Luther at the Movies

Oh My Lutherans . . .

2007-12-14T10:35:00.003-05:00

Ach. What a year. Had I known life was so hard in the twenty-first century I would have stayed dead.

Nevertheless, by the grace of God, and the many prayers of many of you, for which we are eternally gratefully, the members of this household who have suffered greatly in the past few months are slowly but surely recuperating. The worst seems to be over, and there is much hope for the future. Gelobt sei Gott!

That is the good news. The bad news is this here: My miserable, execrable, disgusting, wretched, fetid, contemptible excuse for an assistant has taken to blogging on another website. Do you believe it, my Lutherans?

And so he has peremptorily and unilaterally decided to put Luther at the Movies to sleep indefinitely—leaving me out in the cold, wretch that he is. He claims that his writing will too often include reviews of the latest cinematic concoctions, thereby making Luther at the Movies a burdensome superfluity.

As if his voice could be mistaken for mine. He is a mealymouthed rat fink. I am a prophet and less than a prophet. I am a movie connoisseur. He is a mere critic.

Betrayals. How I have known betrayals.

Nevertheless, given God's providential care for his children, I have no doubt that this will redound to my benefit. I am now left with time to work on my new book: The Reformation for Flatheads. My favorite chapters so far:

"Justification for Jackanapes"

"Sanctification for Sissies"

"Church History for Chimpanzees"

So many people have taken to writing a history of that era—my era! And so many have dribbled on themselves embarrassingly in the process. Now that I am released from the constraints of a sixteenth-century existence, I am free to objectively evaluate the gains and losses, the heroes and villains, the huggah and muggah, of the second most important period in human history! (The first being the first, of course, as it saw the life, death, and resurrection of our Lord.)

"But Herr Luther—surely the Reformation had negligible impact on the Far East, and points South. Surely we are talking about Western history, no? And what of the 11th century, with the birth of the Crusades and the splitting of the Church East and West, the Norman Conquests, and the rise of vibrant cultures in India, China, and among the Muslim peoples? That century certainly is a better candidate for "second place," as you put it—"

SILENCE, IMAGINARY INTERLOCUTOR! What affects me affects the world! Idiot . . .

What can I say, my friends? Perhaps we will meet again. All I ask is that, when that no-good strudel-sucker B16 tells you that we Lutherans do not have a real church, but only the Romanists have a real church, remember that his triple tiara lays heavy on his head, causing cranial pressure and a gross case of acute stupidity. "Hey, Benny: I hear from some kids in my neighborhood that they are looking for a front man for an Air Supply tribute band. What about it? It would be the first honest work you've done in your life!"

And when the emerging-churchniks tell you that we must reinvent everything and start over with Powerpoint presentations and flat-screen TVs of some long-haired Nancys covering Joe Cocker tunes with lyrics written by Sven Hallmark, remember that hormones unleashed in dairy and meat products are no doubt to blame. Show compassion. Then throw a rock.

Auf Wiedersehen, my Lutherans. And remember: Sola Fide! Sola Gratia! Sola Scriptura! Solus Christus! Soli Deo Gloria—forever!

Calvinus! Get off my couch! And turn down that music! If I have to hear "Ready to Take a Chance Again" one more time I am going to rip off my own head!

I SHALL GO MAD!

World Trade Center and Other Pressing Matters

2006-08-09T08:02:00.002-04:00

My miserable, execrable assistant has posted a review of World Trade Center on the First Things website. While I have not had a chance to see this picture, given certain painful exigencies, I am sure his judgment is to be trusted in this matter.

I know what you are thinking, my Lutherans: Why, O why, are you being so cordial to someone whom you have systematically abused with such abandon and delight? You have even used his name!

Ach—what a time I've had of it! I must admit to certain...difficulties that have arisen of late and with which my Chief Inferior has agreed to help me cope.

It all began last weekend, when I STUPIDLY asked Calvinus to answer the questions to the Book Tag that is making its way through Confessing Lutheran Blogland. WHAT WAS I THINKING? First, he comes back with "Holy Scriptures," "Holy Scriptures," "Holy Scriptures"—nine times "Holy Scriptures."

"Yes, we are all impressed with your love for the Word, you French-fried jackanapes. What do you think I read all those years in Wittenburg—toothpaste packages?! Did you even look at these questions? Book you wish had never been written—to which you reply 'Holy Scriptures'! Go back and do this again, and spare us the pluperfect piety!"

So I am fast asleep, my Lutherans, dreaming that I am conducting a study of the Book of Galatians with Dina Meyer, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Kirsten Dunst. Suddenly, I am awakened by "you know who." That Picardian nincompoop is standing over me with another copy of his book list. I struggle to keep my eyes open long enough to read nine Latin titles so obscure, I have no reason to believe they had even been written, never mind read!

Imagine my frustration! Dina, Michelle, and Kirsten—gone. And here is Johannes Calvinus in his jammies and stupid Genevan headgear, smug as a bug in a rug. I leapt out of bed (well, "leapt" is a relative term, given my bulk), grabbed four feet of raw twine (which I keep at the ready at all times), and began choking him! Yes! The Old Adam was revived with a vengeance! Calvinus began kicking at the walls, waking the rest of the house and finally bringing hotel security to our front door.

We were warned that if there were any more complaints about our behavior (there had been 75 so far), we would be expelled from the premises.

I released Calvinus from my grip and went back to bed, fuming.

Then the next night, I'm again fast asleep, helping Elke Sommer (circa 1965) with her catechism, when I hear a young woman scream. First, I think perhaps I have tripped and fallen atop Ms. Sommer and crushed her delicate bits. Then I realize it's coming from the common room. I "leap" out of bed only to find one of the young hotel maids running out the front door half-dressed. And there is Zwingli with that unctuous smile of his. It seems he had invited one of the staff to play some stupid party game called Twister and wound up a tangle of extremities.

Next thing we all knew, we were all of us on the street, nowhere to go. I immediately cried out to Our Lord for help, for guidance, for a decent all-night Chinese place—when that idiot angel reappeared.

"I didn't ask to speak to you! Be gone! Go back to wherever you angels hang out. Los Angeles, no doubt! Get it? Angel...Los Angeles...The Angels...Get it?"

"Shut up, you Saxon stinkpot! The Lord has heard your prayer. He will alleviate your suffering—why I have no idea—as well as this obviously futile attempt at ecumenical rapprochement, but only on the condition that you be reconciled to your assistant and do as he says."

"Rapprochement? And what fancy school did you go to? Oooooh, listen to me, I say rapprochement and foie gras and tintinnabulation....ooooh—" And with that, this angel from hell blew me through the front doors of K-Mart and right into the "Back to School" ring-binder aisle.

"Reconciliation—or you will return to the abode of the undead." And he disappeared, leaving behind a faint odor of Old Spice and barbecued chicken. Don't ask...

When I returned to the street, the whole sixteenth-century gang was gone: No more Zwingli, Calvinus, Brenz, Jonas, et al. I was finally at peace! But I had to seek out my assistant. Seeing as the sun was just appearing over the East River, I decided to get coffee and think up a good ruse.

Ah! I would appear at my assistant's place of work and make nice with his colleagues. Once I had won over the staff, he would have to be accommodating.

And so I walked into the offices and introduced myself. "I am Martin Luther, Doktor." I was then regaled with 72,000 questions: "Do you now repudiate The Bondage of the Will seeing as the Lutheran churches do not teach double predestination? Do you believe Philip Melanchthon faithfully represented your views? Would you have ever left the Catholic Church if you could have foreseen the 29,000 Protestant denominations? Is confession a sacrament or isn't it? Do you approve of the congregational form of church governance? Exactly how fat are you?"

