Archive Review: Matrix Revolutions (2003)

Since I've done nothing other than cover deep foreign movies, I thought – in an act of mercy – I'd throw in this review from a slightly more popular movie. This was written after seeing the film in the theater for the first time.

Dir: Andy Wachowski/Larry Wachowski

It is wholly unfair to gauge either of The Matrix sequels against their 1999 predecessor. Somewhere, back before “bullet-time,” we had not imagined the hybrid of techno-club culture and hong-Kong wire effects. But now this is all familiar territory and the remaining question is whether the peculiar parallel world created by the brothers Wachowski will be nearly as interesting as it seemed a few years ago.

The leather trilogy began with an homage to Alice in Wonderland but ends here with a highly-stylized abstraction of a video game. Visually, the Metropolis landscapes are riveting. Still, they feel like backdrops — even matte paintings — suggesting great imagination, but wholly inorganic. Of course, given the plot lines and history of the world, this may be intentional. But every hero story, especially those that are supposed to be about great acts of salvation, must make us care for both hero and victim. Instead, Revolutions is relentless posturing and exaggeration. There are no people in this movie. Zion, the refuge of true humanity, is somehow less warm than the digital cities. Its demolition seems no more tragic than the closing of a Starbucks.

Few movies are so successfully and unapologetically about style. Then again, few have the capability to rely on pure atmosphere. The Wachowskis' landscape remains unequaled. The action sequences continue to be astounding. But with all the hype, with all the quasi-philosophy introduced in the first two installments, something is altogether hollow. Perhaps the tagline—"Everything that has a beginning has an end"—sums up the film. It sounds profound but is sheer redundancy. This is a movie about indulgent pretension, acting like a clever group of undergraduates volleying meaning-of-life questions while playing Halo.

Revolutions, if it is has a point, is about conclusion. It is all about arriving at some finality. However, all sense of urgency and momentum is derived from the previous two installments. Anyone who enjoyed those films will be required to watch the third. Maybe true satisfaction comes from the utter shallowness of the chapter. There isn’t a need for another movie. Whatever happens to humanity and the machine world is really irrelevant because by the time Neo has fought his climactic battle nothing is really worth saving. The mystery of The Matrix was how it convinced us that there was reality to its universe in the first place.

*** of *****

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Some thoughts on Bergman

It's probably not great promotion to tip my hand so early - long before a program actually hits the ether - but, this seems as good a time as any to reflect on Ingmar Bergman. Over the last two months, my wife and I have watched eleven Bergman films in preparation for the next Watching The Directors podcast. Along the way, we were confronted by a surprising barrage of talent, humanism, thought and light. It's not the discovery of anything new - people have know that Bergman's films were significant long before our little podcast attempted to fill 75 minutes of commuter time. But somehow, there's a sense that we stumbled upon a secret.

Perhaps the greatest single-word description of what Bergman offers is "substance." His films, even an eighty minute chamber piece like Winter Light, seem more thoughtful, deliberate, impassioned and honest than most films that need three hours and eighty million dollars. Perhaps Bergman understands something about character and story - that a real story, with a touch of poetic and production embellishment - will stand long after the effects and blitz of the blockbuster.

Now, before this comes off as elitism - some statement that only foreign films are real films, it's probably worth clarifying that Bergman's "real" stories do not require sparse surroundings. The effectiveness of something as grand as The Lord of the Rings wasn't merely spectacle. It worked because it had something that large movies often lose: truth. The characters - hobbits and wizards - were grounded in truth. They existed in a world where integrity had consequences and personality made a difference. They sacrificed for one another and wept at the fear of losing life and friendship. The goal may have been to save the world, but it was a real world with beer and food and families.

Bergman is a naturalist. His characters behave with subtlety and frailty. There's something familiar and positively accurate about them. But still, Bergman isn't above the exaggeration and manipulation essential to great filmmaking. His camera moves are intended to draw us into a feeling of claustrophobia, terror or loneliness. His positioning of actors and objects creates energy and tension. Bergman is a master in the same way Shakespeare was: not that they came up with deeply original stories, but they captured the beauty and horror in common stories and decorated them with genius.

