TITLE: Film: True and True-ish AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 2:45:00 PM ----- BODY:
While developing the Watching Theology podcast, I expected to be a bigger defender of using the arts to think through theology. Although that is partly the case, I've found a few problems with the approach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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-------- TITLE: Review: The Virgin Spring (1960) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 6:31:00 AM ----- BODY:
Dir: Ingmar Bergman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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-------- TITLE: The Gospel According to Tarantino AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 7:59:00 AM ----- BODY:
Religion is often considered the domain of the sacred. Everything else, including movies, beer and comfortable underwear, is the profane. That doesn't necessarily mean it's dirty, just that it's somehow tainted by the material world. It isn't that special, untouchable realm of holiness.

Christianity really messes up those categories, especially in the Incarnation of the Word - in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. And that tension of fully God and fully man has confused most of us ever since. In nineteenth century revivalism - and in many areas of contemporary Evangelicalism - abstaining from "worldly amusements" (as the old Southern Baptist "Faith and Message" used to put it) was the test of holiness. It became evidence of a Christian's Christianity.

But let's just begin with the basic idea that "the Word became flesh" and that one of the fundamental scandals of Christianity is that it blurs the boundaries of sacred and profane. A dusty (probably a bit smelly), ancient Jew is considered the holiest person ever to live. Still, does that mean sacredness can stretch further into the really profane? into the realm of sex, violence and a potty mouth?

(Speaking of "potty mouth") In an interview Bono did with Rolling Stone he talked at length about the question of reconciling - or even thinking there could be reconciliation - between the sacred and profane. He saw that the inability to live with that tension ultimately undid Christians like Elvis Presley and Marvin Gaye. They could sing about Jesus and girls but never at the same time. It was said of Elvis that he would record a gospel album and go home with a mistress. Listen to Gaye's classic What's Goin' On album to see him flip between Jesus-centered music and drug songs. This is the same guy who revived his career with "Sexual Healing" though lost his life to the gun of his fundamentalist father.

There are a number of films that push the marriage of sacred and profane to points of abandon. Kevin Smith's Dogma (1999) is an attempt to create a somewhat affectionate critique of religion - at least an insider's contemplation - with deviant sexual humor, apocryphal plot points and a giant crap monster (Smith is a Catholic). Constantine (2005) is a story of redemption in a violent, but surprisingly reverent world of demons and harsh social textures. The Exorcist is perhaps the most disturbing film of the recent era, but the story was written as a testament to the power of faith and the reality of good and evil in this world.

But even more impressive - and confusing - are the movies that don't appear to have a religious or Christian perspective. Miguel Arteta's The Good Girl (2002), written by Mike White and staring Jennifer Aniston, is about an affair between a woman and an adolescent. But it touches on the reality - and even the language - of sin. It prods at Texan Christianity but accepts its sincerity. Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man (1973) is a story of a small island dedicated to paganism, including orgies and ritual sacrifice. But the primary police investigator is a devout Christian who maintains his integrity despite temptations and danger.

The ultimate example is a surprisingly moralistic film from a writer/director named Quentin Tarantino. Pulp Fiction (1994) is a massive assault of style, perverse characters and dialogue. It famously inspired a string of dark and violent independent films, and contains homo-sadistic rednecks, hit-men, rampant drug abuse and stays grounded in the dark underworld of blue collar criminal activity. One of the primary characters - perhaps even the main character - is Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson). Jules is half of an enforcer team that kills a room of young men to take back a mysterious brief case for their employer, the crime lord Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames). Winnfield, in the moment before he assassinates quotes the poetry of Scripture. He uses - and abuses - Ezekiel 25.

But Jules witness an event. After a stream of close-range bullets fly past, he thinks he's seen a miracle. Vincent (John Travolta), his partner, interprets it as mere luck. And in many ways, the story - or at least that aspect of the story - is about how these two people respond to divine intervention. Vincent is the skeptic. Jules is the faithful. As the movie draws to its conclusions, Tarantino makes a surprising statement about the two paths these men take. Jules' remains a mystery, unknown to us except in his final statements of intent. Vincent's is perhaps a judgment against his lack of faith.

