Hey readers! Summer’s here, and things are getting busy! I’ll be away this week and next, on vacation and helping out at a summer camp. But I hope to be back in the saddle ASAP with some new essays! Hope your summer is off to a great start!
There are blind spots, and then there are blind spots. You guys know what I mean. There are movies you haven’t seen because they’re obscure, or they seem daunting. Movies that you’ve always meant to see but haven’t, because you had to be in the right mood, like “The Seventh Seal” or “Badlands.” Then there are ones that you have no good excuse for not seeing. These are the ones you don’t tell people you haven’t seen, because the reaction is something like this:
So, readers, it’s confession time: before this week, I had never seen “Heathers.” Now you know—the secret’s out. And while I’m glad I’ve finally seen the movie, I’m still not sure how I feel about it. “Heathers” has a wicked sense of humor, to be sure, and some nice performances. But, to quote Winona Ryder’s character Veronica, “it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” Due to the real-life events that have occurred since the movie’s release, a film that might once have seemed edgy and absurd now hits a little too close for comfort.
For those of you still living in fear of Keegan-Michael Key-caliber scorn, here’s a quick plot synopsis. Veronica, played by Ryder, is a smart high school girl who’s sold her soul to be part of the popular crowd, a clique of girls all named (wait for it) Heather. The lead Heather, played by Kim Walker, is a vapid, cruel girl who revels in publicly embarrassing her classmates and spreading rumors. At the same time Veronica’s secret hatred of her friend reaches a boiling point, she meets a mysterious new student, J.D. (Christian Slater), who talks like Jack Nicholson, and wears his disdain for the popular crowd on his sleeve. The charmingly psychotic J.D. ropes Veronica into taking revenge on her fellow students, resulting in a series of murders disguised as suicides.
I know that premise doesn’t exactly set “Heathers” up to be the happiest of movies, but its morbid humor and butchering of the John Hughes teen flicks that dominated the decade is smart, bleakly true, and fun to watch. Daniel Waters’ script, definitely an influence on writers like “Juno’s” Diablo Cody, is also great, full of invented slang terms that sound ridiculous, but still feel authentic. The movie also gets right the often out-of-touch nature of teen-adult relationships, where conversations stay superficial, and the anxieties and dangers facing the kids go largely unnoticed until it’s too late to do anything. It’s like the conversation Sam has with her dad towards the end of “Sixteen Candles,” if Molly Ringwald was hiding a secret homicidal streak from her father, instead of just avoiding embarrassing topics.
But one thing remains eerily unsettling about “Heathers,” and it’s due entirely to events that took place a decade after it was released. In a world post-Columbine and Virginia Tech, the representation of school violence in this movie is a little too relatable to be funny. While the violence itself is never glorified—it’s presented in the same spirit as the bomb-drop at the end of “Dr. Strangelove”—watching J.D. whip out a gun in the middle of a crowded cafeteria and shoot blanks into the faces of two intimidating jocks doesn’t exactly make for entertaining viewing. And while it may not be as big of a stumbling block to some, for people who’ve grown up with school violence as a reality, it’s a little harder to get used to.
I think that’s why I’m kind of on the fence about “Heathers,” that and an ending that feels too rushed and sloppy, not the sharp wake-up call it needed to be. Most of this movie is funny, whip-smart, and provides entertainingly harsh commentary about the culture of the time. In 1989, I’m sure J.D.’s behavior came off exactly the way it was supposed to. But some things don’t get better with age. And in the case of “Heathers,” history has altered the way people watching this movie for the first time (like me) will see it. It’s unfortunate, but it can’t really be helped.
Random observations:
Fun fact: I’ve mentioned “Doctor Strangelove” in this review, which isn’t entirely a coincidence. Waters originally tried to get Stanley Kubrick to direct his script before settling for then-newcomer Michael Lehmann (who, like Waters, eventually blew his cred by making stinkers like “Hudson Hawk” and “40 Days and 40 Nights”). I can’t really imagine Kubrick making this exact movie, but I can see why Waters would have wanted him to. There’s evidence of his style all over this thing, from the satire in the script to the flashy colors in every frame.
J.D.’s dad, a wacko contractor who’s fond of explosives, mentions encountering resistance on a job in Kansas from a group of people who wanted to “save the memorial oaks.” Kansans: you know something like that would only ever happen in Lawrence, right?