Of course all films can't exist at this level. If every film was Autumn Sonata or The Silence, we would all go mad from the sheer intensity of life. There's room for Michael Bay, Brett Ratner and John Hughes, just as there's room for Grisham and Chrichton. What an artist like Bergman does is remind us of the transcendence of philosophy, religion, love and great music. He captures something rare and fleeting, but important and deeply humanistic.

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Review: Winter Light (1962)

Dir: Ingmar Bergman

In a Kids in the Hall skit, the comedy troupe creates a faux Italian film, a Fellini-esque exaggeration that rips on American films: "Always with the happy ending." The rise of the indie film, and the success of the R rating have both muted this caricature. But it is true, American films are predominantly comedies - at least in the technical sense of the word – “always with the happy ending.”

If this stereotype has any truth then the inverse, the idea that foreign films are all tragedies, may also have some basis in fact. Ingmar Bergman has done little to tear down the impression of artsy, melancholic films about the harshness and isolation of life. Winter Light appears to be an archetype of such a perspective. Yet, appearances, like the pristine Swedish winter, can be deceiving.

Winter Light tells the tale of a pastor and his remarkably small group of parishioners. Pastor Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand) presides over the conclusion of a church service, and then retires to his study where he engages his agnostic mistress Märta (Ingrid Thulin), the hopeful hunchback Algot (Allan Edwall) and the suicidal fisherman, Jonas (Max von Sydow). The small cast is matched with a small story. This is simply a three hour Sunday afternoon between services. However, in that time, the pastor loses faith, a man loses his life, a woman is widowed, another woman is harshly scorned and a simple man gives a beautiful reflection on the Passion.

In a counseling session between Pastor Ericsson and Jonas, we learn that Jonas is there only for a shred of hope, a reason not to kill himself. This plea exposes Ericsson's own emptiness. He has nothing to offer except his own questions of whether life is worth living. The meeting concludes with Jonas quietly leaving the room and the pastor quoting Jesus on the cross: "God. Why has thou forsaken me?"

This scene - joined with the subtlest and most precise piece of camera work since Citizen Kane - is both painful and poetic. The pastor is left with a sense of temporary peace, as if finally freed from the requirement to believe. He is free to say and do anything he wishes, no longer bound by either his fantasy of God's goodness or his puzzlement over God's mystery. The world simply is what it is, without mystery or purpose, without judgment or objective.

Though seen as a lesser, rougher work by cinematographer Sven Nykvist, the photography creates another character. The English title Winter Light (as opposed to the literal Swedish title - Naatvardsgasterna - "the communicants") speaks of the way that such coldness and brilliance cooperate. There is almost a paradox to the idea: the deadness of winter against the clarity of light. Nykvist, Bergman and Björnstrand keep this tension throughout the film, never tempted to place faith and nihilism against one another. Instead, they must exist. In the cruel, harsh world it is easy to see only the winter. In the church it is easy to see only the woodwork, the images and tales of a loving and benevolent God. In this work, as in much of Bergman's corpus, faith is not clean.

Ericsson's loss of faith, as a duty to his profession and his parents, is said to have paralleled Bergman's own realization that his childhood faith was abandoned. Yet, perhaps this too is overly simple. Bergman, like the pastor, does not leave religion so easily, for with him and his characters, God is a constant presence, even in his absence. It is this loss of faith from another period of life - whether in childhood or the assumed religion of culture - that one is finally freed to believe. Winter Light, despite its tragic plot, is a testament to finding belief in a new way, through a simple reminder of the stories that still hold true and the God that is hidden in the cold and the light.