Does Jules undergo a religious - yes, even Christian - conversion? And does he become the hero of the story through it? After my third or fourth viewing, I actually caught this aspect. Iit became clear that Jules has become a man of primitive but sincere faith. Consider his words to Ringo (Tim Roth), who is holding him up at gunpoint. Jules turns the table on Ringo, gaining the uperhand:
Jules: I want you to go in that bag, and find my wallet.
Ringo: Which one is it?
Jules: It's the one that says Bad Motherf***ker....
Jules: Wanna know what I'm buyin' Ringo?
Ringo: What?
Jules: Your life. I'm givin' you that money so I don't hafta kill your a**. You read the Bible?
Ringo: Not regularly.
Jules: There's a passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. 'The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.'
I been sayin' that s**t for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your a**. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherf***er before you popped a cap in his a**. But I saw some s**t this mornin' made me think twice. Now I'm thinkin': it could mean you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. 9mm here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous a** in the valley of darkness. Or it could be you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that s**t ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm tryin', Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard to be a shepherd.

So can you recommend Pulp Fiction to the church body? Or is it so buried in the profane that the sacred is unrecognizable? Or perhaps I'm missing the whole point. Perhaps Pulp Fiction is simply about characters, and Tarantino's genius is that he creates characters with integrity and complexity to exist in his stylized world. Perhaps Tarantino doesn't see the conflict that undid Marvin Gaye and Elvis Presley because he's personally unconflicted. And maybe that gives him a little bit of freedom to allow sacred and profane to coexist, at least in Pulp Fiction and in Jules. Is Pulp Fiction a Christian film? Not exactly. But it does allow the possibility for God to break in, and that's half way to the Incarnation - the ultimate statement of sacred profanity.

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-------- TITLE: The other side of beauty AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 5:54:00 AM ----- BODY:
H.R. Giger is a master of synthetic aesthetics, and by that I mean nothing less than the ability to understand and combine the most beautiful and ugly aspects of creation. There's something compellingly beautiful about his alien creations. Something that draws us in to their sleek, feminine qualities. It's very difficult to duplicate. One step in the other direction - to add a few more teeth or more dramatic angles - and they simply become monsters.

Horror films have attempted to find that balance of extremes: violence and calm, gore and sensuality, beauty and ugliness. Consider the Hellraiser series, as the films play on grotesquely designed, sensual demons. They do something that goes back far in the study of aesthetics. They understand that the contrast of beauty and ugliness creates a tension and energy that lures the human animal into some level of primitive excitement.
Whether it's the modern horror movie or the medieval judgment play, ugliness is an important component of understanding beauty. Humans live in a strange condition of balanced contradictions. Anyone who thinks people are basically good should be around a mob that hasn't slept or eaten in 2 days. We are draw to violence and brutality, to exploited sexuality and domination. It's the reason dictatorships and politics will always exist - and perhaps why the ultimate form of biblical government is a monarchy.

One question provoked by St. Paul is whether a Christian should look at, or even consider, ugliness. In his letter to the Philippian Church, he writes, "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." Some interpreters have turned this passage into a ministry of positive thinking. Others strongly argue that it's utterly inappropriate for a Christian to expose his or herself to the other side of aesthetics.

Unfortunately, we have a difficult situation: the world is at least as ugly as it is beautiful. We aren't excused from ugliness, though we are supposed to cling to beauty.

That becomes a bit of an issue in horror films, or even films that spend a great amount of time on the uglier aspects of the human condition. One of the most difficult things about being a film-phile, of being a lover and critic of movies, is that so many of the greatest works are about the fallen state of humanity. Like Shakespeare, modern storytellers are drawn to the tragedy.

There is something to learn from watching ugliness, whether it's a Scorsese saga or a David Fincher murder picture. Perhaps these two contemporary directors do it better than anyone else. Despite their fascinations with violence and darkness, they are artists who never deny beauty. Even their ugliness is beautiful. This may seem like a small concession, or even a fan's manipulation - a strained attempt to avoid the American Evangelical tension of Christianity and watching rated-R movies. Rather, it is a vital distinction between exploitation and art.

