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

SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS

SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS

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.

Two Cinematic Visions of War: Dunkirk / Wonder Woman

British soldiers at Dunkirk - Hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

Wonder Woman and her band of brothers 

I recently saw the new movie Dunkirk, and earlier in the summer I caught Wonder Woman. Both movies got me thinking about war movies in general, and couple in particular from twenty years ago. 

Two war movies released in 1998 forever changed the genre in their depictions of the violence, chaos and moral ambiguities of combat. Both set during World War II, Steven Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan and, to a lesser extent, Terrence Malick's Thin Red Line offered sober meditations on the impact of battle on the minds, souls and bodies of the men who were sent to fight. Private Ryan is graphic in its depiction of severed limbs and disemboweled soldiers (I heard stories at the time of D-Day veterans walking out of the theater during the first 20 minutes because the depiction of the Omaha Beach landings hit too close to home), while Thin Red Line focused on the spiritual cost of war, and the corroding loss of both personal and cosmic innocence it brings. Much like Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ permanently effected how we judge filmed lives of Jesus, these two movies are the contemporary gold standard of war films. 

Both films pull off a difficult trick: they honor the men who fought, while showing war as an ugly, senseless experience, stripping battle of the glorious romance with which Hollywood often can't help but paint combat. Thin Red Line, based on a James Jones novel, is more openly contemptuous of military leaders and shows how war turns otherwise average, decent men into amoral killers capable of pulling the gold fillings out of an injured belligerent's mouth while he's still alive. Private Ryan only hints at these things, choosing to use the impact of bullets and shells on flesh and bone to drive home war's dehumanizing effect. 

At this point you may be asking, "What does all this have to do with Dunkirk and, especially, Wonder Woman?" 

Even without taking into account the cultural impact of the earlier film, It was hard for me to watch Dunkirk and not make comparison's to Private Ryan: both films deal with soldiers trapped on a beach during World War II (though Spielberg's film does eventually break free of the coastline). Both stories are told mainly from the stand point of the "grunt" soldiers who actually shed blood. Both filter historical events through the eyes of fictional characters meant to represent the experiences of the millions who served. Both were filmed in muted, under-saturated color tones which adds to the bleakness of their respective situations - and in Private Ryan's case blunts the excessive gore a bit. 

But while Dunkirk easily lends itself to surface comparisons with Private Ryan, a closer look also reveals similarities to Thin Red Line. Though Dunkirk runs at a compact 106 minutes compared to Malick's film that sprawls itself over more than 2 and a half hours, it's sparse dialogue and extended silences, much like the earlier movie, lends itself to a more meditative viewing. We see heroism, for sure, but we also see men under pressure, turning on each other as well as their allies. We see desperate men willing to pull any trick they can to get on a boat home. Though the futility of war and the incompetence of the men who run the high command isn't on full display as it is in Thin Red Line, there is frustration felt because of the catch-22 the leaders are trapped in. They don't commit the full force of the navy or air force to the evacuation because they need to prepare for the defense of the home island, yet no significant defense can be mounted without the 400,000 soldiers trapped on the beaches of northers France. 

Director Christopher Nolan cuts a thin line of his own in how he tells his story. While his film lacks the ultra violence of Spielberg's, it is presented in a realistic style, unlike Malick who used extended static shots to capture the natural beauty of his South Pacific setting, creating an allegory of the Western war machine despoiling the original innocence of the native peoples. That being said, Nolan does use cinematic tricks like playing with the timeline, following three different sets of characters, one group over the course of a week, the other covering a day, and lastly over an hour. We cut back and forth, and events over lap and finally converge, and what could have been confusing in the hands of a lesser film maker is executed perfectly by Nolan. He also utilizes sound quite effectively, differentiating between the noises made by British and "enemy" aircraft to communicate both reassurance or dread as is needed. He also mixes mechanical sounds with music to heighten the sense of menace. He's not presenting an allegory, nor does the film deal in symbols, but Nolan's sparse script makes him utilize other methods of communicating the desperation and horror of the situation the British soldiers find themselves in. 

I've always been fairly critical of Christopher Nolan's work because I think his ideas aren't nearly as profound as his supporters would have us believe. That the man knows what he's doing with a camera and in the editing room is unquestioned. That he is a master of special effects is also true. I just don't think that films like Inception or Interstellar are as deep as some claim, even if they are undeniably well made, and at times truly thrilling. As for a message, I'm not sure exactly what Nolan is saying here (more on that in due time). All I can say right now is that he made an historical drama, set very much in the real world, when he works mainly in science fiction and super hero fantasy, and pulls it off convincingly. Dunkirk clearly shows the depth of his talent. 

