Not With a Bang But With a Whimper: "Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker" Review: Spoilers

I don't give everything away, but enough that I think a spoiler alert is called for.

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Consider yourself alerted.

In my usual strategy of starting things in the middle, I began wring a critique of Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker, and then went back to look at my past reviews and commentaries on this latest, and presumably last, trilogy of films begun 42 years ago by George Lucas. I found that I was repeating things from previous posts, and in the spirit of wanting to break new ground, I scrapped what I had written and started over again. In a way, that's exactly what J.J. Abrams and the Disney / Lucas Films / Bad Robot braintrust should have done when they wrote the script for Rise of Skywalker (ROS).

I'm not talking about scrapping things the way 2017's The Last Jedi took a blow torch to the Star Wars legacy. It is possible to move forward while respecting what came before. So far, though, the new era Disney Star Wars is still trying to find a way to do that. 

Don't get me wrong, I actually kind of enjoyed ROS, at least the second half of it. But to get to that second half I had to sit through what seemed like more than an hour of convoluted and confusing set up that was mainly designed to erase the events and revelations of the last film. At the time I'm sitting here tapping away at the keyboard, its a little over 24 hours since I left the theater, and I'm not sure I could give you a synopsis of the film without referencing an outline - it was at once so detail laden and forgettable. So, I won't bother. Another frustration is that the misfire that was TLJ is ultimately what kept this film from being the rousing, emotionally satisfying wrap-up it could have been. 

I'm not going to rehash all the problems with trying to make a postmodern, woke Star Wars movie (or any movie for that matter), as they did with TLJ. I'll focus on one point, and how it impacts the latest installment of the franchise, even as writer director J.J. Abrams went to great lengths to distance ROS in tone and theme from its SJW predecessor.

When the starting point of the film maker's process is ideology and not story telling, let alone character development they, along with  likeminded commentators, usually respond to any negative criticism by claiming some kind of "ism" on the part of the critic. In a film like Star Wars, the characters are based on broadly drawn types to begin with, so making them real and relatable is challenge enough. Now put them into ideological straitjackets and it becomes impossible. The problem some have with Rey (Daisy Ridley), for instance, isn't that she is a woman, as some defenders have claimed. The problem is that the ideological world view that has taken over much of contemporary pop culture dictates that a woman lead can not be shown with any weaknesses. Add to that that it is not enough for a woman to be in the lead and flawless, but that the men around her must be incompetent. It's just a recipe for awkward storytelling and cardboard characters. 

But that Rey was made into a seemingly flawless creature in no need of growth or trial is only part of the problem. TLJ tried to tear down the Star Wars myth, and with it Rey's possible past. In our post modern world, or so the thinking goes, tradition is unimportant. We don't need to know where we have been to know where we are going. We are complete as we are. We are capable of creating our own meaning without reference to family, heritage or tradition.

There is a problem, from a story telling standpoint though. A major theme of The Force Awakens revolved around Rey's identity, which was a mystery to her as well as everyone else. Hints are given, and it's made clear that she is gifted with the Force, which leads her to Luke Skywalker's (Mark Hamill) old light saber. As the first film ends Rey begins her own Hero's Journey, finding Luke on a secluded planet, handing him his laser sword with outstretched arm. Finally, she will get answers. She will be trained to perfect the incredible skills she already possesses. Luke may not have all the answers, but at least he will help her move in the right direction to fulfill her destiny.

TLJ in turn opens on this exact scene. Luke takes the light saber and immediately begins to instruct the callow youth in the ways of the Jedi, revealing her personal past and pointing her to where she needs to go. With this new found skill and knowledge she goes off to face her destiny, which is now her's to fulfill of fail trying.

Just kidding.

Luke throws the light saber over his shoulder like an empty Coke can, tells her the Force is not worth getting all worked up about and spends the rest of his screen time acting like a grumpy old man complaining about his gout. Then Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) tells her that her parents were deadbeat nobodies who sold her for drinking money. Yoda burns down the Jedi library, and all the sacred texts within it, assuring Luke that it's better this way. The Jedi time has come and past and it's now the moment to move on. 