Trivia: The high school in “Heathers” is Westerberg High, named for Paul Westerberg of The Replacements. It’s a useful factoid to know sometimes in bar quizzes, so for those of you who do that sort of thing: you’re welcome.
Greetings, readers! Sorry for my inconsistent posting of late—things have been mighty busy on this end the last couple of weeks, and I’m afraid I just haven’t been able to keep up. It seems, however, that things are getting more or less back to normal, and I’ll be back on a regular posting schedule soon.
This week starts the beginning of a brand-new feature on “No More Popcorn,” which I’m calling Law and Order: Cinematic Intent. Here’s how it works. Each month, I’ll feature a movie that focuses either on lawyers or police. The subject of choice will switch from month to month. The only guidelines: No feds (meaning any movie involving the C.I.A. or F.B.I. is out), and no private detectives. I hope you’ll enjoy this new branch of NMP movie exploration. That being said, let’s move on to our first featured movie: 1996’s “Primal Fear!”
I started this new feature because I’d been craving some good old fashioned 90s courtroom dramas. You know the kind I mean. The ones usually based on something John Grisham wrote, where the idealistic-but-troubled attorney spends a lot of time poring over briefs and evidence, and convinces the jury his way through a charismatic and brilliant courtroom performance. As I began thinking about which one I’d like to see, I kept thinking about all the ones I hadn’t yet watched, and wanted to. And so, “Law and Order: Cinematic Intent” was born.
But the first movie I watched, “Primal Fear,” didn’t exactly deliver in the ways I thought it would. It has impassioned courtroom performance, and it has a cast of interesting supporting characters and some impressive acting from its defendant, played here by Edward Norton in his Oscar-nominated screen debut. But what it lacks is anything resembling likeability. Perhaps I felt this way because the ending of the movie had been ruined for me years before, but nearly everything about “Primal Fear” rang totally false to me. There are plenty of people that could be blamed for this—director Gregory Hoblit, for example, or the screenwriters. But I don’t blame them. I blame one man and one man only: the film’s star, Richard Gere.
First of all, it should be stated that I am not a big Gere fan. I’ve never seen him in a movie when he looked anything other than smug. He’s always exuding the sense that he knows his good looks and charm will get him everything he wants. Fortunately for him, he’s usually in the position of playing protagonists, so this mostly gets forgiven. But “Primal Fear” has him playing a criminal defense attorney, which doesn’t exactly fit the “guys you root for” mold. Not only that, Gere’s character, Martin Vail, is also a vain and wealthy criminal defense attorney who seems to enjoy the adrenaline rush of the courtroom more than defending clients who are actually innocent. But despite the reactions of everyone else around him, Gere never plays Vail that way. He plays him as someone with all the conviction of Atticus Finch mixed with all the self-assured douchery of, well, Richard Gere.
In the film, Gere’s Martin Vail takes on a high-profile murder case involving the slaughter of a respected Archbishop. The only suspect is young Aaron Stampler (Norton), discovered fleeing the crime scene covered in blood. At first, Vail takes Stampler because he wants the attention, but then comes to believe that his client is truly innocent, despite a big fat motive, no other suspects, and a lack of evidence to suggest that anyone else could have done it. But Vail remains convinced, and does his utmost to prove Aaron’s innocence, while also settling a personal vendetta with his old boss, a corrupt district attorney with a personal interest in the case.
That sounds pretty compelling, right? The right elements are there: lawyer with an axe to grind, defendant in distress, broken legal system. But there are some big issues that keep this story from being what it could be. One major obstacle is that it’s pretty obvious from moment one that Aaron is guilty, and there’s no way Vail would be able to get him off scot free. The best thing he could possibly manage is a mistrial, which he achieves simply by being obnoxious and breaking every rule of the courtroom.
Then there’s the problem of Vail himself. As I mentioned, Gere makes the fatal (and, frankly, bizarre) mistake of not realizing his character is flawed. There isn’t a single scene where he doesn’t think he’s the smartest, most important human being in the room. What’s interesting is everyone else’s reaction to that behavior. It starts out as affirming. Laura Linney pretends to have sexual chemistry with him. A reporter profiling Vail hangs on his every word as though nuggets of pure gold are constantly spewing forth from his mouth. Even Edward Norton is appropriately awed. But somewhere along the way, that reaction shifts. The characters (and, I suspect, the actors) start to tire of Gere’s nonsense, and it shows. Check out this scene, where Vail calls the reporter to a bar in the middle of the night (after his profile has been published, mind you) to spout drunken wisdom, and note how the reporter treats him:
The reporter thinks this was a mistake. It’s late, he’s tired, Vail has nothing of substance to say and, what’s more, he won’t even get to use this in publication (after this clip ends, Vail mentions that all of this is off the record). But Gere doesn’t play this scene pathetic, or frustrated, or even drunk, really. He gives this aimless monologue as though it’s something of actual importance. It’s hard not to imagine the other actor in this scene reacting to Gere the same way his character reacts to Vail. Just nod, let him talk, and eventually we can all go home.
