Top Ten Movies of 2007

Here it is: the granddaddy and finale of my listmania month. Aren’t your relieved? Seriously, I’ve spent a LOT of time at AMC, Landmark, and various critics’ screening rooms this year, and the culmination of all that “hard” work comes here at the end of 2007, when I can give proper shoutouts to the best that I’ve seen. 2007 was a remarkable year for American cinema, with celebrated new films from American auteurs like David Fincher (Zodiac), Paul Thomas Anderson (There Will Be Blood) and Todd Haynes (I’m Not There), not to mention the triumphant return of the Western. Eight of my top ten films are American productions, and six of them deal directly with questions of what it means to be an American. Thus, even as American politics proves more depressing by the day, it appears there is something of a renaissance in our homegrown cinema—and that’s something we can all be happy about.

10) Southland Tales: Richard Kelly’s postmodern cinematic menagerie defies all categorization. It is intensely ambitious (perhaps overreaching), trippy and mind-bending, and certainly the most unique film of the year. It’s about a lot of things (Iraq, religion, America, pop iconography, media, technology, time travel, David Lynch, etc) but, strange as it sounds, feels remarkably cohesive. More than anything, Tales is a cautionary statement about who we are and where we’re going as a culture. And it’s a crazy good piece of pop entertainment to boot. 9) Once: This summer’s Irish indie import proved to be the feel-good audience charmer of the year. Equal parts Lost in Translation and Before Sunrise/Sunset,Once spins a tight little yarn about music, love, and temporality in the setting of modern day Dublin. Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova are wonderful as unnamed “guy” and “girl” who share a sudden close connection, and they harmonize beautifully on the lovely original songs that make up the soundtrack.

8) The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford: The subject matter of this film is compelling enough—the last days of America’s most notorious train robber—but the atmosphere is what makes this a great film. Taking a page out of Terrence Malick’s stylebook, director Andrew Dominik turns this story into a contemplative existential portrait told through images and sound, not so much with words. Brad Pitt does a lot of iconic posing in the film (and he’s nicely tormented), but the real star is Casey Affleck, whose “cowardly” Robert Ford is one of the most striking cinematic performances of the year.

7) The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: This French-language film from director Julian Schnabel is a “tale of human triumph” sort of film—about a man (Dominique Bauby) with “locked-in syndrome” who composes an autobiography by blinking his one functioning eyelid. Butterfly is one of the most beautifully shot films of the year, fluidly weaving the worlds of imagination, memory, and dreams into a tapestry of one man’s point of view on a world both tragic and hopeful.

6) Zodiac: This film is a stellar return to form for David Fincher (director of 90s classics Se7en and Fight Club), and one of the most intriguing, taught thrillers of the year. Fincher’s sleek visual style (I might call it digi-age noir realism) is totally unique among American directors, and he has a way of building unsettledness (not necessarily jump-out-of-your-seat horror) that lingers in your mind far after you leave the theater. Zodiac, the tale of an average Joe (Jake Gyllenhaal) who inserts himself into a decade-long investigation into the Zodiac killer, is a gorgeously made period piece (60s-80s), yet feels totally pertinent in theme to our DIY, collective-intelligence culture today.

5) Lars and the Real Girl: This film, which tells the unlikely tale of a man and his life-size doll, is the perfect blend of comedy and artsy drama, and the feel-good film of the year. A lot has been said of Ryan Gosling’s portrayal of Lars (which is remarkably humane and believable), but the supporting actors (Emily Mortimer, Paul Schneider) are also amazing in this actor’s showcase film. Sometimes the most unlikely, offbeat stories are the ones that surprise you in their deep emotional resonance. Lars is definitely such a story—and the most pleasant surprise of 2007.

4) No Country for Old Men: In a year in which America and its stark western landscapes were on full display, the Coen Brothers’ adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men is the astonishing Exhibit A. On one level the film is a pulsating cat-and-mouse thriller (in which the creepy Javier Bardem stalks the hapless cowboy Josh Brolin), but as it progresses we begin to see that it is about much, much more. The presence and subsequent absence of violence at the film goes along reveals a white flag weariness that matches the arid and emotionless Texas landscape. It’s a film that intentionally refuses satisfaction or answers to its audience, leaving us, like the older characters in the films, to stand stumped and disillusioned by the mundane nightmare of the modern world.