The idea is that now Rey, and the franchise in general, is free to move in whatever direction she wants. She is no longer encumbered by the past. That sounds great, but in reality it doesn't really work. On a practical level it fails because the first film is now rendered irrelevant. The audience is left wondering why it invested so much time and treasure into a saga that has turned out to be a false flag from the beginning. On a deeper, instinctual level, the audience lives vicariously through the hero. We want to believe that we are special, that we have a destiny, that there is a greatness within us waiting to be unleashed. If Rey is a nobody, and everyone has the force (which was sort of what was implied by having all the stable boys and girls using mental telepathy to sweep out the barn in TLJ), then no one is really special. There is no reason to root for Rey or care much about her story. Who needs to save the universe when the power of the universe resides in me already? Why go on a journey? Why not find a secluded place and let the galaxy go to blazes? 

There is something even more fundamental going on here. That Rey has a past maters, to us as well as her. We can fool ourselves into thinking the tradition or heritage don't matter, but according to CNBC  26 million people took home DNA tests in 2018, and the total was expected to go up to as many as 100 million by 2020. Those are tens, and possibly hundreds of millions of people curious about where they came from. On an anecdotal note, I know people with knowledge of their family tree going back four or even five generations who still took one of these mail order tests and were surprised by the results. (Just as a side note, if you're of Southern Italian or Sicilian decent, you're going to have Greek ancestors, don't get freaked out). 

Rey isn't the only character who struggles with his or her identity. Finn has a poignant conversation with another storm trooper who defected, about how they were stollen from their families as children and now feel an inner emptiness at not having any idea about where they came from. Both actors, John Boyega and Naomi Ackie, are British of African decent. While not themselves descendants of slaves necessarily, the scene is meant to reflect the feelings of some African Americans who lament that they really can't trace their lineage back to Africa with any certainty. I had a friend of mine explain that while I could trace my family back to a particular village in a particular region of Italy, he can't do the same with his ancestors from West Africa. While this didn't constitute an existential crisis in this man's life, it was nonetheless a void he felt deeply. 

By giving Rey and Finn these struggles they are made more human and relatable to the audience. There is something inside of us that strives for greatness and wants to know that we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. We are looking for something that builds us up and connects us, not something that tears down and divides. 

Yes, this is a pop corn entertainment, not Shakespeare or Chekov, so why get too deep? I'm getting deep because the original trilogy was just simple entertainment as well. But it connected because George Lucas understood how mythology works, and how audiences connect with characters. I know there is a lot of debate about how much help Lucas may have received from collaborators (especially film editors) in fashioning the final product. I'll leave that to the fan boys to hash out. It's enough to point out the the first films captured the audience's imagination because it tapped into these primordial archetypes and human yearnings that had nothing to do with whatever political or ideological agenda was being pushed in 1977. Also, as fast paced and action packed as the originals were, time was given for the characters to interact and grow with each other. You really did believe that they were friends who would risk it all for one another. I just don't see that happening here. As for the general tone of the original films, Star Wars bucked the trend of the  cynical anti-hero and moral ambiguity prevalent in films of the period. Luke does struggle, but there is no doubt about what the right thing to do is. The only question is all he do it or turn bad. 

The first half of the film, as rushed as it is, is taken up with trying to erase the memory of TLJ. Rey does need training after all, but this time she receives it from Leah (the late Carrie Fisher in some awkwardly inserted outtakes from previous movies). She finds out that she's Emperor Palatine's (Ian McDiarmid) granddaughter, so she does have a past after all - and the struggle she has between dark and light has a reason. Luke tells her that he was wrong in refusing to train her, and the the Force is really is all that and an a bag of chips. We see Rey consulting some old Jedi scriptures, the ones that survived the conflagration, so they weren't so irrelevant after all.

When Rey introduces herself in this third movie, she says, "Just Rey," to indicate that she has no family name. At the end, she gets one, or more correctly appropriates one. We can debate how correct this is. I really don't care. All it does is drive home the idea that we all want an identity that comes from outside of us. We all want to feel like we belong to a family, and not just one of or own making. Rey splits the difference here. Though she knows where she comes from know, she chooses to adopt the Skywalker name. It may be her "choice," but it's not her creation. She now continues in a line rather than making her own.

