Oh, my God! Five big-screen passions (perspectives on Christian spirituality)

1. THE TRUE CORE OF FAITH: The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), by Carl Theodor Dreye

The first masterpiece of the most influential Danish film-maker, which was lost for decades, has had a clear impact on transgressive directors of today, such as Lars von Trier. This film depicts the trial and execution of Joan of Arc, played by the extraordinary Maria Falconetti. In Dreyer’s version, this historical figure is totally committed to the word of Christ, a devotion she sees through to the final consequence. In imitating his life, she ends up a martyr, with no chance of being understood rationally. So, in effect, the intertitles (which provide very basic explanations in this silent film) show how human reasoning is overcome by the irrationality of faith, as the Lutheran pastor Søren Kierkegaard showed parabolically in Fear and Trembling (which Dreyer named explicitly in his other great religious piece, The Word).

There is no human explanation to understand Joan of Arc’s vocation, her passionate run towards death. She is alone with her God, and the mundane, finite, corruptible reality doesn’t warrant showing. The certainty of faith, the truth in a god that is love, should save her in times of corruption. Even this temptation (of human weakness) that considers the possibility of staying alive, is part of the plan for salvation. Christ experienced it as well, calling out on the cross, in a fit of anguish, a completely paradoxical phrase: “Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?” This quote from the gospels can be troubling for the positive faithful who believe in the love of God and his designs. But in truth, the Lutheran theology of the Cross sees it as key to understanding the mystery of faith. Weakness, suffering and even possible separation from God, once recognised, give the movement it’s binding nature. The leap above human conventions seals the ties with God in fire.

The dramatic nature of this paraphrasing of the Passion (as it appears in the scriptures from the Lutheran perspective, which aims to rescue the true core of Christianity) is represented visually in Dreyer’s work with a series of cinematographic resources that were unprecedented in 1928. The over-abundance of close-ups, some linked as travelling shots, faces off the accusers, disfigured by rage, and an undaunted Joan of Arc, sometimes inspired and others moved, letting a tear escape. Her incomprehension has the effect of indelible empathy, made possible by Falconetti’s portrayal, her final cinematic role. The film ends with moments of frenzied expressiveness, when the sentence is hastened and there is a huge commotion, expressed visually by putting the camera on a jib, causing it to swing back and forth like a bell. Prior to this moment, the pace of the film is slow yet extremely intense.

Dreyer’s film depicts physiological or emotional anguish more than physical suffering in its portrayal of Joan of Arc’s final moments. Misunderstood by the religious authorities (except for the character played by Antonin Artaud, who accompanies her at several moments and piously shows her the cross of Christ as a reminder and a consolation, in the final scene), she would be celebrated as a saint by the people. The role of the ingénue who gives herself body and soul to defending the truth, executed because of her disconcerting and potentially incendiary innocence, will reappear in various forms (without explicitly referencing faith) in the work of Lars von Trier, in films such as Breaking the Waves, Dogville and, above all, Dancer in the Dark.

2. PERPLEXITY OF REALISM: The Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964), by Pier Paolo Pasolini

Quite far from the mark of Lutheranism, clear in Dreyer’s work (a way of getting down to the true core of faith, through the extreme experiences of Joan of Arc), a film like The Gospel According to St. Matthew, much more lyrical and evocative, nevertheless delves into the mystery of faith from its origins, taking the gospel in an alarmingly literal manner. Also shot in black and white, and without much in terms of set design, the biblical characters parade around quite spontaneously, perhaps justified by the inexperience of the actors portraying them. Beginning with the main character, the humble and consistent (therefore believable) Jesus Christ of Enrique Irazoqui, a student who recites the lines with deceptive lightness, like so many of Pasolini’s actors. Also convincing are the parents of the son of God: instead of portraying a modern psychology, they reflect an elliptical uncertainty, without words. With their looks, they only give glimpses of their fear at what they are involved in.

It doesn’t have a retrospective, triumphal view of the glory that would come from being called on by the Lord (to be the mother of God and the adopted father of Jesus), instead looking at the dangerous oddness of not knowing what would be the implications and consequences of their actions. Their faith makes them believe that everything will go according to divine plan, but they had no guarantees, obviously. Viewers attend the birth of Jesus in a stark setting, see how he grows as a child and does little-boy things, until he becomes a sensible self-assured young man. His preaching weaves in forceful affirmations and compassion for the disadvantaged or discriminated. Like a new Socrates, he lets himself be followed by anyone who wants to walk with him and listen to him. He doesn’t shy away from the danger of being near the infirm, or those who don’t care for him, who will end up betraying him. Memorable and tragic, the scene in which the disciples take it in turns to ask him to his face whether they will be the first to betray him, until Judas is given the response no one wanted to hear: “You said it.”

