God! Five Cinematic Passions (Perspectives on Christian Spirituality)

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

The first masterpiece by the most influential Danish filmmaker, which remained lost for decades, left an evident mark on current and transgressive directors such as Lars von Trier. It narrates the trial and sacrifice of Joan of Arc, played by an extraordinary Maria Falconetti. In Dreyer's version, this historical character shows an absolute commitment to the word of Christ, which she carries to its ultimate consequences. The imitation of her life will lead her to martyrdom, without the possibility of being rationally understood. For, in effect, the intertitles (which provide minimal explanations in this silent film work) show how human reason is left behind before the irrationality of faith, in line with what was parabolically pointed out in Fear and Trembling, by the Lutheran thinker Søren Kierkegaard (whom Dreyer will explicitly mention in his other great theological work, Ordet).

There is no human discourse that allows understanding the vocation of Joan of Arc, her passionate race towards death. She is alone with her God, and the mundane, finite, and corruptible reality does not deserve to be evidenced. The certainty of faith, the truth in a God who is love, must save her from times of corruption. Even that of temptation (of human weakness) in which she weighs the possibility of preserving life, is part of the plan of salvation, for Christ himself also experienced it when he exclaimed on the cross, seized by anguish, an absolutely paradoxical sentence: "Father, father, why have you forsaken me?" This quote from the gospels can be unsettling for the positive believer, confident in God's love and his designs, but the truth is that Lutheran theology of the cross does not cease to contemplate it as key to understanding the mystery of faith. Weakness, suffering, and even the possible separation from God, once recognized, promote the movement of re-connection. The leap over human conventions seals the bond with God.

The dramatic nature of this paraphrase of the passion (as it appears in the scriptures from the Lutheran perspective, which aims to rescue the hard core of the Christian proposal) is graphically represented by Dreyer through a series of cinematic resources that in 1928 had no precedent. The overabundance of close-ups, some of them linked in travelling, confronts the accusers, disfigured by anger, and an imperturbable Joan of Arc, sometimes inspired and on few occasions emotional, letting a fleeting tear fall. Her incomprehension produces an effect of indelible empathy, made possible by Falconetti's performance, who never acted in any other film. Moments of exalted expressiveness occur at the end of the film, when the condemnation is precipitated and a tumult is generated, represented through the placement of the camera on a crane that makes it swing like a bell clapper. A film that until then is slow-paced, but of great intensity.

Dreyer's film reproduces psychological or spiritual suffering, rather than physical, in the representation of Joan of Arc's last moments. Misunderstood by religious authorities (with the exception of the character played by Antonin Artaud, who accompanies her at different times and piously shows her the cross of Christ as a reminder and comfort, in the final trance), she will be vindicated by the people as a saint. The role of the innocent who gives herself body and soul in defense of the truth, executed because of her disconcerting and potentially incendiary innocence, will reappear with variations (without explicit references to faith) in the production of Lars von Trier, in films such as Breaking the Waves, Dogville or, above all, Dancer in the Dark.

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

At a considerable distance from the Lutheran imprint, evident in Dreyer's film (a way of entering the hard core of faith, through the extreme experience of Joan of Arc), a film like The Gospel According to St. Matthew, much more lyrical and evocative, nevertheless plunges into the mystery of faith from its origins, taking the gospels in an alarmingly literal way. Also shot in black and white, and without too many set design resources, the biblical characters parade with spontaneity, perhaps justified by the inexperience of the actors who portray them. Starting with the protagonist, the humble and consistent (and, therefore, credible) Jesus Christ of Enrique Irazoqui, a student who recites the text with deceptive lightness, like so many of Pasolini's actors. Also convincing are the parents of the son of God: instead of showing a modern psychology, they reflect an elliptical uncertainty, without words. With their gazes, they only hint at the fear of the undertaking in which they are involved.

Therefore, no retrospective, triumphant vision is offered of the glory that being called by the Lord would entail (to be the mother of God or the adoptive father of Jesus), but rather the dangerous strangeness of not knowing what the implications and consequences of their actions will be. The sense of faith makes them believe that everything will happen according to divine planning, but without any kind of guarantee, obviously. The viewer witnesses the birth of Jesus in an austere environment, his progress as he grows up as a child, and does childish things, until he becomes a sensitive and very self-confident young man. His preaching threads together forceful affirmations and an approach to the disadvantaged or discriminated. Like a new Socrates, he allows himself to be followed by anyone who wants to follow and listen to him. He does not shy away from the danger of being near the sick, nor of those who do not wish him well, who will end up betraying him. Memorable and pathetic is the scene in which, in turns, the disciples ask him in the first person if they are the traitors, until Judas is given the answer no one wants to hear: "You have said it."

