Pan’s Labyrinth, Guillermo del Toro’s dark “fairy tale for grown-ups,” might best be described as non-escapist fantasy. The description holds up regardless of whether one sees the collision between the film’s real world and its fairy world as imagined or actual. In the former case, this is a story about a girl so miserable and alone in the real world that she manufactures an imaginary one to replace it, only to find that she cannot completely banish the harsh brutality which surrounds her. In the latter case, the film becomes the story of a girl who discovers that the world everyone else perceives exists alongside another, invisible world that remains somehow strangely familiar.

However, before any viewer begins to genuinely engage the rich network of themes and symbols that are in play throughout this movie, they will have confronted three strong elements that drive the film on a surface level; three being a number which, by strange coincidence (or is it?), plays a central role in the symbolic framework of Pan’s Labyrinth.

First, the movie tells two compelling stories that operate in parallel with one another to create a plot greater than the sum of its parts. Ofelia, the young heroine of the fairy world story, is unhappily accompanying her pregnant mother to a rural outpost in 1944 Spain where they will join her stepfather, a sadistic army captain working to stamp out a small guerilla force hiding out in the nearby mountains.

Mercedes, the adult heroine of the real world story, is the captain’s housekeeper, secretly in league with the guerillas led by her brother and playing a dangerous game of espionage. Both women struggle to do the right thing amidst dangerous and murky circumstances where the best choice is not always clear, and we watch in suspense as their fates hang in the balance.

Second, the movie is visually stunning. No one inspires character design like del Toro (as he has since proved again in Hellboy II). The titular Faun and the terrifying “Pale Man” are marvelous creations that stand out amidst a wealth of exciting and imaginative work. Despite the fantastical elements involved in the film, Pan’s Labyrinth never feels as though it has left concrete reality behind through the use of computer-generated effects or overly-fanciful aesthetics. Instead, the look and feel of the faun’s world complements the gritty reality of the captain’s world to the enrichment of both.

Finally, the movie refuses to pull its punches, raising the stakes through graphic depictions of horrific violence. In an early scene, Captain Vidal brutally destroys a man’s face with a flashlight, beating him again and again as the camera barely flinches and the soundtrack picks up the sickening crunch of breaking bones. Meanwhile, the fairy world can be just as terrible, such as when the Pale Man devours two of Ofelia’s companions after she has disobeyed the Faun’s instructions.

All of these things, the suspense and fascination of a well-told story, the gorgeous, eye-catching world of the film, and the grotesque violence that come with it, can be distracting to an audience not necessarily looking for subtext or a hidden meaning. Nevertheless, repeated viewings reveal a depth that is difficult to ignore. Not strictly allegorical, Pan’s Labyrinth is nevertheless a morality play with a suggestive layer of spiritual significance amidst the references to mythology and 20th-century Spanish history.

Ofelia feels instinctively that she somehow does not belong in the world that she inhabits. This is confirmed when she meets the Faun and learns that she is, in fact, the lost fairy princess described in the opening voice-over. This world is not her home, but before she can return to her true father, she must complete three tasks demonstrating courage, obedience, and sacrificial love.

Throughout her quest, we are led to suspect that the Faun is perhaps not as good as Ofelia believes him to be. He certainly is not safe. So it is natural to be suspicious when, after Ofelia has fouled up the second task by failing to follow instructions, the Faun returns to give her one more chance on the condition that she do exactly as he orders without question or pause. We have already been primed to mistrust this sort of demand by an earlier exchange between the doctor and Captain Vidal. (“To obey – just like that – for the sake of obeying, without questioning,” the doctor explains, “that’s something only people like you can do, Captain.”)

Ofelia does not witness this conversation, but she doesn’t have to. When the Faun, brandishing a ceremonial dagger, demands that she hand over her infant brother so that they may complete the final task, she refuses, even though he promises to only take a drop of blood. Ofelia shares the doctor’s strength of moral character, which is (of course) precisely what proves that she is the true princess after all.

Meanwhile, Mercedes has demonstrated the same qualities, though the world she must navigate is not nearly as black-and-white as Ofelia’s. At her lowest point, she is wracked by guilt and self-doubt because her position inside the Captain’s household, of such crucial importance to the resistance, has forced her to work alongside a man she knows is a monster. We know, however, that she is literally the key to the rebel’s continued survival and ultimate victory.

