Film Reviews

Scorsese’s new epic masterpiece is theologically rich, aesthetically captivating, and emotionally raw. Based upon Endo’s 1966 historical fiction by the same name, Silence is a film about Portuguese priests facing persecution in 17th century Japan. This deep spiritual movie could not be more at odds with Scorsese’s previous work, The Wolf of Wall Street (2013), which portrayed the seedy, facile world of stock market fraud. Though antithetical, both films none-the-less point their audiences in similar directions, towards valuing the considered, devotional, moral life.

The primary theological question this film explores is all the issues surrounding Christian persecution. In the third century, the Roman Empire, under Emperor Decius, began persecuting anyone who was not sacrificing to the Roman gods, (i.e. Christians). This was policed by having officials issue certificates to those who did their duty, while severe punitive measures were wrought upon those who failed to comply. Some Christians acquired these certificates through duplicitous means, some Christians offered sacrifices regardless, and some refused, and as such were tortured or martyred. In other words, some Christians remained steadfast despite the consequences, and some compromised to avoid suffering. The Church subsequently had to decide what do with these turn-tail Christians. Were they now tainted? Could they be honestly forgiven?

In Silence, the same conundrum presents itself, both to the Japanese Christians, but also most arduously to the protagonist himself, Padre Rodrigues (played by Andrew Garfield). He portrays the emotionally tortured priest, his steadfast example on the one hand offering solace to the Christians, but also enabling much suffering and death as the indigenous Japanese follow his example and refuse to turn their back on Christ. Is he wrong to lead others into such suffering? Do these others even fully understand what they are suffering for? And to those who are weak, should he be forgiving them their trespasses, condoning such weakness?

This film’s namesake, Silence, arises from the silence of God: the priests’ subjective experience of God’s silence despite their great need, their great suffering. Where is God in their suffering? This is coupled with the protagonist’s ultimate acceptance of this God of silence by eschewing external religious expression, and in so doing counter intuitively becoming a true Christian, overcoming his vanity. The notion, hinted at, that the path of Jesus lies beyond establishment Christianity, and even beyond Christianity as conventionally perceived, obviously chimes deeply with my own understanding of the faith. This film is brutal, emotionally challenging, and tackles difficult questions; for three hours I was holding my breath. My only concern as this film reaches a wider audience is that it will be misunderstood as a film about Christian hardship, a dualistic conception of goodies and baddies, even though in reality the film is directly challenging such a reductionist understanding of faith. Keep in mind also, this film is coming from the same director who gave us the other religiously themed masterpiece: ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’ (1988).

‘Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?... When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for Joy?’ Job 38:4,7

This film takes some stamina. It is long, dense with metaphor, lacking a conventional narrative arc, and somewhat mystifying. Its themes encompass life, the universe, and everything. The film literally spans all time, from the beginning of the universe to now. And, its message is unapologetically spiritual. The director, Terrence Malick, has clearly set out to impart some wisdom to us lesser mortals concerning the human experience, against the backdrop of nature’s majesty. His approach, his obscurantism, strays dangerously close to being somewhat pretentious. I acknowledge it is probably only down to my partiality towards the subject matter that I give the film the benefit of the doubt.

The film’s opening Bible verse really sets the context within which this whole film hangs – Job in the Old Testament is the good and righteous man who endures suffering, and questions God for allowing such evil. As the couple at the centre of this movie wrestle with the death of their nineteen-year-old son, this film asks that age old existential question: ‘Why do good people suffer?’. And, in the end, this film rehashes the unsatisfactory answer – that there is a bigger picture at stake. Crassly put, God has a greater plan in the offing. This answer can be characterised in this way: look closely at a painting, and the smudge you see may not look very inspiring, but take a step back and you will see the beauty of the picture. When it comes to beauty, the nature shots, trees against blue skies, distant nebula, dividing cells, and revolving planets, the film does an awe-inspiring job.

Malick depicts the cosmos as two competing forces, grace vs. nature, love vs. the harsh reality of a world red in tooth and claw, two forces which are in a grand cosmic dance with one another. This dance is expressed throughout the film in the imagery, in the people, and in the poetic dialogue, thus subverting the simplistic duality of good and evil, and thus reaffirming the grand narrative of purpose, even when it eludes us within our subjective present. Ultimately, my problem with the movie is a theological one. I do not believe in Malick’s God; I do not believe in his guarantor of meaning that hangs above creation and gives sense to the senseless.

Heidegger heralds the end of thinking of God in this way, the end of appealing to forces beyond the horizon of our understanding. All in all, I value this Avant Garde piece of art for daring to tackle the subject matter, and for sparking off some conversations.

For more theology in this vein check out my 2016 Advent addresses.

‘Her’ is a film about a man who falls in love with his operating system. Not Windows, Mac OS or even Linux, but a new talking operating system with artificial intelligence called Samantha (played by Scarlett Johansson). The film is set in the not too distant future, during the technological revolution futurologists term the ‘Technological Singularity’: the point at which emergent artificial superintelligence suddenly causes a runaway up-turn in technological growth. Caught in the middle of this is the mild-mannered, socially awkward protagonist, Theodore Twombly (played by Joaquin Phoenix)

What makes this film so fascinating is the various thought experiments it poses. If superintelligent computers equate to emotionally intelligent persons, and it was not possible in effect to make a distinction between humans and artificial-intelligent beings (or OS), could emotional bonds not form, and in time become the primary relationships in our lives? During ‘Her’ we see society’s reaction to this phenomenon unfold. At first, disapproval, the idea that this bond is in some sense not real but artificial and therefore deficient, then towards being ubiquitous and therefore embraced as normative. Relationships determine human self-worth – our friends and family - they give us a consistent self-narrative through which we derive meaning and purpose.