The indignity of the traitor facilitates the realization of the divine plan, which will culminate with the death of Christ on the cross. The script is written, and seems predictable, according to the gospels, specifically that of Matthew, which is recited literally at certain moments (for example, the sermon on the mount). But alongside the literalness of the Scriptures, the element that paradoxically energizes the drama is silence. The absence of words among the participants, of great eloquence, only surpassed by the dramatic intensity of the religious scores of Johann Sebastian Bach and Wolfgang A. Mozart. The void of meaning (the impossibility of representing with sense, humanly, what happens) is reinforced thanks to the tremendously beautiful music of these two creators. Music composed much later, but of timeless validity. The exquisite simplicity with which the life of Christ is filmed perfectly aligns with silence, and experiences a prodigious amplification once it is accompanied by music. Grandiloquent and emotional, which also finds a space for the blues in the spiritual Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

Similarly, the spontaneity of the novice actors coexists with the incomprehensible greatness of divine prescience, whose designs they logically actualize without any consciousness. Close-ups, in which nuances of disconcerting realism are appreciated, alternate with long shots; individuals are glimpsed, wandering, in a semi-desert landscape (filmed in southern Italy), which has been compared to Brueghel's paintings. The spontaneity of the actors, who show themselves naturally, as they are (without, apparently, any kind of acting), evokes a unique perplexity, conveying from a distance the incomprehensibility of the Christian message. "They have said that I have three idols: Christ, Marx and Freud. In reality, my only idol is reality," Pasolini specified. It is significant that the director dedicated the film to John XXIII, a pope who wanted to undertake a profound renovation of the Church, which only his premature death prevented. In any case, the transgressive aspect of Pasolini's Gospel lies in its respect for the text and in the use of direct and very simple language, which manages to convey the real complexity of belief, by no means evident in the early years of Christianity.

A complete change of register in relation to most films that transfer biblical drama to cinematic language. Not in vain Jesus Christ Superstar began as an album in 1970 and, the following year, a musical. The film would see the light in 1973, with an aesthetic and sensibility strongly linked to those years. In no case does it intend to provide a realistic version, but rather to musically recreate (and thus update through pop-rock, dance, and obviously modern attire) some of the situations in Christ's life. Certainly, already in Pasolini's production, music played a capital role, as a condenser of spiritual energies in intermittent dialogue with silence, but its presence is understood here in a diametrically opposite sense. The title may sound provocative, but in fact it is perfectly coherent (almost even moderate) considering the treatment of the contents it signs.

The issue the film addresses remains the same (the life and miracles of Jesus Christ), but approached from a brazenly pop perspective, which aims to be timeless, without worrying about contextual or characterization differences. Christ becomes the first great mass idol, personally involved with historical figures who have transcended mainly due to his own transcendence. In terms of a love not perfectly reciprocated with Mary Magdalene, or through an intimate animosity with Judas, a character with whom he shares the spotlight in the film despite his antithetical nature, from the very beginning. Likewise, other secondary characters appear who foster or amplify the incomprehension of his figure and spiritual message: an anthologically pragmatic Pontius Pilate or a completely unrestrained King Herod in his musical piece, when the crowd demands the crucifixion of the so-called "king of the Jews."

As in any pop phenomenon, the post-romantic perspective of the artist (misunderstood and generous in his inexhaustible creativity) proves to be highly functional. The topic of untimely intervention (that of geniuses who can only be understood with the passage of time and from a new perspective) is updated in Jesus Christ Superstar. There are no theological pretensions, but there is a pattern that remotely coincides, for Christ will not have real recognition until after his death, and this is because adherence to spirituality requires the sacrifice of the son of God so that man in turn can be saved, beyond time. However, during his life, this Jesus Christ sports an attractive look, comparable to that of any pop-rock star of the seventies and eighties. The landscapes, predictably desertic, become ideal settings for filming music videos, moments sung by the main characters that, as happens in so many productions of the genre, convey the crux of the matter in a more direct (more intense and emotional) way.

