Avatar

starring Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana, and Sigourney Weaver
written & directed by James Cameron
Rated PG-13 for intense epic battle sequences and warfare, sensuality, language and some smoking.
94%

Paraplegic former marine Jake Sully (Worthington) arrives on the alien world of Pandora to join an ongoing military/industrial operation. As a genetic match for his dead twin’s “avatar,” a genetically-created alien body remotely controlled by a human operator, Jake will be part of a team of scientists, led by Dr. Grace Augustine (Weaver), whose task is to learn about the native Na’vi race inhabiting the planet. Secretly recruited by the ruthless Colonel Quaritch to spy on the aliens, Jake’s loyalties are soon divided after he is saved by Neytiri (Saldana), the daughter of a Na’vi clan leader, and begins to gain acceptance in the alien society.

To call Avatar a thinly-veiled parable about European exploitation of Native Americans, told by way of movies like Disney’s Pocahontas, would be misleading; the word “veiled” implies a cover-up, while Avatar wears its allusions (cliches?) proudly and openly (even as it subtly rewrites a few). Anyone who has seen a historical film involving Native Americans in the last twenty years will immediately recognize that Avatar isn’t going to win any awards for telling an original or unpredictable story. Nevertheless, this is arguably the most epic and immersive big-budget attempt at world-building since the final installment of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy was released six years ago, and it compellingly demonstrates a large step forward for digital filmmaking technology. And it’s pretty darned entertaining, to boot.

There are plenty of complaints one could register about this film. In some ways it even invites them. But all of them miss the point. Picking on this movie’s thin plotting and flat character development is kind of like being a passenger on the first commercial airplane flight and complaining that the seats are too hard and the in-flight peanuts are too salty. You’re flying through the air in a giant man-made bird. How about taking a look out the window? James Cameron has literally dreamed up an entire planet, populated with fully-realized landscapes, flora, and fauna out of his imagination, and then invented the technology that would allow him to take the rest of us for a visit. I’m willing to forgive him for skimping a little on the story he tells us when we get there.

One of the amazing things about Avatar is its self-confidence and its complete commitment to the world of Pandora. A lesser artist, or one intent on cutting corners, would cover up imperfections with shadows, long shots, and quick cuts. Cameron, however, allows us time and time again to examine Pandora’s exotic inhabitants in well-lit, tight close-ups, and sometimes even in slow-motion. This is the work of a director who has nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. He knows that audiences will want a good look, and he is more than happy to oblige. Similarly, Jake Sully, unlike many fantasy and science fiction heroes who find themselves in strange and unusual environments, doesn’t take his surroundings for granted. He gawks and gapes, and exhibits an infectious joy in the environment surrounding him. Pandora is unlike anything he has ever seen or experienced, and the same goes for the audience.

These scenes are the film’s greatest strength, fitting right in with other memorable moments of technologically-created wonders like the first glimpse of Steven Spielberg’s digitally-created dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, bullet-time in The Matrix, and the giant clashing armies of Lord of the Rings. To that list I would add Jake’s first flight on his “Banshee” mount, a scene that is glorious, exhilarating, and totally convincing. The high-flying action in Avatar is so immersive, especially in 3D, that it may invoke mild cases of acrophobia.

By the time Avatar moves into its third act, the storytelling is on autopilot. The movie delivers an action-packed final battle that perfunctorily hits all of the notes I came in expecting it to hit. But, if there are no surprises to be had in the final hour, it still can’t be denied that the movie delivered exactly what I paid to see. The finale is no less thrilling for being predictable. In fact, that description sums up perfectly my oxymoronic take-home feeling about this film as a whole.

Yet, despite the shallowness of the storytelling, audiences attuned to theological concepts will note a strange affinity between Avatar and the writings of the Apostle Paul. It would be a mistake to read too deeply, but as Jake slowly begins to put aside his old, crippled human body and take on the form of the graceful, athletic Na’vi, he also begins to reject his human vices (selfishness, dishonesty, pride) in favor of Na’vi virtues (compassion, respect, community). All of this puts me in mind of Paul’s advice to the early church to “put off the old self” and “put on the new self” (Ephesians 4:22-24, Colossians 3:9-10). Audiences will come to Avatar to experience the adventure and the excitement of visiting another world, but they may just leave with more than they expected.