All this last minute revising could have been avoided if the film makers had plotted things out from the beginning. By beginning I mean starting with Episode VII. I'm on record as being a fan of Daisy Ridley, so the fact that a woman is the successor of the Skywalker legacy is A-OK with me. Rey does end the series with incredible Force powers beyond any character that has come before. On the one hand this only reinforces the perception that she is a Mary Sue. Contrary wise it would be more acceptable if the character had been allowed a normal arc that includes self discovery, making mistakes, losing heart and needing to be encouraged to continue. We get a little of that here, but not enough to completely erase what came before.

I have other ideas about how they could have taken these stories in another direction from the start, but that's a bit beyond where I wanted to go here. The one recommendation I will offer is that Disney should take a few years off of making more Star Wars features, regroup, and start over with a fresh take that both moves things forward and respects what made the original trilogy so successful to begin with. Namely tapping into eternal archetypes, avoid putting your characters and story into the ideological straitjacket du juor, and allow them time to form real friendships and connections the audience can relate to. 

Of all the missed opportunities of this sequel trilogy the worst might be that they assembled a likable, charismatic cast of young actors and never really developed them properly. I wanted to feel something at the end of ROS, but I didn't. Not really. Because most of last movie the three heroes were pretty much kept apart on separate missions. Rey could do nothing wrong, and Finn and Poe could do nothing right. Now they are together, by and large, but they show a camaraderie that doesn't seem earned. Now that it's over we might never see this cast together again, which is a shame. 

All that's left to do is scrap this series and start over. Disney has too much invested not to. I just hope they plan things out a little better next time.

On Hiatus Until Further Notice...and Hopefully Not That Long

I was going back and forth with a friend of mine last night on Facebook about the goings on in our nation's capital, and the whole Jeffery Epstein, Prince Andrew affair, when he suggested I write a blog post about it. I told him I don't like getting too political on the blog. While social media is public, I'm not a great presence on it, so a little virtual banter with a buddy on FB is one thing. Writing manifestos on the blog is another. 

But even if I was inclined to pontificate on the political scene, and yes the Jeffery Epstein scandal is a political scandal as well as a moral tragedy, the blog is on hiatus for the time being. It's been unofficially so since late September, but today I'm making it official. 

Starting in 2007 my father suffered a series of health issues. Each one was big, and each time he beat the odds. It really was miraculous at times, and we're pretty sure the Blessed Mother, under the title of our Lady of Fatima in particular, had a hand in in him pulling through on more than one occasion. It was clear from at least the beginning of the summer that, while his spirit and legendary sense of humor was still strong, the human engine was failing, and the time was short. Since I began classes at Catholic University in late August my father's health continued to decline steadily. I went home the last week of September, and he passed nine days later. 

In all I missed almost three weeks of class, but to tell the truth I wasn't really here even when I was - before and after my father died. We're at the end of the semester now, and I have a lot of work to make up. My professors have been more than understanding, but the assignments, past and present, still need to be done. 

So I will be doing a lot of writing in the next weeks, just not on the blog. I'm hoping to be back sometime in January to start over.

In the meantime please say a prayer for the repose of my father's soul. His name is Anthony Frank Provenzano, but everybody called him Sonny. 

I'm praying for all of you, please pray for me. I wish all of you a blessed Advent and Christmas, and a prosperous New Year. See you in 2020.

Relaunching The AX: Back to school and a Look at Tarantino's Latest

Relaunching The AX 

As you may have noticed, I've been silent since the end of 2018. I know there's a post dated in March, but that was a re-post. Long story short, earlier this year Google went through some updating in response to new EU cookie rules, after which I saw that most of my past posts were rendered inaccessible, though still existing as drafts. I put that one back up as sort of a test. I really don't understand the technicalities of all this - I'm pretty tech not so savvy. Any way, I don't have the time or the patience to go back and check out each post (there's over 800 of them at this point), so what's there is there, and what's not - well you'll just have to take my word that they will stand with the missing reels of the Magnificent Ambersons and Aristotle's "Comedy" as among the greatest lost works in Western culture. 