The indignity of the traitor facilitates the divine plan, which culminates with Christ’s death on the cross. The writing is on the wall, and seems foreseeable taking into account the Gospels, specifically according to Matthew, which is recited word for word in some moments (for example, the Sermon on the Mount). But alongside the literalness of the Gospels, silence is, paradoxically, the element that energises the drama. The lack of words spoken among the those involved, highly eloquent, is only surpassed by the dramatic flair of the religious music of Johann Sebastian Bach and Wolfgang A. Mozart. The film makes the most of the emptiness of meaning (the impossibility of meaningfully, humanly depicting everything that happens) with the tremendously beautiful music of these two great creators. Music composed long before, but timeless. The exquisite simplicity with which the end of Christ’s life is filmed goes perfectly with the silence, and is amplified magnificently when accompanied with music. Grandiloquent and moving, there is also room for the blues, with the spiritual Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.

In a similar fashion, the spontaneity of the inexperienced actors co-exists with the incomprehensible greatness of the divine presence, the logic of whose designs they update unconsciously. The close-ups, which show nuances of disconcerting realism, alternate with long shots. There are glimpses of individuals wandering in a semi-desert (filmed in southern Italy), which has been compared to Brueghel’s paintings. The actor’s spontaneity, revealing themselves naturally just as they are (without, apparently, any sort of acting) generates a unique perplexity, showing the incomprehensibleness of the Christian message from a distance. “It has been said that I have three idols: Christ, Marx and Freud… In truth, my only idol is reality,” Pasolini said. It is nevertheless significant that the director dedicated the film to John XXIII, the pope who wanted to enact profound change in the Church and was only thwarted by his premature death. In any case, the transgressive aspect of Pasolini’s Gospel lies in its respect for the text and use of direct, extremely simple language, which manages to convey the real complexity of belief, which was not at all clear in the early years of Christianity.

3. THE FIRST POP IDOL? Jesus Christ Superstar (1973), Norman Jewison

A drastic shift in register from most films that translate biblical drama into cinematography. It is no wonder that Jesus Christ Superstar began as an album in 1970 and a musical the following year. The film came out in 1973 and its look and feel are strongly tied to that time. Its aim is not to portray a realistic version but to musically recreate (through pop-rock and clearly modern dance and dress styles) some situations from Christ’s life. In Pasolini’s piece, it is clear that music played a seminal role, concentrating the spiritual energy in dialogue interspersed with silence, but here its meaning is the complete opposite. The title tries to be provocative, but in fact it is totally coherent (even moderate, almost) taking into account how the contents are handled.

The issue the film tackles remains the same (the life and miracles of Jesus Christ) but from a different perspective, more brazenly pop, which hopes to be timeless, without worrying about the differences in context or characterisation. Christ is the first great idol of the masses, implicating personally historical figures that have been transcendental above all due to their own transcendence. In terms of a not fully requited love story with Mary Magdalene, or through an intimate hostility with Judas, who shares centre stage in the film despite being shown as unethical from the very beginning. Likewise, there are other supporting characters that foster or amplify the incomprehension of his figure and his spiritual message: a memorably pragmatic Pontius Pilate and a completely frenzied King Herodes in his musical piece, when the masses are calling for the crucifixion of the so-called “King of Jews”.

Like any pop phenomenon, the post-romantic perspective of the artist (misunderstood and generous in their endless creativity) is highly fictional. The cliché of being before one’s time (that of geniuses who can only be understood after some time and from a different perspective) is updated in Jesus Christ Superstar. It puts on no airs of being theological but does use a pattern that vaguely coincides. Christ won’t be truly recognised until after his death and this is because joining the spirituality requires the sacrifice of the son of God, so that man may in turn be saved, beyond this time. However, while he is alive, this Jesus Christ is as attractive as any pop star of the 1970s and 80s. The landscapes, predictably desert-like, become the perfect place to shoot music videos, moments sung by the main characters who, as in so many productions in this genre, convey the heart of the matter in a more direct, intense and emotional manner.