Before I had a chance to open my mouth, my assistant popped his head from his office. "You. In here."

He already knew the score and laid down the ground rules. I was to stop abusing him. I was to stop calling him names. I was to stop making anti-Italian slurs. I was to stop eating after 10pm. I was to stop hogging the remote. I was to stop cursing in German. I was to stop playing "Sugar, Sugar" by The Archies morning, noon, and night. I was to apologize to his next-door neighbor for calling her a spastic hyena. I was to stop eating with my fingers. I was to stop slopping Hershey's chocolate sauce over my breakfast cereal. I was to stop praying for fire from heaven to fall on my enemies. I was to stop making enemies morning, noon, and night. I was to start wearing underwear."

"And what have you been doing in the past three months—getting a law degree? All these rules! This...this is a violation of my constitutional rights!"

"You're DEAD. You have no rights. You don't even have a functioning lymphatic system."

"Fair point. All right. I will accede to all your demands, except two. I must be allowed to call you one harsh name and make two ridiculing remarks per blog post."

"And?"

"I WANT MY CHOCOLATE SAUCE!"

So here I sit, my Lutherans, back in the cozy confines of Queens, New York, watching repeats of Becker, munching Almond Joys and the occasional Krackle. "And bring me my Dinkelacker, you Mediterranean Menace!" Ah ha ha ha! It doesn't get better than this!

The Fountain

2006-12-03T08:19:00.000-05:00

Why is that man talking to the tree? Ah, the man is bald—he must be a mystic. So it must be a magic tree. Will the tree talk back? Will the man finally put on some shoes? What planet is he on? Why won't that elderly couple in the back please shut up? Why do they call it butter flavoring? Is there no real butter in it?

These are just some of the questions you will be asking if you see The Fountain. And I do suggest you see it. I'm certain the film makes sense in writer/director Darren Aronofsky's mind. Perhaps you will meet Mr. Aronofsky one day, or his lovely wife, the star of the film, Rachel Weisz. Then you can ask him, or her: What did it mean when the vegetation consumed the previously bald man who became the Conquistador? (Or was it vice versa?)

Hugh Jackman plays a medical researcher trying desperately to find a cure for his wife's (Weisz) disease, whatever that may be. It involves a tumor in the brain. He would rather experiment on a monkey than spend precious moments with her playing in the snow, because he will not accept that she is going to die, and every moment away from the lab is a moment she draws closer to what she and we know is the inevitable.

For Jackman, death is merely a disease for which there will one day be a cure.

Weisz has made her peace with her approaching demise. She is busy trying to finish up a work of fiction rooted in sixteenth-century Spain, actually an alternate history of the Spain of that era. In her book, called The Fountain, the beautiful queen and a handsome conquistador (Weisz and Jackman) believe they have found among the Mayans of New Spain the location of the Tree of Life previously seen in Genesis 3. If they can crack the code of Mayan myth and find the tree, they will have made the discovery of the ages: immortality—the fountain of youth!

But then again . . . nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

The self-flagellating, flesh-hating, life-denying Grand Inquisitor wants to ensure that the Tree of Life remains buried deep in the depths of world mythology. If people lived forever, there would be no chance to send them to hell. And what is the fun of being Grand Inquisitor if you can't send people to hell?

And so our gallant conquistador and his queen must first evade the Holy Office, then do battle with a mighty Mayan army, in their quest to reverse the Fall and eat of the Tree of Life—much as modern-day Jackman must do battle with bureaucrats and the NIH in his quest for a cure to reverse his wife's condition and save her life.

At some point—actually at several points—the conquistador is transported to what looks like another planet, perhaps that spoken of in the Mayan myth, where the souls of the dead reside. There he sits in a lotus position and flies around, then talks to the big tree.

Is Aronofsky saying that we must all finally accept death as a part of life, which finally releases us to the great All that is Life, so that we become part of the ground which gives life to the tree which buds into fruit which is eaten by birds which are sold at Pet World? (I added that last part.)

If so, sounds like New Age ka-ka to me.

But then he seems to negate this imagery, this message. Is Aronofsky then saying that life sucks then you die—get over it? Who the heck knows. Weisz, even in death, continues to spur Jackman on to finish the story she has begun, the story of the quest for immortality. I hope this doesn't spell sequel . . .

Aronofsky's first film, the lowest-of-low budgets Pi, was another film about the search for the sacred, the absolute, about solving an ancient riddle—and getting nowhere. Even his syncopatically salacious Requiem for a Dream had something to say—or ask—about the Meaning of It All. That Aronofsky asks big questions is to his credit. That his answers, or lack thereof, often leave the audience scratching its collective pate is not necessarily bad. (At least we have something to chew on at Sizzler besides the Onion Steak Stack.) That The Fountain may in fact amount to nothing more than extraordinarily pretty images is . . . disappointing.

I rather like the fact that Jackman's scientist persona refuses to accept his wife's death. He shouldn't. Death is not a part of life. Death is the negation of life, the enemy of life, just as the Grand Inquisitor (Manichean comic-book figure that he is here) is the enemy of true faith in the Gospel of Life. That is why Jesus weeps at the grave of Lazarus. This is not how it was intended to be! We should not have to say goodbye to those we love.

And so the Word that created life out of nothing invades our world and conquers death. But to know that, one needs faith. And The Fountain is not really about faith, only bizarre—albeit vivid and engrossing—imagery and hints of pantheism, if not finally nihilism.

But go and see The Fountain yourself. It's only 95 minutes long. And perhaps the bald man will let you talk to the tree, too. And that couple will finally shut up. And I will learn what is really in this butter thing . . .

Only in Hollywood Is Noah a 40-Year-Old Virgin

2006-12-03T15:15:00.000-05:00

So Steve Carrell will play Noah to Morgan Freeman's God in a sequel to the successful Jim Carrey vehicle Bruce Almighty. It just makes you feel all . . . something . . . all over.

To be fair, I should not judge the thing until I have seen it. Then I will probably tear it to little pieces and sprinkle them on my breakfast cereal, along with my Sugar Babies and Zours.

Then again, perhaps not. Mr. Carrell is a hoot and Tom Shadyac, Evan's director, has some intentional howlers to his credit, including the supernaturally goofy Ace Ventura Pet Detective; The Nutty Professor (in which he culled from Mr. Murphy an Oscar-worthy performance); and Patch Adams (although the "intentionally" part of the equation is debatable here).

Moreover, Shadyac is a Christian and deserves our support. (See an interview with him here. You must scroll down. No more. MORE . . . I said scroll down! SCROLL, DAMN YOU, SCROLL!)

Apocalypto

2006-12-07T08:36:00.000-05:00

When Apocalypto was announced—a film set in the waning days of the Mayan Empire, with a no-star cast speaking Yucatec Maya—you could be forgiven for thinking Waterworld. Well, Apocalypto has been unveiled, and it is more Apocalypse Now Redux than the Kevin Costner debacle. In fact, Apocalypto is so fine an example of pure filmmaking—a simple story told through the eyes of an appealing hero, sheer kinetic energy, and well-cut successions of vivid images—that I am tempted to compare director Mel Gibson’s achievement with that of a D.W. Griffith, if the parallel were not too provocative, and for all the wrong reasons.

Cautionary tales typically are set in some dystopian future: From Brazil and Gattaca to Gibson’s own Mad Max trilogy. Whether because of nuclear fallout or a technocracy that has reduces men to machines, the future is ours to fear. Apocalypto takes us back so we may contemplate the future—and cautions us that fear itself is the new Bomb.