3) Into the Wild: This is a film that hits all the right notes. It’s a great true story, beautifully shot in dozens of scenic locations, with top-notch acting, music, editing, and direction by Sean Penn. Emile Hirsch deliver an Oscar-worthy performance as the passionate young Chris McCandless, and Catherine Keener and Hal Holbrook should be recognized as well for their strong supporting performances. It’s a film that packs an emotional wallop, even if you know (or sense) how it is going to end. But far from a downer, Wild is the most stridently alive of any film released this year.

2) I’m Not There: Todd Haynes’ much anticipated Bob Dylan biopic (that isn’t really a biopic) is not at all accessible. For many, it’s probably not even that entertaining. It’s not an easy film by any means, but it is a work of art. There is a lot to admire about the film’s style (cinematography, period costumes, stunning editing) and its acting (Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Richard Gere and especially Cate Blanchett are amazing), but the brilliance of I’m Not There is far less quantifiable. Just as the film—through the case study of Bob Dylan and the 60s—shows us how identity is an elusive thing in postmodernity, so too does it evade any standard understanding of story and cinema. Like the era in which it exists, I’m Not There is made up of disparate images, moments, sounds, feelings, frustrations—small pieces loosely joined by the fragmenting, universal quest for identity.

1) There Will Be Blood: There Will Be Blood is an American masterpiece--a Citizen Kane for the postmodern Net-generation. It's a stunning, thoroughly modern work of art that paints a stark picture of what happens when greedy capitalism and power-mongering is bedfellow with something so contrary as Christianity. As the title forebodes, the results—for all parties involved—will not be pretty. Though not a political film in the traditional sense, Blood nevertheless captures the blood-oil-Iraq-evangelicals-capitalism zeitgeist far better than the countless Lions for Lambs-type films have this year. For this and other reasons, it is both the most important and riveting film of 2007.

Honorable Mention: The King of Kong, Juno, The Darjeeling Limited, My Best Friend, Rescue Dawn, The Savages, Into Great Silence, Atonement, Jindabyne, Grindhouse: Death Proof, Amazing Grace.

Top Ten Comedies of the Year

For whatever reason, comedies tend to get the shaft come awards season and year-end lists. But there is definitely something to be said for a great comedy film (it’s one of the hardest types of film to do well). Thus, in keeping with the listmania theme of December, here is my list of the ten best comedies of 2007.

10) Waitress: Keri Russell’s gleefully naïve piemaker was one of the funnier female comedic characters of the year.

9) Dan in Real Life: Peter Hedges’ romantic comedy gave Steve Carell a chance to tone it down a bit (even opposite Dane Cook), and the result was a solid, completely satisfying and sometimes hilarious film.

8) Enchanted: This film proved that Disney can do ironic self-referential comedy really well, though the real story is definitely Amy Adams, who gave one of the best comedic performances of the year as Princess Giselle.

7) Hot Fuzz: This British send-up of everything from buddycop action films and Bruckheimer-brand mayhem to Tony Scott-inspired quickcut absurdity was by far one of the most enjoyable comedies of the year.

6) Knocked Up: It was the year of Seth Rogan and Judd Apatow, and this was their crowning achievement. Rare is the film that wins over the elitist film critics, the populist frat of the land, and the occasional conservative Christian (for the pro-life undertones of the film).

5) Death at a Funeral: This great British ensemble pic turns one of culture's most sacred ceremonies into a circus of comedic insanity and fun British colloquialisms (“are you mental?”).

4) The Darjeeling Limited: Wes Anderson’s film was maybe not as funny as his others have been, but in its own weird “too cool for school” way, Darjeeling definitely packs in the subtle jokes and understated character humor.

3) My Best Friend: This little-scene French film had me smiling ear to ear from nearly the first frame to the last. It’s a joyous, innocent, hilarious buddy comedy with some pretty profound themes to boot.

2) Lars and the Real Girl: Not exactly a comedy in the proper sense, but some of its scenes are definitely among the year’s funniest. Ryan Gosling and Paul Schneider deliver simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking performances in one of the best overall films of the year.

1) Juno: This pint-sized indie masterpiece is yard-for-yard the funniest film of the year, even when at its heart it might feel like a tragedy. It’s all about growing up—negotiating that awkward transition from childhood to adulthood, and Ellen Page (as Juno) makes the whole thing seem effortless and sweetly ridiculous.