I’m sure it doesn’t help Gere that he’s provided with a script that makes it easy to play up this kind of behavior. But acting is all about choices, and he appears to be the only one in the film incapable of making the right ones. Linney gets it. So does Alfre Woodard, who does great work as a no-nonesense judge. Edward Norton, a newbie at the time, was good enough to get an Oscar nod. But when your star has their head so far the wrong way that up becomes down, all the natural acting in the world isn’t going to fix that problem. What we’re left with in “Primal Fear” is a movie that should be good, but instead feels hollow and soulless.
Random observation:
The film’s poster doesn’t do much to help matters. If you check out the background, the light behind Gere is in the shape of an angel’s wing. Oy vey.
I’ve been a Found Footage fan for a long time. I love surfing the web finding strange home videos, instructional films and incredibly low-budget movies that someone’s found at the bottom of a discount VHS bin. I’ve even tried to find a few of my own specimens, with no real luck. I think the real thrill is the possibility that you could find something in all that digging that becomes culturally significant. The Star Wars Kid, for example, or Winnebago Man. Found Footage and its distant relative, audio verite, are a kind of unintentional folk art. It is stuff nobody was supposed to see or hear that somehow leaked out and gives fans the chance to play peeping tom at a safe distance. It’s easy to laugh at, but because of the origin, it feels just dangerous enough to be special.
“Shut Up Little Man: An Audio Misadventure” is a documentary about one of these phenomena, a series of audio verite recordings that started out as an attempt at self-defense, but eventually became something more: a full set of bizarre field recordings that birthed a devoted underground following. The documentary has its good and bad qualities, but the story it tells is fascinating, and is likely to create a whole new group of “Shut Up” devotees.
The “Shut Up Little Man” tapes were created by Eddie and Mitch, a couple of punks fresh out of college who moved together from Wisconsin to a low-rent apartment complex in San Francisco. The subjects of the tapes are their neighbors, Peter, Ray and Tony, who were often drunk, and always shouting at each other. When Eddie went next door to ask them to keep it down, Ray threatened to kill him, So Eddie and Mitch set up a makeshift boom mic and stuck it out the window to record Ray’s conversations and prove that he was a threat to their safety. They never got the proof they needed. What Eddie and Mitch got instead were enough drunken shouting matches to fill up some cassette tapes, which Mitch shared with a friend, who shared them with another friend, and so on, until the thing went viral.
Warning: the following video contains language that is definitely NSFW.
The “Shut Up” tapes have become the subject of much artistic interpretation, inspiring T-shirts, short films, comic books and even a stage play. Among the faithful are artists like Daniel Clowes (“Ghost World”) and Ivan Brunetti (“Schizo”), both of whom go on record in the documentary about their love for the tapes. Even Devo’s Mark Mothersbaugh used samples from “Shut Up Little Man” in one of his songs. That’s the really interesting thing about the story of these tapes. It’s not just the content, funny and shocking though it is, but how quickly and widely they spread, decades before the internet and YouTube. This was all sheer word of mouth, and it still went viral almost as quickly as something like Caine’s Arcade does today (okay, maybe not quite that quickly, but you get the idea—it caught on fast).
As a story, “Shut Up Little Man: An Audio Misadventure” is entertaining and fairly compelling. As a film, it’s just OK. Director Matthew Bate does some interesting dramatic re-creation of Peter, Raymond and Tony, but other illustrative aspects, like having present-day Eddie and Mitch stick microphones out of windows and knock on the neighbor’s door just seem hokey. The closing scene, where the actors playing Peter and Raymond dance together to the Magnetic Fields’ “Too Drunk to Dream” is just plain silly, an attempt to create a good-humored, touching moment that never works.