The story begins with a gross-out of a boar hunt, as Maya forest dwellers kill then dismember their prey and play frat-boy pranks on one unfortunate, whose lack of fertility is the village joke. The center of this group and chief instigator is Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood), son of the wise village elder, who will bequeath to J.P. a moral imperative that will prove the young man’s salvation: “Do not be afraid.”

Life for these villagers is soon overturned when Holcane warriors on a mission from the king come storm-trooping through the forest, raping, pillaging, and packaging up what’s left. Jaguar Paw hides his pregnant wife (Dalia Hernandez) and young son in a well, beyond the scope of the invaders. Unfortunately, they are left there—as Jaguar Paw and his surviving confreres are taken as booty to the capital to be paraded before the king and queen, then offered as sacrifices to the sun god in the hope of reversing a kingdom-wide plague.

The world of this Mayan kingdom is a catalogue of modern maladies: from decadent overconsumption, to warfare as pride-pumping and scape-goating chaos, to mindless assaults on the environment. Those sick with plague, even children, are isolated and marginalized. The elderly are thought worthless because “useless.” Even the king and queen’s kid is an obese little creep. And the symbol of religious authority is a high-priest precursor to the TV evangelist—master manipulator and personal friend of the deity who, in this case, uses an anticipated solar eclipse to shock and awe the crowds with how well he has satisfied the blood lust of their god. An unholy alliance between throne and altar, indeed.

Speaking of blood—there’s gore galore. As usual, Gibson does not spare his audience the viscera of war and sacrifice. The Mayas’ is a brutal way of life that makes severe demands on men, women, even children—all are called to steel themselves against pain and privation as a routine of life. Yet they are never reduced to the status of animals, despite every attempt by raw nature and imperial depravity to make it so. The Maya here are always human—are always us—and it is their struggle to retain their humanity that provides much of the pathos of this tale. (A great deal of credit must be given for this achievement to the extraordinary performances of the indigenous cast.)

But there are also light and sly moments in Apocalypto, such as the multiple movie references Gibson and his cowriter, Farhad Safinia, sneak in. There’s the soldier who has his swollen eye slit open—Rocky-like—so he can see, and the Holcane warrior-leader Zero Wolf’s Ratso Rizzo “I’m walking here!” as a massive felled tree just misses squishing him. Finally, there’s a climactic moment of true unveiling that is rivaled only by that in the original Planet of the Apes.

As for the film genres Gibson plays to: Imagine Wes Craven teaming up with Akira Kurosawa. Horror-film conventions are employed to heighten the tension, and there are moments when I couldn’t help but think of the Seven Samurai. And, as we’re introduced to the ritual slaying of the captives in the capital, I expected to hear a mass singsong, “Two men enter. One man leave.” That’s no accident, as Apocalypto’s cinematographer, Dean Semler, also worked on Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.

But at its core, Apocalypto is a story of Bicycle Thief simplicity. Jaguar Paw refuses to be enslaved—not by the empire, not by fate. He will get back home. He will reclaim his wife, his children, and his place in the world. In short, he will not be afraid. Images of baptism and rebirth punctuate this adventure, including one in which Jaguar Paw literally emerges from the earth as a kind of First Adam Reborn, empowered to become what he already is, a man of nature, of the forest. He is not a new creation but a revitalization of the old. His final confrontation with Zero Wolf (Raoul Trujillo) is a classic example of how mountain, desert, and jungle peoples defeat a more powerful enemy: by pulling him deep into their own, familiar territory. It is, after all, Jaguar Paw’s forest.

Much attention has been paid to Gibson’s allusions to contemporary events as the controlling referent for Apocalypto. Here he is in a Time article back in March: "The fearmongering we depict in this film reminds me a little of President Bush and his guys." Oh-kay. In any event, the film works on its own terms, regardless. So whatever you think of Mel Gibson, his beliefs, or his drunken rant, give Apocalypto a chance. It’s not a question of whether Gibson deserves it; if you love cinema, then you deserve it.

Blood Diamond

2006-12-16T16:45:00.000-05:00

And so we are in Africa, Sierra Leone to be exact. Rebel forces in a war against a government attempting to bring new elections terrorize the countryside, murdering en masse, and using children to do it. They are literal infantry—10-, 11-, 12-year-olds brutally ripped from their families (assuming their families have not already been massacred) and indoctrinated into revolutionary propaganda, the use of automatic weapons, and drug use.

What's more, these rebel forces virtually enslave male villagers strong enough to dig for diamonds—diamonds that will be handed over to generally white "brokers" in exchange for more sophisticated weaponry to use against the government and the government's mercenary allies. Those diamonds will make their way into Europe—London and Antwerp—and wind up on the fourth finger of young ladies' left hands.

In the middle of this nightmare of human exploitation rides Danny Archer (Leonardo DiCaprio), a native of Rhodesia, veteran of the war in Angola against the communists, and now a diamond smuggler. Archer's activities land him in jail for attempted smuggling, and while there he meets Solomon, played with dignity and passion by Djimon Hounsou, one of the unfortunates who had been pressed into service by the rebels and forced to dig for diamonds. Solomon escaped a government raid on the rebel camp, but not before burying a "pink " diamond the size of a bird's egg and probably worth a fat seven figures near the diamond mines.

Archer gets himself sprung through some connections in high places and does the same for Solomon, with the intention of being "repaid" for his generosity by getting his hands on that diamond, which Archer plans to use to get himself out of Africa once and for all.

Solomon has another agenda, namely, to find his family. With the help of an American journalist named Maddy (Jennifer Connelly), Solomon meets up with his wife and two daughters in a refugee camp in Guinea. His son, however, is now part of the rebel children's army.

Archer wants the diamond, Solomon wants his son, and Maddy wants a story so rich in detail in will end the trafficking in "blood diamonds" once and for all.

As the story unfolds, director Edward Zwick takes us on an action-packed trip through the hell that is civil war in Africa. All the while he does his level best never to dehumanize the Africans or blame their behavior on some innate inability to govern themselves or organize civilly. We are told of a long history of barbarities that began with the Belgian colonizers. If the Africans act like devils, they are merely modeling erstwhile European overlords.

The filmmakers' hearts are in the right place: They want to bring to the attention of the West both the horrors of civil strife and corrupt government, as well as this trafficking in blood diamonds which fuels the conflict. Although these diamonds make up only a small percentage of those sold on the open market, nevertheless, we are asked to be vigilant regarding the source of the diamonds we buy. How the average Western European or American is to determine whether a piece of diamond jewelry purchased at Tiffany's or Bulgari's or the Diamond District here in New York is a "blood diamond"—other than taking the merchant's word for it (ha ha)—is never addressed.

What is addressed is white guilt. White guilt over colonialism. White guilt over an inability to make right all that is now wrong in war-torn Africa. White guilt over white guilt as a substitute for white action. The film wants to show that it is conscious of its own inadequacy, of its own pretensions, how everyone making the film is, to some degree, exploiting the suffering of millions of people for mere entertainment and a fat profit. It is almost as if admitting to exploitation is itself atonement for it.

Leonardo DiCaprio gives a second sterling performance this year. He is slowly building an impressive resume of compelling performances that will soon reduce his roll in Titanic to a minor and least-memorable effort.

Here he is the driving force of what is basically a well-crafted action yarn. DiCaprio attempts—and to a certain degree succeeds—in building a complex and conflicted character much richer than those found in traditional examples of the "foreign-location action" genre. But despite the film's good intentions, and how the search for a mighty diamond becomes superceded by the search for Solomon's son—the future of Africa, an Africa of peace, God willing—Blood Diamond's own aesthetic will not let it be anything more than a thrill ride.