The end of Pan’s Labyrinth is left deliberately ambiguous by showing Ofelia die as she enters (or hallucinates) the fairy kingdom where her mother and father are waiting with the Faun. I would argue that, at least in terms of what this film has to say to an audience, resolution is irrelevant (although I suspect that the director leans towards the happier of the two possible endings). Whether or not the fairy world genuinely exists and is waiting beyond the grave to welcome Ofelia home again, Pan’s Labyrinth has answered all of the questions that it raises about obedience, choice, and moral character.

Posted in Reflections, Reviews

Director Alfonso Cuarón claims to have deliberately avoided reading Children of Men by P.D. James before he made this adaptation of her novel, although his co-writer did. Cuarón reportedly wanted to avoid being “sidetracked” from his own vision, which was to use the premise of global infertility erasing humanity’s hope for the future to explore contemporary social and political attitudes. The novel, while in some ways just as political, is more contemplative than this chase film (as it might be generically described), and a good deal more spiritual. Or is it?

The plots of both novel and film are driven by a miraculous pregnancy, which an anti-government organization calling themselves “Fishes” hopes will give them political leverage. However, the novel is full of meaningful religious referents, from its title to the names of characters and of the “Fishes” themselves. Many of these labels remain intact in the film, but they don’t seem to point anywhere. In semiotic terms, Children of Men seems to be full of signifiers without a corresponding signified. Still, even half a sign can hint at deeper things.

Even on its surface, this is a story of a spiritually-dead man who is reawakened to hope and new life by the birth of a child. Theo is a stoic unbeliever surrounded by fervent true believers: his ex-wife Julian, fiery terrorist leader Luke, aging flower child Jasper, and earnestly-simple Miriam. All of these people (in some sense) lay down their lives for Kee and her fetus, finally leaving only Theo to witness the single most important event in the history of this fictional world: the baby’s arrival into the world. Eventually he will lay down his life as well, and his journey from self-serving to self-sacrificing is paralleled by his change in footwear. Partway through the film he loses his shoes and is forced to replace them with a pair of flip-flops (sandals).

Although there are several action set pieces in the film, visually Children of Men doesn’t operate like a contemporary action film with frenetic editing and jump cuts. Instead, most scenes are constructed out of very few shots, as though the camera is spontaneously capturing events as they happen. The setting of the story, England in 2027, unfolds in the same gradual, natural way. The film opens as Theo hears a news report in a coffee shop that the youngest person in the world has been killed. Moments after he exits with his coffee, a bomb goes off inside. As chaos erupts, the screen cuts to black, revealing the film’s title over a high-pitched whine that evokes the ringing in Theo’s ears caused by the explosion.

The stark dystopia created for the movie is subtly undercut by its soundtrack, which consistently communicates feelings of quasi-religious reverence. There is very little music in the actual world of the film, with the exception of that supplied by Jasper’s character (who seems to have a soundtrack for his own life). He plays grating, atonal tribal music twice, first as a joke to lighten Theo’s mood, and later as part of the alarm system when the perimeter of his property is breached. However, he also plays a beautiful, haunting cover of “Ruby Tuesday” as he administers the suicide drug “Quietus” to his wife before the Fishes arrive.

The odd thing is that the former type of music would seem more in keeping with the film’s aesthetic, but it is the latter type which underscores the real thematic unity. The music is most noticeable in the scenes involving Kee and her baby. There is a sort of high-church, almost heavenly choir supported by quiet strings indicating that (despite the surroundings) this is not the ordinary birth of an ordinary child.

Meanwhile, although a great deal of exposition and setting is established through studiously-incidental dialogue and hints dropped in the margins, this is a film that makes its most important points visually. At one point, Theo, Miriam, and Kee stop off in the ruined shell of an elementary school, and while Miriam describes her experiences as a midwife when the infertility pandemic first began, the impact of the account is overshadowed by the even more potent images of the abandoned school. Later, Miriam is hauled off of a prison bus on the way into a refugee community, pushed to her knees, and “bagged” at the end of a line of prisoners with similar black hoods (a deliberate reference to Abu Ghraib).

The latter example is the sort of politically-charged image that the message of the film is constructed around. However, there are also a number of explicitly Christian references. Theo discovers that Kee is pregnant as she stands in a stable (barn) surrounded by livestock. The sight of her swollen belly provokes a shocked “Jesus Christ” from him. This is later echoed by another character who discovers the baby after it is born. The sight of the baby also brings a full-scale urban battle to a complete halt, at least for a few moments, late in the film as soldiers fall to their knees and cross themselves. I would argue that the movie’s theological imagery, and the underlying story it represents, ultimately overwhelms the film’s political message.

