my 22 years of being a kid gave way to the new adventure of independent adulthood. What a memorable moment, graduation day—abuzz as it was with the teetering uncertainty of the liminal spaces which were its backdrop: between youth, inexperience and protection on one hand and adulthood, maturity and risk on the other. Everything then was new, curious, possible. The world was there to be explored; adulthood to be experimented with.

Moonrise Kingdom dwells in a similar liminal space: between the innocence, wonder and "firsts" of childhood on one hand and the danger, letdown, and regrets of adulthood on the other. In the same way that Saturday's commencement reminded me of the coming-of-age threshold of "student" life giving way to a truly independent "working adult" life, Moonrise evoked nostalgia for another transition moment: when the pleasant domesticated adventures of childhood began to mix with the restlessness and reckless passions of adolescence.

Among the many merits of Moonrise is the uncanny way it captures the way that children understand reality: as a parade of wonders, thrills, discoveries, not unlike the adventure novels they read. The film's central pair—Sam and Suzy—forge a path together that flirts with adulthood (french kissing, setting up a camp together, "getting married" and setting off on their own), but they still make time to revel in the wonders of the world as curious children: dancing on the beach to the music of a portable record player, drawing portraits of each other, creating a camp in an imaginary inlet they call "Moonrise Kingdom."

Moonrise excels at representing the intersection of "play," "game" and "real life," and the manner in which they sometimes all blur together. The Boy Scouts motif ("Khaki Scouts," as they're called in the film) exemplifies this. Scouting is a an activity of domesticated danger and simulated adulthood, where young men can play at being adults—warriors, indians, explorers, doctors, etc.—while also having fantastical adventures. As exemplified in the film, scouting is about learning to be mature and "adult" without having to give up one's sense of whimsy and boyish bravado.

The Noah's Ark motif also showcases the tension between "play" and "reality." The film's early scene of the youth musical presentation of Benjamin Britten's “Noye's Fludde," in which Suzy plays a "raven," is then juxtaposed with a real life flood near the end of the film. The former is a "safe" experience of the reality of the latter, and perhaps a preparation for it. Like the Boy Scouts, "play" is here both a whimsical experience of dress-up simulation but also something very grounded in and linked to reality.

In 1938, Dutch anthropologist Johann Huizinga defined play as "a free activity standing quite consciously outside 'ordinary' life as being 'not serious,' but at the same time absorbing the player intensely and utterly." Pioneering computer game designer Chris Crawford adds that playing games provides "the psychological experiences of conflict or danger while excluding their physical realizations. In short, a game is a safe way to experience reality."

The "playing" of childhood—as beautifully portrayed in Moonrise—is thus a sort of "bracketed" reality, a "safe" experience in between parentheses that nevertheless exists within and is informed by the larger narrative of a very real and dangerous world. From the opening sequence of Moonrise we see the motif of childhood and "game-playing." Inside a comfortable house—"Summer's End," a name itself evoking childhood play—we see children playing games, listening to a recording of Benjamin Britten's Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, safe and comfortable while a storm rages outside.

The "Wes Anderson aesthetic" of symmetrical, boxed-in mise-en-scène also works to underscore the "parentheses" subreality that is childhood. Everything in this world is in a nice, tidy box: framed as if on a stage, or in a doll house, or a scene of toys a child might arrange in a particular manner. It's a surreal, bracketed-off existence, full of adventure and "danger" that is very contained, as if in a Nancy Drew novel. In childhood as well as adulthood, play and games are about artificial conflict; about that protected place where we can experience adrenaline rushing, the overcoming of conflict and the solving of problems without any real, imminent dangers or threats. Sam and Suzy's camping adventure is about "playing at" survival in the wilderness, like the Chickshaw Indians had to do. Sam suggests at one point that if they get thirsty they should suck on pebbles to generate more saliva; but then he admits that he brought plenty of water, so the pebbles won't be necessary. In any case, he's prepared—like a true Boy Scout.

In many ways college—my experience of it, at least—was like Moonrise Kingdom: a "bracketed-off" experience of surreal life, in which we played, and learned, and became prepared for the adulthood to come. It was a safe place—a "bubble" of protected learning, in a way—though not entirely innocent. We were free to fail, to be broken, to learn real-life lessons about heartbreak and suffering, just as Sam and Suzy are in Moonrise. But above all it was a time of exploration, of discovering oneself and the world; seeing it through new lenses (like Suzy and her ubiquitous binoculars), new books, new compadres (like Sam's Scout buddies) with new teachers and guides (like Edward Norton and Bruce Willis are for Sam).

Moonrise is an elegiac memorial for those moments of youth in which we were "young and easy under the apple boughs... green and carefree... Golden in the mercy of his means," to quote Dylan Thomas' "Fern Hill." For me, it's also a call for us to recover the sense of wonder that characterized those days—those Peter Pan days when we lived for fictional adventures, became transfixed by the breakdown of instruments in an orchestra, and paused on our merry way to marvel at the curiosity of a drinking fountain. Those days weren't actually a "subreality" at all, but in fact as real as what we call "real life" in adulthood. Or more real.

It's a call for us to regain a vital imagination, in which dreaming and creation infuse us again, and not just as part of a nostalgic longing for our pre-utilitarian innocence. Imagination is key to thriving in this world.

I think part of the sadness and elegiac quality of something like commencement is that we remember what it was like to be young and free, "Golden in the mercy of his means," with the world as our oyster. We lament that we've lost the sense of adventure, bravery, and risk that electrified those long lost days. And yet the truth is we need not abandon such things. We should be lifelong learners, career explorers, always re-imagining the world and discovering its wonders anew.

We may no longer live in the "lamb white days" of youth, or in the green days of the undergraduate college "bubble," but we still exist in a world of inexhaustible wonders—a world with "the sun that is young once only" and "the moon that is always rising."