And as much as my heart went out to these people who, somewhere out there really endured and still endure lives of unthinkable hardship and pain, in the end I could not shake the feeling that they were just fodder for my ten dollars' worth of entertainment.

In short, how many people had to die just so I could watch the do-good movie of the year?

The Holiday

2006-12-22T17:39:00.000-05:00

"A chick flick, Herr Doktor? Is this what's it's come to? Have you endured too much testosterone between Apocalypto and Rocky Balboa that you are suffering some reaction? Are you going soft?"

Silence, imaginary interlocutor! Am I to be ridiculed for having eclectic tastes! And a crush on Kate Winslet!

And so Iris (Kate Winslet) is a columnist for Britain's Daily Telegraph. Her specialty is advice on love and marriage, about which she seems to have learned what she knows the hard way. She has been pining for a colleague, Jasper (Rufus Sewell), for three years, even though she broke up with him when she learned he cheated on her with another Telegraph staffer. To make matters worse, she is informed at the office Christmas party that Jasper is wedding said staffer, and Iris is expected to announce this event to the world in her column.

Amanda (Cameron Diaz) is a very prosperous editor of movie trailers in L.A. Her relationship with her significant other (Ed Burns) finally comes to an end when she learns he has cheated on her. He attempts to explain his caddish behavior by reminding her of her workaholic ways and inability to emote.

So two women on opposite sides of the globe are alone and miserable for the holidays. What do they do? They decide a change of climate is in order and so switch homes. Iris moves into Amanda's palatial estate, and Amanda moves into Iris' cozy Surrey cottage with kidney-shaped bathtub.

While trying to acclimate herself to her confinement in a small, snowy town, Amanda meets up with Iris' brother Graham (Jude Law), with whom she falls in lust. It is mutual. But Amanda does not want to love again—if she were ever capable of loving in the first place. (She also lacks the capacity to cry, while Graham admits to weeping openly and often. I know . . . I know . . .)

Meanwhile, back in Beverly Hills, Iris is enjoying her pool, state-of-the-art entertainment center, electric window shades, and next-door neighbor, an elderly screenwriter from the heyday of Hollywood, Arthur (Eli Wallach). She also meets up with Amanda's composer friend, Miles, who is currently dating way above his tubby station.

So two women who wanted to get away from it all are now visited with all kinds of new relationship possibilities.

The initial stories of Iris and Amanda—both duped by sleezy boyfriends; one can't let go and the other can't love—are trite. What make the stories special, lifting The Holiday above the run-of-the-mill Hollywood romantic comedies, are the nuances of writer-director Nancy Myers' characters as they work through their inner conflicts, not to mention some thoroughly engaging performances by Ms. Winslet (who acts every scene from the depths of her bunions), Jude Law (a little squishy, but given the revelation of his true "status," forgiveably so), and Mr. Wallach.

Ah what a joy to see Eli Wallach onscreen again! His character tells stories of the way movies used to be, and you know that Wallach is speaking from personal experience. Although physically frail, he is mentally alert and brimming with ideas and commentary. Let's hope this is just one of many more performances this grand ole man of the cinema will treat us to.

If there is a weak link in The Holiday it is Ms. Diaz. Her character, while not unlikable, is self-absorbed to the point where she is constantly imaging every episode of her life as if it were a movie trailer—promising much more than it can deliver. We have seen the professional working gal who can't seem to hold on to a man but isn't it really the men who are the problem and not the fact that she's a load yadda yadda yadda . . . and Ms. Diaz simply does not have the acting chops to transcend the limits of what has become a genre type.

But Ms. Winslet's relationship with Arthur is a sweet one and worth the price of admission. She slowly pulls the old Hollywood warhorse out of his seclusion to receive the honors his industry wants to bestow on him, and he slowly educated her in the history of spunky screen woman—like Irene Dunne and Rosalind Russell. Then there's the quirky mutual-support-system that develops between Iris and Mr. Black, whom Ms. Myers has managed to de-Animal House, expanding his appeal immensely. Yes, it is Winslet & Co. who are the saving graces of a film that, sadly, has an unsatisfying ending that portends as many complications as the characters supposedly have just worked through.

Nevertheless, if you have a soft spot for modern attempts at old-fashioned romantic comedy, see The Holiday.

Children of Men

2006-12-27T10:01:00.000-05:00

Going to see a film based on a novel you’ve read and enjoyed is always problematic. The liberties taken in the name of adapting a book for the screen run the gamut. Some are restrained and straightforward translations, such as A Merry War (from George Orwell’s Keep the Apidistra Flying); some are fanciful attempts to make cinematic a story about internal revolution (A Beautiful Mind); others are glorious renditions that will forever color your rereading of the book (Lord of the Rings); rarely, some even prove more engrossing and memorable than the source (The Godfather).

Then there are adaptations in which the filmmaker virtually co-opts the book, revisioning it and making it his own. Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange and The Shining stand out in this regard. (There’s a reason the titles are prefaced with “Stanley Kubrick’s” and not “Anthony Burgess’” and “Stephen King’s,” respectively.)

But writer-director Alfonso Cuarón’s film version of P.D. James’ Children of Men—which opens this Friday—is in a category all its own: Call it an act of vandalism. The Christian fable, as James herself described her book, was originally published in 1992 and was a respite from her crime novels. A work of dystopian forecasting, Children of Men was about a time when women could no longer have babies, the world was dying, and Britain was under control of a dictator determined to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos.

Cuarón (Y Tu Mamá Tambi én, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) uses the core of James’ scenario—a future without children, and therefore without hope—as a mere MacGuffin, that Hitchcockian device that in itself is meaningless but serves to move the action forward. Cuarón’s Children of Men is little more than high-tech agit-prop targeting the Bush administration, the war in Iraq, border policing, and Homeland Security. That it takes place in the England of 2027 is rather beside the point; the world’s desperate and despairing populations are at each other’s throats, and George W’s now decades-old policies are to blame. (I couldn’t help but think, not of Nineteen Eighty-four, but of 1984’s abominable 2010, in which the Reagan White House was retroactively blamed for HAL-9000’s breakdown in 2001.)

The film begins with the death of the youngest person on earth, an 18-year-old Latin American named Diego. Shortly thereafter, Theo (Clive Owen), an erstwhile activist and now a decidedly lethargic bureaucrat in the Ministry of Energy, is literally pulled off the streets and into the world of a clique of terrorists lead by his ex-wife, Julian (Julianne Moore). Hidden among the group is a young black woman named Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey), a “fugee” (refugee) who is amazingly, inexplicably pregnant. Julian wants Theo to use his influence with the government to pave the way (secretly, of course) for Kee to get safely to the Human Project, an offshore, shipboard collection of intellectuals from around the world who are going to jump-start civilization with fresh answers to old problems.

Throughout the film, characters from the novel are reassigned roles and political positions as Cuarón and co-screenwriter Timothy J. Sexton see fit. In fact, the first thing Cuarón does when he arrives in the year 2027 is eliminate the Christians. In James’ book, Julian is a beautifully wrought Christian believer: the new Eve, the new Mary, the hope for the salvation of the world. But that Julian has been swapped out for Moore’s Julian, now Theo’s ex-wife and a revolutionary any Maoist could love. (As for the book’s Luke, the Christlike Anglican priest— Cuarón has rebirthed him as a duplicitous butcher.) In fact, the only bits of religion left in Cuarón’s version are cults of fanatical masochists and a midwife who engages clumsily in Tai Chi and chants the Buddhist Om mani padme hum.