The filmmakers don’t do much to explore the true scope of the tapes’ fandom, either, sticking only to people who’ve actually used the footage in their own creative output, or had interaction with Eddie and Mitch, or are just die-hard audio verite collectors (one interviewee’s obsession borders on pathetic). It would have been interesting to hear from a variety of fans, both high-profile and otherwise, to get a good idea of just how big their fan base is. With what we’re given, the audience is left to mostly assume that what Eddie, Mitch and the other interviewees tell us about the tapes’ popularity is true.
Another interesting issue that’s only briefly touched on in the film is that of art and creative ownership. Can Eddie and Mitch’s recordings of their next-door neighbors be considered art if all they did was record what was already there? Did they have a right to claim copyright if they didn’t originally create those conversations in the first place? And did Ray, Peter and Tony have a right to compensation from the recordings if they never knew how important they’d become? Those questions open up a pretty big can of worms, but it never becomes the subject of much debate. Mitch and Eddie did manage to find Peter and Tony after the tapes became a hit, and did eventually try to pay them a little money—they both rejected it—but it seems like an afterthought and it never really answers any questions.
One thing “Shut Up Little Man” does do well, however, is show audiences why these recordings have such a following. Ray and Peter’s knock-down, drag out fights are hilarious, and so bizarre they verge on surrealism. Peter makes grand dramatic statements about the smallest of problems and yells at Ray for stealing his vodka. Ray, in turn, threatens to kill Peter, and spends his nights cuddling a giant stuffed rabbit he refers to as “the girl.” They are abusive, and never pleasant to each other, yet they continue to live together. Their disputes are totally silly in their language, but totally relatable in their content. In addition to that, Mitch and Eddie are charming guys. They’ve got a particular fondness for their subjects, and seem like the kind of guys I would have been friends with in college. It’s fun to listen to them tell their story. If nothing else, “Shut Up Little Man: An Audio Misadventure” is an intriguing introduction to these weird tapes that became an underground sensation, and an interesting examination of what it meant to go viral in the days before “going viral” was even a thing.
Where you’ve seen him: Paris, Texas, Big Love, Pretty in Pink, Alien, The Last Temptation of Christ, Repo Man, Inland Empire, Wild at Heart, The Straight Story, The Green Mile, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Red Dawn, Christine, Escape from New York, Wise Blood, Two-Lane Blacktop, Cool Hand Luke
When you watch a lot of movies, and spend a lot of your time talking to other people who watch a lot of movies, it’s easy to lose perspective. For example, a director or actor you hold in high regard may not be a household name to everyone. Just because you love something, and you know others who love it, doesn’t mean everyone is familiar. Case in point: Harry Dean Stanton. He’s a fixture in the world of character actors who’s been around so long that to movie buffs he’s less like a “that guy” and more like a favorite uncle. But unless you’ve seen “Paris, Texas” or “Big Love,” or watched a lot of David Lynch, Stanton’s name may not ring a bell.
Stanton’s been working in movies since 1957, but really started doing noticeable work in the 70s, when he appeared in movies like “Two-Lane Blacktop,” “Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid” and “Alien.” Stanton’s a long, lean guy with a hangdog face and an endearing world-wise demeanor that he brings to every role. The best example of this is his lead role as Travis in Wim Wenders’ great “Paris, Texas.” He’s kind of discombobulated and tired, but at the same time well-meaning and gentle. You just want to give the guy a good meal and a hug. He’s more animated in movies like “Repo Man,” and he’s uber-creepy as Roman Grant, the Warren Jeffs-style cult leader on “Big Love,” but, whatever the project may be, Stanton’s got a laid-back, natural approach that never fails.
He’s got a pretty devoted fan base, too. Roger Ebert likes Stanton so much that he created the “Stanton-Walsh Rule,” which states that no movie featuring either Stanton or fellow character actor M. Emmet Walsh can be bad. Of course, that doesn’t always hold true (“Anger Management” strikes me as an exception), but it is true that Stanton is one of those guys whose presence in a movie makes it better, at least for those moments when he’s on the screen. Whether he’s spouting prophecies, trying to put his life back together, or simply trying to get through the day, Harry Dean Stanton is an actor whose grounded approach to performing is always great to watch, and whose career many die-hard movie fans regard with lots of respect.
Portraying the future is a tricky business in film. Technology moves so fast these days that you risk your movie being outdated by the time it’s released—for example, we haven’t reached 2054 yet, but the touch-screen computing of “Minority Report” already exists. On the other hand, it’s just as easy to overshoot your vision, and create a future that’s not far off, but hasn’t yet come to pass—we’re three years away from “Back to the Future II,” and still no hoverboards.