"Fern Hill," Dylan Thomas

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
     In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be
     Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
     In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
     And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
     And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
     Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
     And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
     Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
     In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
     My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
     Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
     In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
     I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

The Divine Guide in Terrence Malick’s "Tree of Life"

“And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’” (Revelation 21:2-4)

“...also, on either side of the river, the tree of life.” (Revelation 22:2)

It’s been a year since The Tree of Life won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival and then opened in theaters. I wrote a review when the film came out but have since had the luxury of many repeat viewings and lots of conversations about it. There are numerous aspects of the film that have grown in interest for me as I’ve spent more time with it. Among other things, my belief that the film is fundamentally a deeply Christian, liturgical work has only increased.

Some people I talk to liken the film to a sacred masterwork on the level of Handel. Even critics like Roger Ebert see the film in this religious light. Ebert—who recently added Life to his all time top 10 list—called the film “a prayer.” And even if Life as a whole cannot be read as a prayer, certainly prayer is a central motif. The prayer candle is an image that connects past and present in the film, for example. And Jack (portrayed at times by Sean Penn and Hunter McCracken) is constantly heard in voiceover talking to what we assume to be God: “Brother; Mother: it was they that led me to your door.” “When did you first touch my heart?” “Where were you? You let a boy die.” “How did you come to me? In what shape? In what disguise?”

So also is Jack’s mother, Mrs O’Brien (Jessica Chastain): “Lord, why?” “Where were you?” “Who are we to you?” “Answer me.”

The film begins with Job 38:4 (“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?") and ends with 15 minutes of Berlioz’ “Requiem,” the “Agnus Dei” section: Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, grant them everlasting rest. / Thou, O God, art praised in Zion and unto Thee shall the vow be performed in Jerusalem. … Grant the dead eternal rest, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine on them, with Thy saints for ever, Lord, because Thou art merciful. Amen.

These are the words (translated from Latin) that we hear a choir sing over the film’s final minutes, as images of catharsis and renewal fill the screen: reunions, resurrections, rising women in wedding dresses, a defeated jester’s mask, sunsets, sunflowers, the apparent destruction of earth, and hands lifted in unison, upward to the heavens.

Among the many questions prompted by a close viewing of this finale sequence—and indeed, the whole film—is the identity and meaning of the mystery woman seen with Jessica Chastain’s older and younger self in the “Amen” sequence. She shows up in part (usually just her hands) and in full on a number of occasions throughout the film--especially at the beginning of Jack’s life and in the film’s final fifteen minutes.

How are we to interpret this figure? I think it’s clear that she’s not meant to be taken as a literal human character in the story; she only appears in the dreamier sequences, has no lines and is never seen for longer than a few seconds at a time. We barely glimpse her face at all (until the “Amen” sequence). Who is she?

One clue can be found in the credits, where she’s listed as “Guide,” portrayed by an actress by the name of Jessica Fuselier (side note: there’s absolutely nothing on the Internet about anyone named “Jessica Fuselier,” which adds to the “Oh, so Malick” mystery).

It’s my contention that this “Guide”—this female figure, always clad in light colored dress, always “around” and a figure of comfort and care—is intended by Malick to be a sort of embodied symbol of the Holy Spirit. I could be totally wrong, and knowing Malick it’s probably nothing as direct as that, but given the film’s overtly Christian ambience I think it’s a fair reading. Here’s my reasoning.

I. “When did you first touch my heart?”

“Guide” is one of the functional roles of the Holy Spirit as seen in Scripture. It is the Holy Spirit that leads Christ into the wilderness (Luke 4:1), and Romans 8:14 tells us that “those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God.”

In the film, the “Guide” leads Sean Penn’s character through the wilderness, ultimately through a “gate” signaling some sort of spiritual breakthrough or coming to faith. The Guide also leads little children through a gate in a forest, along a riverbed, gently signaling for them to follow her. This sequence--set to the music of Respighi’s “Suite No. 3”--begins with Jack’s voiceover: “You spoke to me through her; you spoke to me from the sky, the trees. Before I knew I loved you--believed in you” (as we see a dove-like bird flying in a sun-filled sky, and then trees, and then more skies). “When did you first touch my heart?”

From there we see a montage of Jack’s parents (Jessica Chastain and Brad Pitt) falling in love and his mother giving birth to him. Interspersed are oblique images of the Guide--clad in a white gown--pointing the way through a gate, then whispering something to a child (toddler Jack) whilst holding a candle, showing the child a tiny little book, guiding a group of children through a forest, followed by a shot of toddler Jack swimming through a door of an underwater house and then a shot of a woman in a wedding dress swimming upwards in a similar fashion (a shot repeated in the final moments of the film). This sequence is a lot to digest, to say the least. But the impression we get in terms of the Guide is that she is a benevolent force that, even from the moment of birth, is there to guide Jack and lead him in the way of light and truth.

The Holy Spirit, we are told in John 16:13, “will guide you into all the truth” and will “declare to you the things that are to come.” The “Helper, the Holy Spirit,” says Jesus in John 14:26, “will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”

The Holy Spirit--the third person of the Holy Trinity--is thus identified as an advocate, a helper, a guide toward the truth (John 15:26). But it also serves as comforter and interceder, helping us in our weakness, “for we do not know what to pray for as we ought... the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God” (Romans 8:26-27). We see this aspect of the Spirit in Life in a brief shot of a woman’s hand hovering over Jack’s head and chest (0:57:44) as in voiceover we hear him pray: “Help me not to sass my dad, help me not to get dogs in fights, help me be thankful for everything I’ve got, help me not to tell lies.” Later we see those same hands gently giving Jack a drink from what looks like a communion cup and sprinkling water on his forehead as if in baptism (1:12:55), evoking another biblical association of the Holy Spirit (Mark 1:8).

Another scriptural motif pertaining to the Holy Spirit is that of resurrecting power, as seen in Romans 8:10-11: “But if Christ is in you, then even though your body is subject to death because of sin, the Spirit give life because of righteousness. And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies because of his Spirit who lives in you.” We see images of this with the Guide in the film’s climactic Requiem scene--as she is seen extending her hand to what looks like someone in a grave, who appears to have risen from the dead (2:05:23). Moments later, we see a bride in a wedding dress lying down as if asleep, and then standing upright, resurrected and alive (2:05:40).