That is, if you don’t count Jihadism as a religion. You see, an intifada is the answer to Bush’s—er, England’s—inhumane immigration policy, which consists in hauling illegals off to camps bearing a striking example to Abu Ghraib and mainstream-media images of Guantanamo Bay, and where the Nazi-era “Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work Will Make You Free) is sung (hint hint). What’s implausible about Cuarón’s conception is that no reasonable explanation is ever offered as to why so many people would risk their lives to get into an England that is suffering the same plague of childlessness, pollution, overcrowding, and oppression as everywhere else. In James’ novel, Theo is useful to the terrorists because his cousin is the dictator Xan—the Warden of England—who has created some semblance of order, some functioning economy, some hope (however illusory) that the government has things under control and is working to solve the infertility problem. In Cuarón’s film, chaos reigns and madness rules: Shots of Fleet Street show a garbage-ridden city covered with blankets of smog punctuated only by the smoke from errant bomb blasts, threatening life at every turn. In the film, Xan is gone, but there is Nigel, a minister of culture who ransacks art museums (who does that remind you of?). In fact, what we’re supposed to believe is the original Guernica adorns the minister’s dining-room wall—a bit of set design as overblown in its ideological pretensions as the photograph of General Nguyen shooting a Vietcong prisoner that appears as wallpaper in Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories flat. (At least Allen’s film was supposed to be a comedy.)

Just in case you didn’t catch Cuarón’s “We’re living in a fascist state” message with every graceless swing of his cinematic axe handle, we’re introduced to Jasper (Michael Caine), another refashioning of a James character who is now a pot-smoking Methuselahian hippie. A quick survey of Jasper’s and his literally catatonic wife’s memorabilia shows a lifetime of political resistance, including posters and bumper stickers protesting Iraq and Bush (but, interestingly enough, not Tony Blair). Jasper’s political philosophy consists in tuning in, dropping out, and flipping the bird to the fascist pigs. (He also engages in what passes for theological reflection in these apocalyptic times: a meaningless juxtaposition of “faith” and “chance” that is supposed to be penetrating in its flippancy but only betrays the banality of both the character and the film.)

It is Jasper who informs us that “every time the government gets into trouble, a bomb goes off.” So we’re supposed to believe that the threat of terrorism that gave rise to a “Homeland Security” in the first place is a hoax. But then we learn that Julian’s cadre of terrorists/freedom fighters did, in fact, engage in terror bombings but gave it up for PR purposes. The novelty of nonviolent resistance gets old fast, though, as the terrorists/freedom fighters turn sinister again, with their own murderous agenda that entails sacrificing its own members to the cause. We’re never to assume, however, that the terrorists/freedom fighters are really responsible for their actions: What can you expect when Bush—er, the British government—reduces illegals to the status of animals and robs them of their proper dignity? Oh the moral ambiguity of it all!

Why is Kee never brought to the government authorities for protection, given her absolutely unique status, but instead is endangered at every turn in Theo’s desperate, bullet-dodging efforts to get her to the Human Project? It seems the government would never permit a fugee to be the mother of the reborn human race, and so presumably would kill her—and its own future, if you think about it (which is probably not wise). This “explanation” has no place in James’ novel.

In her novel, James never answers the question why women can no longer have babies, although the possibility of divine judgment skulks throughout. In Cuarón’s rendition, that was never really the question to begin with. In the novel, for example, we know who the father of Julian’s baby is, and we’re tempted to ask whether her faithfulness has been rewarded. In the film, Kee couldn’t tell you who the father was if her life depended on it: She admits that, once fertility was no longer an issue, what did it matter about getting names? At first I thought Cuarón might be contributing something countercultural here about the separation of sex from reproduction; instead, this admission is simply left to lie there, lest prolonged contemplation lead one to believe that The End may be related to just such a disconnect. In fact, the miracle of Kee’s pregnancy is never presented as more than just an accident—just another one of Jasper’s chance occurrences.

Were Cuarón’s Children of Men rooted in some larger moral vision it might be tolerable, but the director isn’t even on to the irony of his own incoherent propaganda: It is an increasingly nihilistic West that is the target of a militant, authoritarian, and vicious ideology from off our shores. P.D. James saw as one response to the rising tide of moral sterility the still, small voice of a Christianity that invests even the alien and the stranger with dignity, because it defends the preciousness of life from conception to natural death. It is just such a Christian worldview, however muted, that informs even James’ crime novels; in fact, as Ralph Wood has written, what makes the crimes in her mysteries especially thought-provoking is that they’re often committed by the “pitiable” who never intend to “wreak misery in sheer nihilistic perversity,” and who thereby evoke a human solidarity that makes blanket condemnations difficult and Christian forgiveness possible.

The director’s feint at human solidarity, on the other hand, in the form of unified, armed resistance, simultaneously dehumanizes swathes of people by simply dismissing them all as fascists, thereby exhibiting the same moral obtuseness as those he sees as the enemy.

The only hope offered in Cuarón’s film is the existence of the Human Project, which of course is exactly what the world needs in a time of inconceivable degradation—a committee. James’ novel knows of no such project; in fact, it’s too smart for such a contrivance. Let’s face it, the last group of intellectuals assembled from around the world to end a global crisis and usher in peace on earth was the Manhattan Project. I sincerely doubt their solution is quite what the filmmakers here had in mind.

Grant Cuarón the license to make a film about current events as he pleases, whether about the war in Iraq or immigration policy. What’s insufferable is his pressing into service someone else’s vision as a commercial vehicle for a personal political screed. Children of Men wants to be a grown-up Brazil but never transcends a student-film sensibility (“They’re all fascists, man!”), despite hat tips to the cinema-vérité street-fighting styles of Saving Private Ryan and Full Metal Jacket. Cuarón pulls off the battles between the terrorists and the government troops with deft and disquieting verisimilitude, obviously attempting to approximate American soldiers’ battling of insurgents in Baghdad, even leaving the splatter of the Kayo syrup that is Hollywood blood on the lens of his camera for a little extra grit. He’s learned much from Spielberg and Kubrick. It’s a shame he’s learned nothing from P.D. James.

The Good Shepherd

2006-12-28T12:39:00.000-05:00

Structured like Godfather II and resonating with themes, if not dialogue, from Godfather I, The Good Shepherd would have us believe the CIA is just another Mob—a world within a world, with its own rules and rife with secrets and lies.

And who knows Mob movies better than The Good Shepherd's director, Robert DeNiro? Unfortunately, there can only be one classic Mob film, and while he and writer Eric Roth tried to craft another Michael Corleone out of star Matt Damon's Edward Wilson, they wound up only with a feeble Amerigo Bonasera.

This long, meandering history/expose of the righteous roots and quick decline of America's intelligence office cross-cuts between the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis in the early 1960s and the 1940s, when a young idealistic Wilson is initiated into both Skull & Bones and wartime espionage. He quickly learns that he can trust no one and that he must often choose between loyalty to country and loyalty to family.

DeNiro makes a cameo as Gen. Bill Sullivan, one of the few non-WASPs allowed into the hallowed halls of real political and military power. He is commissioned with starting up a postwar intelligence agency dedicated to foreign surveillance. He also forsees potential abuses of power that demand civilian oversight. Wilson quickly sees the contradiction: How does an agency run on secrecy open itself up to scrutiny by the outside world and still remain effective?

It doesn't, is the film's final answer.

The problem with the film, aside from its lackluster pacing, is Wilson. A man with no personality to speak of, he dances on the string of security demands—a passive, passionless nonce owned by superiors and driven only by "fate." As a consequence, he's a bore. A man with no will is a man who never really acts. Dramatically, this makes for deadly stuff.