The musical pieces reflect, in condensed form, the most intimate of desires and intentions, which like any pop song can be universally extrapolated to any life. The film, which starts with a tone of meta-fiction (observing how the show is being set up and the depiction of the characters, with the heavenly introduction of the absolute main character), features some dramatic moments but with a kitsch after-taste that unavoidably impregnates everything. We can’t say, in this sense, that it has aged well, nor that it would be easily enjoyed by all audiences. It is, however, an archaeological perspective, taking into account the signs of the time it represents. The portrayal of a long-haired, loving Jesus Christ (an anti-establishment radical in the 1970s, towards the end of the hippie movement) helps spread his example, becoming part of the system. Parallel to the triumph of Christianity, originally a minority sect, the character in the rock opera is understood as an idol of the masses. His particular revolution, with the new concept of loving your fellow man, becomes a global hit.

4. HUMOUR AS A TANGENT Life of Brian (1979),  Monty Python

Keeping with the lighter side of things, let’s turn to the comedy starring the comedians known as Monty Python, often irreverently. The film starts with a visit from the Wise Men, who Mary doesn’t handle in the way we would expect. At least not according to Scripture: “We were led by a star,” they tell her. And her response: “Or led by a bottle, more like.” Life of Brian poses an intrinsically comical situation in which there is an individual who looks like Jesus Christ, sometimes speaks like Jesus Christ and could, at very specific moments, be though to behave like Jesus Christ…but who isn’t Jesus Christ. Brian is born as a pariah, but he will become part of an anti-establishment (anti-Roman) group, thus being persecuted and suffering similarly, without really being the son of God. Therein lies the humour: he suffers like Christ but isn’t Christ, in an endless number of nods that make normal humans identify with him.

Brian co-exists with the real son of God, but his being mistaken for Jesus will be the result of the ignorance that, precisely, contributes to this other Christ also being condemned. They seek out and achieve empathy through the most shameless parody. Like, for example, when Brian runs into the “ex-leper”, who was cured by Christ’s healing powers. “A bloody miracle,” he tells Brian. “One minute I’m a leper with a trade, next minute my livelihood’s gone. Not so much as a by your leave. ‘You’re cured mate.'” There are many references to Christ, alongside the fight that Brian and his friends wage against the Romans. An anti-establishment group that aims to define their principles, even if these principles and the organisation itself seem wont to fall into ideological absurdities and bureaucratic red tape, which they themselves provoke. And he is charged with a series of missions, such as writing something like ‘Romans, go home’. However, he doesn’t conjugate the Latin properly (and is punished for it).

At one point in the story, Brian is mistaken for Jesus. When a blind man suddenly regains his vision (supposedly, although immediately afterwards he falls into a ditch, which he couldn’t see), he defends himself against the supposed miracle: “I’m not the Messiah! Will you please listen?” One in the mob affirms the contrary, and is therefore extremely representative of the degree of derangement his coming brings out in some people: “I say You are, Lord, and I should know. I’ve followed a few.” No matter how much Brian denies it, one believer says to him: “Only the true Messiah denies His divinity.” At which point he agrees with them to get out of the mess: “All right! I am the Messiah!” And now this statement is also taken as proof: “He is! He is the Messiah!” This ludicrous exchange of opinions, responses and rejoinders not only parodies the social imbalance that occurred with the arrival of Christ, but also seems to point to the popular human need to believe in something, to hold some sort of principle beyond reason. A belief that brings consistency to the world, like that offered up by many gnostic sects in the era immediately after, as a religious continuation of the Hellenistic schools of thought, which provided remedies to all the world’s ills, consolation for a life on earth and promises of salvation beyond it.

Although in Life of Brian we find the same scenes as in large Hollywood productions about the life of Christ, and thus the topic is unequivocally identifiable, the parody substantially alters the message. The lack of understanding Brian shows when he becomes an idol of the masses (“Your son is a born leader,” Judith tells his mother. “Those people out there are following him because they believe in him, Mrs Cohen. They believe he can give them hope.”) makes us laugh and that (which as Freud saw, kicks off the machinery of the subconscious) brings one to the true incredulousness (rational) of its message. This is something that, however, the main Lutheran theologians posed in quite a serious tone. Of course, Monty Python’s take on the matter is less dogmatic, and it doesn’t even enter the arena of critical debate. It offers a tangent, an abundant register in fiction, inherent in cinematographic productions, to let go of reality. And, in spite of that, or thanks to it, it manages to convey some of the most paradoxical mysteries of Christian spirituality, to which so many theological studies also point.