A few seconds later, the Guide is depicted as a being to be worshipped: On the beach, older Jack (Penn) bows at her feet (2:06:20). We then see her embrace and cradle the head of the boy with burn scars on his head (2:06:35). The last time we see her is in the “Amen” finale to the Requiem prayer, where we see her surrounding Mrs. O’Brien (Chastain) in a state of sun-bathed harmony and peace, helping her lift up her hands as if in praise.

Revelation 22 should be a guiding text in our interpretation of Life’s eschatological climax, if only because it depicts the restored Eden and its “tree of life” (vs. 2). Verse 17 seems particularly interesting if read with the images of the “Amen” sequence in mind. The verse reads: “The Spirit and the Bride say, ‘Come!’” It’s a call directed to Christ--the bridegroom--to return to earth and reign in the New Jerusalem with his people. Given the “bridal” imagery that we see in cryptic snippets throughout the film (appearing to be Jessica Chastain), perhaps in that final “Amen” sequence she represents the “Bride” of verse 17 and the Guide represents the Spirit. Certainly the “bride” imagery has eschatological connotations, as does the Spirit’s resurrecting the dead, both of which we see in Life’s final moments.

II. “Always you were calling me.”

Even though the total screen time of the Guide in Life is only a few minutes, the presence of the Holy Spirit if felt throughout--the film’s opening and closing with the mysterious, God-like wispy flame should suggest as much.

One of the functions of the Holy Spirit in Scripture is to convict the unbeliever about sin (John 16:7-8) and catalyze the process of renewing faith (Titus 3:5). We see this in the arc of Jack--who comes to a convicted place about his sin and recognizes that God was behind it. Following the episode where he shoots his brother’s finger with a BB gun and then asks him for forgiveness, Jack wonders--as the camera pulls upwards in a God-like point of view--“What was it that you showed me? I didn’t know how to name you then. But I see it was you. Always you were calling me.”

The Holy Spirit also serves to help us in our battle with sin (“the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, to keep you from doing the things you want to do,” Gal 5:17), which we see in Jack’s Romans 7-esque inner turmoil about his own nature (“What I want to do I can’t do. I do what I hate”). It is that humbled conviction that leads Jack in the next scene to seek reconciliation with the brother he has wronged.

We see a similar thing happen to Jack’s father a few scenes later, as he too recognizes the faults of his nature: “I wanted to be loved because I’m great, a big man. I’m nothing. Look: the glory around us, the trees, the birds. I lived in shame. I dishonored it all and didn’t notice the glory. A foolish man.”

A close listen to this sequence will reveal that the quiet piano score we hear is actually a melodic quotation of the Respighi excerpt from the “When did you first touch my heart?” sequence of Jack’s birth and the Guide leading the children. We should take note of the aural parallel here between that early sequence (Edenic in its beauty and innocence) and this sequence (both Jack and his father recognizing their flawed nature--“I’m as bad as you are”--and accepting the way of grace). No music is arbitrarily chosen in a Malick film, and this Respighi melody seems to embody the theme of grace in the film. The way of “nature,” on the other hand, is represented in the mournful melodies of Preisner’s “Lacrimosa,” which we hear during the universe creation sequence (as Mrs. O’Brien asks God the “Why?” questions of suffering) and then, in subtler piano quotation, during Jack’s “I do what I hate” sequence of sin and guilt.

The triumph of grace over the despair of nature in the film doesn’t happen by accident. As we see through a close read, the Guide is present throughout the film--embodied but also implicit and unseen--helping these characters in their spiritual journeys and guiding them through grief, sin, and the constant battle with their errant impulses and prideful nature.

Considered in the broader context of the film, the nearness and presence of a benevolent guiding force represents the immanence against which the “where are you?” perceptions of a distant God are juxtaposed. The film’s 20 minute creation sequence--sandwiched as it is between one Texas family’s intimate pains on one hand (a son’s death) and joys on the other (a son’s birth)--establishes the bigness of the universe and the smallness of man. It’s a massive, cold, ruthless universe, magnificent and beautiful in its ambivalence toward the individual life (one dinosaur spares another, but in the next scene nature--or God?--destroys them all by hurling an asteroid to earth). And yet the pastoral adventures of Jack’s youth and spiritual epiphany that follows do not bear out this dire assessment.

Rather, Jack’s life is guided by God at every turn--even if he doesn’t recognize it.

In some ways the Guide can help us make sense of the film’s real understanding of “the way of nature” and “the way of grace.” Nature assumes that we are all on our own--that we are small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, wandering purposeless (Sean Penn in a desert, perhaps) in a hostile creation. That “way” is self-interested and, given the eventuality of mortality, ultimately aimless. We are all going to suffer the same extinction as the dinosaurs, so what is our telos? Lacrimosa dies illa indeed.

Grace, however, inserts a telos into the story by offering up an alternate “way” that rebuffs self interest (“grace doesn’t try to please itself”) and directs our attention to the Divine Other from which hope and purpose derives. The “Guide” is the helper, the voice of conviction, the spiritual awakening helping us to desire the way of grace--which is the way of humility, of relinquishing our grasp on our own natural way, of, finally, giving up our insistent hold on that which we believe to be our rightful property or path.

“I give him to you,” says Mrs. O’Brien in the film’s final line. “I give you my son.”

She’s discovered the way of grace.

“I’m nothing,” says Mr. O’Brien.

He’s discovered it too.

Jack also sees that he’s been guided all the time (“I see it was you; always you were calling me”), that he’s been watched over and led to faith by a divine Guide, out of the dry desert of sin, stubbornness and pride and into the lush, Edenic landscape of oceans, waterfalls and the river of life.