I will admit that I wasn't thinking of the two 1998 films detailed above while watching Wonder Woman, but after seeing and reflecting on Dunkirk, my mind began thinking of this other film as well, and comparisons to both Private Ryan and Thin Red Line came to me. 

Wonder Woman is correctly categorized as a comic book movie, but beneath that beats heart a war drama. The film makers transplant the story from the World War II of it's comic book origins to the First World War, for reasons that are not completely clear. It could be that the Second World War has the stench of genocide hanging over it. No matter how hard revisionists try to indite the allied nations of war crimes for the fire bombings of Dresden and Tokyo, not to mention the atomic bombs dropped on Japan, Nazi Germany and the Empire of Japan were the clear aggressors in a war of empire building. The Nazi's guilty of horrors beyond imagining. The plot of Wonder Woman depends of the idea that there really aren't "good guys" or "bad guys," just fallen humanity trapped in a cycle of violence that needs to be broken. It's possible to make this argument with World War I, a conflict whose causes are as mysterious as the origin of Melchizedek of old. We think of the Germans as the enemy because they were our enemy, and they lost. But the Germany of the Kaiser wasn't the Third Reich of Hitler, and trying to make his regime look misguided but well intentioned would be rightly mocked.


In Wonder Woman, much like in Thin Red Line, we have a central character who sees the world with wide eyed wonder. In the older film it's the army private played by Jim Caviezel who observes the innocence of the native South Sea Islanders and the unspoiled nature of their homeland, and through it perceives that there is a deeper reality at work: a spiritual reality that is enduring, if fragile. In Wonder Woman, Diana has spent her life isolated on a mythic island and knows of human nature from books. Her experience of war and violence is the controlled environment of the training ground. When she leaves her native paradise she is at once captivated by what she sees and repulsed by the pollution and squalor, the byproducts of human progress. As she moves closer to the real fighting she sees the consequences of war for the first time: the maimed and the dead, the refugees displaced from their homes. Once she actually engages in fighting she sees first hand the random, uncontrollable brutality of war.

Wonder Woman may be a comic book fantasy, but in some ways it makes deeper observations than Dunkirk. Diana is forced to grow, to shed her idealistic, black and white world view. At the same time she doesn't give in to cynicism. She sees humanity's flaws, yet recognizes its divine potentiality. She is faced by a personified evil in the form of the god Ares, but comes to understand that, much like Satan, he only sets the scene, manipulates the situation, whispers in our ears, but in the end it is men and women who make their free choice for good or bad. And taking him out of the equation, while helpful, doesn't always insure that we will make the right decision. 

Dunkirk, like Private Ryan, is more concerned with the men on the ground doing the fighting and the dying than it is with the big picture of the war or deep philosophical questions (though, in fairness, Spielberg does pepper his film with moral dilemmas). It is a salute to the soldiers, and even more so to the everyday private citizens who came to their rescue at great risk to their own lives. As I mentioned before, it's not an idealized picture: these men are human and at times crack under pressure. In the end Dunkirk shows how a nation united can overcome great adversity. Though muted, it is a great patriotic film that almost makes me sad not to be British.

In spite of a very enthusiastic recommendation, like just about all of the Christopher Nolan films I've seen, it left me feeling like something was missing. As I was watching the film I couldn't help but thinking that if an audience member knows nothing about the Dunkirk evacuation, they would be very confused. We are dropped onto the beach at the beginning with very little preparation and almost no exposition. The Nazi forces are only referred to as "the enemy," and that they are Germans is only mentioned during a xenophobic tirade by one of the British soldiers. They are only seen at the end, and then in out of focus shadows. Hints are made about fighting for the survival of the civilized world, but otherwise the stakes build down to the survival of the men pined down on the beach. The characters are never really developed, so I cared because I knew what was going on, not because of any emotional investment in the individual soldiers.

My cynical side tells me that they want to be able to sell this movie in Germany, so going too heavy into some pro British jingoistic schmalz would be bad for the Teutonic box-office. More likely we have a case of political correctness, that doesn't believe in drawing moral distinctions between combatants: we're both good, and are both also guilty of atrocities big or small, so we shouldn't demonize the enemy. I think this approach can be validly taken in many situations, like in the case of Wonder Woman. World War I was a failure of both sides. While the Allies in WWII were guilty of atrocities (we shouldn't fool ourselves), to not recognize that the differences between the Allies and the Axis were not just a matter of degrees but essence is moral blindness. It's true that not every German soldier was a genocidal maniac, but, knowingly or not, he was fighting to expand the interest of an imperialistic genocidal maniac. If you can't demonize a demon, the culture is really lost.