Bonus: Top Five Guilty-Pleasure Movies of 2007

5) Beowulf: It may be an offense to the English majors in the room (myself included), but this motion-capture action epic is a whole lotta fun. “I… Am… Beowulf!”

4) The 300: By all means a ridiculous piece of techno-pop fluff (and “the new Braveheart” for Wild at Heart youth ministries everywhere) but this sword-and-sandal epic is undeniably a fun indulgence in cinematic excess.

3) The Mist: Stephen King is always good for some cheap thrills at the movies, and this is no different. The monsters are great, and Marcia Gay Harden plays a deliciously evil Christian fanatic (always fun!).

2) Live Free or Die Hard: Bruce Willis rocks it in this over-the-top action romp. It’s mostly brawn but does have some brain (unlike something like Transformers), and features vintage Bruce moments like the “Yippee Ka Yay (sound of gunshot).”

1) 28 Weeks Later, Planet Terror and Death Proof (tie): Nuance is nowhere to be found in this go-for-broke trio of zombie/musclecar/violent mayhem. Don’t miss the “helicopter as weapon of mass destruction” moment (in both 28 Weeks and Planet Terror) and the insane final car chase scene in Tarantino’s Death Proof.

Atonement

A few brief thoughts on this film, which I saw last night. First of all, it is just as exquisitely made as Joe Wright’s last film, 2005’s Pride and Prejudice. Like that film (also starring Keira Knightly and based on a beloved book), Atonement is chalk full of sumptuous costumes, sets, and luxuriant camera movement. The film is as stylish and artistically superior as anything you’ll see this year.

There is one incredibly beautiful single shot sequence in particular—at the bombed-out beach city of Dunkirk. It’s at least five minutes long and the roving camera effortlessly captures an eye-popping array of fluid sights and sounds. It’s one of those sequences that only the cinematic artform can capture, and at times like these the film offers something Ian McEwan’s novel cannot: a jaw-dropping experience of sight, sound, space and time.

But more than the striking artistry of this film (and its great performances), I was most affected by the final ten minutes in which-without spoiling it—the entire story is thrown into doubt. Or, I should say, the film re-defines itself as more than just an epic love story, but as a meditation on the nature of art and storytelling.

What are the personal or psychological motivations to tell stories or make art? Is it for the benefit of others? Or is it to make amends with ourselves and atone for our former sins? And in telling stories, is fidelity to “how it was” really as important as making the story as whole and fulfilling as possible?

In addition to raising all of these questions, Atonement seems to be emphasizing the formalist split between story and plot (fabula and syuzhet, to use Russian formalist terminology). That is, the “reality” of what the author intends to express (the “plot”) and the seemingly arbitrary interpretation/construction of the reader or viewer (the “story”). With a film like Atonement, there are at least three realities going on at any given moment: the reality of what actually happened (presumably in the life of the author), the reality of the author’s portrayal of it (which in this case is admittedly skewed and subjective), and the reality of the audience (which is always different, viewer to viewer). Atonement weaves a gorgeous, epic and tragic tale, but it intentionally undermines itself by questioning the truthfulness of perspective, memory, and reconstructed reality.

Oddly, after I left the theater my thoughts went to Harry Potter. Specifically I was thinking about J.K. Rowling’s recent announcement that the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, is and always has been a homosexual. When she made the stunning announcement I immediately thought, “hey, what right does she have to make Dumbledore gay?” But then I thought that just because she says he is doesn’t mean he is in my construction of that world. After all, the “reality” of Potter world in Rowling’s mind is not necessarily ever the same as mine, or any other reader. Art—even if it is objectified (and mass-reproduced)—is always subjectively experienced and interpreted. Thus, its “reality” is never as concrete as we think (or hope) it is. Rowling can say Dumbledore is gay all she wants—and even write him that way if she wishes… but the fact is, he is only an idea on pages. He is whatever the reader makes him to be.

The word “atonement” means “at one” and is defined by Merriam-Webster as “the reconciliation of God and humankind through the sacrificial death of Jesus Christ.” In the novel and film, the character of Briony (who is ultimately revealed to be the author of the novel, Atonement) is trying to achieve a peace and at-oneness by “playing God” and reconciling herself to the worlds she has shattered. But the tragedy of it all is that she is only “God” within the pages of her fictional accounts and reparative revisionism. Fiction can help heal, but it can never alter history. Or maybe it can—depending on how you define “history.”