This technical difficulty beyond my control is not the reason I fell silent; it just served as one more excuse to stay off the grid. Most of my time between about November, 2018 and July 1st of this year was spent transitioning from being pastor of St. John Bosco Parish in Chicago and applying to Catholic University's Licentiate in Sacred Theology (STL) program. The last nine months have been a long, bittersweet farewell to pastoral ministry (at least for now) and getting ready for a trip back to school after all these years. There were also many things happening in the parish that kept me from focusing on writing. It was an eventful last six months in the parish, beyond the normal busy pace of life at Bosco. Now that I'm relocated here in the D.C. area I've been getting my schedule together and am making the blog once again a part of my routine. 

In recognition of this change of life, I've changed the format, but the content will remain the same. I also hope to get back to doing some videos. 

Going Back to School: What is a Licentiate, Anyway?

As for the studies, when I tell people I'm pursuing an STL I get quizzical looks. In the United States we are use to speaking of masters and doctoral degrees, but the licentiate is of European origin and so follows a different track we're not familiar with. In Europe the licentiate comes after the baccalaureate and before a doctorate. Many assume that masters degrees and licentiates are the same, but that's not the case. I don't know about Old World universities in general, but the baccalaureate in theology from Pontifical schools is equal to the Master of Divinity issued by U.S. seminaries. The licentiate, the "second cycle," involving a specialization comes next, after the "first cycle" of general theology study: I'll be concentrating in Sacraments and Liturgy. The STL is meant to lead to a doctorate, but doesn't have to - the degree stands on its own. The licentiate then exists in this ill-defined space (at least to the American mind) between the masters and doctoral degree. 

On a practical level the STL is quite literally a license to teach theology at Catholic universities and seminaries anywhere in the world. That's why I'm pursuing it; so I can eventually join a Salesian formation staff, preparing young men for Salesian religious and priestly life. I'm concentrating on the STL right now, mainly because that's as far as my mandate goes. If my provincial decides its advantageous to go on after I finish the STL, so be it. For right now, I'm just taking it one day at a time. 

Please pray for me as I begin this new leg of my journey. 

A Fairy Tale Alternate History of Hollywood, 1969

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I've always been ambivalent about Quentin Tarantino: I admire his writing (in spite of his excessive use of profanity), visual style and non linear story telling style. On the other hand I've always had an aversion to buckets of blood style violence, no matter who the director is. I've only seen a hand full of his films, and admire them, while acknowledging my reservations, for all the stylistic reasons mentioned. I'm not sure there's any deeper meaning to it all and, on further examination, maybe in this case the style is indeed the substance. In an age where art is judged by its social relevance more than by its craft or originality, it's refreshing to see someone so uninterested appeasing pressure groups and simply makes movies his way, ankle bitters be blessed.

His latest film, Once Upon a Time in...Hollywood, is more an actor's movie punctuated by violent outbursts, presented in Tarantino's signature style that induces the audience laugh at the most sadistic acts of cruelty in spite of themselves. Out side of these three bracketed scenes, what we see is Tarantino the pure film maker, who's skills in writing and directing could allow him to make movies in almost any genre he wanted. Not content with being consistent in tone, he usually incorporates several genres one film alone. As for language, this go around is actually mild compared to your average Martin Scorsese film, let's say, and whatever use of racial or ethnic slurs seem purposefully designed to cheese off the politically correct thought police.

Tarantino performs a difficult task in Once Upon a Time, beyond his usual struggle to shock while keeping within the bounds of good taste. The movie acts as a tribute of sorts to the Hollywood of the 1960's, while at the same time cursing the forces that brought that era to an end. In doing so Tarantino appropriates the infamous Manson Family murders, changing history to create a modern fairytale cum vengeance fantasy (similar to what he did in Inglorious Basterds - which I didn't not see). 

But the history he appropriates here, much like what he did in Basterds, happened within living memory. Films play with history and historical figures all the time. When the events or people involved being fictionalized are centuries old, the only ones to complain are usually historians and scholars. To the contemporary popular mind the passengers of the Titanic or soldiers fighting with William Wallace against Edward Longshanks are abstractions, as are the two historical figures themselves. When so much time has elapsed even historians can't always agree on what exactly happened and the nature of the personalities involved, and no one on this side of the veil can really know the truth for sure.