I don't want to leave you all with the idea that I didn't like Dunkirk or thought that Wonder Woman is a better film. These are two different movies, with two different target audiences (lets just say that I was one of the youngest audience members for Dunkirk, and one of the oldest ones for Wonder Woman). While Dunkirk is the better technical and aesthetic exercise, in someways Wonder Woman asks the deeper questions. Both, in their own ways, follows in the tradition of Saving Private Ryan and Thin Red Line, in presenting the horrors and ambiguities of war while honoring the men and women who served.  

More on the Passing of Lenny Bruce

I know what you're probably thinking: Lenny Bruce has been dead for fifty years (this August 3 will mark that anniversary). Why such a headline, as if his passing is still news? Why two posts about a comedian fewer and fewer people remember, and who, when he was still relevant, was thorn in the Church's side?

The answer to the first question is contained in the preceding post: I'm not writing of the Leonard Albert Schneider of history, who indeed died in 1966. I'm writing of the Lenny Bruce of faith, who's memory and cause lived for decades, but has now been killed by the heirs of the very counter-culture who once used his name as a synonym for freedom of speech. The radical activists of today line up on the same side of the issues as Bruce did, but instead of having blunt conversations over uncomfortable topics, they want to shut off conversation that violates their emotional safe space. They are guilty of the very heresy Bruce preached against: making certain words taboo, thus giving them the unnecessary power to wound.

As for his ongoing popularity, or lack there of, Lenny Bruce is one of those artists who's influence is greater than his personal success. Few people know who Gram Parsons was, but without him you probably wouldn't have had country rock. The same can be said of The MC 5 and The New York Dolls, who were forerunners of punk. As he predicted, Orson Welles has been revered in death, but wasn't respected in Hollywood during his life. It took at least a decade for critics to come around to recognizing Citizen Kane (1941) as a game changing masterpiece, and he spent most of the rest of his career fighting for artistic control of his films, struggling to find work and financing both inside and outside the system. But without him there's no film noir, and probably not as much non-linear story telling in movies. 

But the Lenny Bruce of faith is about more than just making the world safe for Sarah Silverman. He's one of those cultural figures who came to prominence in the '60's, didn't survive the decade, but who's shadow was cast long and tall over the culture in general for decades. He has influenced our attitudes toward free speech and artistic expression whether we know it or not. He was commenting on race and war when it was unpopular to do so, and on gay rights, albeit somewhat cryptically, before it was on the general public's radar. So he is still important, maybe more important today than before because the cause of free speech he suffered for is in danger again. 

I ended the last post wondering what Lenny Bruce would think if he visited a college campus today - as he once mused about a fictional visit to St. Patrick's Cathedral by Christ and Moses. Unlike the Biblical visitors, he might be happy with what he sees. In many ways his side did win: it's hard to deny that the majority of college professors are the spiritual descendants of the Lenny Bruce of faith. The academy, as well as the entertainment industry, is safe to champion the cause of minorities, be they ethnic, cultural or sexual. I'm sure Bruce would approve of the inclusion and tolerance for those on the cultural margins presently found in most universities. 

But now the tables are turned. Those who were once the "mad ones" of Kerouac's On the Road are now controlling the leavers of the institutional machine that free speech activist Mario Savio said needed to be laid upon and jammed. Those who were sitting in in 1968 educated the next generation of the establishment. Through them old orthodoxies have given way to new, and are defended with more rigger than what came before. If Lenny Bruce came back what would he think of the fact that words he used to spin into a stream of consciousness poem of irony and satire are now forbidden? What would he think that any reference to race or gender or sexual orientation that doesn't comply with strict speech codes can get the speaker put in front of human rights commissions? What would he think that stand up comics, most of whom draw their material from what they observe, are more and more abandoning the college circuit because their observations, no matter how innocuous, are sometimes condemned as offensive? 

The answer to this question depends on if the Lenny Bruce of faith is the same as the Leonard Schneider of history. I do believe speech codes and safe spaces violates the spirit of the Lenny Bruce of faith. I don't know enough about the man to say what the flesh and blood Leonard Schneider would say. Many who did know him and defended him, people as diverse as George Carlin, Steve Allen and Dorothy Kilgallen, are gone. Maybe Mort Sahl could answer the question. Would Lenny Bruce be content that his side won, so let the losers roast? Is this really all about power, and since the power is in the hands of progressives they can limit speech as they see fit? Even though I disagree with many things he said, particularly about the Catholic Church, I'd hate to think the flesh and blood man who suffered so much for the cause of free speech only wanted it for himself, and his comrades. 