The musical pieces reflect, condensed, the most intimate desires and intentions, but which, as in any pop song, can be universally extrapolated to any life. The film, which begins in a metafictional tone (the staging of the show that will unfold and the characterization of the characters are observed, with the celestial presentation of the absolute protagonist), includes some dramatic moments, but an inevitable kitsch aftertaste permeates everything. We cannot say, in this sense, that it has aged well, nor that it can be immediately enjoyed by all audiences, but it can be appreciated from an archaeological perspective, attending to the symptomatology of the era it evidences. The characterization of a long-haired and loving Jesus Christ (a radical anti-system figure in the midst of the seventies, with the hippie movement consolidated) encourages his example to spread, becoming part of the system. Parallel to the triumph of Christianity, initially a minority sect, the character represented in this rock opera is understood as a mass idol. The particular revolution he leads, with the new proposal of love for one's neighbor, achieves global success.

4. HUMOR AS A TANGENT: Life of Brian (1979)

We continue with the lighthearted record, recalling the comedy often irreverently concocted by the cast of comedians known as Monty Python. The film begins with the visit of the Three Wise Men, whom Mary does not attend to in the most expected way. At least not according to the Scriptures: "A star has guided us," they tell her. And her response: "No, a bottle has guided you." Life of Brian poses an intrinsically comical situation, which is the existence of this being who resembles Jesus Christ, who sometimes speaks like Jesus Christ, and who one might think, at times, behaves like Jesus Christ… but who is not Jesus Christ. Brian is born as an outcast, but he will become part of an anti-establishment (anti-Roman) group, and thus will be persecuted until he suffers similar situations, without being, in effect, the son of God. Therein lies the comedy of the matter: he suffers like Christ but is not Christ, in an endless series of nods that allow the common man to identify with him.

Brian coexists with the true son of God, but the confusion with the former will come from the ignorance that precisely leads to this other Christ being, in the same way, condemned. Empathy is sought and achieved through the most blatant parody. For example, when Brian comes into contact with the "ex-leper," who has left his condition through Christ's healing action. "A miracle that killed me," he explains to Brian. "I was a leper, with a trade, he didn't even ask my permission: you're cured, mate." There are many references to Christ, which are dispensed in parallel to the fight against the Romans undertaken by Brian and his friends. An anti-establishment group that tries to define its principles, even if those principles and their own organization do not always tend to fall into ideological absurdities and bureaucratic obstacles caused by themselves. And Brian is entrusted with a series of missions, such as writing something like "Romans, go home" on the wall, which he does not write correctly in its Latin declension (and for that he will be punished).

At one point in the plot, Brian comes to be mistaken for Jesus. When suddenly a blind man regains his sight in his presence (supposedly, because immediately afterwards he falls into a furrow in the earth that he could not see), he defends himself against the supposed miracle: "I am not the Messiah, please listen." One among the mob makes a contradictory statement, and therefore highly representative of the degree of alienation that his apparent coming awakens in some: "I say you are the Messiah, because I understand that, I have followed several!" No matter how much Brian denies it, a believer replies: "Only the true Messiah denies his divinity." To which he affirms, to get out of the predicament: "Okay, I am the Messiah." And then his statement is positively believed: "He said it, he is the Messiah." This absurd exchange of opinions, replies and counter-replies not only parodies the social imbalance that actually occurred with the arrival of Christ, but also seems to point to the popular and human need to believe in something, to uphold some kind of principle beyond reason. A belief that provides consistency to the world, like that offered by the various Gnostic sects in the immediately subsequent era, as a religious continuation of those Hellenistic philosophical schools that provided remedies against the evils of the world, forms of consolation for the time of life and promises of salvation beyond it.

Despite the fact that in Life of Brian we find the same settings that we can contemplate in major Hollywood productions about the life of Christ, and thus the theme is unmistakably identifiable, the parody substantially distorts the message. The incomprehension that Brian reflects once he becomes a mass idol ("Your son is a born leader," Judit explains to the mother. "These people follow him because they have faith in him, they believe he will give them hope") provokes laughter and, through that mechanism (which, as Freud saw, sets the machinery of the unconscious in motion), one approaches the true (rational) incomprehension of his message; something that, moreover, some of the main Lutheran theologians raised in a very serious tone. Of course, Monty Python's reading is anything but dogmatic, and does not even enter the arena of critical discussion. It offers a tangent, a register that abounds in the pact of fiction, inherent to cinematographic productions, to detach itself from reality. And, with all that, thanks to it, it manages to express some of the most paradoxical mysteries of Christian spirituality, to which so many theological studies also point.

The tragic fate that awaits Brian, crucified like Christ, offers a smile at the last moment. A bitter smile, but who knows if it is healing, because it leaves for posterity that catchy tune, a tune that can be whistled, and thus remembered as a consolation even in the worst of circumstances: Always look on the bright side of life.