Theo’s purpose in all of this is to bring the child to a rendezvous point with the so-called “Human Project,” which he isn’t even sure exists. His leap of faith is rewarded in the final seconds of the film, but he doesn’t live to see it (or, presumably, need to). By contrast, Luke has a very different purpose in mind. There is a moment in the midst of the previously-mentioned battle when Theo has arrived to rescue Kee and her baby from the Fishes and he is confronted by Luke, who tells him: “Julian was wrong. They thought it could be peaceful. But how can it be peaceful when they try to take away your dignity?”

Unlike Julian, Luke thinks violence is the means to his political end, and he hopes that the miracle child will be the conquering Messiah his cause needs. What he fails to understand is that, like Jesus, this child represents a hope for humanity’s future that has nothing to do with temporal political agendas. Similarly, as time passes the more topical, political fragments of Children of Men continue to lose force, but its spiritual elements only grow more and more pronounced.

Posted in Reflections, Reviews

The Last Temptation of Christ is probably the most potent and challenging film depiction of Jesus that I have ever seen. Having said that, I won’t be disingenuous or feign ignorance. This was an extremely controversial film when it was first released in 1988, and it remains a highly-charged viewing experience today. There are plenty of good reasons for this, particularly if you’re a fundamentalist who doesn’t take the time to watch and think about what you’re condemning, but even the less dogmatic might see good reason to approach this material with caution.

Honestly, if that weren’t the case, I rather doubt the result would be as powerful as it is. The film begins with a disclaimer of sorts, noting that it is based on the novel by Nikos Kazantzakis, not on the biblical Gospels. Poppycock. I can understand the importance of establishing upfront that there is a literary source other than the Bible in play here, but what was Kazantzakis’ novel if not a re-imagining of that very source? Furthermore, I would argue that The Last Temptation of Christ makes very little sense without some knowledge of the original Gospels, and in fact, that its message is far more meaningful to a (receptive) Christian audience than a secular one.

The Last Temptation of Christ is a very dense 164 minutes, and there would be a lot to unpack in a full, detailed treatment of the material. In general terms, though, I regard the film as being divided into three distinct sections (the first and third almost entirely extra-biblical, framing a middle portion drawn largely from the Gospels). Each of these sections corresponds primarily to one of the three strong religious criticisms of the film identified and addressed by William Telford (in his essay from Explorations in Theology and Film). A brief response to these objections as they arise in the film will illuminate what I believe is being accomplished theologically through the narrative.

The first objection is that this Jesus believes himself to be flawed, at least in some sense, and expresses feelings of guilt for some unspecified sins, referring to himself as a liar and a coward. Telford’s response to this objection is not very compelling. He simply notes that Jesus’ sinlessness does not seem to have been a significant theological concern of the early church. More to the point, this objection fails to take into account the very nature of this film’s inquiry into its central character.

Jesus is introduced as the only Jewish carpenter willing to build crosses for the Romans, and Judas soon arrives to berate him. Jesus explains his bizarre actions as a way of resisting his purpose, of running away from God. This is, in fact, precisely what he does a few scenes later, after a visit to Mary Magdalene’s house of ill-repute. However, he finds that he cannot escape his calling, and when Judas arrives (on orders from the Zealots) to kill Jesus, he finds that a startling transformation has taken place.

No longer the tormented, half-crazed man he was a few days before, this Jesus is on a mission. Judas finds himself reluctantly following, although at first merely to observe and complete his own assassination mission if necessary. Eventually he will become the wisest and most loyal of Jesus’ disciples. He has witnessed the beginning of what one might clumsily call the “character arc” that maps Jesus’ growth from, not a bad man, but certainly not an admirable one, into the Savior of the world. Portraying a Jesus who struggles can be a tricky thing, but too often in film we get a Jesus who is not relatable because everything comes so easily to him.

This raises a second objection: That this Jesus is frequently doubtful, confused, and uncertain regarding his identity and purpose. He realizes only gradually that he is the Messiah, and explains to Judas that his message seems inconsistent because God’s revelation of the plan is somewhat fuzzy and limited. Telford approaches this charge with a double fistful of Bible verses which portray a Jesus who is ambiguous, a bit contradictory, and above all, human. What makes him the Christ in this film, however, (and perhaps in the Gospels as well) is his heroic victory over his own humanity, “of spirit over flesh.”