As for his swipes at the Church, I'm a bit philosophical. When asked once if he was familiar with Bruce's Christ and Moses at St. Pat's routine, Archbishop Sheen, one of the targets in the one man sketch, claimed not to know who Lenny Bruce was, let alone heard the bit. His shots against the Church, and even his own religious tradition, weren't necessarily new, it's just the first time anyone even remotely main stream expressed them publicly. Fulton Sheen and Cardinal Spellman, another object of Bruce's scorn, weren't harmed, and probably were unaware that they were being ridiculed. St. Patrick's is still standing on 5th Avenue, between 50th and 51st streets. The Catholic Church goes on. As I wrote before, there is truth to the routine that should serve as an examination of conscience for Catholics, and even if he was being unjust, we should be unafraid of words: the Church has suffered worse in her history. 

I believe the most difficult commandment that Jesus gave us to follow is the call to love our enemies. I don't think this command requires us to be passive doormats, though. We should answer thoughtfully, and if we can, wittily, and always with charity. But we need the opportunity to answer back. My worry is that the ability to speak freely is being suppressed, ironically, in the name of inclusiveness and tolerance. This is the death knell of a free society, and I know this contravenes the tenets that the Lenny Bruce of faith promoted. I don't condemn, I don't come to bury his memory. I come to lament the death of a rhetorical enemy, knowing that his passing hurts all of us. It's more than about the passing of a man in time, or his memory from the collective consciousness: in this case it's about the death of a powerful idea, and all of us being able to freely express ours.  

Lenny Bruce is Dead

A while back I wrote a couple of posts on secular saints: dead celebrities who enjoy post mortem fame that is sometimes even greater than what they had in life - a phenomenon that seems to invert the veneration we give to the saints of the Church. One of these dead celebrities that has reached cult status since he shuffled off this mortal coil, but who I failed to mention, was the comedian Lenny Bruce (1925-1966) (born Leonard Alfred Schneider). I think he didn't leap to my mind at the time because, of all these departed celebrities, while he is quite possibly the most revered, he is ironically the least well known. People will walk around with an image of Marilyn Monroe or Bob Marley on their cloths, but I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone wear a Lenny Bruce T-shirt in my life. Part of this is because he wasn't apart of the visual media like a Monroe or Elvis Presley were. He didn't have a movie career, and was on Television only sparingly, so there aren't a lot of photo images or video clips that became indelibly marked into the popular culture that could them be turned into a shirt or a poster. 

The other reason, not unrelated, is that even during his life relatively few people actually saw him perform. The lack of movie and TV exposure was one reason, but the other was that his act was so edgy for it's time he eventually couldn't get gigs in night clubs, let alone land a part in mainstream entertainments, and recordings of his shows only got widely circulated in the years following his death. He was arrested for obscenity on numerous occasions, and eventually local police departments applied pressure to club owners not to book him. At least one who did lost his liquor license in retribution. Even his fellow entertainers seemed to keep him at arms length. As Richard Corliss implied in a tribute on the 40th anniversary of Bruce's death, he was only really embraced as a cause célèbre after he died. 

In spite of maintaining only a cult following on both sides of death, he undoubtedly changed the art of stand up comedy for good: no Lenny Bruce - then no George Carlin, Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Sam Kinison Chris Rock, Louis CK or any number of other stand up comics that followed, or at least they wouldn't have plied their trade in quite the same way. All owe something to Bruce, especially George Carlin, and consciously or not they have kept his memory and cause alive.

Bruce's cause does indeed live on, but it isn't disseminated so much by way of officially licensed products hocked to keep his heirs solvent, but as an idea, a symbol employed by artists of various stripes. Since he died the mention Lenny Bruce's name in songs, poems and screenplays has been a metaphor for freedom of artistic expression, and the unjust persecution often suffered by it's most zealous practitioners. He represents rebellion against authority, especially organized religion, especially the Catholic Church: he was a punk rock comedian a decade before there was such a thing as punk rock. 

Lenny Bruce means provocation, not simply shock, as some of his contemporary critics contended. Redd Foxx or Buddy Hackett used profanity and told off color jokes, but Bruce was telling a morality tale in blue. The thing is, it wasn't about profanity for profanity's sake. He wanted to push buttons about race, politics, freedom of speech and religious hypocrisy, and the four letter words were punctuations or crescendos to make sure the audience wasn't missing the point. He always had his finger firmly poised on the rhetorical trigger and he never hesitated to pull it without warning. 