In the case of the Tate-LaBianca murders, many of the victims' family members, as well as most of the perpetrators, are still alive. Will the former be offended at how their brothers or sisters are being portrayed? While I really don't care about how the former Manson Family members feel, does their presentation here as pseudo-sinister buffoons trivialize the true evil of the actual historical events, and thus denigrate the memory of the victims? Does using these real life people as metaphors obscure the truth instead of deepening our understanding of it? I'm not going to proffer an answer right now. I know I wasn't "offended" (how I hate that word), but I did leave the theater feeling a bit uneasy. More on that later.

While Leonardo DiCaprio (as semi washed up western star Rick Dalton) is technically the leading man here, he really shares the spotlight with Brad Pitt, who plays DiCaprio's side kick. Both men's fates are intertwined, and in many ways it's Pitt's stunt double character Cliff Booth who pushes the plot (or what there is of one) forward. Both men are struggling for relevance in the New Hollywood emerging from the ruins of the old studio system. Rick is neurotic and edgy. Cliff, who has far less to lose, doesn't seem to be aware that there is a struggle going on at all.

Tarantino dosen't offer his audience much in terms of context, but by the late '60's westerns were waning in popularity, the studio system was collapsing - and by '69 was pretty much dead. New auteur directors, like Arthur Penn, Mike Nichols and Roman Polanski were breathing fresh life into cinema - making films that were personal statements as opposed to corporate products (the aforementioned Polanski (Rafał Zawierucha), along with his wife Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) just so happen to move into the house next to Rick as our story unfolds). It's also the age of the antihero - where bank robbers were the good guys and the police who chase them were the villains. 

In contrast, Rick and Cliff are as straight forward as their names; they understand white hats and black hats, and are baffled by ambiguity. In some ways they are men of the 1950's who were able to skate through most of the '60's performing their old tricks. They are caught off guard when the zeitgeist shifts suddenly on them. Again, it's DiCaprio's character who's flummoxed. Pitt's Cliff just keeps plugging away, unaffected because he never possessed celebrity status, and so he doesn't worry about losing what he never had. 

When Rick goes to film a pilot episode for a new western, the director wants him to put on a shoulder length wig, a bushy mustache and a fringe lined suede jacket, similar to Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider. Dalton goes along with it, but is still indignant that he's being asked to look like a hippie. While waiting for his scene he strikes up a conversation with an eight year old girl who introduces herself as a method actor, not actress, stays in character at all times and is offended by pet names. She lectures Rick on the importance of being completely dedicated to his craft. Dalton, who is a star, not an actor, is in a new world, and this precocious little girl's sermon compounds his emotional disorientation. His insecurity only grows when he flubs lines repeatedly during his take. He redeems himself in the afternoon session, even receiving a heartfelt compliment from the eight year old. All the same, Dalton sees the writing on the wall and accepts an offer to go to Italy to make spaghetti westerns. 

Meanwhile Cliff, driving around L.A. doing his boss' bidding in his boss' car, has a chance encounter with a young hippie (Margaret Qualley) who he's crossed paths with before. Unlike their previous encounters, Cliff lets the wayward teen in the car and brings her to her desired destination, Spahn Ranch. Cliff is not being polite, or lecherous. He worked at the Ranch years ago, when it was a movie set for westerns. He knows the owner, George Spahn and wants to make sure he's alright. 

Cliff make a good first impression on the group of hippie squatters he encounters at the Ranch, which dissolves quickly once the headstrong stuntman demands to see George. He makes his way, in the face of determined, if nonviolent, opposition to see his old acquaintance. After one of the most tense sequences I've seen in a movie in quite some time, he finds the 80 year old, blind, George (Bruce Dern) safe and sound, napping just as he was told he was. His instincts are nonetheless correct: George is indeed being taken advantage of, but doesn't seem to mind so much. 

Angry at being defied, the hippies drive Cliff off the ranch. Before he can actually do that - drive away that is - one of the ranch hands slashes the front tire of Rick Dalton's Cadillac. Cliff is not phased. He pulls out the spare, demands that the man who did it change the tire, and when the culprit refuses, Cliff inflicts a brutal if controlled beating on him. 