Eros (meaning love in the non-sentimental or shallow sense) with a primary other, for most of humanity, is the pinnacle of the human experience, to have a spiritual and emotional connection with another. It doesn’t seem too much of a stretch to even equate this experience or longing with a defining characteristic of humanity. As such, what would it mean if our primary other was not a human being at all? How would we understand our sense of self if we ceased having significant relationships with other human beings?

There are many discoveries and inventions which have changed the way we live in this world. As new technologies come in there is always a minority on the peripheries which concludes the latest step, in some sense, belittles their humanity, and as such they opt out. Take the convenience of Amazon, or what Social Media has done to our relationships, or our ability to be contacted anywhere and at any time. All of these for good reason have been boycotted by some. Such actions however have always struck me as somewhat futile and superficial. Pronouncements of this kind invariably communicate how sanctimonious we are, as opposed to highlighting significant issues. ‘Do not let you left hand know what your right hand is doing’ comes to mind.

The Singularity as is depicted in ‘Her’, if it happens, will be the ultimate turning point for humanity, and will almost certainly ride in upon the same wave of inevitability. It too will have its detractors, who bemoan the demise of humanity, and they will have a point, but one overshadowed by the inescapability of change. So, like the protagonist Theodore, we will all need to come to terms with the change, however brutal and painful, because it will be unavoidable.

This movie is about hubris, obsession, and the search for answers, the search which like Icarus can lead us to fly too close to the sun, to throw cation to the wind. The protagonist Max Cohen is a number theorist in search of the ultimate numerical code. Plagued with migraines, and leading a life punctuated with bouts of mania, he searches for a code in which will unravel the universe of numbers that represents the global economy.

For the economy is a system, a globe-spanning organism, full of life, and therefore there must be, Max maintains, a code that underpins it. Of course the implication of such a discovery would be earth shattering, and so Max is ever on his guard, paranoid that he is being watched. But watched by who? As the film unfolds we learn of several parties who take an interest in Max or his work: a Jewish sect of Kabala inspired mystics, a Wall Street Firm, and his wise friend, Sol Robeson, who has long given up on the impossible quest himself.

The film is a character study, an exploration of Max’s interior world. Certainly a great deal of the movie happens solely in Max’s head, and distinguishing the “real” from the subjective becomes increasingly difficult as he descends into his mania. In this way, the various forces, the Jews, the capitalist, or his friend, represent distinctive drives at play - a spiritual drive, a materialist drive, a humanizing drive. But ultimately it is just sheer arrogance and self-hubris which fuels his search for knowledge, a knowledge, it transpires, which is not merely underpinning the economy, but underpinning reality itself – a number which is the very name of God. The name of God that Max feels he alone has been found worthy to possess.

Ultimately, complete madness and complete genius coalesce in his coming face to face with the divine, a truth beyond him, and so he destroys the number and his own mathematical ability to repossess such knowledge through self-mutilation. It is akin to the story of Babel, but instead of God slurring the words of humanity to thwart their efforts, Max deems himself unworthy.

The mythological underpinning of this surrealist thriller is the numerology contained in the Kabbalah – the esoteric branch of Judaism. This at its core is a means of overcoming the destructive will of the ego, represented by the self-interested parties in the movie. Instead of self-interest we should collectively seek unification with the divine, the upper force. The film acts as a parable of humanity’s unworthiness as of yet to fulfil this end; humanity’s inability to join with one another and thus overcome our petty desires, our petty hubris.

Calvary is a modern-day re-telling of the Christian Gospel. A dark cerebral comedy which tackles the hard questions of guilt, sacrifice, forgiveness, and life’s meaning. The film closely mirrors the liturgical structure of Holy Week, the week in the church’s calendar which directly precedes Jesus’ death, burial, and resurrection. The protagonist of Calvary is a clear thinking, well intentioned priest, overseeing a parish of degenerates in a rural, isolated portion of Ireland. The film begins with the protagonist Father James (Brendan Gleeson) being told anonymously in a confessional that he will die for the sins of another priest, despite being a “good priest” himself.

Right from the offset his impending demise is put front and center. Again this closely parallels Jesus’s ultimate demise upon the cross. As Christians move through the landscape which makes up the liturgical Holy Week, there is ever that knowledge that it will culminate with Jesus’ death on the cross; a death which Christian mythology understands as taking place for the sins of others, in order that reconciliation with God is made possible.

In this vain, there is a sense that Father James is not dying needlessly, but sacrificially for his parishioners; that somehow the collective evil of all them, or perhaps even society itself, will be redeemed in his death. As the film unfolds, we the audience are invited to consider who we think the would-be-murderer is, though ultimately we are brought to a place where the question becomes incidental, for his act of cruelty is merely a manifestation of the pain or sickness of the age. As Jesus says upon the cross, ‘Forgive them for they know not what they do’.

Though the film strongly emphasizes the Christian narrative motif, it does so in a contemporary fashion. There is no nod to supernaturalism at all. Father James is the pastor, seeking to know his flock well, and exemplifies forgiveness even in the face of mockery, cynicism, and ultimately violence towards himself. He sums up his life’s philosophy best when he says, “I think there is too much talk about sins to be honest, and not enough talk about virtues… I think forgiveness has been highly underrated.”

His modelling of forgiveness is the ultimate expression of love, a love which is not contained, but supersedes his span of life. It is, if you like, the protagonist’s resurrection, his spirit of forgiveness is uncontainable.

I think the film is refreshing in the way it handles its Christian characters, avoiding the two pitfalls of over sentimentalizing them or, as is more often the case these days, portraying them as hypocrisy-ridden child sex abusers. A film well worth our time, and reflections.