So, what’s a creative, forward-thinking filmmaker to do? Well, there’s a third option we haven’t yet explored, and it’s for a special class of movies, made by a special class of people. These are the filmmakers that just say “screw it,” and throw as much body paint, sequins and glitter at the wall as possible, and see what sticks. These movies, like this week’s pick, the movie-musical “The Apple,” are flamboyant, WTF cinema at its lowest, and they are glorious to behold.
Set in the distant future of 1994, “The Apple” tells the story of a dystopian future in which the world is apparently governed by a large multinational corporation called BIM. It’s run by a prancing vampire-like character named Mr. Boogalow, who determines what the public wears, eats, watches and (most importantly) listens to. And because this movie came out in 1980, and this is hell, everyone listens to disco. Lots and lots of disco. Into this scenario wanders a pair of wide-eyed kids from Moose Jaw, Alphie and Bibi, with nothing but a pocket full of dreams and an acoustic guitar. As you can probably guess, this nasty big-city world isn’t too kind to our heroes. Bibi is tempted into a soul-sucking contract with Boogalow, while Alphie stays true to his morals, trying to rescue his beloved from the jaws of evil.
The look of the film isn’t so much futuristic as it is 1975 on steroids (or a lot of cocaine). “The Apple” envisions a future in which we elected Studio 54 as President of the United States. Everyone dresses like glittering drugged-out spacemen. Cars are made of gold. One character wears loads of silver eye shadow, low-cut shirts and fake nails as long as your arm, and keeps company with a gaggle of transvestites…and he’s straight (it’s that last one that pushes him over the believability mark). And while I know that prophetic plausibility isn’t supposed to be the point of a movie like this, you can’t help but put it in context while you’re watching it, and wonder what could have possibly made the filmmakers think Earth would resemble anything near this 14 years on. However, I will say that I think I’d have liked my family’s car better if we’d driven a futuristic golden pimpmobile instead of a green Saturn station wagon. That much, at least, would’ve been cool.
As a musical, “The Apple” tries to combine the music of Grease, the flamboyance and sexual liberation of “Rocky Horror,” and the hippie gospel of “Godspell” into one movie, with all of the mess and contradiction that a combination of those things might imply. There’s also no subtlety whatsoever. Mr. Boogalow is clearly meant to be Satan, as illustrated in this fantastic sequence here:
Later on, Alphie descends into Boogalow’s den of sin determined to find Bibi, but instead is drugged and loved up by a female BIM lackey named Pandi, who sings a nasty little number called “Coming for You” that is way too inappropriate to embed here. Brave folks can click the link. Suffice it to say that if you think that title sounds like an innuendo…well, you’d be right.
Boogalow himself, however, doesn’t resemble the devil so much as a super-effeminate Dracula. Vladek Sheybal, the actor who plays him, also isn’t able to sing, which gets a bit tricky during his musical numbers. He tries to go the Rex Harrison talk-sing route, but ends up sounding more like the Count from Sesame Street, as you can see in this clip:
“The Apple” isn’t an uncompromising vision of the future, nor is it a searing commentary on the nature of our times. It’s just a giant turd, complete with golden pimpmobiles and terrible songs. But “The Apple” isn’t just a turd, it’s a golden turd, and golden turds are the reason this column exists. it’s the kind of movie that’s so jaw-droppingly weird that “awful” isn’t even a term you can accurately use to describe it. The only possible reaction to a shiny, glittery, nonsensical train wrecks like this is to glorify its flaws, and for that, I am immensely thankful.
Random observations:
“The Apple” has plenty of standout musical numbers, but the opener is probably my favorite. It sets the tone for what to expect later on:
There’s also a counterpoint character to Sheybal’s Mr. Boogalow, a mystical godlike figure named Mr. Topps, who leads a group of homeless hippies who split their time between public parks and a cave under a bridge.
Best line of the movie: “Use your imagination! It’s 1994!”
There have been a few instances on this blog where I’ve broached the subject of Christianity. I’ve reviewed a few films about fundamentalist church movements, and in the process talked a little bit about my own faith, but I haven’t yet had the opportunity to talk about belief in-depth. Since we’re a few weeks into Lent right now, I figured there’s no time like the present. This week, I’m reviewing “The Last Temptation of Christ,” and—full disclosure—it’s going to get religious up in here.
