"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them." (Gen. 1:27)

Thursday, October 13, 2011

TIFFology 103: Further Thoughts and a New Hope...

As September slips into October, TIFF is starting to fade into a distant memory for this year.


Nevertheless, I do feel that one more reflection is appropriate.  I've enjoyed doing these too much and still have more to say to keep from one final shot.  I guess that's what happens when you see six movies in one week.  Man, does God do some serious mashups...


Besides, what would a movie blog be without a trilogy?  Hopefully the third one won't be a mass disappointment, ruining the effort of the first two.  (I'm looking at you, Matrix Revolutions...)


An additional theme to emerge from my experience at TIFF 2011 was that love is the ultimate impulse.  Within our culture, it's clear that the driving force behind much of life's decisions is determined by our relationships with one another and the world.  Our experience of love (or lack thereof) shapes our view of the world and influences the way that we interact within it.  In light of this, the best example of love's influence comes through the story of Sam Childers (Gerard Butler) in Marc Forster's Machine Gun Preacher.  Based on a true story, Machine Gun Preacher follows Childers' journey from drug dealer to born-again Christian.  Soon after accepting Christ, Childers opts to participate in a service trip to the Sudan where he witnesses first-hand the horrors of a country torn apart by civil war and violence.  His heart broken for the plight of these families, Childers decides to build an orphanage as a refuge for child soldiers.  Despite the fact that he is the target of violent attacks of the opposition, Childers' love for the children calls him to remain dedicated in his desire for justice and protection for these people.  Further, this commitment to justice is a complete turnaround for him.  Having once thought only of himself, Childers has now had his world reshaped by Christ's love in such a way that he is compelled to sacrifice his wants for the benefit of others.  He understands that his actions are seen as a threat to the status quo.  For example, when confronted with the fact that his actions are making him a target, he responds by arguing that "[he] must be doing something right then."  Still, he remains steadfast in his 'calling from God'.  In essence, Childers' experience of love then becomes the primary motivator for his expression thereof.


Interestingly, however, the story really gains its narrative tension from the division between Childers' two worlds:  his American home life and his Sudanese orphanage.  It is within this dichotomy that Preacher really grapples with the imbalance that can occur when love becomes obsession.  [POTENTIAL SPOILER ALERT]  In other words, as Childers first embarks upon his mission to rescue child soldiers, he is driven by love for their safety and well-being.  What's more, he also manages to balance this love of justice while fully offering his heart to his wife and daughter back in the US.  Nevertheless, as his heart is slowly broken down by the ravages of war, Childers becomes filled with anger, causing him to increasingly disengage from his family while obsessing endlessly about his personal war.  [SPOILERS DONE]  In this case, the impulse of love moves from a call to health and healing to the driving force for destruction.  Although still technically Childers' primary motivator, his commitment to love is tainted by rage, creating a darker, more ferocious heart within him.


This darker side to love leads us quickly into the idea that, within our culture, true honour is morally grey.  A theme like this permeates much of popular culture these days, especially within television and film narratives.  Much is rationalized in the name of love.  An excellent example of this comes through Nicholas Winding Refn's gritty crime drama, Drive.  Here, Ryan Gosling plays a nameless character (simply known as 'Driver') who works as a stunt driver by day while moonlighting as a getaway car driver at night.  His existence is a quiet one that operates with few attachments, keeping relatively off the grid.  Nevertheless, his world quickly changes after connecting with a young family who live down the hall.  As his relationship with the family--including the beautiful young mother, Irene (Carey Mulligan)--deepens, Gosling soon becomes involved with some former mob ties that still haunt the family and chooses to fight in an effort to free his friends from their past.  This particular film is interesting insofar as the clear heart of love that beats within Gosling's character is offset by the extremes that he is willing to go in terms of violence.  In an interview, Refn described his protagonist as 'part man, part machine'.  After seeing the film, I truly don't really know how else to describe it.  Gosling's 'Driver' is clearly a damaged soul who appears to find wholeness in the love of this family.  Nonetheless, this desire to protect also awakens a roaring lion inside of him that operates without restraint when the need arises.  [SPOILER ALERT] Interestingly, although Irene initially objects to this type of violence, even she cannot help but be thankful for the liberty that comes as a result.  [SPOILERS DONE]  Without question, this is a clear example of the 'ends justifying the means'.  Viciously stomping skulls or nailing bullets into foreheads means little to Gosling if it provides freedom to those he loves in the end.  Because his intentions are honourable, his actions must be as well.