Theological Moviegoings: Babette’s Feast

Babette’s Feast is so quiet and understated that it is easy to forget what a glorious little film it really is. There is beauty and a deceptive simplicity, but also great depth and meaning, in this story about the spiritual renewal of a fading sect of elderly Lutherans on the barren Jutland coast. Actually, the fable-like tale is rather slight, essentially providing important background information to set up the titular meal, which takes up the final third of the movie.

Two elderly sisters, Martina and Philippa, dutifully carry on the spiritual legacy of their father, a tradition built on asceticism, regularly convening his tiny congregation to discuss his teachings and serving their little community as best they can. They are aided in their task by a French servant named Babette, whose presence is explained through a series of flashbacks which briefly outline the sisters’ lives. Regarded as great beauties in their youth, each sister is courted by a glamorous visitor to their small village.

Martina is courted by Lorenz Lowenhielm, a dashing young soldier who has been sent to stay with his elderly aunt as a sort of punishment for his large gambling debts. Enticed by Martina’s beauty, Lowenhielm begins attending her father’s prayer meetings, but eventually he decides to return to his own world. As the years go by, he proves adept as both a military man and at court and rises to the rank of general. On the night of the feast, he has returned to visit his aunt (who must be well over 100 by now, but nevermind), and so he finds himself sitting at Martina’s table once again, this time under very different circumstances.

Meanwhile, Philippa is courted by Achille Papin, a celebrated French opera singer who is lured into the village church service by the sound of her voice. He immediately goes to her father and offers to give voice lessons, but it soon becomes clear that he is not interested in her for musical reasons alone. Eventually, Philippa grows uncomfortable with Papin’s romantic lyrics and promises of stardom in Paris, and she asks her father to discontinue the lessons. Papin returns to Paris, dejected. However, some years later, he sends Babette to seek shelter with the two sisters when she is forced to flee Paris.

With all of these elements in place, the stage is set for what is to come. The old minister has been dead for many years, but a loyal group of elderly villagers still meets faithfully to discuss his teachings. With his 100th birthday approaching, his daughters want to have a modest celebration in his honor. Their quiet plans are somewhat derailed, however, when Babette discovers that she has won 10,000 francs in the lottery and insists on treating the sisters and their friends to a proper birthday feast. Martina and Philippa feel that they cannot deny Babette this, the first favor she has ever asked of them, but they resolve (along with their father’s other disciples) not to take any pleasure in the decadent meal.

Babette’s Feast is constructed around this tension between the spirit and the flesh, a conflict most Christians understand all too well. The sisters and their friends live a very simple life, partially due to circumstances, but also by choice. The old minister has taught them that only the spirit is pure, while the flesh is evil and its  pleasures are wholly corrupt and sinful. As a result, they have rejected earthly comforts in pursuit of higher things. The world they inhabit is cold and gray and empty of joy, and director Gabriel Axel spends most of the film avoiding bright colors, even keeping scenes with candlelight to a minimum until the evening of the feast. As the guests arrive, the film is suddenly bathed in a warm, cozy glow, as if preparing us for the transformation of this small community. They take their places around the table, stony-faced and firm in their resolve not to enjoy themselves.

As dish after dish comes out and fine wine is poured, the guests chew and swallow mechanically, as though they encountered this sort of meal every day. As if to encourage one another and avoid temptation, they piously quote the minister’s words to one another: “Man shall not only refrain from, but also reject any thought of food and drink. Only then can he eat and drink in the proper spirit.” General Lowenhielm, the only one present who can genuinely recognize and appreciate the magnificence of the meal, is simultaneously baffled by their reaction and enraptured by the food in front of him.

Aside from Babette herself, Lowenhielm is the most intriguing character in the film. His brief experience with the minister’s sect in this remote outpost seems to have pushed him to the opposite extreme from the day-to-day life of the ascetics. Cynically using what he learned to manipulate the fashionable interest in religious piety at court facilitated his pursuit of wealth and power. There is a sense that he has lived every day to the fullest, experiencing everything that life on earth has to offer. He is a man who has accomplished everything he set out to achieve.