The film, based on Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel and directed by Martin Scorcese, is about the dual nature of Christ, with a particular emphasis on what it means to be fully human in addition to being fully God. It starts out with a great quote from Kazantzakis about his own personal fascination with the human side of Christ. Kazantzakis’ fascination is one that I share. I also find that, almost more than the theology that goes along with the New Testament, what I’m really compelled by is the story, the themes of justice, love and unimaginable sacrifice. I think “Last Temptation” satisfies in both ways, providing a fascinating perspective on Christ’s inner struggles, and also a compelling story with characters you can really latch onto.
This film was the subject of much controversy upon its release. That controversy was mainly generated by fundamentalist Christians who claimed the film questioned Christ’s divinity. These were some of the same people that handed out Kleenex and water bottles when Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ” was released in 2004. But, as Roger Ebert writes in his review of the film, “In the father’s house are many mansions, and there is more than one way to consider the story of Christ.” So let people protest all they want. “Last Temptation” is not their movie, and that’s fine. It’s still good.
“Last Temptation” isn’t so much about the messiah so much as the making of him. The Jesus of Scorcese’s film doesn’t start out with a clear purpose, or even a desire to have one. In fact, when we meet him, he’s living a life of fear in Nazareth. He knows God loves him and speaks to him more than to other people, but that knowledge scares him so much that he feels compelled to reject that gift. He’s even making crosses for the Romans to crucify prophets on, trying to make God hate him (in his own words). He’s a savior who hasn’t yet come to accept his full divinity and all that means. He only leaves home and seeks spiritual guidance when he realizes he’s got no other choice.
Jesus also isn’t aware of the shape his ministry is meant to take, at least, not all at once. God’s plan is only revealed to him a little bit at a time. This is a pretty big departure from the Jesus we’re taught about in church. I don’t know about you, but the Christ I was raised with was a pristine and perfect man who knew everything all the time and, honestly, seemed kind of removed from the people he was sent to save. This Jesus, however, is right there in the midst of the people, enlightened and confused and scared as all get-out, trying to discern God’s purpose, just like the rest of us. That’s a Jesus I can relate to.
The main source of controversy, however, stems from the “last temptation” of the title. It’s a bit of a doozy, but not one I found exactly heretical. Here it is: on the cross, Jesus is visited by a being in the form of a little girl who claims to be his guardian angel. She tells him that God didn’t mean for him to actually die, but only to test his loyalty, and see how far he’d go. She helps him down off the cross and introduces him to a new life, where he marries Mary Magdalene, and (after she dies) Mary, the sister of Lazarus, with whom he has several children. At the end of his life as a man, Jesus realizes that this being he’s with is no angel, but is in fact Satan tempting him. He asks for forgiveness from God for straying from his determined path, and fully recognizes his identity as God’s son, at which point it’s revealed that this entire scenario was a hallucination, and Jesus is still on the cross.
There’s plenty that people could potentially find issue with here. The idea of Jesus being married and having offspring, for one thing, is pretty fringe, regardless of the fact that it doesn’t actually happen. But the biggest potential sticking point is when, in this resurrection-free parallel life, Jesus encounters Saint Paul, who’s giving a sermon about the virgin birth, and Jesus’ death and resurrection. Jesus takes Paul aside and demands he stop telling falsehoods, to which Paul replies that the people need to believe in a resurrected Jesus, even if it isn’t true, so he’s going to keep preaching what he thinks people need to hear rather than the truth. Again, this is all undone by Jesus actually choosing to die on the cross at the end of the film, but it still paints a less-than-flattering picture of an important biblical figure. Not only that, but one whose teachings are a cornerstone of early Christianity.
But, honestly, I don’t care quite so much about whether or not any of these points are heretical. That’s not the point of the film. Nor is the point to diminish Christ’s spirituality. What “Last Temptation” does, and does beautifully, I think, is remind audiences that the concept of Christ as “fully human, fully God,” means exactly that. Scorcese’s film argues that Jesus was a man with the literal weight of the world on his shoulders, and guess what? That’s not an easy thing to be. It’s a comfort (to me at least) that the savior of the world, the son of God, had fears just like me, and he was still able to pull off something amazing.
Random observations:
All this is to say nothing of the way the movie’s composed—it’s gorgeous, by the way. Looking at this cinematography is like looking at a painting. Check it out:
If you’d like a review that talks more about the movie and a bit less about the theology, read Matthew Dessem’s Criterion Contraption review here.