Unlike Rick, Cliff has no self doubt. He doesn't understand or like hippies, or what they represent any more than his friend does, but rather than be paralyzed with introspection, he cool and calmly knocks them on their keisters. That's his approach to life in general. He lives in a beat up camper behind a drive in movie theater - another motion picture institution on the way out by '69 - with his beloved pit bull. He knows that his options are limited because he's suspected of having killed his wife - an awkward detail that's kind of presented, dwelt upon briefly, and never mentioned again the rest of the movie. Life is simple and good, even if it isn't exactly what he would want it to be. He knows a phony when he sees one, giving very limited quarter. He has no image to protect, or career to worry about. He's not itching for a fight, but he's not going to shy away from one, especially with pretentious windbags.


The third act of the movie finds our heroes returned from Europe after six months of filming several low budget westerns and knock off James Bond movies. It's the night of the actual Tate murders, and it also happens to be the last night Rick and Cliff will be a team. Rick, having picked up an Italian wife (Lorenza Izzo), and with uncertain prospects now that he's back in the States, can't afford Cliff's services. So they go out for one last drunk, their night on the town paralleled with the real life last evening of Sharon Tate and her house guests. 

They return to Rick's house, when Cliff decides to smoke an LSD laced cigarette he'd been saving for a special occasion and walk his dog. Rick stays back to make more margaritas when the post midnight peace is broken by an idling car's broken muffler. It's the members of the Manson Family - the same hippies Cliff encountered at the Ranch, about go up the long driveway to where Sharon Tate and her friends unknowingly await their fate. Rick confronts them, margarita filled blender waiving in the air. He curses them, threatens them, telling "Dennis Hopper" to get his car out of there. 

Once away, the driver, Tex Watson (Austin Butler), realizes that the belligerent drunk they encountered was his childhood hero Rick Dalton. Susan "Sadie" Atkins (Mikey Madison), in what for me was the most chilling dialogue in the movie, talks about how it's Dalton's TV shows that taught violence to their generation, and now they need to bring that violence back to the homes of those who broadcasted it into theirs. Chilling, because our fictionalized "Sadie" Atkins sounds more like a contemporary "woke" social justice warrior than like a hippie. 

They change plans. Instead of hitting the house at the top of the hill, as Charlie had ordered them, they decide to hit Dalton's home instead. Even beyond questions of historical accuracy, things don't go as expected. Tarantino had set things up in such a way that the Manson gang should have known who they were running into. But because of a twist of intoxicated fate (the telltale Caddie was left at the restaurant), it is the perpetrators who are entering into a trap. They find Cliff in the kitchen in the midst of his ritualized feeding of the dog, not the drunken Rick. Recognizing them, he mocks the would-be killers with cool condescension before opening up his patented can of Zen infused whoop-butt. Even his pit bull gets in the act. By the time it's over the members of the Manson Family are beaten, bitten, stabbed and burnt beyond recognition. 

Obviously, this is not what really happened just after midnight on the real August 9, 1969. There was no Rick or Cliff who distracted the killers from their satanic mission. Their exploits didn't lead to a much hoped for encounter with Sharon Tate; a meeting that very well could signal a new beginning for Rick's career. The reality is that six people lost their lives, and later that evening two more were slaughtered. There was no happy ending.

I left the theater uneasy because Tarantino pushes all the right buttons here. He's mastered the art of R-rated Three Stooges violence; its extreme and graphic - though that criticism is sometimes exaggerated. He often makes the viewer think he's seeing more than he actually is by suggesting what's happening out of frame. It's violence that's so cartoonishly extreme that it provokes laughter as you cover your eyes. Often the targets of this mayhem are "getting what they deserve." Even though in the context of the movie the hapless hippies haven't actually harmed anyone yet, we know that in real life members of the Family were already responsible for previous killings, not to mention the murders that they're known for. We live vicariously through our heroes who, unknowingly, are saving the lives of the intended victims. We get to feel a certain sentimental pinch as we see Rick, Sharon and the others, blissfully ignorant of the fate they avoided, retire into the house on Cielo Drive for a drink. 

But underneath the sentimentality is an undercurrent of mild nausea: not because of the use of dogs and flamethrowers as lethal weapons, but because it's all a lie. And not in the normal way that in fiction tales are spun to reveal a deeper truth. There is no deeper truth revealed by manipulating history in this way here. The film does makes clever observations about the nature of the movie business and the disorientation caused by changing epochs. In the end, what was a stylish, well crafted and acted production is reduced to vengeance porn. But who is the recipient of the director's comeuppance?