Lenny Bruce means not allowing the listener any safe spaces. Lenny Bruce means that being a liberal isn't enough, because even liberals can use high minded, yet detached sanctimony to hide their bourgeois racism. The name Lenny Bruce means all this and more when it is proclaimed. His true disciples have always been a relative few, all the same they've been completely devoted to spreading his gospel.

The premise of this gospel is simple: words have no meaning apart from that which we give them. It's the suppression of the word, making it taboo, that gives it its power. If these words, those harsh racial slurs and gay invectives that we now only refer to by their initials, are used regularly, as we would some innocuous phrases, and we use them constantly and without remorse, they will eventually lose their meaning, becoming completely harmless. In which case, no one would be offended, children particularly, when someone calls them a name. 

In many ways Lenny Bruce's gospel did convert the culture, even though Bruce himself didn't live to see the triumph. Yet I would argue that the victory was only partial. It is true that in the decade after his death comedy, as with all forms of popular entertainment, got more raw, more edgy, more politically charged. The use of profanity and nudity in mainstream films, for instance, became normal, practically required. Martin Scorsese recounted once that in the late 1960's he was told by a producer that he needed to add a nude scene to his film or it wouldn't get released, where as only a year or two before he would have been told to cut such a scene out. Comics like Carlin and Pryor, whose acts before Bruce's death were conventional enough to them get booked on the Ed Sullivan Show, saw their routines get decidedly more politicized, sexualized, and verbally uninhibited. 

While those comics were clearly walking in the path Lenny Bruce had blazed, the generations that followed used the liberties that were won, but put them to no great purpose. Now it really is just a matter of using "naughty words" and sexual humor to shock or to excite, not to enlighten or sting the conscience. I've read and heard people try to explain the deeper meaning of Seth Rogen or Judd Apatow, but all I see are adults stuck in 8th grade, showing off the new words that they learned, basking in the novelty of breaking some low level taboos. Bruce used all those words then that they do now, all the prepositions and all the verbs, as well as nouns and adjectives, but to challenge the notions and sacred beliefs of a nation, not just get a cheap laugh. 

And what about the idea that insults and epithets will lose their meaning when used often enough? These words are more verboten now than ever. Not that I think the they should be common place, but its the reason that they are effectively banned from public discourse that's so curious. It's one thing to say that they shouldn't be said in anger, but they can't even be said in irony. Many comics today, like Jerry Seinfeld and Chris Rock have abandoned the college campus, the very place where freedom of expression should thrive, because of the politically correct atmosphere that prevails. Making references to race, politics, gender or sexual orientation that doesn't fit into a very strict orthodoxy can cause an event to be canceled or shut down by protesters. Is this what Lenny Bruce died for, if like many of his followers, you believe he died as a martyr to freedom of expression?

As Corliss goes to great lengths to describe in his piece, many of Bruce's most relentless persecutors were Catholic cops and judges who took offense at his swipes at the Church. If Catholics failed to heed the Master's call to turn the other cheek, if they used their public authority to seek retribution against a perceived enemy they were called to love, then all they did was prove the hypocrisy Bruce accused them of. Did he take some cheap shots at the Church? I believe so. Was his routine about Christ and Moses paying a surprise visit to St. Patrick's Cathedral a brilliant piece of satire that can serve as an examination of conscience for believers (as well as being just flat out funny)? You bet. But in so constricting what can be said, what opinions can be spoken, what expression is acceptable the modern politically correct police have managed to do something their Catholic counterpart was never able to do: they've killed Lenny Bruce the idea.

If Lenny Bruce payed a surprise visit to a college campus today what would he think? Would he think his gospel was alive? Would he think we are more free to speak our minds than in his day? Would he think all that he suffered for his art, and for his beliefs, were worth while or done in vain? Would he even be allowed to do his act?

I believe that his was a highly flawed gospel, especially his tenet concerning how words function. But he did stand for something important and it's sad to see it was all washed away by the very people who should have preserved his legacy. It's sad to see that the hypocrisy is now coming from those who claim the high ground.

Turn Off Your Mind, Relax and Hyperspace Down Stream: "Star Wars: Episode VII - The Force Awakens" // Film Review

Star Wars: Episode VII - The Force Awakens is one of the most difficult movies to comment on for two reasons: the first being that anything anyone is going to write in criticism will fall coldly on the numb, dead ears of the true believers in the Force, and two; The Force Awakens is made up of almost wall to wall spoilers that makes it hard to give even a superficial description of the action without giving all sorts of revelations, ranging from essential to the just kinda neat, away.