Interestingly, this viewpoint also permeates Machine Gun Preacher as well.  Like Gosling in Drive, Childers is a man divided (albeit much less composed).  As he grapples with the horrors of life in the Sudan, there is no doubt that Childers wants peace and justice... however, he also believes that taking action is the best way to get it.  In short, he simply sees no other option.  Every time that he straps on assault weapons to fight the resistance army, he is fully aware of the controversial nature of his methods.  When confronted by another aid worker about his use of weapons, Childers growls, "Why don't you fight the evil in this place your way and let me fight it mine?"  What's even more fascinating to me is that, for the majority of the film, we, as the audience, sympathize with him.  Although there are moments towards the end when we can see that his behaviour is going too far, much of the narrative is spent from Childers' perspective.  As such, we journey with him as the viewers, all the while torn between the method and the motivation.


Moreover, it is in the midst of stories like these that we must ask ourselves where the Gospel permeates.  There is no question that the Gospel offers hope and freedom to the oppressed.  Out of our experience with Christ and motivated by love, we, as believers, are called to exhibit these qualities and call for justice in our world today.


Few would argue this truth.


Things get complicated, however, when one engages discussion as to how that freedom should be brought about.  In a scene during the closing credits of Preacher, the real Sam Childers asks a simple question:  "If one of your children were taken and I said I could bring them home, would you care how I did it?"  As a believer and, not to mention, as a parent, it's a question that I cannot easily answer.  Must peaceful action and violence be mutually exclusive if they are motivated by love?  Films like Drive and Machine Gun Preach thrive within this tension.  (Incidentally, this tension is even evident within Preacher's print ad campaign.  Witness the differences between the first promotional poster and the second one-sheet.  It's staggering.)


In response to this, I believe that much of this discussion stems from a quest for hope.  Whether one takes a violent approach to seeking justice or whether they opt for a more peaceful recourse, one's actions often stem from their belief in the root of hope.  Does God really take an active role in the world or is it really just up to us to make things happen? 


To attempt to answer this, I would argue that the larger question in films like these is whether or not genuine hope actually exists.  


Cue John Williams score... now.

The search for hope is ubiquitous in all of the films that I took in at this year's festival, each with their own questions and answers.  Whereas Drive offers hope through taking matters into one's own hands, a film like Jeff, Who Lives At Home believes that it comes from outside of ourselves, as if we're part of some greater plan of which we are unaware.  While From the Sky Down finds hope in community that is united by the Spirit of God, Anonymous focuses its hope on human freedom and creativity.  Interestingly, both Machine Gun Preacher and Martha Marcy May Marlene end open-endedly on their quest for hope.  However, it is also intriguing to note that, while Preacher celebrates Childers dedication as a source of hope, Martha Marcy leaves us with an overwhelming sense of fear and hopelessness.  (This dichotomy is further echoed in the promotional materials as well.  For instance, although Machine Gun Preacher's poster carries the message that "Hope is the greatest weapon of all", Martha Marcy offers no such platitudes or taglines, implying that there's no easy answer.)


As a believer, this quest for a new hope draws me back to our Creator for answers.  There is no doubt in my mind that Jesus Christ speaks to each of these issues, calling us back to wholeness and restoration in Him.  Though we might not always agree on how it manifests itself, there is no question that the truth of the Gospel does offer freedom to the broken and oppressed in a way that brings both healing and hope.  The movement of God towards His people reveals the depth of His love for us in ways that reshape us in such a manner that we are prepared to grapple with issues like honour and justice from His perspective.

As a result, love really does become the ultimate motivation after all.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

TIFFology 102: Martha Marcy Edition


Martha Marcy May Marlene
Starring Elizabeth Olsen, John Hawkes                                                   By Steve Norton
Rated R for thematic content, language and brief nudity            Rating: ****1/2 (out of 5)
In Theaters Friday, October 23rd, 2011

As I continue to debrief my experience at TIFF, I keep coming back to one specific film.  I have been able to link it with other films and deconstruct it from that perspective but, to be honest, that wouldn't do this particular film justice.  My experience of this film was one of emotional horror.  It left me feeling disturbed to my very core and was one of those rare occasions when I simply did not know how to deal with what I had just seen.

It’s excellent.