I'd be surprised if Tarantino has any beef with hippies, and he can't have one with the New Hollywood movement. His career wouldn't have been possible with out it. It's that he's found himself caught in a time of change, and he knows it. The popular culture since the '60's used to celebrate the maverick who challenged rules and broke boundaries. The New Hollywood types railed against censorship and risked it all to realize a unique artistic vision. Now Hollywood has come full circle; more of a corporate town than it ever was during the Golden Age. It's getting harder and harder to get anything other than superhero movies or franchise sequels made. As the budgets get bigger, the box office receipts need to counted in the hundreds of millions, if not billions, to be sufficiently profitable for the beancounters. Rather than taking risks the studios, money people, writers, directors and actors are to one degree or another afraid of offending either the Chinese (since that's emerged as such a lucrative market) or running afoul of the PC-SJW crowd and the oversized influence they have via social media. 

In a particular way the hippies of Once Upon a Time represent these PC forces. Tarantino is exacting his cinematic revenge on all those contemporary puritans who criticize his use of violence and racial slurs. He's cursing those who would want him to bow to the latest group think, those who see art as propaganda for their cause. There's no doubt that he sees himself as a man of the left, but that means something different now than when he first burst on the scene in the '90's. The business and culture of Hollywood has changed, and the boy wonder is now the established star feeling the rug being pulled out from under him. 

Rick calls the driver of the Manson car Dennis Hopper, a reference to the '50's contract player who not only made the transition, but was a catalyst for it with with his independent hippie road movie Easy Rider, which took the movie industry by storm in, you guessed it, 1969. Hopper represents all that Rick despises and resents, especially that he was forced adopt his look to keep a part. Even though Tarantino has the stature to still do what he wants, he like the fictional Rick Dalton sees the handwriting on the wall. He's said that he only plans to make ten movies before retiring. This is number 9, and I wonder if it's not at once a love letter, as its being promoted, and a kiss off to the business he sees as, if not passing him by, at least moving in the wrong direction.

This leaves me just as ambivalent about Quentin Tarantino as when I began. I still admire his unique style. I don't think his work is completely devoid of substance. But his flights of self indulgence obscure the deeper truth he could be mining in his work. I don't think appropriating the Sharon Tate story in this way was appropriate. He presents the late actress in the best possible light, and Margot Robbie brings joy and a sort of hip innocence to the portrayal, so it's not a case of disrespect that makes me uneasy. It's that I felt manipulated for no good reason. Of course films try to play the audience, and make us feel things when we should know better. That's why we go to the theater. In this case I know too much to be swept away by this cruel fantasy. I wanted to bask in the good feeling, and dream dreams, as the best of movies can lead us to do. I couldn't because it felt dishonest. The Manson Family wasn't the gang who couldn't shoot straight. Evil wasn't overcome that night, and everyone didn't live happily ever after. It's that these memories were used, at least in part, to satisfy some personal need of the film maker instead of shining light on the truth that leaves feeling queasy.

Do You Think They Were More Guilty?

Last time out I danced around the issue of divine chastisement. My conclusion was that we can't call the recent atrocity in Orlando an example of divine retribution, not that I've seen anyone overtly suggesting it. It seems like after tragedies of this nature someone comes out saying "this is God's wrath" against this group or another that's assumed to have run afoul of the moral law. So, I just wanted to head that one off at the pass.

I also affirmed that, contrary to common belief today, God does indeed chastise. It's that it's not for vigilantes, mobs or even governments to decide what needs to be punished and then take it upon themselves to exact the punishment. 

Beyond that God is patient. He doesn't want to punish us if he can avoid it. The Prophet Jonah was one of those fire and brim stone types, as well as being more than a tad xenophobic, who reluctantly delivered the Lord's message of repentance to Nineveh (a gentile city). He was actually upset when the city repented, therefore avoiding destruction. God had to sit him down and explain that He created all humanity (along with everything in nature, actually), and didn't want to see any of them lost. And those poor gentiles, who didn't know their right hand from their left (in other words didn't have the benefit of Divine Revelation) needed even more patience than the Israelites did.  