Part of what drives the narrative (as it unfolds in this film) is that Jesus doesn’t always know what will happen next, even when we do. Strangely, if anything, this only adds to the power of the scenes drawn explicitly from the Gospels, particularly Jesus’ temptation in the desert (which does depart considerably from Scripture in its specifics) and his resurrection of Lazarus (which is the most dramatic rendition I have witnessed).

Jesus begins his ministry by ad-libbing the Sermon on the Mount to the group that was just about to stone Mary Magdalene, but eventually comes to realize that events are leading, as they must, to his death. The longer he follows God, the more in-tune he becomes to what he is supposed to do. Ultimately, this leads him to convince a reluctant Judas that his greatest act of love and loyalty will be one of betrayal.

This leads to the titular last temptation experienced by Jesus as he hangs on the cross, surrounded by the groans of the two criminals on either side and the mocking shouts of the crowd. He is approached by a young girl who claims to be his guardian angel, and she helps him down from the cross (no one notices that he has disappeared) and explains that, just as Isaac was saved from the sacrificial blade at the last moment, so God is sparing his life. To his immense and visible relief, she reveals that he is not the Messiah after all, just an ordinary man caught up in extraordinary events.

This guardian angel leads him to a peaceful cottage where Mary Magdalene is waiting to marry him and tend to his wounds. This brings us to the third (and, no doubt, most emotionally-charged objection) that the Jesus of the film is “sexualized.” That is, he is physically attracted to women, chiefly Mary Magdalene, whom he actually impregnates during this extended dream/vision sequence in the final act. However, Telford points out that this takes place within the context of marriage and for the specific purpose of procreation, and it is clear that Jesus is tempted, not by a sexual fantasy, but by a domestic one. As a man (and a young man at that), he feels a desire to live a full life complete with a wife, children, and a home. Sex is incidental.

Jesus experiences a lifetime during these moments on the cross, living to an old age surrounded by loving women and by his many children. But, as he lays on his deathbed, chaos erupts outside and a few of his disciples, by now quite old as well, arrive to see him one last time. Peter is deferential as always, but Judas is furious with Jesus for abandoning his mission at the critical moment, and thus cheapening Judas’s own sacrifice in agreeing to betray him. He reveals that the guardian angel, who has stayed by Jesus’ side throughout the long years, is Satan, who has snatched victory from the jaws of defeat by tempting Jesus from his post.

In response, Jesus struggles off of the bed and pulls himself across the floor and outside, where he begs God for another chance to finish what he started. As he cries out amidst the screaming and fire all around him, he “wakes up” and finds himself still on the cross. Presumably only a few moments have passed. Filled with a new resolve, Jesus draws himself up enough to finally proclaim “It is accomplished.”

The sense of genuine accomplishment that flows from the screen during this final moment of the film is indescribable. What remains for anyone familiar with the New Testament is a stunning portrait of a Savior who, being fully man even as he was fully God, fought heroically and overcame the temptations that all of us struggle with in order to complete his divine task. Given its length and depth, there are many other aspects of the film, both technical and theological, that are worthy of attention and discussion, but the film’s central purpose and most significant accomplishment is in showing that Jesus’ death on the cross was itself a significant accomplishment.

Posted in Reflections, Reviews

Jesus of Montreal begins with a suicide, or so it appears. The act is actually staged as the dramatic finale of a stage play, but we only realize this as the man appears to dangle from the end of the rope and the audience (previously unseen and unheard) erupts into applause. It is a humorous and disorienting moment for the film audience, and it immediately prepares them to look deeper as they continue watching; not everything may be what it seems at first.

It’s an apt place to begin a contemporary retelling of the story of Jesus, particularly one in which conventional, orthodox notions of who he was are occasionally challenged. In the film, a Catholic priest hires a celebrated local actor, Daniel Coulombe, to update and stage the Passion play his church has put on every summer for the past 40 years. The priest, Father Leclerc, expects Daniel to make the play more relevant to modern audiences, and perhaps draw in people who might not otherwise attend. Both men achieve what they set out for, but (of course) the results surprise them both.

Before production can seriously begin, Daniel has to assemble a troupe of “disciples” who are compatible with his vision for the play. However, the actors are recruited from unexpected places. For instance, one is busy dubbing a porn film when Daniel approaches him, though he heeds the (casting) call and leaves to follow Daniel in the middle of the recording session.