I must also alert my readers to yet another example of politically correct revisionism: During the interrogation of a would-be Soviet defector, we are given to believe that the USSR of the 1960s was a hollow shell, a rusted tin can, of no real threat to America, and that the Cold War was a concoction of the military-industrial complex. Yes, President Eisenhower certainly warned your country of just such a baleful alliance, but the idea that the Soviet Union, which had defeated the mighty German army despite relying on an already bedraggled and beleagured and oppressed Soviet population, had tanks in several Eastern European countries, had nuclear weapons aimed at major American cities, and was a major exporter of armed revolution, was a mere chimera is utter nonsense. This lie of some on the hard Left (and, I see, some on the isolationist Right) is intended to deride your President Reagan and his role in the collapse of the Soviet Union and the demise of the Cold War.

Joe Pesci makes a brief appearance as a Mob boss approached by Wilson (at the behest of the Kennedy White House) to help with removing Castro. This doesn't go much further dramatically than a few telling lines of dialogue: Pesci remarks on how Italians have Church and Family, Jews have their traditions, the Irish have their homeland, and blacks have their music. He then asks, "What do you people have?" to which Wilson reponds: "The United States of America. The rest of you are just visitors."

Angelina Jolie is miscast in my estimation. A scion of an old WASP family she is not. And there's not much to her character but the by-now familiar figure of the bitter housebound wife of an important man with little time for her. John Turturro plays the obedient bureaucrat/hit man with sufficient intensity, and William Hurt is always fun to watch. But despite a compelling close, in which Wilson makes his hat-in-hand plea to his Soviet don, then does the "necessary thing" to protect his family from outside infiltration, the film ultimately reveals little that we haven't already surmised about the conflicted nature of any intelligence agency's mission.

Which is to say, what Hollywood thinks of the CIA is no secret.

The Astronaut Farmer

2007-03-11T13:38:00.000-04:00

Had this film starred Jim Carrey or Robin Williams or even Steve Carrell, it would have proved insufferable.

But with Billy Bob Thornton, instead, it is a delightful, moving, funny, goofy, inspiring piece of family-friendly entertainment, the likes of which I have not seen for some time.

A former NASA pilot (Thornton) who left his chosen profession upon the suicide of his father decides nevertheless to pursue his dream of space flight—by building a rocket inside a silo in the midst of his 350-acre Texas ranch.

Given the love and support of his waitress wife, played with poise and grace by the lovely Virginia Madsen, and his three children (who actually speak and act like children, not like 40-year-old wisecracking midgets), who can stop this dreamer?

Why the government, for one. The bank, for another. With $600,000 in debts, the local bank threatens to foreclose on the Astronaut Farmer's property. With the PATRIOT Act not taking kindly to 10,000 pounds of high-grade rocket fuel being purchased for private use, the FBI and the FAA threaten not only to shut the Astronaut Farmer down but to take him out permanently. Throw in the mainstream media, who are alerted to this modern-day Don Quixote by a lawyer eager to give the Astronaut Farmer some leverage by conjuring up public support, and you have a circus like only our culture can produce.

This paeon to the American Dream is also about the state of such dreaming post-9/11. Is the government just doing its duty in protecting the nation from some nut who could be building a ballistic missile in his backyard—or has to overstepped its bounds in squelching the most compelling and appealing of all American sttributes, the will to wonder "What if?"

And when does one man's dream become an obsessive, self-destructive nightmare?

Yes, you must suspend your disbelief for this film to work its magic; but that is not so difficult, I promise you. There is an innocence and Capra-esque energy that will captivate you, heart and soul. And Billy Bob Thornton's man-on-a-mission earnestness, tempered by just the right touch of "What demons possess me?" self-doubt, makes for a credible performance in an albeit incredible story. (And yes, it is possible to quibble with the deus ex machina that provides an escape from the corner the writers had written themselves in, but who wants to be known as a quibbler?)

As Bruce Dern, in the role of the Astronaut Farmer's father-in-law, says: "You didn't just get your family to eat together; you got them to dream together." So be sure to take your family to see The Astronaut Farmer—and share a dream, if just for two hours.

I give this film 90 theses.

Pan's Labyrinth

2007-03-11T18:10:00.000-04:00

I looked forward to this much-lauded and rewarded period/fantasy film by Mexico's Guillermo Del Toro with slavish anticipation. One of Del Toro's previous efforts, Hellboy, impressed me greatly.

But now that I have seen Pan's Labyrinth, I must admit to mixed feelings.

It is 1944. Franco's Falangist/Nationalist forces have defeated the Republican/Communist forces. Rebels continue to resist the new regime, however, and it is left to Captain Vidal (Sergi Lopez), the Darth Vader of this tale, to smoke out and eradicate them.

Vidal's wife, Carmen (Ariadna Gil), is big with child, presumably a son. Carmen's first husband, a tailor, was killed in the war, and the daughter from this union, Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), despises Vidal, refusing to acknowledge him as "Father."

Ofelia escapes the horrors of the new, united Spain—and the brutality of her stepfather and his comrades—through a fantasy life that casts her as the lost princess of an Underworld Realm, in which her father, the king, eagerly awaits her return from the world of mortals. Fauns, fairies, and various grotesqueries populate this realm.

Many have remarked on the extraordinary fantasy creatures and set design of Pan's Labyrinth. While impressive, I must admit that, having sat through three masterful Lord of the Rings films, I was underwhelmed. I must also point out an irony in Del Toro's morality play: While Franco's forces are unremitting sadists, without a conscience to be found anywhere (even Vidal's "love" for his wife is feigned), and the Underworld itself is portrayed as a treacherous place, in which one must tread carefully lest the taboos be broken, the rebels are presented as unvarnished heroes—which requires a credulity on our part that seems to run counter to the film's central message.

In historical reality, the Republican/Communist forces were grotesqueries of another kind, responsible for the massacre of tens of thousands of civilians—especially clergy. (Del Toro places a priest at Captain Vidal's dinner table, highlighting the Catholic Church's "blessing" of the regime. But given a choice between Franco and the Communists—well, was there a choice?)

Del Toro's overarching and quite explicit (as in "Here is the message, listen up you two making out in the back") message, that no human authority deserves our unquestioning obedience—and that even "superhuman" authority requires a certain incredulity—is as good as it goes. (I have been depicted as a rebel for much of the past five hundred years for obeying my conscience and the dictates of God's gospel and no human authority, no matter how vaunted.) But the rebels, had they succeeded in vanquishing Franco's dictatorship, would have created one even more all-encompassing and demanded an obedience of even greater fanaticism. It is too bad that Del Toro fails to question resistance's cause.

Pan's Labyrinth has scenes of raw brutality, even torture. The ending is depressing. And there is one crucial scene on which the ending of the film depends that makes no sense whatsoever, in that a key character's behavior—the captain's cook, Mercedes—is inexplicable.

And so, while I found the story sufficiently arresting—who doesn't like a clear-cut "good guys" vs. "bad guys" romp?—I found that the human monsters were almost as cartoonish as the superhuman ones, and both sets grew tiresome after a short while.

It is with decided disappointment that I give Pan's Labyrinth a counter-critical 65 theses.

Indy 4 News!

2007-03-16T09:56:00.000-04:00

As much as I enjoy Ms. Blanchette's performances, I wish Karen Allen were returning in her original Raiders' role.

Although—wait! Imdb.com says she is rumored to be returning! O joy of joys!

With Sean Connery also rumored to be returning as Indy's dad, could this be the greatest Indiana Jones flick of all? Or merely the greatest disappointment?

Let's just hope no one drops dead before this thing hits post-production!