In Luke 9:51-56 we hear about a Samaritan village who wouldn't receive Jesus, then traveling on the way to Jerusalem. John and James asked if they should, "'call down fire from heaven to consume them?'" All it says is that "Jesus rebuked them," before moving on to another locale. While the description is rather curt - we don't know what form Jesus's rebuke took, the message is clear: a Sodom and Gomorrah redux wasn't a part of Jesus' mission. As with the example of Jonah, we have here a gentile community, and this time it's Jesus who has to correct His followers who thought their mission was about vengeance instead of mercy. Jesus came to gather in the lost sheep of the House of Israel first, and then make the invitation to the gentiles to repent and accept the Kingdom of God, not to destroy either one. 

In all this, we need to follow a very important principle of how to read Scripture, namely to always interpret Scripture in light of Scripture. In other words, read everything in context. If we stop here we could get the impression that Jesus did away with the whole chastisement thing. But the New Testament does speak of the Lord disciplining His children (Jn. 15:2, Heb. 12:5, 1 Cor. 11:32, among other passages we could site). The Book of Revelation is filled with descriptions of how humanity is and will be chastised, including stern warnings to the churches who don't fulfill their mission (Revelation chapters 2-3). Jesus isn't saying that chastisements are out, just that it's not for us to assume the motives, times and methods of God's judgement. I would go further, that taken together, along with the Old Testament, it's unfaithful and slack believers who are more likely to encounter a harsh judgment than others are (Lk. 12:41-48).

Jesus also makes it clear that just because bad things happening to you doesn't automatically mean that God's punishing you (John 9:1-3). 

We live in a fallen world. Earthquakes happen, madmen go on rampages (which doesn't mean we don't try to prevent such things, and yes that means looking at our gun laws). Suffering is a part of life on planet Earth, and there is no way we can be shielded completely from natural disasters or prevent every act of deliberate evil. And we can't judge people who die in disturbing ways, or somehow think we're favored by God because we didn't. 

Jesus was once asked his opinion about Pilate slaughtering Galileans during their worship ceremony. He stated that it was a mistake to believe that they were greater sinners than anyone else - the same with 18 victims of a tower collapse. So, while he affirms that bad things happening to you isn't necessarily an indication of divine judgment, he also tells his questioners that, unless "you repent you will perish as they did!" 

Sobering words. Bad things happen to good, bad and indifferent people, yet we must be on the watch that the end doesn't catch us unprepared, meaning unrepentant. 

Jesus never offers us the simple answer. If we really read the Scriptures with clear eyes, specifically the Gospels, we will never confuse the Word with opium. 

We see 49 people killed randomly in a night club and we are horrified. We should be. We are also outraged. Again, we should be. We think first of the temporal issues - gun control, bigotry, international and domestic terrorism. We need to. It's our world, and we will be held to account for our stewardship of it. 

We usually end there, though. If we do think of the eternal implications, our assumption is probably that everyone was saved, whatever concept we have of that reality. My experience is that the assumption of salvation is the default position at funerals - if people believe in a life after death at all, which misses the point of why we have funerals. More and more people are forsaking the traditional obsequies and Requiem Masses for memorial services, if that. A memorial is a remembrance of the dearly departed, of his or her human life and times. The implication is that it's over - a memory is of something that is passed. We salute someone who lived a full length of years, or else rue that someone was taken too young, tragically. But either way, it's over, and all we are left with is a memory that will die with all the mourners who in turn go to that long cold sleep from which there is no awaking. 

A Mass is a act of divine memory. We are asking God the Father to remember someone, in the context of His remembering the saving work of His Son on the Cross. When God remembers, the memory is real and eternal. He doesn't remember for a moment - but forever. The priest asks the Father to remember Jesus' dying and rising - to remember His sacrifice, and so, through the power of the Holy Spirit, the sacrifice becomes present to us in the form of the Eucharist. During the funeral Mass, when the priest asks the Father to remember the one we love, he or she becomes present to Him. God's memory is not of something that is passed - it is of something present, real, unfading, eternal.

The uncomfortable aspect of this is that all in the previous paragraph depends on that the person who passed on died in a state of grace. We really don't want to think about the alternative, or really don't believe that there is an alternative. Maybe more on the other possibility for another time.

I'll end here by saying that we don't judge because we don't know the heart. We pray though. We don't assume salvation or damnation. We pray though.