Scorsese, perhaps because of his embedded Catholicism, is constantly aware of the human-God paradox: the balance of crucifixion and resurrection, of incarnation and deity. He understands beauty so deeply that his ugliness is stronger, more effective. And the same can be said about the inverse: his ugliness makes his beauty clearer. Nowhere is this more obvious than the relationship of innocence and filth between Travis Bickle (Robert Deniro) and Betsy (Cybill Shepherd) in Taxi Driver. Her innocence fascinates and compels Travis, but his filth can't comprehend or control it. It devolves into something else, but the contact changes him. He develops a noble, though perverse, desire to be good, to be beautiful, in his attempt to save the young prostitute, Iris (Jodie Foster).

David Fincher's films are an aesthetic triumph. From Alien3 on, he contrasts and controls the elements of darkness and vulgarity with the rules of symmetry and composition. He makes beautiful ugliness. Fincher, both thematically and technically, integrates the full aesthetic of perfectly and beautifully designed fallen-ness. Alien3 is driven by the qualities of masculinity and femininity, of stark evil and goodness co-existing. Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) becomes a Christ figure - complete with outstretched arms sacrifice. She sacrifices her beauty to battle ugliness. And like Father Karras (Jason Miller) in The Exorcist, her sacrifice to ugliness is designed to preserve beauty and goodness.

Se7en is the masterpiece statement on beautiful ugliness. Even the rain is transformed into a symbol of the pervasive presence of sin. It is a powerful look at the deceptive and persistent draw of sin, that eventually it will corrupt and stain even the most beautiful and innocent qualities of this life, even the desire for justice. But in that understanding, and under Fincher's perfect combination of themes and aesthetics, something else emerges: the clarity of the human condition. We are drawn to Luther's famous statement: simultaneously saint/justified and sinner.

The problem with the human condition is that, because of our fallenness, we tend to understand the good virtues most clearly in contrast with the evil. Fincher and Scorsese both yield to the temptation to exploit evil, but neither completely forsakes the triumph and necessity of good. And for that reason, no matter how ugly their films become, beauty is ultimately their aim and their redemption.

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-------- TITLE: On Christmas films AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 7:29:00 AM ----- BODY:
It's that time of year when we attempt to confirm the holiday with movies. There's nothing wrong with that, though it's primarily about one thing: feeling like Christmas. Christmas movies, like Christmas music, are an attempt to establish the mood.

The most successful movies are about this - the idea that Christmas is a mood, a "spirit,” rather than a celebration. This post isn't simply a complaint about that situation. If it weren’t for the "Christmas spirit" we probably wouldn't get the day off work.

Christmas spirit movies generally fall into the categories of having an epiphany, usually about what "this season is all about" (i.e. family, friends, giving) - the Charles Dickens interpretations.

Many “Christmas spirit” movies include variations and interpretations of The Christmas Carol. These start to show up in 1908 and move on into a number of modern interpretations. The most famous adaptations are the George C. Scott (1984) and the Alastair Slim Scrooge (1951). The Flintstones do a version as do the Muppets, which is surprisingly faithful to the original story.

The variations are perhaps even more famous: consider Frank Capra's It's A Wonderful Life, which has become as essential a part of Christmas as a manger. The Richard Donner/Bill Murray ironic take, Scrooged (1988), is an attempt to update the story for a bit more "sophisticated" and ironic audience (it is also surprisingly inappropriate for showing at most youth church activities). The Family Man (2000) is perhaps the most recent incarnation.

Christmas spirit movies tend to be about just the decoration of Christmas. Consider pictures like A Christmas Story, The Christmas that Almost Wasn't, Holiday Inn, White Christmas, The Grinch, Trapped in Paradise, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, The Santa Clause, The Polar Express, Elf, etc. The Christmas spirit is simply a political/cultural agreement in these movies - a mood of the season that compels certain dress and behavior. Generally, these movies require a new mythology to give the season meaning. Hence, the Santa legend (and Rudolph and Frosty) gets thrust into prominence by those stop-motion Rankin-Bass television specials of the 1960s-70s. (I blame/credit the famous 1897 editorial, "Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus.")

A few Christmas spirit movies use the season for comedic relief and atmosphere: Mixed Nuts, Edward Scissorhands, Trading Places, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and Die Hard. For some reason, this seems less sentimental and exploitive.

The trick comes when finding a movie that can talk about the "Christ" or "Mass" of Christmas. Although I wasn't deeply intrigued by the appearance of this year's The Nativity Story, I am thankful for it's creation and will probably watch it with my family next year on DVD. But it gets difficult to find films that integrate the "Christ of Christmas." There are a few - very few.