Zodiac

2007-03-17T18:44:00.000-04:00

Two questions, my Lutherans: (1) Is it my imagination, or is Robert Downey Jr. beginning to bear a striking resemblance to Al Pacino in his old age? (Downey's, not Pacino's.) He's even beginning to carry himself like the senior thespian. (2) And is Chlöe Sevigny capable of more than one facial expression, you know, one that isn't dour pout?

Imagine an above-average episode of Law & Order—that simply will not end and that has no closure. That is Zodiac, a film that goes on and on and on and on and on, trying to wear you down and break your spirit, just as the fruitless pursuit of the serial killer who terrorized California from the late 1960s into the 1970s, and who was never caught, wears out and breaks down all the police and the reporters who covered the case year after year, but who we're pretty sure it was that guy, you know that guy with the three names (but why do they always have three names?), but the handwriting evidence seemed to disprove the connection, but then, but then, there was that dead girl's sister's memory of the guy, and then the guy who survived the guy's attack who picked him out of a picture lineup—finally, I mean, after how many years?—but then the guy died—no the killer, or the guy they thought was the killer, not the other guy, the guy who survived the Zodiac's attack back in 1969 and who then disappeared—and then the DNA pointed away from that guy in 2002, so maybe it wasn't him, but everyone's pretty certain he was the guy OH JUST KILL ME NOW!

I'M THE ZODIAC! I'M THE ZODIAC! JUST MAKE IT STOP!

Brian Cox was mildly amusing as the late flamboyant mediahound lawyer Melvin Belli.

I give this film 65 theses.

Dwight Schrute for President

2007-03-29T16:06:00.000-04:00

M.Z. Hemingway, our favorite journalist in the whole world—including Cleveland!—has this post about a phone call placed by one James Dobson to a journalist at U.S. News & World Report.

What makes a Christian a Christian in the eyes of Mr. Dobson? Is it a matter of boisterousness? Then I am the most Christian of Christians in the history of Christianity. Or is it the manner in which one claims to have "become" a Christian?

I cannot say I have much interest in who is elected president of your country. All the candidates are simpletons, and I'm certain that every last one of them will, given time, make mothers weep, children cower, and lawyers richer.

As to whether a candidate is a true Christian—an idiot is an idiot no matter where they spend their Sunday mornings.

Frankly, if I had my druthers (although if a gun were put to my head I could not tell you exactly where my druthers were to be found, except, perhaps, in the vicinity of the adenoids), if an actor had to run for president, I would prefer the gentleman who plays Dwight Schrute on The Office. I have no idea whether he is Christian enough for Mr. Dobson—or a Christian at all. (But at least his character is secretly dating one!)

In the end, I would prefer a wise Lutheran with a sound grounding in the demands of the two kingdoms. But if no such Lutheran is viable, then I will settle for a wise Turk.

Well, given the current geopolitical crisis, maybe not a Turk. A wise Ghanaian, perhaps . . .

Rambo Gets Religion

2007-03-29T19:34:00.000-04:00

So, after an evangelical turn in Rocky CLXXII, Sylvester Stallone has decided to inject another dose of Christianity into Rambo IV: My Deltoids Are My Friends.

On a more serious note, Stallone says he is now a churchgoing Catholic.

I would prefer he were a churchgoing Lutheran, but you can't have everything.

On a still more serious note, if you're going to make cartoonish action films, is it a good thing to introduce Christian missionaries into its story line? Does this not trivialize what these good people do? Or is this the perfect vehicle to bring Christ to an otherwise spiritually comatose audience of mostly young knuckleheads?

Discuss. I must watch my DVD of Oscar, which upon repeated viewings is beginning to grow on me...

UPDATE: Here are some on-set photos of Sly as Rambo.

Ach! Left Behind Again!

2007-04-03T10:35:00.000-04:00

The last episode in this interminable series is upon us. So far, the Left Behind cacophony has sold eight hundred million billion trillion jillion copies—more copies than there are eyeballs if you counted eyeballs starting with King Henry II of England all the way up to this guy Larry I saw on the subway the other day.

What accounts for the success of this multi-volume Cliffnotes on dispensational theology? Lots and lots of people get killed. Take the violence out of this "entertainment" and what is left? The idea that the Church is basically a mistake (and so, by inference, is Christianity) and life is a matter of holding on for dear life until you are whisked away into the ether and the planet is thrown onto the trash heap of history.

Now there's a mission statement for a new university! Imagine that course catalogue: Every subject description would end—"But what does it really matter? Those of us who are saved will soon disappear, and the rest of you miserable sinners will have to fend off Antichrist until Earth explodes in a ball of green flame—green flame!"*

And to think I was taught none of this at good ole U of E! What a crummy education I received!

*From what movie is this reference to green flame taken? Click here—but not until you have given it a good think!

And Their Eyes Were Opened

2007-04-08T09:31:00.000-04:00

Beat Religion into Them!

2007-04-09T06:35:00.000-04:00

So yet another report that men do not frequent church in the numbers that women do is upon us.

I opined on this subject almost a year ago, offering several excellent, even revolutionary solutions to getting men out of their faux-leather recliners and into pews on Sunday mornings.

Obviously I was ignored. And so nothing changed. Except men now have "coaches" instead of pastors. Ingenious. The pain of eternal hellfire has proved a disinsentive to hearing the gospel of salvation in Jesus Christ. A promise of health-and-wealth has run its course and proved to be a sick-and-poor substitute. So now we have Knute Rockne meets Vince Lombardi. Soon pastors will simply walk up and own the aisles and start shooting congregants in the head at random. It will be referred to in the Worship Bulletin as "No pain, no gain" and will come immediately after the Offertory.

I must lie down now. Someone bring me my fluffy pillow.

Dwight Schrute: America's Only Hope

2007-04-09T07:41:00.000-04:00

Why O why will no one heed my call to draft this man and get him into the presidential race! I don't care what party he runs for! Let him create his own: the Determined Intense Good Worker Party!

After witnessing Dwight rise to the occasion last Thursday* by spraying Roy in the face with liquid pepper, thus saving hapless Jim Halpert from a mighty smackdown, I am convinced more than ever that only Dwight can provide the security this nation needs at this time in its history.

Who else would think to keep his Ninja throwing stars next to his Post-It Notes! Nunchuks beside his highlighters!

Oh, if only more cubicle cretins would learn the value of keeping a Billy Club secreted among the paper clips and three-hole punches!

And the magnanimity with which Dwight bore his hero's mantle! Refusing all accolades! Rejecting all renumerations! Accepting only Angela's lust-laden offer of sofa booty! (All right, that part was icky—but manly men needs their women! Even if their women are the dictionary definition of anal-retentive.)

I want my Lutherans to rise up, as one voice, and acclaim Dwight K. Schrute the frontrunner for president of the United States!

"But Herr Luther: He is a fictional character! A fictional character cannot run for public office—only for a fictional office. Don't you see that you trivialize the grand office of the presidency by calling for such nonsense."

Silence, imaginary interlocutor! Are you telling me that the jackanapes who are running your country today are not fictional?! I refuse to believe it! You are deluded! Your president, your Speaker of the House, your attorney general—these are not characters from The Simpons or South Park? Impossible!

And if, by some strange twist of fate, you are, in fact, ruled by flesh-and-blood humans and not two-dimensional computer-generated images, then I insist that this discrimination end immediately! Why should arteries and DNA be determinative of fitness for public office! Why is it not enough that a candidate have his own bobble-head and easily accessed deleted scenes?! Why is it not enough that a candidate could defeat his fictional British counterpart, Gareth Keenan, in a fair fight, with or without melee weapons? Why is it not enough that once you grow sick of his incompetence, you can simple change the channel!