The tragic destiny awaiting Brian, crucified just like Christ, brings a smile at the very end. A bitter smile, but perhaps healing. As it leaves us with that catchy tune, which can be whistled and therefore remembered as consolation even in the worst circumstances: Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

5. AUTHENTICITY AND EXCESS: The Passion of the Christ (2004), Mel Gibson

We’ll conclude our series of perspectives on the Passion with a much more recent film, the tremendously costly effort directed by Mel Gibson, with the clear, straight-forward title: The Passion of the Christ. A film that aims to faithfully depict the sacred texts, the authorised sources, but does make use of some details that aren’t to be found in the canonical gospels. All to recreate an authentic depiction of the life and, above all, death of Christ from the scene in the garden of Gethsemane, in which an anguished Jesus Christ addresses God to ask him, if he can, to save him the suffering he knows awaits him. We know he finishes this request with the well-known and practically unacceptable “Thy will be done”. Almost from the beginning, then, the film looks at Christ’s pain in his final hours, subjected to the abuse of the masses and having to accept it despite his clear displeasure. The temptation to avoid the end of that suffering is at the core of Martin Scorsese’s interesting film The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), which although less careful in terms of appearance makes a wise choice in focusing on the crisis on the cross itself, once the son is separated from the father, split from his own nature.

Gibson’s film is less concerned with posing theological issues, insisting on recreating every last detail of the context of Christ’s life. Highly symptomatically of this is the use of the languages that would have been heard at the time: Hebrew, Aramaic and Latin, the latter spoken only by the Romans. The reproduction of the historical circumstances is so strikingly meticulous that no other film can stack up in this regard, in sharp contrast to the parodies with their plastic-looking helmets and Christ’s suffering depicted through over-exaggerated acting. Quite to the contrary, this meticulous approach is also applied to the literal understanding of Christ’s fate, which is to experience the extreme suffering in his human form. Meaning that his flesh is abused without hesitation, his body mortified in the most unjust, traitorous way. The authorities’ cynicism serves up what the masses demand on a silver platter. The offering is memorable, and also reminiscent of Bach’s Passions: given the chance to free one of the prisoners, they call out “Barabbas!”, choosing him over the son of God.

Jesus Christ’s sentence is upheld and he will continue suffering to the limits of the conceivable, beyond anything reason could tolerate. The suffering is unspeakably prolonged on his way of sorrows, or via crucis, on the road to Mount Calvary. Time passes more slowly than ever, emphasising the agony of the main character and that of the viewer, too, who would prefer to skip the great number and variety of ominous manifestations and insults proffered, impossible to imagine a priori. The grandness of Gibson’s version, very different in style, takes us back to the first perspective on spirituality, in the film by Carl Theodor Dreyer. Joan of Arc faces incomprehension and her impending martyrdom alone. She earns the empathy of viewers made uncomfortable by the lack of humanity of those judging her. The dehumanisation of Christ’s contemporaries also bothers the viewers, who sense that human beings are also capable of these animalistic behaviours. Much blood is spilt in Gibson’s version, threatening to spray the viewers, given the excessive realism of conveying the martyrdom. All of the psychology in the suffering of Joan of Arc is shown explicitly.

The suffering moves viewers so intensely that they can hardly follow Christ in the run up to his final moments. This way of generating empathy isn’t very subtle, but it is effective, even at the risk of quashing it: it is very tempting to just stop watching. The discomfort can even turn to nausea, and with nausea the anguished experience many theologians have read about at the moment of sacrifice. The fact that the violence seems gratuitous, unjustified, is completely intentional, and perhaps representative of the narrations in the scripture. Because the extreme cruelty of mankind then highlights the extreme sinfulness that anyone, admitting to be a symbolic party to that crime, could be free of over the course of history. There is no sin that cannot be cleansed, as long as one accepts the debasement of that action. All of this makes us think that the gratuitous violence is, in reality, quite necessary. This has nothing to do with the use of violence we find in other action films, even when it has been lauded for its artistic merits (Tarantino).

Less understandable, however, are some of the cinematographic resources used to convey the well-known excesses. The meticulous use of language to recreate that world contrasts with the abuse of techniques like slow-motion and computer-generated music that at times seems like it would be better suited to Blade Runner. The slow-motion shots lend a counter-productive sensation of hyper-realism in certain sections, not at all natural, belonging to a time neither then nor now (seeming more suited to the 1980s or 90s) and, of course, unthinkable for those who spoke Aramaic or Latin. These are secondary elements, clearly subjective, that contribute an unnecessary level of artificialness to a film that prides itself on being an authentic reflection of the inconceivable drama of God.