On the day of the feast, as he prepares to accompany his aunt to visit the woman he once loved, he stares at himself in the mirror and wonders whether he made the right decision all those years ago, believing that, somehow, his question will be answered during the course of the evening. “You must prove to me,” he tells his younger self, “that the choice I made was the right one.” In the end, his question will be answered, but in a way that he never expected.

As the meal goes on, the guests talk less and less, and they begin to beam at one another, quietly sharing the joy of the feast with a sense of true community that they do not seem to have experienced in some time. Meanwhile, Lowenhielm is deep in thought. At last, he taps his glass and stands to his feet to say a few words:

Mercy and truth have met together. Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another. Man, in his weakness and shortsightedness believes he must make choices in this life. He trembles at the risks he takes. We do know fear. But no. Our choice is of no importance. There comes a time when our eyes are opened and we come to realize that mercy is infinite. We need only await it with confidence and receive it with gratitude. Mercy imposes no conditions. And lo! Everything we have chosen has been granted to us. And everything we rejected has also been granted. Yes, we even get back what we rejected. For mercy and truth have met together, and righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.

The others likely do not fully understand the significance of his words, nor would they have been able to articulate their experience so well, but everyone seems to recognize that something profound has transpired. Lowenhielm has come to the table full of questions, and found that none of them matter in the light of divine love and grace. And, even though the others may not genuinely understand what has taken place that night, they are no less affected by it.

Throughout the film, the congregation is frequently shown singing a particular hymn about “Jerusalem, my heart’s true home.” Encapsulated in this line is the longing for Home keenly felt by this group of Christians. It is a longing for a place which, for them, cannot be experienced in their present life, but they obviously feel the lack of it. However, Babette, through the power of her artistic ability, brings the community together for a taste of precisely what they all desire. It is a profoundly spiritual experience which, unexpectedly, begins by satisfying fleshly appetites.

It is no surprise, then, to find that Babette’s character resonates so powerfully with Christlike significance. She is the source of the divine love, grace, and revelation felt and experienced by the twelve (yes, twelve) guests gathered for this symbolic meal. Her own pleasure (for she enjoys very little of the food she has prepared) is in serving those she has invited to the feast. And there are uninvited guest, as well. As the meal is served, Babette invites the General’s driver into the kitchen to partake of each dish, too. Her gift is not something which is extended only to a select elite, but to everyone.

In the final twist, as the sisters prepare to say farewell to Babette, they (and we) we learn that she has spent her entire winnings on the lavish feast, literally gifting the community with everything she has, and that she plans to stay on and serve the sisters as before. “But dear Babette,” they protest, “you should not have given all you owned for us.”

“It was not just for you,” Babette replies.

“Now you’ll be poor for the rest of your life.”

“An artist is never poor.” The film ends with the recognition that the sisters’ understanding of God was incomplete, and that Babette has blessed them and their Christian brothers and sisters with renewed fellowship through a kind of pleasure and joy which they had not expected to encounter in this life. As a film, Babette’s Feast offers similar blessings to any viewers who approach it with a willingness to receive its message of grace and community through artistic service.

Theological Moviegoings: The Mission

When I first saw The Mission a few years ago, I was shocked that I had not heard it spoken of more often. Here was a PG-rated (that is, “family-friendly”), Oscar-nominated film worthy of serious artistic and spiritual consideration. It beautifully and movingly tells the story of 18th-century Jesuit missionaries in South America, and of their struggle to protect indigenous people from enslavement and exploitation by greedy colonial governments with the tacit consent of the politically weak Catholic leadership.

Although it won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, The Mission lost a number of Oscars to Platoon, a film which is (among other things) far more uniformly critical of colonialism and its effects. By now, the conventional wisdom is that The Mission lacks the raw affective power of director Roland Joffé’s The Killing Fields (1984). Substantive criticism tends to focus on two things. First, that the film seems to sprawl across multiple loosely-connected storylines which never quite come together in a satisfying manner. Second, that despite its seemingly post-colonial point of view, The Mission still consistently privileges its European characters, in some sense effectively “othering” the natives as characters and as people.

The latter criticism is a fair one, in that it is well-worth being aware of the film’s priorities. Ultimately, though, what it amounts to above all is that Joffé has failed to make the movie that his critics would have made. Although The Mission ends with a call to action on behalf of the South American descendants of the natives in the movie, its central purpose is really to explore the choices faced by individual Christians when their spiritual values clash with the political needs of the institutionalized Church.