III. “The great river that never runs dry.”

This is not a new idea for Malick. His other films have explored it too--this notion of giving up one’s insistent, natural urge to “please oneself” and humbly accepting a path that--though directed by Another--ultimately leads to a place more pristine and satisfying than we could have found for ourselves. It’s the arc of Pocahontas in The New World: her Eden is destroyed by the depravity of man and yet cannot be regained on her own merits; she must relinquish control and trust the Divine direction (“Mother,” to whom she prays), even if it isn’t what she’d imagined for her life (e.g. John Rolfe instead of John Smith).

Likewise for Private Witt in The Thin Red Line: his Paradise is lost early in the film, and his attempts to regain it midway through only serve to reinforce how grave is the “war in the heart of nature” and how deeply red is the stain of sin. He too opts for the way of grace, in faith moving forward in the unknowable fog, ready and willing to go wherever he is guided (even unto death).

In The Tree of Life, Jack too finds his Paradise/innocence lost (“How do I get back where they are?”), and wrestles with his inability to overcome the misguided desires of his nature (nearly quoting Romans 7:15: “I do what I hate...”). Jack’s lament for innocence lost and reflections on his own depravity echo the inner monologues of The Thin Red Line: “This great evil: where's it come from? … Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of life and light. Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known.”

For Jack and for Witt--and for any of us--one of the problems of evil is that we so rarely see it as our problem. We must see that the fallenness of nature touches us all, and that the way of grace is likewise available to all as a redemptive alternative. It’s only when we humble ourselves and recognize the extent of our brokenness that we can begin to heal.

We must loosen our grip, cede our control and broaden our horizons to include the possibility that we were not made for our own glory, but for Another’s. Look at the beauty around us--look at the wonder! Malick’s films beckon us to pay closer attention to the majesty and complexity of creation (in the ground, in the sky, in our neighbor) than we do ourselves.

In Life, Malick offers us a liberating vision of a way of living that draws us out of our own “my road or the high road!” autonomy and into a path of humility in which we are subject to a Director other than our self--a Director whose intentions for us may include loss, suffering, and challenges we’d never choose. It’s a subversive vision in a culture where individual happiness is the chief goal and the means to that end is each individual’s assertion of their absolute right to freedom of choice, freedom of identity, freedom to determine one’s path independently of any other.

Malick’s early films--Badlands (1972) and Days of Heaven (1978)--centered upon iconic, lone ranger figures of American solidarity, blazing their trails westward and subject to no one but themselves. Martin Sheen’s James Dean-esque outlaw, Kit, in Badlands is unapologetic in his refusal to have his course set by anything other than his own (sometimes homicidal) whims and slapdash fancies. Richard Gere’s Bill in Days of Heaven has more of a conscience than Kit but is no less resistant to having his absolute autonomy compromised. Neither Kit nor Bill really know what they want, and their paths are resultantly schizophrenic and (literally) all over the map. Bill hops on a train to Texas wheatfields one minute and flies off with a circus act the next. Kit--his equally aimless girlfriend Holly (Sissy Spacek) in tow--is on the open road to nowhere, wandering aimlessly in a barren western landscape not unlike the desert of Sean Penn’s wanderings in Life. In the end, Kit and Bill meet lonely, sad ends--their insistent, prideful autonomy having failed to locate whatever specter of Eden plagued their restless hearts.

With Malick’s later films--The Thin Red Line (1998), The New World (2005), and now The Tree of Life (2011)--however, the autonomous individual protagonist becomes much more reliant on others. In Line, Witt can still be read as a Thoreau-esque individualist, a canoeing wanderer searching for truth on his own--and yet he’s very much aware of and attentive to the Other, a divine “spark” he feels in the air and sees in the eyes of others. It’s not just about him; he’s willing to be shown things by others, by God, by the glory around him (“all things shining...”). In World, Pocahontas shares Witt’s hyper-observational awe and humble curiosity about the world around her. She’s wide-eyed and enraptured by the beauty around her--even when it’s harsh and alien (the Jamestown colony, her trip to England). Even when she’s wronged, when her people are driven out of their lands, she reacts with humility. Like a tree whose branch breaks off but continues to grow, she adapts and moves on in faith.

The New World opens with a voiceover prologue from Pocahontas in which she says, “Come, Spirit--help us sing the story of our land. You are our mother... we rise from out of the soul of you.” These lines are accompanied by Edenic images of a river--reflecting the sky, the trees, the clouds--and then an image of Pocahontas on the beach, lifting up her hands to the heavens as if in praise (quite reminiscent, in fact, of Jessica Chastain’s “Amen” motions of praise at the end of Life). Throughout the film Pocahontas wonders about the presence of “Mother”--“Where do you live? In the sky? The clouds? The sea? Give me a sign”--in a manner not dissimilar from Chastain’s ponderings near the beginning of Life. Pocahontas prays to Mother: “How should I seek you? Show me your face. You, the great river that never runs dry.” (Side note: the actress who plays Mother in World--Irene Bedard--was the voice Pocahontas in Disney’s animated version, and also has a 5-second cameo in Life, where she’s credited as “Messenger.” See 0:17:32 in Life for her brief, cryptic appearance, caressing R.L. through a window curtain and kissing his face).

Though Pocahontas is unaware of Christ at this point, I believe that “Mother”--the deity to whom she prays--represents the echoes of Eden and the pangs of lost communion between creatures and Creator that every human feels (the sensus divinitatis, as Calvin might say). It’s interesting that she describes this deity as “the great river that never runs dry,” which brings to mind the River of Life in Revelation 22--the passage that also mentions the “Tree of Life” (vs. 2) in its description of the renewed creation and restored communion between God and man. Indeed, it’s also interesting that at the end of World, after Pocahontas comes to a peace (“Mother, now I know where you live)” the film ends with an image of a river, and then a tree in the final shot. Could it be read as a Revelation 22-esque “Eden restored” in the same way as Tree of Life’s finale?

Each of Malick’s films is in some sense about the specter of Paradise Lost and the felt breach of communion between God and man (on account of sin). Each film evokes that longing for an eschatological recovery of that wholeness, that Rev. 21 moment when God will once again dwell in physical presence with his people. But before that day comes, in between the Gen. 1 and Rev. 22 “trees of life,” God’s presence is also made available to us, by grace, in the form of the Holy Spirit. Because of what happened on another tree (the cross of Christ), God’s presence is given to us through the Holy Spirit: a guide, a helper, an advocate, a spirit of resurrection within our own feeble frames.