What I can say is that if you've seen the the first Star Wars movie, 1977's retroactively titled Episode IV - A New Hope, you have pretty much 90% of the plot taken care of. Director and co-writer J.J. Abrams, master of the hommage, doesn't so much remake that seminal film, as reference the bejeebies out of it. Abrams, as evidenced by his treatment of the Star Trek franchise, is also effective at taking the original cast, props and tropes of a beloved series and blends them with the next generation of same in a way that seems organic rather than forced. He presses the limits of that conceit a bit here, but I think all in all the way the three key members of the first generation, Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher and Mark Hamill, are reintroduced into the story makes all of them essential to the proceeding rather than simply nostalgic add-on's to appease the fan base. 

In full disclosure, I am not a Star Wars fanboy. I should be, considering I came of age during the years that the first trilogy was unfolding, but I wasn't seduced by either side the Force. I did see the first film a couple of times at the time of its release, and played with the action figures (a miniature x-wing fighter was one of my favorite toys), but my enthusiasm didn't survive the onset of puberty. 

That said, The Force Awakens totally worked on me at the gut emotional level. From the the opening crawl I found my self having to literally hold back tears of prepubescent joy. I may not be a true believer, but Star Wars (Episode IV, anyway) did occupy a key place in my childhood. So, with every referential nod to the past and reintroduction of an old character I found the inner child that longs for something innocent, straight forward and thrilling overtaking and dominating the mature, adult me, and I kind of liked it. If I felt like jumping up and cheering at the title card, I can only imagine what hard core fans were feeling.  

As I wrote, criticism is pointless against the power of the Force, but birds gotta fly and fish gotta swim, and I gotta criticize, at least a little. And here are a few difficulties I had. 

So, let me start by saying that the acting, especially by the younger set, reminded me of kids playing at Star Wars in the backyard; when they're in tight situations the actors emotively rattle off, in earnestly breathless stammers, some techno-jargon gibberish that sounds made up on the spot. Daisy Ridley, John Boyenga, Oscar Isaac (our heroes) and Adam Driver (our villain) may all be good actors, but this isn't the project to make that judgment on. The best performance is given by Lupita Nyong'o, in the ultimate example of an actress disappearing inside a character.  

Important persons and pieces of hardware just seem to show up or are stumbled upon most improbably at just the right time. In the same vein powers are discovered and instantaneously perfected in ways that, again, comes off as a little too cutesy and convenient. I mean, Luke had the Force, but even he had to practice with that spinning ball and train under Yoda before he could use a light saber like a Jedi, and here our would be Jedi comes off like an interstellar Jason Bourne who wakes up one morning with previously unknown marshal skills fully formed.  

And the villain just doesn't come close to matching the dreadful menace of Darth Vader, whose specter looms large throughout as the great missing piece that would complete the galactic circle. Initially we didn't know who or what Vader was, and he isn't humanized until very late in the trilogy. Here both the villain's identity and humanity are revealed rather early, robbing of us of a special tension born of mystery. 

All these observation, valid as I may think they are, are admittedly beside the point.  This is a movie best enjoyed with adult intelligence, if not turned off, at least dulled a bit. Don't ask too many questions, just enjoy the ride. Normally, that a movie isn't terribly deep would be a criticism, but here it isn't. The Force Awakens taps into the innocent imagination of childhood, where wonder is more important than logic, and the right things magically happen at the right time.

Maybe in a few weeks I'll come back with a "spoiler" review, after more people have seen it, and I've seen it a second time. Then I can get into more specifics of what I liked and why without feeling like I ruined it for people. 

But a Whimper: "The Hunger Games: Mockingjay-Part 2" // Movie Review

In truth, I only caught the final installment of the Hunger Games franchise because I'd seen the other ones, had written about them, and figured I might as well see the thing through to the bitter end. My negativity steams from my belief that last year's Mockingjay-Part 1 was useless filler designed as a money grab, much like the third Hobbit movie, also from last year, was.

The first Hunger Games disturbed me, which is not necessarily a bad thing, and also asked provocative questions about the nature of power, government control and media manipulation. It was one of the few big budget, teen fiction adventure adaptations that seemed to be operating on the level of ideas, not just action. I'm afraid the series exhausted itself intellectually in that first movie and, though trying valiantly to regain some semblance of emotional and intellectual depth here, fails in the finale to pay off on the promise the series started with.