On the television front, it's impossible to do better than the reading of the old King James translation of Luke's Gospel in A Charlie Brown Christmas. It's pure beauty and simplicity. Pee-Wee's Christmas Special, despite the holiday-season dressing, takes a moment to explain that Christmas is specifically about Christ's birth. The Rankin-Bass The Little Drummer Boy still works and was my favorite as a kid.

The Bishop's Wife (1947) is a movie that includes a very pointed sermon. The Bells of St. Mary (1944) features an enjoyable Christmas pageant. The Fourth Wise Man (1985) is a television movie attempt.

There are a couple films that incorporate the Nativity in remarkable, poignant ways. Pasolini's The Gospel of St. Matthew (1964) is breathtaking. A big surprise comes in Richard Dutcher's States of Grace (2005). I won't say how it integrates Christmas, only that it's remarkably powerful. (Note: In case this interests you, Pasolini was an atheist and Dutcher is a Mormon and neither film is especially appropriate for younger audiences.)

There aren't a lot of actual Christ-mas movies and perhaps there's a reason. The Nativity doesn't sell well and it doesn't excite most people outside the Church. Even within the Church, it's often sentimentalized. But if you're a Christian and the incarnation of the Son of God means what it should mean, hearing hymns about Jesus' birth and the sovereignty of God's purpose more than compensates for the lack of viewing options. There's something special about the old-fashioned Christmas pageant, watching kids act out the story of the journey to Bethlehem and the birth in the manger. Perhaps it just doesn't translate to film as easily as Santa and snowy New York streets.

(Note: There are a couple war films that have strong Christmas themes. I don't remember 1992's A Midnight Clear very well, except as a solid WWII picture. I'm particularly interested in the 2005 French film Joyeux Noël, which is based on a true story of Christmas invading war - and which I haven't seen yet.)

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-------- TITLE: The Nativity Story wants yous AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 7:05:00 AM ----- BODY:
It happened before. The surprising success of The Song of Bernadette (1943) drove movie studios to pump out a string of films aimed at capturing the Christian – in particular, Catholic – audience. The Keys of the Kingdom (1944) was a great film, but it owes its very existence to The Song of Bernadette. Eventually, the piety movie merged with Hollywood storytelling to produce the CinemaScope wonder of The Robe (1953), culminating in Ben Hur (1959). So its not like a market-driven exploitation can't produce some good work.

Anyone who follows trends in the motion picture industry was waiting for a similar string of films following the surprising success of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ (2004). And for some reason, that genre saturation failed to happen. But this December, a new film is being released obviously intent to capture the power and audience of Gibson’s breakthrough Jesus epic.

The Nativity Story is nothing less than a test to see if that audience is still out there and if there really is a pile of money waiting for Evangelical/Catholic-friendly filmmakers. Already, the film is advertising its faithfulness to the Gospels. It is premiering at the Vatican, and notes it's use of theologians and historians. If that doesn't draw you in, it was also heavily filmed in Patera, Italy - home of The Passion (and Pasolini's landmark The Gospel of St. Matthew).

Perhaps I'm too skeptical, or simply bored with historical biblical films. There was an intensity to The Passion of the Christ that made it an original film. Gibson succeeded in creating an project that actually worked best in the medium. But, many biblical films are sheer illustration, like highly-financed replacements of Sunday School flannel boards. Their reverence and solemnity, joined with anachronistic clothing and atmospheric music, don't create a sense of identity but distance and otherness.

Will I see The Nativity? Eventually. But it doesn't appeal to me in the way it should. I eagerly anticipated The Passion. But perhaps much of that had to do with knowing Gibson's work from previous films, shooting in Aramaic and the level of controversy surrounding the movie. The Nativity seems a bit too safe, too obvious and too marketed at an audience like, well, me. And maybe the Gen-X anti-establishment part of me resents that.

The movie will have to hit theaters before we know if there's something special about this new biblically-serious movie. Will church youth groups flock to theaters, bringing all their "unsaved friends" or will critics describe it as a challenging and worthwhile vision? Perhaps it's "unprecedented level of commitment to ensure the authenticity... of the Nativity story" will translate into an significant, devotional experience. But, for some reason I'm much more interested in seeing The Fountain, Apocalypto or, yes, even Rocky Balboa. Perhaps I'm becoming a Pagan. Or maybe The Charlie Brown Christmas Special spoiled me for any other Nativity interpretation.