It’s a Spirit that Malick’s Life makes explicit through an embodied character, but also implicit as an unseen divine presence, calling characters to faith, to worship, to humility and to love. It’s a Spirit that is with us throughout our journeys (“guide us to the end of time...”) if we are open to being led.

Come, Holy Spirit. Guide us.

33 Films That Take Faith Seriously

Christian moviegoers sometimes lament the dearth of good, positive, realistic portrayals of faith in film. If Christians are portrayed in film, it’s usually as right-wing zealots (Citizen Ruth), scary pentecostals (Jesus Camp), or psychotic killers (Night of the Hunter). Or faith is reduced to schmaltzy simplicity, as in most “Christian films” (Facing the Giants, Fire Proof). But many films throughout cinema history have actually provided rich, artful portraits of faith. The following is a list of 33 films that take faith seriously; films I believe every Christian should make a point to see.

1. The Passion of Joan of Arc (Carl Dreyer, 1928)
2. Diary of a Country Priest (Robert Bresson, 1951)
3. Ordet (Carl Dreyer, 1955)
4. Becket (Peter Glenville, 1964)
5. The Sound of Music (Robert Wise, 1965)
6. A Man For All Seasons (Fred Zinnemann, 1966)
7. Brother Sun, Sister Moon (Franco Zeffirelli, 1972)
8. Andrei Rublev (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1973)
9. Chariots of Fire (Hugh Hudson, 1981)
10. Tender Mercies (Bruce Beresford, 1983)
11. Amadeus (Milos Forman, 1984)
12. The Mission (Roland Joffé, 1986)
13. Babette’s Feast (Gabriel Axel, 1987)
14. Jesus of Montreal (Denys Arcand, 1989)
15. The Decalogue (Krzysztof Kieslowski, 1989)
16. Shadowlands (Richard Attenborough, 1993)
17. Dead Man Walking (Tim Robbins, 1995)
18. The Apostle (Robert Duvall, 1997)
19. Central Station (Walter Salles, 1998)
20. Signs (M. Night Shyamalan, 2002)
21. Luther (Eric Till, 2003)
22. Land of Plenty (Wim Wenders, 2004)
23. Sophie Scholl: The Final Days (Marc Rothemund, 2005)
24. Into Great Silence (Philip Gröning, 2006)
25. Secret Sunshine (Lee Chang-dong, 2007)
26. Amazing Grace (Michael Apted, 2007)
27. A Serious Man (Joel and Ethan Coen, 2009)
28. Get Low (Aaron Schneider, 2009)
29. Letters to Father Jacob (Klaus Härö, 2010)
30. Of Gods and Men (Xavier Beauvois, 2011)
31. The Way (Emilio Estevez, 2011)
32. The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick, 2011)
33. Silence (Martin Scorsese, 2016)

Moving Beyond "Christian Films"

The filmmakers and many of the defenders of Blue Like Jazz have gone out of their way to distance Jazz from the "Christian film" stigma. Understandably. Director Steve Taylor even stirred up what really amounts to a non-controversy by declaring that the "Christian Movie Establishment... is out to get us," going so far as to say that Sherwood Baptist (the church behind Courageous and Fireproof) issued a "fatwa" against Blue Like Jazz. 

It's easy to understand why Jazz felt the need to get defensive about the "Christian movie" thing. Jazz is made by Christians, based on a bestselling Christian book, and directed by a veteran of Christian rock (Steve Taylor).  And there is indeed a case to be made for Jazz not being part of the "Christian film" genre: it contains quite a few s-words, a good amount of drug use, lesbians, a dope-smoking Pope, book-burning, steeple-sized condoms, and so on... all things you don't typically see in a "Christian" movie.

But the self-aware "Hey! We're edgier than Courageous!" undertones in Jazz--which labors to create a quirky, indie, Garden State-esque ambience of coming-of-age rebelliousness--are precisely what end up sabotaging Jazz' claims of being something truly different. The film--like the book, to a lesser extent--feels deliberately constructed to be "edgy," "non-religious," and "controversial." Jazz goes out of its way to usurp what people expect a story about faith to be, and in the process it loses its authenticity.

Rather than shunning all comparisons and attempting to just tell a truthful, believable story, Jazz fills its overlong run time with an array of extraneous episodes that serve to excessively hammer home the already-made points that faith can be messy, people are complicated, and Christianity isn't at all "safe" or squeaky-clean. And for every real, human moment in the film (and there are definitely those moments, most of them thanks to lead actor Marshall Allman), there are even more cringe-worthy instances of zany preciousness (man in bear suit steals extra tall bike), over-the-top caricatures ("the hypocritical youth pastor," "the grizzled drunk dad," "the idealistic and sweet social justice Christian"), relentless indie soundtrack and "just, why?" superfluity (the poorly animated "busty carrot lady" transition sequence?).

Ultimately, Blue Like Jazz is more like a typical "Christian movie" than it is different, which is disappointing. As is widely, embarrassingly known, Christian movies are typically characterized by amateur-looking, low-budget, undisciplined  filmmaking. And Blue Like Jazz unfortunately fits that bill. Is Jazz better made than the Courageous-type Christian film? Yes, but not by much. It's not preachy, saccharine, or "safe" in the way Courageous is, but it's pretty much equally as minor, from a filmmaking point of view.

Talking about "Christian films" wears me out, partly because it's such an obvious and easy target, and partly because I wonder why we are even still having this conversation. The Blue Like Jazz conversation didn't have to be one about "Christian film," but the filmmakers opened themselves up to it with the whole pre-release "us vs. the Christian Movie Establishment!" controversy. And sadly, Jazz falls into just as many Christian movie pitfalls as it avoids. In its own way, Jazz is just as didactic and message-heavy as Fireproof, albeit with a message that is more rough-edged, meandering and "nonreligious." And like those other Christian movies, Jazz lacks a coherent stylistic vision and a genuine, infectious interest in beauty.