Already in an era much closer to ours, let's conclude the series of perspectives on the passion with that tremendously costly effort that was the work directed by Mel Gibson, with a concise and representative title: The Passion of the Christ. A work that wants to be faithful to the sacred texts, to the authorized sources, but that also takes advantage of details that do not appear in the canonical gospels. All this to recreate a faithful image of the life and, above all, of the death of Christ from the scene of the Garden of Gethsemane, in which an anguished Jesus Christ addresses God to ask him to (if possible) spare him the suffering to which he knows he is destined. We know that he himself concludes his petition with the famous and practically unacceptable "Thy will be done." Almost from its beginning, therefore, the film is interested in the pain experienced by Christ in his last hours, in which he will be subjected to the mistreatment of the mob, and which he will have to assume despite his evident displeasure. The temptation to avoid the end of that suffering is at the center of Martin Scorsese's interesting work, The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), which, although it shows a less careful aesthetic, succeeds in focusing on the crisis experienced on the cross itself, once the son feels separated from the father, split from his own nature.

Less involved in the theological problems, Gibson's film strives to recreate even the smallest detail of the elements of Christ's vital context. This is manifested very symptomatically in the use of the languages that could then be heard: Hebrew, Aramaic and Latin, the latter spoken by the Romans. The reproduction of historical circumstances is so carefully crafted that it cannot be compared to any other film, and contrasts diametrically with the parodic ones, in which the helmets seem to be made of plastic and the hardships suffered by Christ are the product of interpretive affectation. On the contrary, the aforementioned care is also applied to the literal understanding of Christ's destiny, which is to experience the extreme of suffering in his human nature. That is to say, the flesh is mistreated without scruples, the body mortified in the most unjust and treacherous way. The cynicism of the authorities serves on a platter what the crowd demands. The offering, also recalled by Bach's passions, is memorable: the possibility of freeing one of the prisoners, and how they exclaim "Barabbas!", opting for the thief to the detriment of the son of God.

Jesus Christ remains condemned, and will continue to suffer to the limit of the conceivable, beyond what reason can tolerate. The suffering in his viacrucis, on the way to Mount Calvary, is prolonged in an unspeakable way. Time passes slower than ever, emphasizing the agony of the protagonist but also of the spectator, who would much prefer to spare himself the quantity and variety of ominous manifestations and insults that are uttered, impossible to imagine a priori. The greatness of Gibson's version, with a very different style, brings us back at this point to the first of the perspectives on spirituality, that is, to Carl Theodor Dreyer's film. Joan of Arc, alone in the face of incomprehension and facing martyrdom, earns the empathy of a spectator uncomfortable with the lack of humanity of those who judge her. The dehumanization of Christ's contemporaries also bothers the spectator, who senses that human beings are also capable of such animalistic behaviors. Much blood is shed in Gibson's version, threatening to splash the spectator, given the excess of realism in the depiction of martyrdom. All that is psychological in the suffering in the case of Joan of Arc, materializes explicitly in The Passion of the Christ.

The suffering is conveyed to the spectator in such an intense way that they can barely accompany Christ's trance until his final moment. This way of provoking empathy is not too subtle, but it is effective, even at the risk of canceling it: it is a great temptation to stop watching. The discomfort can reach nausea, and with nausea the anguished experience that many theologians have read in the moment of sacrifice. That the violence seems gratuitous, unjustified, is completely premeditated, and perhaps representative of the narration of the scriptures, for the cruelty of man then redounds to extreme sinfulness, from which anyone, recognizing themselves as a symbolic participant in that crime, can free themselves throughout history. There is no sin that cannot be eradicated, as long as its actor assumes the debasement of that action. All this makes us think that gratuitous violence is, in reality, necessary. Nothing to do with the use we can find in other action films, even when they have been recognized for their artistic merits (Tarantino).

Less understandable, however, seem some of the cinematic resources used to communicate the well-known excesses. The philological care with which that world is recreated contrasts with the abuse of techniques such as slow motion or the use of computer-generated music, which at times would work better in Blade Runner. Slow motion provides a sense of counterproductive hyperrealism in certain passages, by no means naturalistic, belonging to an era that is not ours either (it seems more typical of the eighties and nineties) and, of course, unthinkable in the mentality of those who spoke Aramaic or Latin. These are secondary elements, of an inevitably subjective appreciation, but they add an unnecessary quota of artificiality to a film that prides itself on being an authentic reflection of God's inconceivable drama.