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-------- TITLE: Temptation/Passion of (the) Christ(s) AUTHOR: Joe Johnson DATE: 1:04:00 PM ----- BODY:
The following article is written in response to an email I received. On the Martin Scorsese episode of Watching The Directors (podcast), I commented on how I thought The Last Temptation of Christ depicted the crucifixion, the desert temptation and the raising of Lazarus better than any other film. The email asked me to explain my comments, especially in consideration and comparison with Gibson's The Passion of the Christ.

It's nearly impossible for me to think of The Passion of the Christ without considering The Last Temptation of Christ. Both were preceded by enormous controversy, both were impressive compositions by talented directors and both were devotional works. I'd go so far as to argue that if you watch either film as a movie, you will be disappointed. Scorsese and Gibson, both Catholics, were attempting to personally explore the humanity of Jesus in ways that traditional films had not (with the possible exception of Pasolini's Il Vangelo Secondo Matteo). In the process, they omitted numerous biblical elements, exaggerated others, and concentrated on those issues most significant to them. In Scorsese, this comes across as a creating a confused, isolated Jesus. In Gibson, this is a heroic Jesus who's essence is most revealed through physical torment.

Albert Schweitzer once commented that writing a biography about Jesus generally reveals more of the author than the subject. I think this is true of both directors.

My noted preferences for Scorsese's film is not in it's adherence to Scripture. It makes little attempt to due so, noting that it is a pondering - a devotional retelling of Kazantszakis's heretical novel. (Gibson also mixed his Gospel sources with the mystic Anne Catherine Emmerich's Dolores Passion and a number of Catholic traditions.) Instead, Scorsese gave greater context to his Jesus. And with that, he displayed more scenes from the Gospels than did Gibson. When I commented on the temptation and crucifixion in Scorsese's vision (as the best depictions on film), I meant that they were visually and atmospherically more satisfying than any I had ever witnessed. They also were preceded by greater context, character development and narrative development.

The desert temptation is utterly isolating, and the visual tool of having Jesus draw a circle around himself is stunning. Likewise, the starkness and basic brutality of the crucifixion deconstructed the majesty of earlier films and countered the excessiveness of Gibson's. The way that Scorsese's camera follows the lifting of the cross is one of the greatest movements in all film, period. But ultimately, the most remarkable scene in the movie (from the perspective of really capturing a biblical moment) is the resurrection of Lazarus. Watch Jesus' own fear of death, the darkness of the tomb, the shock of movement in the dark. It's absolutely disarming and unmatched.

Gibson formed his style after the great Renaissance painter Caravaggio - and it shows. Everything is perfectly painted, with deep, organic earth tones. Scorsese's vision is more inclined to a dry, poor Moroccan desert. As such, a preference for one artistic style over the other may change a viewer's affection for the depiction of parallel scenes. Again, with the possible exception of Pasolini's vision, no director has portrayed Jesus more personally than Gibson and Scorsese. But there is something so fresh and dangerous to Scorsese's vision - a visual and narrative vibrancy - that challenges the embedded Renaissance portraits that many of us carry. Gibson's style reinforces these images.

Ironically, both directors use familiarity to deconstruct and re-imagine Jesus. Gibson begins with the solidity of centuries of Catholic and Renaissance tradition and incorporates his own fixation with brutality and penance. Scorsese takes the film-Jesus – the new American icon of long hair, blue eyes, white skin - and violates so many of our safe, Sunday School concepts. Scorsese's re-invention was much more evident as it favored a liberal, heretical line of questioning. Gibson's was less obvious as many Evangelicals ignored the brutality, narrative minimalism and Catholicity of the film in favor of an evangelism tool.

Although Scorsese turns Jesus into a romantic, Gibson romanticizes Jesus' suffering. He exaggerates the toll any human body could carry, just as Scorsese weakens his Jesus. These are two highly important, but antithetical portraits. They deserve to be seen together and understood for what each of them is: not an illustration of Scripture, but two filmmaker's devotional portraits of highly personal questions about who Jesus was and is.

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