I long for the day when we will have moved on from  “Christian film" as a category. I long for the day when evangelicals will make excellent films that are beautiful, lasting, complex and true. I long for the day when Christian moviegoers will appreciate truly great films and encounter God through them, regardless of if they are made by Christians or pagans.

I know I've been hard on Blue Like Jazz here, but the truth is I'm glad it exists and I'm thankful for the step forward it represents. I'm glad it got made, and I'm glad people are seeing it. Even the most imperfect films can be used by God to reach someone's heart.

That said, I hope the next generation of Christian filmmakers don't make a Blue Like Jazz. I hope they make films like The Kid With a Bike, Of Gods & Men or The Tree of Life—films about faith, God, transcendence and beauty, made with subtlety and attention to craft.

The priority for Christian artists—filmmakers included—should be excellence: making work that is thoughtful, groundbreaking, beautiful, with the goal of pointing in the direction of God's grace and glory. Christian artists should study the classics and learn from the best, so they can know what excellence looks like. And they should read a tiny little book by Hans Rookmaaker called Art Needs No Justification, from which the following is one of my favorite quotes:

Handel with his Messiah, Bach with his Matthew Passion, Rembrandt with his Denial of St. Peter, and the architects of those Cistercian churches were not evangelizing, nor making tools for evangelism; they worked to the glory of God. They did not compromise their art. They were not devising tools for religious propaganda or holy advertisement. And precisely because of that they were deep and important. Their works were not the means to an end, the winning of souls, but they were meaningful and an end in themselves, to God’s glory, and showing forth something of the love that makes things warm and real. Art has too often become insincere and second-rate in its very effort to speak to all people, and to communicate a message that art was not meant to communicate. In short, art has its own validity and meaning, certainly in the Christian framework.

We should definitely support Christian filmmakers. But we shouldn’t coddle them, and we shouldn’t encourage low-quality work. We should hold them to a higher standard, spurring them on to excellence so that what they produce truly does open viewers’ eyes to the magnificence of our gracious God.

The Horror of Grace

In Lee Chang-dong’s film Secret Sunshine (2007), there's a scene that absolutely floors me, because it captures something so true about the way humanity deals with grace. The scene takes place in a prison, as protagonist Shin-ae (whose son was recently kidnapped and murdered) goes to visit her son's murderer, in prison for life. Shin-ae, a new convert to Christianity, wants to forgive her son's killer. Her friends tell her she doesn't have to see him face-to-face in order to forgive him. But she insists. She wants to see him in person and (truth be told) wants to witness the look on his face when she offers him the gift of forgiveness. And yet when she sits down to confront the prisoner on the other side of the glass from her, Shin-ae finds him unexpectedly happy, peaceful, even joyful. "You look better than I expected," she tells him. She goes on to tell him that she's found peace, love, and a "new life" in God, and that that's why she's here. She's "so happy to feel God's love and grace" that she wanted to spread his love by coming to visit him. But then the shocker. The prisoner has also come to faith in Christ.

"Since I came here, I have accepted God in my heart. The Lord has reached out to this sinner," he says.

"Is that so?" replies Shin-ae, crestfallen and shaken. "It's good you have found God..." she says, very tentatively.

The convicted murderer continues: "Yes, I am so grateful. God reached out to a sinner like me. He made me kneel to repent my sins. And God has absolved me of them."

And this is where Shin-ae begins to wilt, as she's confronted by something she didn't see coming.

"God... has forgiven your sins?" she mutters in disbelief.

"Yes," he replies. "And I have found inner peace... My repentance and absolution have brought me peace. Now I start and end each day with prayer. I always pray for you, Ms. Lee. I'll pray for you until I die."

This hits Shin-ae hard. When she leaves the prison, she collapses, overcome by the horror of an idea she had not considered: that even the killer of her own son could be saved by God's grace, and that God could beat her to the punch in forgiving the killer, offering him the only real absolving he needed. Unfortunately, Shin-ae can't accept this seeming injustice--how can a law-abiding, good citizen like her and a convicted child-killer be on the same leveled playing field in terms of God's grace? She can't take that, and abandons God because of it.

This, I think, is the greatest, most mind-blowing quality of God's grace, while at the same time being the hardest for humanity to swallow: His grace is sufficient for all, and it saves unconditionally, based not on our merits or relative levels of moral stature. We're all sinners, fallen short of the glory of God and alienated from him, and thus we all need exactly the same grace from Him to repair the breach.

I need the same grace as anyone who has ever wronged me.

Trayvon Martin needs the same grace as George Zimmerman.

Jason Russell needs the same grace as Joseph Kony.

Barack Obama needs the same grace as Osama bin Laden.

Mother Theresa needs the same grace as Hitler.

Charlie Sheen, Tim Tebow, Whitney Houston, Joe the Plumber, Kim Kardashian,  Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Benjamin Netanyahu, the pepper spray cop, Susan Boyle, Madonna, Jerry Sandusky and the boys he molested... All are hopeless and condemned without the exact same grace. That is: the grace of God, freely given through faith in the atoning sacrifice of Christ, who--though perfect and undeserving--bore our sins on that dreadful but majestic cross.

It's absolutely scandalous, and for many, a pill too hard to swallow. We're prideful creatures, us humans. We want to believe that "right" living warrants us  a better standing in God's eyes than, say, the killers and thieves and pedophiles. We don't want to believe that we are in exactly the same predicament and in need of exactly the same salvation as the world's most evil person. We want God to reward us for being good and punish others for being bad. Deep down, pride is what leads many to resist the free gift of grace... because they can't stomach the notion that earning or deserving are not words that exist in God's economy of grace.

But if we can just get over our pride, emptying ourselves in the same way Christ did both in how he lived and died, the "free to all" nature of grace begins to look beautiful rather than horrific (as it did to Shin-ae). Grace becomes life-transforming precisely because it takes us outside of ourselves, freeing us from our sinful chains and narcissistic self reliance, instead focusing our attention on Christ--and what HE did that Good Friday not just for me, or you, or the "good people," but for the world.