****1/2 of *****

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Review: Ordet (1955)

Arts and Faith ranks Ordet (The Word), Carl Dreyer's penultimate work, as its premiere selection on its list of spiritually significant films. There's something provocative about that ranking, like it must be the one film that every spiritually curious film watcher must see. Considering that Dreyer is also responsible for The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), it's hard to imagine him producing a more significant, more spiritual film. I'm not sure that Ordet towers over Joan, but it is different, vital and well worth watching.

The story centers on two Danish families in the 1920s, both with differing concepts of faith. This distinction isn't anything as obvious as Catholic - Protestant. Presumably it's Reformed and Free Church, which is probably enough diversity for its time. Much like the better Woody Allen films, several subplots converge into an overall theme: the question of faith, in a generic Protestant Christian sense. It isn't about any particular doctrines other than a refutation of God's absence and the possibility of miracles.

The subplots are where the drama distinguishes itself. The governing character, Morten Borgen, patriarch of the Borgen family and lord of Borgen farm, is a man of particular devotion. He is conflicted in his purity of faith, desiring to keep a firmness but always undermined by his affection for his children. Morten sits in conflict with Peter Petersen, the leader of a small band of religious experientialists. Petersen is convinced of the exclusive orthodoxy of his religion, telling Borgen that he is hell-bound and needs to join and convert. Like "Romeo and Juliet", the families' divisions are emphasized by a romance between Anders Borgen and Anne Petersen.

The other two brothers of the Borgen family accentuate the religious obsession. Mikkal is an agnostic, patient with his father's faith but unimpressed. He is a good man and seems the most steady of the cast, apart from his devout wife Inger. Mikkal's brother Johannes is a theology student who over immersed in Kierkegaard. His spiritual quest consumed him until he lapsed into a mental state with a serious identity problem: Johannes is convinced he is the second coming of Jesus. He mopes around the house, quoting scripture.

The plot comes into focus through a conflict between Morten and Peter over the forbidden romance. Inger, who is about to deliver Mikkal’s first son, interrupts the bitter exchange. Her pregnancy becomes complicated and questions about the survival of the baby and Inger dominate the remaining half of the film. It is in the wake of such turmoil that the faith and agnosticism of the characters become tested. They must all face what they know to be true, all with Johannes becoming more mystical and challenging the quality of the Borgens's belief.

Other than having religious themes, Ordet has very little in common with Dreyer's Joan. That earlier film was abstract and frenetic. It was full of drama and venom, expressionist in concept and design. Ordet is methodical and plain, taken from a stage play by Kaj Munck. It suffers from the source material as a film, staged and shot with long uninterrupted shots. It has more in common with Hitchcock's Under Capricorn than Dreyer's silent work. But that change in style and pacing serves the film. Around the hour mark, the background development begins to elevate the story. The pacing and conflict increase and moments of music and silence play against one another.

While the first half of the film is deliberate and thoughtful, it is with the second half that those investments become valuable. Will Johannes regain his sanity? Will Ann and Anders be allowed to marry; will Peter and Morten settle their feud? Will Inger, Mikkal and the baby survive?

The test of a great film is not only in the questions it is willing to ask, but how it ultimately confronts those questions. Ordet isn't content to simply inquire, but has the courage to confront questions. That isn't to say that it provides simple or satisfying answers, but the film concludes with conviction and decisiveness. Dreyer's Ordet is a truly compelling and rewarding film, as full of pathos and angst as anything Bergman produced, but saturated in the warmth and possibility that made another Danish film, Babette's Feast, such an endearing work.

****1/2 of *****

Notes:
1. Birgitte Federspiel (Inger), also plays one of the elderly sisters in Babette's Feast.
2. This is a difficult film to find. For some reason neither Netflix nor Blockbuster stock it. It is, however, available for purchase at reasonable prices from Criterion.

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Film: True and True-ish

While developing the Watching Theology podcast, I expected to be a bigger defender of using the arts to think through theology. Although that is partly the case, I've found a few problems with the approach.