The former criticism is, more than anything, dependent on whether or not a particular viewer is caught up in the world of the film. There is, undeniably, a lot going on. Father Gabriel climbs a treacherous waterfall and treks deep into the jungle to plant a mission amidst a hostile tribe that has already made his predecessor a martyr. Meanwhile, Rodrigo prowls the same jungles, hunting natives to feed the profitable European slave trade while his lover carries on an affair with his brother. Finally, Altamirano arrives as the pope’s representative to decide whether or not the Church will continue to protect the Jesuit missions, although his choice seems predetermined. All of these subplots play out at a very deliberate pace, unfolding in their own compartmentalized segments before things begin to really come together.

From the opening moments of the film, we know the outcome of Altamirano’s visit. He dictates a letter to the pope which begins, “Your Holiness, the little matter that brought me here to the furthest edge of your light on earth is now settled, and the Indians are once more free to be enslaved by the Spanish and Portuguese settlers.” So much for suspense. Instead, the story becomes an extended flashback, with Altamirano’s voice-over to fill in period details. From amidst the web of thematic developments that weave their way towards resolution throughout The Mission, I would like to pluck three filaments as worthy of special attention: Rodrigo’s Pauline conversion, Altamirano’s dilemma, and the final philosophical clash between Rodrigo and Father Gabriel as the European soldiers advance on their remote mission.

Father Gabriel is the saintly hero of The Mission, but Rodrigo is its true protagonist. He is flawed character, and his spiritual struggles are easy to relate to. Not all of his actions are easy to sympathize with, perhaps most obviously the murder of his brother in a duel. It is this, at least, and not the ruthless enslavement of the native population, that leads him to a state of brokenness and ultimately salvation. Rodrigo’s temper leads him to do abhorrent things, but when it gets the better of him later, prompting him to challenge the lies of the Spanish and Portuguese colonial leaders, the audience secretly cheers.

We have a particular stake in Rodrigo’s spiritual journey, so potently symbolized by his struggle into the depths of the jungle dragging his weapons and armor as a burden behind him, because if even he can seek and find redemption, there is hope for everyone. The penance he undertakes is not suggested, or even encouraged, by the other Jesuits. In fact, one of the brothers even attempts to cut the burden free. From the standpoint of the Church, Rodrigo’s sins are already paid for, but he cannot be at peace with himself until he undertakes this task.

In doing so, Rodrigo at first rejects both the power of Christ’s atonement for his sins and the support of his Christian brothers, who stand ready to help carry him on his journey. However, when he reaches the top of the waterfall and confronts the people he has persecuted for so long, one of them steps forward and slices the armor free with his knife, pushing it off into the roiling water. Only then, as he weeps at this human reflection of divine grace, does Rodrigo realize that his own salvation is unconditional, not something to be earned through his own strength of body or of will.

However, Rodrigo’s journey from violent mercenary to Jesuit missionary is only half of the story. Complications arise with the arrival of Altamirano, who ought by rights to be the villain of this film. Instead, he wins our sympathy as it becomes more and more clear that he has no real power over the decision he was sent to make. His complacent cynicism, which had allowed him to rationalize that sometimes a limb must be hacked off in order to save the body, has left him completely unprepared for, as he puts it, “the beauty and the power of the limb [he has] come to sever.” Before his visit to the missions, he is detached and aloof; an impartial judge. Afterward, he is tormented, by turns delighted by what he sees, and horrified at what he must do to it.

Father Gabriel and the other Jesuits have come together with the jungle tribes to realize the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. It is the Church in its purest state, a peaceful commune devoted to worship and fellowship. Altamirano senses that perhaps he has not been sent merely to amputate a limb, but to carve out the very heart of the Church. Perhaps his very position shows that the heart of the Church has already stopped, and that what is left is a hollow shell made to dance, puppet-like, in support of the will of the State. In any case, although the outcome is inevitable, Altamirano begins to stall for time, praying for guidance even as he searches for a non-existent alternative.