31 Best Films Directed by Women

March is Women's History Month, so to celebrate in a small way I thought I'd list my favorite 31 films directed by women (one for each day in the month of March). If you haven't seen these, I recommend it!

31) Little Man Tate (Jodie Foster, 1991)

30) Children of a Lesser God (Randa Haines, 1986)

29) Monsoon Wedding (Mira Nair, 2001)

28) Whale Rider (Niki Caro, 2002)

27) Point Break (Kathryn Bigelow, 1991)

26) Frozen River (Courtney Hunt, 2008)

25) Thirteen (Catherine Hardwicke, 2003)

24) The Piano (Jane Campion, 1993)

23) White Material (Claire Denis, 2009)

22) Walking and Talking (Nicole Holofcener, 1996)

21) Big (Penny Marshall, 1988)

20) The Cool World (Shirley Clarke, 1964)

19) Somewhere (Sofia Coppola, 2010)

18) Tiny Furniture (Lena Dunham, 2010)

17) Brothers (Susanne Bier, 2004)

16) Marie Antoinette (Sofia Coppola, 2006)

15) Bright Star (Jane Campion, 2009)

14) Thirteen Conversations About One Thing (Jill Sprecher, 2001)

13) Ratcatcher (Lynne Ramsay, 1999)

12) Personal Velocity (Rebecca Miller, 2002)

11) Old Joy (Kelly Reichardt, 2006)

10) The Virgin Suicides (Sofia Coppola, 1999)

9) Me and You and Everyone We Know (Miranda July, 2005)

8) The Hurt Locker (Kathryn Bigelow, 2008)

7) Harlan County U.S.A. (Barbara Kopple, 1976)

6) 35 Shots of Rum (Claire Denis, 2008)

5) Meek's Cutoff (Kelly Reichardt, 2011)

4) We Need to Talk About Kevin (Lynne Ramsay, 2012)

3) Fish Tank (Andrea Arnold, 2009)

2) Cleo From 5 to 7 (Agnès Varda, 1962)

1) Lost in Translation (Sofia Coppola, 2003)

The Grey

Joe Carnahan's The Grey is the first truly great 2012 release. Which is surprising. I didn't expect all that much from it, thinking it might just be a typical "angry Liam Neeson" action film. But wow is it more than that.

Ostensibly a "been there done that" narrative (survivors of a plane crash in the harsh environs of remote Alaska try to stay alive), The Grey adds impressive layers of depth to what might otherwise just be a serviceable action thriller.

Neeson leads a band of seven survivors when a plane full of oil drillers crashes in the wintry, impossible wilderness of Alaska. From there, the movie could essentially be called Man vs. Wild. Or, more appropriately: Man vs. Wolves. There are wolves everywhere, and they are territorial and hungry. They like killing humans. And, one by one, they savagely pick off the band of plane crash survivors, stalking them mercilessly with those big, bad, glow-in-the-dark eyes.

The only option for the men is to fight back. To become wolves themselves, savage as they have to be. But just when you think this movie is going down the well-worn, Jack London-esque path of "humans are just as base, savage and instinctual as animals!" it becomes clear that that's not what this film is about at all. The "grey" is not about the blurry lines between man and beast. It's about the mysterious no man's land in between life and death. It's about the spiritual space at the end of one's life, as the light of life dims and mixes with the unseeable darkness of whatever lies beyond.

The Grey is a movie about death. But don't worry, it's not depressing. It's about dying well, dying humanely. What separates humans from animals? Among other things: the way that we die. Sure, we are like animals in that we instinctively fight to the death. Like wolves, we do not go quietly into the good night. But unlike wolves, when we do go into that good night, we do so self-reflectively, mournfully, existentially. We reflect on our lives and contemplate our conclusion  like a philosopher, holding the hands of our loved ones as we go.

The Grey is essentially one death scene after another, though not in the Final Destination sense. These are beautiful scenes. They don't milk emotion gratuitously or take up more time than is necessary. But they pack a punch. Especially in the last 30 minutes of so, The Grey really hits you.

This is a poetic film. There is literal poetry in it, and it's central. But it's also poetic in the way that's it's shot, in the way that flashbacks are utilized (like in The Thin Red Line, women only really appear in flashbacks), in the way that manhood and masculinity are explored. It's poetic in its honesty about fear, dread, bravado, faith.

God is a major character, albeit mostly as an absentee, unbelieved-in-but-raged-against force in the sky. He may not seem to have a place in a story about plane crashes, unholy blizzards and demonic wolves who tear apart humans, but make no mistake: The Grey has its mind on God, or at least His imprint on it. What gives humans the grace to die well? What is it really that separates us from animals and makes us, for example, willing to appreciate a handshake, a memory, and a mountain vista in our final moments of life? The image of God which we bear. It sets us apart. It is the light that gives reprieve from the "only the strong survive" darkness. It is the light which, in clashing with the dark, creates the grey.

What the Academy Should Have Nominated

The 2012 Oscar nominations were announced this morning, and as is typically the case, there are some hits and some misses. I'm pleased that the Academy recognized The Tree of Life (best picture, best director, best cinematography), but I'm also perplexed by some of its other choices (Demian Bichir best actor for A Better Life? No Michael Fassbender?). If I were to have a say in the nominations, they would have gone something like this:

Best Picture: The Tree of Life, Melancholia, Of Gods and Men, Poetry, Certified Copy, The Artist, Take Shelter, Meek's Cutoff, We Need to Talk About Kevin, Martha Marcy May Marlene

Best Foreign Language Film: A Separation, Poetry, Uncle Boonme Who Can Recall His Past Lives, The Mill and the Cross, Certified Copy

Best Documentary: Into the Abyss, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Bill Cunningham New York, Rebirth, Buck. 