As a person who spends a disproportionate amount of time with movies, I'm at odds with the medium. On one hand, film offers the culmination of a number of art forms - writing, visual and music. It tells stories in ways that were completely impossible only a century ago. Since my generation is addicted to stories, film plays into an insatiable appetite. They are convenient ways to satisfy blunt attention spans while making me believe I've learned something.

Film, like other visual arts, is about shades and moods - not precision. We can flock to a movie portrait of William Wallace (Braveheart) or the Persian/Spartan war (300) and come away with a hint of some truth. We cannot, however, trust that hint. It isn't something we can defend as fact. Even in Carl Dreyer's landmark The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), which says that all dialogue is taken from court transcripts, the viewer understands that the film interprets. It does not record.

Some of my favorite films are biographies: A Man Called Peter (Peter Marshall), Luther and the aforementioned Passion of Joan. But, even in the most faithful telling, I know I'm getting an interpretation - an idea of an artist's concept of a person. There's nothing more unnerving than hearing actual tapes of C.S. Lewis's voice, disappointed that he wasn't a bit more like Anthony Hopkins (Shadowlands).

As unlimited as the films are in the ability to depict people and places, they are constantly confined to a certain language and palette. Like other stories, they can convey truthfulness, but have limits on truth. Films can be real, capturing an indescribable angst or impulse, but they have difficulty with details - with precise technical language.

Several theologies of the late twentieth century have capitalized on the power of the arts, but have forgotten limitations. As we speak about getting truth from a film or song, we tend to forget that the truthfulness isn't very detailed. Worship music conveys the idea of emotional interaction with the Divine, but it rarely goes beyond mood.

My fear of films comes from their power, especially after Gibson's The Passion of the Christ (2004) created a frenzy of hyperbole and adoration. There were stories about encountering Jesus in a personal and real way "that had never happened before." People were coming away from the film believing they knew more about Jesus and the heart of Christianity. In truth, they knew more about Mel Gibson. Was there truth in the art? Of course. But that truth was limited. In some points, it was anti-factual.

Christianity remains a religion of the word. It is doctrinal and even has this strange devotion to preaching - through speaking texts and propositional statements. At some level, this seems like an outdated idea, but perhaps it's always been that way. St. Paul refers to preaching as "foolishness", so maybe the people of his day were no less enticed by poetry, music and plays than we are by The Matrix.

But Christianity's dependence upon written texts is undeniable. Art has always been supplemental to Christianity; it has never had authority. As such, the new dependence upon the arts, even for teaching, is tangential. When it takes the front position - as it did in much of Europe a few centuries ago - it disorients and obscures. It's an assistant, but not a reliable guide.

Like it or not, Christianity is bound to things like theology, doctrine, creeds and confessions. The movies - even the really good ones - can bring us someplace, maybe even to a place that feels more real than any biblical story. But they are ultimately missing the ability to comfort that comes from exact words - promises. The texts let us know, while the arts can make us feel. Of course, feelings can be a good thing - if they're based on truth. Otherwise, they're just drugs.

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Archive Review: Spiderman 2 (2004)

Note: Seeing as Spiderman 3 has opened this weekend, it seemed like a good time to dig back into the archives for this review of Spiderman 2, from a few summers ago.

Dir: Sam Raimi

It seems that Spiderman 2 was already classified as one of the premier films of summer 2004 long before any eye saw a frame. It had to be, for the very same reason as the original Spiderman. The forerunner was touted as an exceptional work of psychological brilliance based on one of the most universally beloved heroes of the comic universe. That story was about maturation and character development. It was about the person inside the suit, and was able to treat the young viewer and his or her chaperone.

So far the Spiderman franchise has been content to revisit the themes of superhero films established most firmly with the Christopher Reeves-era Superman, though with an added level of depth and competence. Still, perhaps the most surprising aspect of the whole sequel is that no lawyer associated with the Superman films sued for intellectual plagiarism.