The film’s last act centers on the destruction of the missions and the slaughter of their inhabitants. European troops arrive last at the smallest and most remote of the missions, where Father Gabriel and Rodrigo have argued heatedly over how to respond to their attackers. Rodrigo wishes to renounce his his vows and pick up his sword once again, while Father Gabriel is adamant that he must act as a priest, in love.

Although he refuses to endorse Rodrigo’s choice, Father Gabriel concedes that he must do what he thinks is right. “If might is right,” he says, “then love has no place in the world. It may be so, it may be so. But I don’t have the strength to live in a world like that, Rodrigo.” Ultimately, Rodrigo, along with some of the other priests and a large group of natives, make the advancing troops pay dearly for their victory, but it remains a resounding victory and all of them are slaughtered. Meanwhile, Father Gabriel leads the remaining natives in a worship service before they, too, are cut down by gunfire and bayonets.

When the Jesuits all stay behind to die at their posts, Altamirano is left to bear lonely witness to glory of the missions and the travesty that befell them, and to live with his own complicity in their destruction. (“Thus have we made the world,” he tells the colonial governors. “Thus have I made it.”) This is, in fact, the metanarrative of the film itself. It is Altamirano’s account, told for our benefit as a call to action. This is underscored by the film’s final frame, which appears after the credits have ended. Altamirano appears in close-up, staring solemnly out at the audience. Shattering the fourth wall, his gaze dares us to ignore what we have seen and challenges us with a vision of what the Church, for one brief moment in history, achieved when it genuinely undertook to live up to the radical teachings of the gospels.

Intermission: The Toy Story 3 Trailer

The Toy Story/Toy Story 2 double feature in 3D is about halfway through its theatrical run and I had a chance to catch it last night. I highly recommend the experience. I haven’t seen either film in several years, and I never actually saw the first Toy Story on the big screen. It was a fun and memorable night at the movies, and both films have held up beautifully on both a visual and narrative level. Definitely take the time to refresh your memory of these animated classics if you have the chance. It’s amazing to look back from here and remember that the first full-length CG film appeared just 14 years ago (I was 12). And yet, despite how far the medium has come (as Pixar continues to break new ground), that first foray still looks incredible.

Anyway, while you’re thinking, check out the new trailer for next year’s long-awaited continuation of the series: Toy Story 3. After watching the first two movies back-to-back, I’m really looking forward to whatever is in store for these characters next. Enjoy.

more about “Movie-List – Toy Story 3 Trailer Page“, posted with vodpod

A Man for All Seasons: Best Picture, 1966

The 39th Annual Academy Awards were hosted by Bob Hope. A Man for All Seasons was nominated for 8 Oscars: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor (Paul Scofield), Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Supporting Actor (Robert Shaw), Best Supporting Actress (Wendy Hiller), and Best Costume Design. It was not a very notable year in English-language cinema (although it saw the release of foreign masterpieces like The Battle of Algiers and Au hasard Balthazar). Quite the opposite, in some ways, as Cary Grant appeared in his final film, the amusing but trite Walk, Don’t Run.

The situation at the Oscars was an unusual one. Three of the Best Picture nominees (The Sand Pebbles, 8 nominations, Alfie, 5 nominations, The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming, 4 nominations) walked away empty-handed. There were only ever two front-runners, both adaptations of stage plays: A Man for All Seasons and the explosive Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (13 nominations, 5 wins). Of the awards they were competing for, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? got Best Supporting Actress and lost the rest. Best Supporting Actor went to Walter Matthau for The Fortune Cookie (4 nominations, 1 win), leaving A Man for All Seasons with 6.

The film, based on a Tony-award winning play by Robert Bolt (previously nominated for an Oscar for Lawrence of Arabia), follows the political fortunes of Thomas More from King Henry VIII’s initial bid to divorce Catherine of Aragon in about 1525 to his beheading in 1537. More, widely regarded as a man of incorruptible integrity by the entire country, is initially named as chancellor by the king in the hopes that More’s wisdom and reputation will be of use in procuring a divorce. However, it soon becomes clear that More has no intention of compromising his convictions or his loyalty to the Catholic church, and the king’s favor turns to annoyance and then to enmity.