Best Director: Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life; Lars von Trier, Melancholia; Lynne Ramsay, We Need to Talk About Kevin; Michel Hazanavicius, The Artist; Jeff Nichols, Take Shelter.

Best Actor: Brad Pitt, Moneyball; Michael Shannon, Take Shelter; Michael Fassbender, Shame; Ralph Fiennes, Coriolanus; Gary Oldman, Tinker Tailor Solider Spy. 

Best Actress: Kirsten Dunst, Melancholia; Elizabeth Olson, Martha Marcy May Marlene; Michelle Williams, Meek's Cutoff; Jeong-hie Yun, Poetry; Tilda Swinton, We Need to Talk About Kevin. 

Best Supporting Actor: Jonah Hill, Moneyball; Albert Brooks, Drive; Nick Nolte, Warrior; Ezra Miller, We Need to Talk About Kevin; Patton Oswalt, Young Adult.

Best Supporting Actress: Jessica Chastain, The Tree of Life; Vanessa Redgrave, Coriolanus; Charlotte Gainsbourgh, Melancholia; Carey Mulligan, Shame; Jennifer Ehle, Contagion. 

Notes From the Tilt-a-Whirl

N.D. Wilson's new "bookumentary" DVD, Notes From the Tilt-a-Whirl, is sort of like the Waking Lifeof Christian apologetics films. And by that I mean, it's full of awe, curiosity, philosophizing, and a lot of talking about ideas. Like the contemplative films of Richard Linklater (Waking Life, Before Sunrise, Before Sunset), Wilson's film—inspired by his 2009 book of the same title--is heavy on heady, talky vignettes. It's essentially a philosophy/apologetics education condensed into a series of 3-4 minute soliloquies and poetic riffs on huge ideas, packaged amidst images of beauty and a liturgical ambience.

I was somewhat skeptical going in to Tilt-a-Whirl; mostly because "Christian films" of any sort are almost always a let down. But this was a pleasant surprise—a genuinely compelling, well-made film that never feels false or inauthentic and actually leaves us with insights to ponder and stirs our hearts and minds toward God.

Tilt-a-Whirl advertises itself as "A cinematic treatment of a worldview. A poet live in concert. A motion picture sermon. VH1 Storytellers meets Planet Earth. 60 Minutes meets Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God."

All of those are accurate. It's a refreshingly orignal thing--a documentary of sorts, a visual essay, an apologetics companion piece to The Tree of Life (though Malick would dislike Wilson's dismissal of Heidegger). It's the Kanye West Twitter feed of hyper-literate Reformed philosophy.

I also like the way Books and Culture described the film:

Imagine 51 minutes of an earthier Nooma video infused with an ethos of postmillennial confidence and injected with the steroids of Christian orthodoxy and Chestertonian Orthodoxy. Ponder all possible manifestations of "A Portrait of the Kuyperian Artist as a Young Apologist."

Rob Bell's Nooma videos are probably its closest cousin in terms of genre; yet it must be acknowledged that there are more original insights in any given 90 seconds of Tilt-a-Whirl than in the entire Nooma series.

Wilson tackles a wide array of topics, mostly having to do with God--as creator, as artist, as gardener, as judge. He's at his best when talking about the "problem" of evil and putting man in his place while exalting God. I especially resonated and agreed with Wilson on his suggestion that evil has a purpose if creation is seen as God's ultimate artistic masterpiece: "If we look at the world as art, suddenly tension makes sense," says Wilson. "God is after a great story, and great stories require tension; great stories require trial and hardship; great stories require characters to grow. ... Why does God allow evil and things which displease him in his story? So that they can be defeated."

If you're someone who likes to think about and discuss big ideas about God and existence, this film is for you. Watch it in groups, Bible studies, or on your own; I guarantee it will provoke something—whether discussion, debate, disgust, or worship.

A Separation

Critics are going crazy for A Separation, the Iranian film by Asghar Farhadi that Roger Ebert named the best film of 2011. It currently has a perfect 100% score on  RottenTomatoes.com and ranked #3 (behind The Tree of Life and Melancholia) on the IndieWire critic's survey of the best films of 2011. It's the odds-on favorite to win the best foreign film Oscar.

Is it as good as the hype indicates? Yes, mostly.

A tender, nuanced portrait of modern city life in Tehran, A Separation is not a political or statement film. It's a film about people and their struggles, specifically two families whose fates become perilously intertwined. It's about an educated, secular middle class couple going through divorce, and their daughter who suffers in between a mother and father vying for custody. But it's also about a lower class, religious family (also raising a young daughter) who find themselves in a his-word-against-mine legal struggle with the more resourced and eloquent middle class family.

Who are the heroes and villains in A Separation? There aren't any. Perhaps the heroes are the two innocent girls, and the villains are systemic: an outmoded legal system, religiously justified oppression, class disparity. The beauty of the film is that has no agenda aside from immersing us in a world--something cinema does exceptionally well. It simply presents a slice of life--the struggles of a handful of everyday Iranians going through a particularly stressful stretch. And yet as contextual as the film is--many of the textures of its conflicts are Iranian to the core--it is also simply human.

The film humanizes Iran and gives it a face--a face that is not Mahmoud Ahmadinejad; a face that, under duress and in love, fear, anger, etc., looks awfully like our own. I suspect this is why critics have hailed the film as they have. It is exotic, foreign, and Other; and yet it is universal.

My only hesitation in crowning the film as some have is that it sometimes feels a bit too ambitious--trying to cover too much ground (gender politics, class, religion, family strife, justice, truth, education, etc.). It sometimes feels like an attempt at "modern Iranian life in a grain of sand," which imposes an unnecessarily weighty burden on an otherwise believable and well-observed family portrait.

Still, it's a superbly acted, beautifully made film. It is brilliantly observational and unsentimental, reminiscent of the quiet-but-powerful style of the Dardenne Brothers. For western audiences, it's also a helpful glimpse inside a country that--beneath the "axis of evil" simplifications of political and media narratives--is full of people like you and I: family-oriented folks who have good moments and bad, but mostly want to do what's right.