The most-developed of these followers is a beautiful young actress named Mireille, who Daniel finds filming an ad for an expensive perfume. She agrees to take on the role of Mary, despite the cruel insistence of her boyfriend that her acting talent is solely a factor of her sex appeal. She enjoys the change in self-perception that comes from stepping into a role that isn’t designed to display her like a piece of meat, and when trouble arises later she is the most insistent that the group forge ahead. She has begun to see herself in a way that she never has, and she can’t bear to think of returning to the way things were before.

Of course, the most dramatic events revolve around Daniel’s experiences. There is an early scene where Daniel is researching his character in the library. A stranger, a woman, approaches him and says, “You are looking for Jesus? He will find you.” As Daniel puts the play together, and then takes on the central role night after night, he begins to “live into his role.” What began as a job “becomes a vocation” (as Robert Johnston explains in Reel Spirituality).

He finds himself in trouble with authorities after his outrage over the demeaning treatment of Mireille at an audition for a beer commercial leads him to destroy thousands of dollars worth of equipment and chase the offending parties out of the auditorium. Meanwhile, the unexpected success of his passion play prompts a local advertising mogul to offer him the opportunity to “sell out” and have the entire city in the palm of his hand. Daniel himself seems a bit surprised by his response to these situations.

All of these extreme, life-changing events which the characters experience successfully mirror the lives of people in the Gospels. Again and again, contact with Christ not only proves to be life-changing, but is transformative in such a way that the person cannot imagine returning to the life they lived before. In Jesus of Montreal, the story of Jesus is invested with that power to change lives in startling and unlikely ways.

At the same time, just as Daniel’s Passion play reaches new audiences in new ways, the film audience’s experience of watching him take on the role of Christ in his own life can challenge perceptions and shed new light on the story as well. A traditional retelling of the biblical account of Jesus’s life can seem drab and familiar, even when rendered dramatically on film, but by changing the details, the filmmakers can bring the heart of the story into the spotlight once more.

Then, too, at such a temporal and cultural distance, it is easy to lose sight of just how revolutionary and counterintuitive Jesus and his message were to the people in and near 1st-century Jerusalem. When Daniel breaks up the beer commercial audition, for example, we are reminded of the divide between what is culturally acceptable and what is morally acceptable, and of how shocking it must have been when Jesus drove the merchants from the temple.

Incidentally, Jesus of Montreal, like the Jesus of the Gospels, has some things to say about organized religion (in this case the Catholic rather than the Jewish faith, naturally). In this case, the presence of the church is actually more of an absence. In the few scenes which show the interior of the sanctuary it is always empty. Despite the ornate beauty of the architecture and decorations, this church is spiritually dead. The revival is going on outside its walls.

This brings us to Father Leclerc, the most church’s most visible representative. He is furious with Daniel after he sees the play for the first time, but his reasons are somewhat surprising. He is not upset with Daniel’s modifications to the official Jesus narrative because he believes it is blasphemous or heretical, but because he knows his superiors will. Leclerc has long-since ceased to be a believer, but he continues to go through the motions as the head of his church because he is afraid of losing his job and having nothing left to fall back on. The actors encourage him to join them, promising to accept him and do what they can for him, but he is too afraid.

The conflict between Daniel and Leclerc reaches its peak when Leclerc orders the other actors to return to performing his original script and they refuse. Furious, he storms inside the church and Daniel follows him to have it out. The two argue about the play, and Leclerc accuses Daniel of interfering with his ministry to the congregation. He claims to offer a sanctuary and a listening ear to people who cannot afford to visit a psychiatrist. However, it is clear that the comfort he offers is as empty as his faith, and as the church itself.

The actors, after sharing a “last supper” of pizza, decide to put on one last performance for the public. In the midst of the crucifixion scene, an altercation between a group of guards and some members of the audience leads to an accident which fatally injures Daniel. However, he lives on in two important ways. First, his friends donate his organs to the hospital, and they are transplanted into several waiting patients (restoring sight for one woman, extending the life of a man in need of a new heart, etc.). Second, an organization is set up in his name, with the actors who worked with him agreeing to take charge of it and ensure that it adheres to his principles.

This is the weakest portion of the movie, as the circumstances surrounding Daniel’s death and legacy seem a bit forced for the sake of their Gospel parallels, and hence a bit unbelievable. However, the film as a whole sheds some powerful light on the question of what Jesus’ approach to society and culture might look like now, perhaps opening the viewer’s eyes to see the world a bit differently and understand some of the importance and uniqueness of Christ’s message in a new and relevant way.

Posted in Reflections, Reviews