We start off where we left off last time, with our heroine Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) recovering after being throttled by her Hunger Games partner Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson). In the last movie he had been captured by the government and conditioned by way of false memories to see Katniss as the enemy, a brainwashing that takes the length of the film for him to get over. Katniss, tired of being a propaganda tool, escapes to the front lines to join the battle as the rebels advance on the Capital. This should be a great set up for some fantastic action, but with the exception of one genuinely thrilling and fright filled sequences that goes to the outer limits of what can be done in a PG-13 movie, Mockingjay-Part 2 limps along in fits and starts, leaving the ideas half formed and the would be emotional payoffs impotent.

What disappointed me the most was, indeed, that the emotional payoffs fell flat. There is a death that should have hit like a hammer blow, but didn't. I think this was because the character in question, more prominent in previous installments, is seen so little in this film that I forgot why I should care. There is also a plot twist which is heavily telegraphed, so that, again, when it pays off it's not a surprise.

Well, now it ends. So much promise, so little payoff. Now, on to Star Wars.

Two Very Different Spy Movies: "SPECTRE", "Bridge of Spies" // Movie Reviews

SPECTRE

Daniel Craig's tenure as James Bond has been frustratingly uneven. While I stand by my opinion that he is the best Bond since Sean Connery, and possibly even better, the individual movies haven't been as consistent as his legendary predecessor's were. Of the four Craig era films two are among the best in the franchise's fifty plus year history (2012's Skyfall might be the best of all time), one (Quantum of Solace) was a complete disaster, and now the latest, SPECTRE, while not a disaster, is middling at best. 

Craig has complained that he wants out of the role he's grown tired of playing (too bad for us), but I can't say that he comes off here like an actor phoning it in for the paycheck. No, the problem isn't the leading man, or any of his supporting players, who are all given plenty to do and do it well (unlike in many Bond films, 007 here isn't a one man army). The problem is a script that tries to be too clever by half, setting up a backstory between Bond and his villain du jour (Christoph Waltz) that made me think of Austin Powers; and when a Bond movie starts to remind you of it's spoof, something is wrong. I also found myself confused a bit about whether there was a back story concerning Bond and his latest love interest (Léa Seydoux), which made me wonder what creepy direction things might go into, which thankfully they didn't. There is also an attempt to tie all the previous three films together which, while not implausible or even undesirable, comes off as an after thought rather than a strong driving impulse of the native. 

The ever glamorous Monica Bellucci, is well, the ever glamorous Monica Bellucci, in what amounts to an extended cameo. Ralph Fiennes, Naomi Harris and Ben Whishaw show that their respective characters of M, Moneypenny and Q can do more than supply exposition and light hearted sexual tension, and we get the most indestructible adversary since Jaws in the Roger Moore days (Dave Bautista). The ingredients are all there, along with the spectacular action and stunts you expect from a Bond movie. But the plot, motivations and relationships are murky and the running time too long, with gaps in the action that become a drag.

So, SPECTRE is not terrible by any degree, with many things to recommend it, but over all nonessential for any one other than a Bond true believer. My recommendation is to either see it in IMAX (which I did not) to get the full impact of the action set pieces or else wait for the video.

Bridge of Spies

Forty years ago Steven Spielberg was the young hot shot director who was changing how Hollywood made, distributed and marketed movies. He, along with George Lucas are credited, for better or worse, with inventing the big budget summer block buster. He's had his share of Christmas season Oscar bait films over the years as well. But now the Young Turk is an elder statesman, with newbie directors such as J.J. Abrams creating homages to his style like people once affectionately aped Hitchcock or John Ford. 

But even when he was young, Spielberg, like his colleague Lucas, always had one foot in the past while while making the films of tomorrow. They may have used the latest in special effects but their stories often harkened back to the days of movie serials like Buck Rogers, and projected a certain innocents of youth. Spielberg has been criticized, in fact, by the likes of director and Monty Python veteran Terry Gilliam for his overly optimistic take on life, specifically for giving his Holocaust epic Schindler's List a victorious ending when the Sheol is really about humanity's failure. 

Spielberg is a bit of a throw back in other ways as well. You could accuse him of being a typical Hollywood liberal, but typical for 1946 or 1962. His heroes recall the likes of Fredric March's Al Stephenson in The Best Years of Our Lives, or Gregory Peck's Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird. These were men of the Left who believed in fair play, fighting for the underdog and that if the system doesn't work it's not because the system itself is wrong, but because the people running it have forgotten the ideals on which the nation was built. One could argue that this is not the spirit of contemporary liberal or progressive thought. People of the Left today, broadly speaking, see the system as the problem and believe that it needs to be fundamentally transformed. It was flawed from its inception and is irredeemable, so that appealing to original intent or the founding spirit is self defeating. 