In cinematic terms, A Man for All Seasons is a bit of a relic. It never really escapes the stagy feel of an adapted play, or transcends the generic look of period piece of the time (aside from a few noteworthy elements like the on-location bits at Hampton Court). It would simply lie there, quite forgettable, were it not based on such excellent material. While remaining accurate enough to keep grumbling historians quiet, Bolt transforms the story of More’s life into a sort of fable for the 20th-century humanist (and never-mind that More is the only character we are meant to care about).

At its heart, this is a story about a crisis of conscience. Specifically, the main character has one, and no one else does. Thomas More is a marvelous character study because he knows the demands of his conscience with such incredible precision, while at the same time possessing such a prudent and thorough knowledge of law that he can keep himself out of trouble (at least for a time). The audience (whether or not they completely agree with More’s principled stand) can remain sympathetic because More does not simply throw his life away in a defiant fit of pique. He clings to life almost as desperately as he clings to his beliefs, which makes his sacrifice all the more heroic.

There are two chief ways in which the filmmakers establish More’s exceptional moral character: by example and by contrast with other characters. There is a noteworthy scene early on where More accidentally accepts a bribe (a rich silver cup) from a woman whose case is awaiting his judgment. He has been up half the night, called to visit the current chancellor (Cardinal Wolsey) down the river at Hampton Court, and he is obviously not thinking clearly when she shoves the cup into his hands with a vague utterance and disappears into the crowd clamoring for his attention. Immediately after this, he refuses a basket of baked apples from an old couple, telling them that their daughter will receive “the same judgment I would give my own: a fair one, quickly.”

On the way back down the river, he finds an inscription on the bottom of the cup and throws it overboard in disgust. The shocked boatman is quick to rescue it, reminding him “That’s worth money, sir!” More settles the cup back into his lap, but when he finds Rich (a young man hoping for a position at court through More’s influence) waiting for him on the dock, he gives the cup to him as an object lesson in temptation and corruption and encourages him to take a position as a schoolteacher. “If I was [a great teacher], who would know it?” Rich wants to know. “You,” More replies, “your pupils, your friends. God. Not a bad public, that.”

Rich, however, is determined to sell his soul for a position of power, which leads him to conspire with Thomas Cromwell in order to bring about More’s downfall. Their plots begin with an attempt to use the silver cup to show that More accepted bribes and end with Rich bearing false witness in front of Parliament, a lie which prompts More to say, “In good faith, Rich, I am sorrier for your perjury than my peril.”

Meanwhile, lest we miss the significance of More’s prudence, the film puts him in conversation with his daughter Margaret’s principled but hot-headed suitor (and later husband), William Roper. Roper appears early on as an unwelcome visitor when More returns home from his all-night visit to Wolsey to find him wooing Margaret. More does not approve of Roper because his sharp criticism of the Church has led him to become a Lutheran. Roper repeatedly makes it clear that, given the chance, he would actively create trouble for himself.

Unlike More, Roper remains clueless about the appropriate time, place, and manner in which to dissent from authority or go about fighting evil. At one point, he passionately proclaims his willingness to (as More puts it) “cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil.” But he is left speechless when More explains that even the Devil must be granted benefit of law, if only so it may remain intact to protect the righteous.

And so it goes, with More standing as a continual contrast to the example of everyone else. In fact, More is lionized to such a degree (even forgiving his executioner on the chopping block) that I have always regarded the film as something of a hagiography, which is appropriate since More was officially canonized by Pope Pius XI in 1935. He has all of the most quotable lines, and while this portrait of Thomas More, the saint, may not be the most well-rounded perspective on Thomas More, the man, what we see on the screen is inspiring.

However, his story has more value than simply to model how a courageous man of conscience handles himself. What keeps this story surprisingly relevant is its examination of the relationship between private faith and public morality, and of the responsibilities of a statesman who also happens to be a churchman.

The English Reformation is a rich setting for this sort of inquiry, representing as it does one of the many historical points of crisis during which the Christian church became a tool to serve the interests of the state. Cardinal Wolsey (played with relish by Orson Welles) is introduced immediately as a man of the church whose interests, ambitions, and sensibilities are tied completely to terrestrial politics.

Ultimately, disgraced and stripped of his title, he seems to realize his mistake: “If I had served God half so well as I have served my king, God would not have left me here to die in this place.” More, as he also dies, disgraced and stripped of his title, is secure in his knowledge that God “will not refuse one who is so blithe to go to him.”