Martha Marcy opens as a young girl named Martha (Elizabeth Olsen, in one of the best performances I have ever seen) escapes from a cult in the Catskill Mountains.  Searching for safety, she reaches out to her sister and brother-in-law—the only family that she has left—to take her in.  Upon Martha’s arrival, her sister slowly begins to notice distinct differences in her sister’s behaviour, ranging from her comments about being a ‘teacher and a leader’ to skinny-dipping publicly in broad daylight.  From there, the film unfolds in a skewed timeline that ebbs and flows between reality and flashback (or is it a dream?).  The film masterfully contrasts Martha’s seemingly bizarre behaviour with her family while, at the same time, slowly revealing to us the horrors that took place in the commune under the influence of their charismatic leader, Patrick (John Hawkes).

Since viewing this film, I have not been able to escape the vision of the depth of damage incurred by sin at the Fall.  The best illustration of this comes through the journey Martha takes in her relationship with Patrick.  For instance, when Martha first meets Patrick, he carries himself with incredible charm.  In a conversation that is eerily reminiscent of the Serpent’s exchange with Eve in Genesis 3, Patrick promises much to his young inductee and welcomes her to the commune with humility and openness, explaining that ‘it’s as much yours as it is mine’.  The interesting thing is that Patrick’s teachings even appear to make sense.  He seamlessly blends truth and lies together in the pseudo-spiritual advice he offers to his new recruit, inviting her to ‘let her guard down [because they] want to help…” and teaching her that, despite their poverty, they are ‘in need of nothing’.  In Patrick, Martha finds an escape from her life and potential hope for a future.  He even refuses to call her by her given name, stating she ‘looks like a Marcy May’ (a metaphor used by the film to show the death of her old self). 

Nevertheless, similar to the Genesis account of the Fall, Martha’s (or is it Marcy May?) openness to Patrick’s teaching causes her to suffer her own fall from grace.  As a result, she gradually loses her sense of self, becoming the very ‘picture on the wall’ about which Patrick sings.  Martha Marcy May Marlene is a haunting vision of the devastation that occurs when one allows themselves to be seduced by skewered visions of love and wholeness.  Martha’s openness to life with Patrick may have begun as a desire for a fresh start but it ends up reshaping her life and worldview in a way that leaves her barely recognizable to her family.  (Even the film’s poster—a giant ‘M’ with Olsen’s picture behind it—suggests that Martha has found herself imprisoned by her experience.  You can see the ad here.)  In other words, like Adam and Eve’s experience in the Garden, Martha’s desire for something better than what she had leads her into world of brokenness and disarray far worse than she could have imagined.

Furthermore, this film really also speaks to the depth of one’s story.  This idea is best brought forward through Martha’s relationship with her sister, Lucy (Sarah Paulson), and brother-in-law Ted (Hugh Dancy).  Having been absent from their lives for two years, Martha’s reappearance causes a great deal of tension within the family unit. To her sister, she’s still a child; to her workaholic brother-in-law, she’s an annoyance.  In fact, perhaps the most frustrating thing about this film is the manner in which her family deals with the ‘new’ Martha.  Ted exists in his own world, focusing primarily on himself.  His intent is to enjoy the time (and money) that he’s earned and consistently complains about Martha’s imposition on his vacation that ‘he only gets two weeks a year’ to utilize.  On the other hand, while Lucy’s engagement with her sister is far more sensitive, it still falls short of truly being able to help.  Rather than inquire of and listen patiently to her sister’s story, Lucy makes assumptions about Martha’s relationship with Patrick and writes off the experience as having to do with ‘some boyfriend up in the Catskills’.  As a result, both she and Patrick appear consumed with curbing her behaviour so that she can function socially.  In truth, however, Martha’s story has been damaged so deeply that merely attempting to acclimatize her actions is only a Band-Aid solution at best. What does a moment like this mean to us as Christians?  Interestingly, it is also here that the nature of the Gospel is at it’s most relevant.  As Christ speaks grace and truth into the hearts of the broken, he offers restoration at the very deepest parts of our souls.  However, the attitude exhibited by Martha’s family actually prevents her from experiencing genuine, God-filled healing by focusing on her behaviour instead of connecting her heart with the Spirit of Christ.  In short, Martha doesn’t need to be ‘fixed’.  She needs to experience healing—and that can only begin once you get to the very heart of her story and meet her there with grace.

The truth about Martha Marcy May Marlene is that it genuinely reflects the effects of our own fallenness.  Similar to the events of Genesis 3, Martha’s journey illustrates the reality of the shattering of our own wholeness.  Furthermore, the brokenness of her story pleads for someone to offer her freedom and restoration.

Which is also the very point where the Gospel needs to intersect.