Spielberg's latest Oscar season offering is just such a throwback to the earlier form of American progressivism. Bridge of Spies tells the, more or less, true story of  James Donovan (Tom Hanks), a New York insurance lawyer recruited for the unenviable task of defending a captured Soviet spy at the height of the Cold War. He's honest, competent, had experience at the Nuremberg Trials after World War II: just the guy to give the "appearance" that the accused is being given a fair trial. Only Donovan doesn't know that this is a show trial. He thinks that he's really there to win the case. His vigorous defense annoys the judge and brings him under the suspicion of the government. While he doesn't get his client off, he does manage to talk the judge out of giving him the electric chair. Who knows, Donovan reasons, maybe the Russians will capture one of our spies some day and we'll be able to make a swap. And don't you know? that's exactly what happens. 

As I wrote, Donovan's zealous defense of the accused spy Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance) runs him afoul of the CIA who sets a tail on him. He's confronted on the street on a rainy night, invited to a local bar for a drink by an agent (Scott Shepherd) who then attempts to extract information from the lawyer. When Donovan reminds agent Hoffman of lawyer client privilege, he is told to not be such a "boy scout" and remember that there's no rule book to be followed; all's fair in this Cold War game. To wit Donovan asks a seemingly random question about Hoffman's ethnic roots, correctly guessing that he's of German extraction. He continues:

My name's Donovan, Irish, both sides, mother and father. I'm Irish, you're German, but what makes us both Americans? Just one thing, one, one, one: the rule book. We call it the Constitution and we agree to the rules and that's what makes us Americans and it's all that makes us Americans so don't tell me there's no rule book, and don't nod at me like that you son of a bitch.

For Hanks' Donovan the problem isn't that America is inherently unfair or on the wrong side of history, but that people are too quick to forget about the values that make us Americans to begin with. People in times of a national security crisis, like during the Cold War or, as is meant to be implied, in today's post 9/11 world are too quick to trample over the rights enshrined in the Constitution to ensure a measure of perceived security (a similar point is alluded to throughout the new Bond movie as well, which is about the only thing these two spy movies have in common. That and a spectacular scene involving the crash of a spy plane). 

This is arguably a true point, but also terribly old fashioned. As is a scene showing Donovan taking his appeal to overturn Abel's conviction all the way to the Supreme Court. The presentation of the noble lawyer in his formal dress, in the hallowed halls giving a stirring statement on how American reliance on the rule of law is the moral high ground that separates us from our Soviet adversaries is straight out of Frank Capra. I'm not saying that this is a bad thing. Unlike Mr. Gilliam I don't mind a little corn once in a while, especially if I believe it to be true in spite of its corniness.  But it does make me wonder if the message still resonates in the culture, and if the only reason a film like this still gets made in Hollywood is because a director of the clout of Spielberg made it and that there are still enough nostalgic Baby Boomers around to buy tickets. 

We are living in a culture right now where students at major universities are ready to jettison free speech in exchange for something much less earth shaking than national security--their own emotional security. We also have one of the leading presidential candidates of a major party who indeed buys into the idea that the nation is flawed from it's roots, and so calls her founding principles into question. The Constitution is a political and legal document, not a sacred one, true. It can and maybe should be altered. The foundational principle that we are a nation of laws and not men should under gird any amendments or revisions of the law though. Even the Pope, in his address to Congress, referenced how important it is for us to remember the guiding principles that have shaped our nation from the beginning. They always need to be purified, refined, and reexamined, but without them we forget who we are. We are more likely then to be swept away in all sorts of directions we may later regret. 

While the film does dabble in more than a little moral equivalency at times, and calls into question whether we were over reacting to the Soviet threat, its still clear that the U.S.A. wears the White Hat and the Eastern Block, if not a Black Hat, at least a Grey one. Even with these qualifications, Bridge of Spies does present a rather traditional vision of American idealism: that we base our system on the rule of law and not of men or of an individual man or woman. But this is one ideal I'm not sure the emerging generation shares.

The second part of the film deals with the prisoner exchange envisioned by Donovan. Francis Gary Powers (Austin Stowell), pilot of the U2 spy plane is shot down over Russia and captured. Meanwhile an American student (Will Rogers) gets detained in East Berlin just as the wall goes up, and is accused of being a spy. Donovan wants to free both, the CIA is only interested in Powers. So the second half deals less with high minded ideals and more in good old fashioned-make the audience wonder how he's gonna pull this off-suspense. And the suspense is dulled a bit by the fact that we know how it ends, or at least anyone who bothers to check Wikipedia will know how it turns out. 

In the end, a solid, well produced and acted film, as one would expect from a master filmmaker. It's also probably one of the last of its kind, at least for the foreseeable future.