The inescapable truth about both of their lives is that they, like everyone, end in death. The difference between them lies in how they have allowed their personal faith to inform their political actions. The example speaks to anyone involved (as either observer or participant) in the political process. Whether they have convictions, as More does, merely claim to have them, like his predecessor, Wolsey, or make no pretense of having them, as with his successor, Cromwell, A Man for All Seasons has a message for them.

Theological Moviegoings: Pan’s Labyrinth

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.

Theological Moviegoings: Children of Men

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.

Theological Moviegoings: The Last Temptation of Christ

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.

9

starring Elijah Wood, John C. Reilly, and Jennifer Connelly
written by Pamela Pettler and Shane Acker & directed by Shane Acker
Rated PG-13 for violence and scary images.
77%

Director Acker expands his 2005 Oscar-nominated short into an feature-length animated film. 9 (Wood), a living rag doll created by a now-dead scientist, wakes up for the first time to a post-apocalyptic wasteland in which humanity has died in a mysterious war. The only remaining inhabitants of this world are 9, the previous 8 rag dolls the scientist made, and a monstrous mechanical creature known only as “The Beast.” As 9 struggles to survive in this hostile environment, he begins to realize that he and his companions were created for a purpose, and that he holds the key to their collective destiny.

9 is a confusing little film that never quite seems to get across any big ideas or go anywhere terribly significant, despite hints at a much larger story left untold. However, the world that Acker has created is so absorbing and creatively-visualized that it will likely be some time before viewers notice the narrative shortcomings. 9 has a genuinely unique and inventive aesthetic that is totally absorbing from the very beginning. I never tired (during the film’s admittedly brief runtime) of the strange-but-familiar images that appeared on the screen as events unfolded.

The framework upon which this brilliantly-conceived tapestry is hung, however, is so flat and generic that it never seems more than woefully underdeveloped. It doesn’t help that nothing is given a name, leaving the movie’s backstory to sound like the bare-bones summary given at an early pitch meeting. “The Scientist” builds “The Machine” in service of “The State,” but the evil “Chancellor” allows its potential to be abused and it creates a swarm of mechanical nightmares that wipe out everyone and everything. No doubt this was done to make the story seem timeless and archetypal, but instead it comes across as lazy and bland.

No doubt one major cause of these shortcomings is the film’s transformation from a 10-minute short with no dialogue into an 80-minute film with an all-star cast of voice actors. In its original form, the story needed no explanation or context. It had its small but resourceful protagonist and an antagonist who pursued him across a dystopian landscape. Given the opportunity to flesh-out his highly-original world with an equally-original origin story, Acker has turned to some combination of Nazi Germany and the Terminator franchise, with some bizarre silliness about the transference of souls (reminiscent of 2001’s ill-fated Final Fantasy) thrown in without any sort of guiding mechanic to ensure that it makes sense.

The changes are not all bad, however. There was something endearing about the silent expressiveness of 9 and his companions when they couldn’t speak, but giving them voices and distinct personalities turns out to be one of this movie’s strengths. The greatest pleasure of the opening act is being introduced to the other characters, one by one, and then watching them develop and interact as individuals. The A-list talent providing the dialogue doesn’t hurt, either. They include Christopher Plummer as crotchety leader 1, Martin Landau as the more adventurous 2, John C. Reilly as the kind, nervous 5, and Jennifer Connelly as the bold, competent 7. Still, I have to admit that my favorite characters were the silent twins, 3 and 4.

Throughout 9 I couldn’t shake the feeling that this would have made a better video game than a movie. It had all of the elements of an excellent puzzle or adventure game, and the plot had all of the structural components of that medium. Certainly if I had been required to play my way through the discoveries and revelations of the movie, they wouldn’t have seemed as obvious, or as perfunctory, as they do.

I find Acker’s work here very promising for a first-time director. He has a flair for the visual and an excellent sense of the essentials of character. Because of that, I kept wanting to like 9 more than I did. Anyone who enjoys the original short (which can still be found on YouTube) will likely have a good time, as I did. Ultimately, though, I was left unsatisfied, and a bit underwhelmed. There is a lot to like, but audiences will be left scratching their heads and wondering what went wrong.

Theological Moviegoings: Jesus of Montreal

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.