My only reservation is that Mr. Schrute is a Romanist—although he is a descendant of good Amish people. I have every confidence, however, that Angela will bring him back to sanity on this matter. (Although the only book, besides the Scriptures, she would bring with her on a desert island is The Purpose-Driven Life. This gives me pause, not to mention a massive case of deep-intestinal gas.)

Nevertheless, and notwithstanding: Dwight Schrute for President! Dwight Schrute for President!

*For those of you who do not watch The Office: You are banned from this blog for the next two hours and forty minutes.

Imus and Hypocrisy

2007-04-12T06:58:00.000-04:00

Is it just my imagination or did the "Rev." Al Sharpton appear on Mr. Imus' radio show a couple of years back to promote something or other—this after Mr. Imus had supposedly said nasty things about Gwen Ifill, et. al.?

I would be happy to remove the quotation marks from "Rev." if someone could tell me from which seminary Mr. Sharpton received his divinity degree. All I can find is that he "was licensed and ordained a minister at the age of 10 by Bishop F.D. Washington in 1964" (this from a Wikipedia entry).

Age 10? And to think I was an old man of 24 when I was ordained a priest! Either Mr. Sharpton was very quick-witted and spiritually mature or I was an addlepated pagan.

BTW: Kurt Vonnegut is dead. A once very-amusing writer and contrarian (who often had some very unamusing things to say about Christians, his daughter being one), Mr. Vonnegut himself was an occasional guest on Mr. Imus' program. (My miserable, execrable assistant remembers meeting the writer back in 1989 and requesting that Mr. Vonnegut sign one of his books. Herr V promptly complied, and his signature was accompanied by a quick illustration of a rude body part—well, not so much a part as a niche—Ach!)

None of this should be construed as approval or acceptance of what Mr. Imus said about the Rutger's Women's Basketball Team. His remarks were reprehensible, and, as has been noted time and again in the past week, these young women were merely the victims of a drive-by mouth-shooting. They should have been celebrated for their achievement and not denigrated as a means to a cheap laugh.

Speaking as someone who has spent the past five hundred years bloviating in a bombastical manner, I have learned that one should save his venom for those who abuse their power, whether in the media, in government, or in the Church. Nevertheless, I find the opportunism of some professional activists very interesting—and the rump-kissing of left-wing establishment types by the likes of Keith Olbermann very repulsive . . .

It seems to me that people of all races, creeds, and political persuasions were more than happy to use Mr. Imus and his audience as a means to their ends when it suited them. Now that the I-Man has stepped in it, instead of community service, especially in light of all his charitable work, he has been given life . . .

One more thing: When will the "Rev." Sharpton be apologizing to Steven Pagones?

UPDATE: The I-Man strikes back!

Nothing 'Mere' About It

2007-04-17T13:37:00.000-04:00

N.T. Wright commemorates the 60th anniversary of C.S. Lewis' classic apologetical work Mere Christianity. It appears in the March issue of the fine Touchstone magazine. You may also discuss Bishop Wright's article on their blog.

Touchstone is a highly regarded and serious ecumenical magazine that features contributions from Christians of many denominations. I know we Lutherans are often denigrated for our lack of ecumenical zeal, our insularity, our lack of charitableness toward Christians of other denominations.

That about sums it up.

Now ask me if I care. I have enough to worry about just keeping my own crew from retrogressing into a babel of hippie Jesus freaks—and put some shoes on! AND TURN THAT RACKET DOWN!

Mystery Science Theater 3000!

2007-04-17T16:41:00.000-04:00

Benjamin Franklin and Venantino Venantini—together again!

And how could I have missed adding The Wild Women of Wongo to my Netflix queue?

The forces behind MST3000 should be commended simply for improving upon Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones by providing a RiffTrax!

(Could I possibly get something like that for the Matrix sequels? Perhaps running commentary by nonparticipants could make sense of all that New Age ka-ka once and for all! Such a headache it gave me! Was Neo the messiah or not? Did Trinity come back to life for real? Did the rebellion finally defeat the robot monsters who wanted to turn everyone into batteries? And who shot J.R.? I'm so confused!)

This Is Anti-Catholic Bigotry!

2007-04-20T09:25:00.000-04:00

Obviously Mr. Tony Auth, whose cartoon this is, is joining in the chorus of Catholic bashers, simply because five good men decided, through some strange biochemical reaction in their craniums, that sucking out the contents of an infant's cranium was a bad thing.

One wonders if the ruling's detractors have not had the contents of their craniums similarly sucked out. To all those so exercised over this decision, fear not: You can still kill your children; you simply must be more circumspect as regards the means. Just as there is such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment meted out to a convicted murderer—you may still execute him, but you can't hack him to death with meat cleavers (or force him to watch Keith Olbermann for, say, 40 hours at a time).

Obviously, the symmetry in this comparison is all wrong, as the infant making its way through the birth canal is an innocent, whereas the convicted murderer is, by definition, not. But you get my drift—you can still kill, just do it in a humane way! (Try getting through this if you suspect the horrors of partial-birth abortion are exaggerated.) There's still dilation and evacuation, salt poisoning, chemical abortion—loads of gruesome methods! So cheer the hell up!

And let's stop ridiculing the poor Roman Catholics for merely being the conscience of the nation! Haven't Catholics had to endure enough from bigots calling them all sorts of hideous names down through the centuries!? Sure, they tried to kill me, but that's water under the bridge. A mere bag of shells, as Mr. Kramden liked to say. Can't we all just get along?

I . . . I must lie down . . . is it just me or is the room spinning . . . cookies . . . I must have cookies . . .

Fracture: Hannibal Lecter Lite

2007-04-21T15:12:00.000-04:00

A rich and devilishly ingenious aeronautical engineer (Anthony Hopkins) shoots his wife. He confesses to the crime—even signs a confession.

A gifted public prosecutor (Ryan Gosling), on his way to the high-life of a swanky private firm, takes this case as one last exercise in civic duty. A no-brainer—the guy confessed. They have the gun. He can lock this up with one brain tied behind his back.

The thing is, he can't convict. The confession was made to a detective who just happened to be the now-comatose shooting victim's lover. The shooter says he confessed under duress. And the gun that was found on the premises? Never been fired.

Fracture is a quiet, deliberate, and smart Columbo-like thriller, with Anthony Hopkins enjoying life as Hollywood's go-to supergenius criminal. Gosling brings just the right combination of youthful overconfidence and wounded pride to his role as a young master of the universe watching the effects of entropy destroy everything he's worked for.

The Hollywood tricks are feinted at, then rejected, keeping you guessing. There is no deus ex machina. Could this monster possibly get away with attempted murder? (Keep the attempted in the back of your mind.)

Catch this while you can. It probably won't break box office records and may not last long, which is a shame, but predictable. Not much in the way of violence, no nudity, just mind games. Not exactly the stuff of video games.

I give this film 85 Theses.

One quibble: What does a recently fired gun feel like?

Knievel No Longer Evel

2007-04-21T21:34:00.000-04:00

While Robert Schuller's ministry is not one I am likely to endorse, anyone who witnessed Mr. Knievel's testimony—a man once the epitome of physical courage now barely able to breathe and walk on his own—could not help but be moved.

The 68-year-old Mr. Knievel admitted to a vague belief in a "god" while running from His Son—but you cannot outrun the Light.

I dare say the former daredevil's public baptism and witness to his newfound faith in and love for Christ was by far the bravest act of his life—a mighty leap of faith, in which he was upheld by the hidden God and propelled by power of the Spirit.

Let this be a lesson to all those who revel in their youth, strength, celebrity, and wealth—"You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?"