Spiderman 2, like Superman 2, is the story of the reluctant hero - the struggle between the costume and the normal life. Peter Parker (Toby McGuire) is torn between his guilt-based sense of responsibility – the deep conviction that Spiderman is the protector of the innocent – and a personal desire to pursue life with a girl (Mary Jane, played by Kirsten Dunst). It is, with no real sense of irony, that the endangered girl ultimately draws Peter back to the costume.

In an age of absentee masculinity and indifferent anti-heroes, this self-sacrificial story seems both healthy and needed. Perhaps it is. But at the end of the day, there is nothing particularly surprising - nothing really risked in the sacrifice. Like most concepts of screen heroes, no act of benevolence goes unpaid. Is Peter Parker really required to give up Mary Jane? Does he forever have to forsake any life outside of duty? No. He must simply learn to be a better time manager and get others to cooperate.

Spiderman 2 offers unusually good acting, a reliable story-line, and an embellished special effects budget. This is the hope of every parent who’s adolescent boy is looking for a franchise. Spiderman is significantly more wholesome than Neo (Matrix) or James Bond. But there is only so much self-suffering that one should have to witness unless watching a Swedish film. The circumstances of existential doubt and debate get overly heavy. It’s difficult to remember if McGuire ever has a joy-filled smile in the whole film. If the hero doesn’t have any fun, why should the viewer?

***1/2 of *****

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Review: The Virgin Spring (1960)

Dir: Ingmar Bergman

An old Depeche Mode song questions the goodness of God in the realities of life. It imagines the death of a young girl, among other tragedies. Eventually, the song can only draw the conclusion that God is somehow sadistic: "I don't want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that God's got a sick sense of humour, and when I die, I expect to find him laughing." The British pop band may have seen The Virgin Spring, a movie intent to display the same dilemna of the brutality of an everyday existence and the apparent absence of God from His own creation. But if it drew only the conclusion that God was enjoying the evils of life, those artists missed the fullness of another artist's - namely Ingmar Bergman's - more devotional and faith-filled question.

Max Van Sydow rejoins Bergman as, Töre, the knight-father in this retelling of a thirteenth-century ballad. Töre's daughter is on a traditional pilgrimage to light candles at a distant church. Along the way, her innocence and optimism are betrayed. She is raped (in a surprisingly graphic presentation) and killed. Her body is left in the woods, robbed of all wealth and decency. Her violators leave the woods, unwittingly arriving at her family home for shelter.

There is a degree of dramatic tension from the moment the small band of murdering brothers arrives at the home. The story is still loose and in the formulation of plot, there's always the possibility that the brothers are found out and The Virgin Spring becomes a tale of vengeance. Then again, perhaps the brothers escape, only to be discovered later, long after they are free from the roof and reach of the bereaved father.

But either line would stunt what is actually a more ambitious, and more personal film. Bergman isn't telling this story to create a balance of justice in the universe, to answer some question about the innocent and the guilty. He means to ask a question that plagued him throughout his filmography: "Where is God?"

This is the question that the mother must ask, the question that Töre must face, especially in light of all that such violence and arbitrary loss must cost. If one can't trust their innocent daughter to be protected by God on a pilgrimage of faith, can one trust God for anything?

Perhaps the most notable aspect of the film is its tone. It is the very mark of quietness, yet remains a savagely violent film. Somehow, with Bergman, these two tracks are not contradictory. The still, religious life at the end of winter gives the film an air of peace and contemplation. But the events within this world are so aggressive, impassioned and harmful, that the stillness almost seems to be a divine facade, a distracting and disarming attempt by the Creator to mask the brutality of His creation.

The Virgin Spring is the epitome of the depressing foreign film, but it - like the very atmosphere of stillness and violence - is held in deep tension with an underlying devotion and goodness. It contains a hint of optimism and redemption, though only after the height of disappointment and sin. It is, at once, sin and forgiveness, freely engaged with the most persistent questions of religious thought. The Virgin Spring is a tale of contemplation and devotion, utterly fearless in it's humble attempts to ask God where He is in the world He created.

****1/2 of *****

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