Upside Cinema

“Holiday Season” in Hollywood often means two things: Awards movies and feel-good, family fare. And the two usually do not overlap. Sadly. However, this season a lot of the happiest, most joyful films are also some of the best, most critically acclaimed and Oscar buzzworthy. Could it be that Hollywood is finally waking up to the fact that movies can be real, gritty, AND positive? That “true to life” does not always need to leave the audience feeling morose and down on humanity?

Take the film Juno, for example. Here’s a film that straddles the line between fluffy teen comedy and heavy relationship drama with utmost ease. It’s a beautiful, maturely told story that cuts no emotional corners and doesn’t force-feed anything (whether it be laughs or tears). It deals with serious human turmoil (teen pregnancy, abortion, divorce) with a rare and elegant nuance that manages to make it funny without making light of it. When 16-year-old Juno (the unforgettable Ellen Page) tells her parents that she’s been “dealing with things way beyond my maturity level,” she might as well be speaking for the film as a whole. Juno could so easily have slipped into cheap teen sex comedy, Alexander Payne-esque satire or some heavy-handed family melodrama (Life as a House comes to mind), but it refuses to be pigeonholed in any one of these genres. Instead, Juno focuses on its characters and life in general. The result is a film that feels frayed and weary but ultimately hopeful—and above all, real.

Some other films that have come out recently have also taken the high road and made the messiness of life seem somehow lovely and affirming. Bella is an obvious example—a film that hinges on a serious matter (unwanted pregnancy) but is otherwise concerned with everyday joys like good food, family, and dancing. Dan in Real Life also has this feeling of joyful revelry and earnestness (even if it sometimes feels a tad forced). One of my favorite films of the year, Lars and the Real Girl, also features sadness and strife within an overwhelmingly warm, life-is-good worldview. I would even put The Savages into this group. It’s a seemingly glum film about aging and death, but the way that it refuses to let its characters fall victim to cynicism and self-destruction makes it ultimately just as hopeful and loving as Enchanted (itself a prime example of this “feel-good cinema” trend).

These types of films come as a breath of fresh air to the typical “prestige/arthouse” fare that wallows in human depravity and despair. I’m thinking specifically of two films that have recently released (to critical acclaim) that I think are more despairing and nihilistic than they need be: Sidney Lumet’s Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead and Noah Baumbach’s Margot at the Wedding. Both of the these films are high-quality and superbly acted (especially Margot… Nicole Kidman is remarkable), but both left me feeling like I needed to take a shower to wash away the despair and macabre family dysfunction. Both films focus on family, and in each case there is little to no love to go around. Devil is about a pair of brothers (Philip Seymour Hoffman and Ethan Hawke) who rob their own parents and descend into a spiral of sex, drugs, and cover-up. Margot is more subtle and passive-aggressive, but perhaps even more insidious. Even Jack Black (at his manic slacker best) cannot lift the film out of its pervasive misanthropy and existential confusion. Even Ingmar Bergman—in all of his nihilistic eloquence—never plumbed the hateful depths that are mined in Margot.

I’m not saying such films are not useful or worth seeing—they are, in small doses, just like Virginia Woolf or James Joyce. But as “true” as they may seem (and as admittedly resonant as the acting is), I’d much rather see a million Juno replicas. These feel-good art films are just as real and skillful and uncompromising as the “downer” best picture nominees—the difference is that the “reality” they choose to portray is the upside of life, not the underbelly. And I daresay our world needs a lot more “upside” stories right now.

I'm Not There

I just saw I’m Not There, the new ultra-artsy “biopic” about Bob Dylan. Let me just say: it’s an amazing film. Whether or not it’s an accessible film is a different story (it isn’t), but as far as a film that is stunning to watch—from first to last frame—I’m Not There is one of the best of the year.

By now you all know the gimmick: six actors of various ages, races, and genders each playing some iteration of “Dylan.” But the thing is, it isn’t a gimmick at all; in fact, it fits so perfectly with what this film is about… I can’t imagine it being right in any other way.

On one level this is a film about Bob Dylan—the complicated artist who had many “phases,” career turns, personalities, and iconic moments. Indeed, the film is as much about Dylan the man as it is about Dylan the decade: the aura and zeitgeist of the “sixties” which he so embodied.

And yet on another level the film is about identity in general. “Dylan”—or the lack of any one identifiable Dylan—is just an easy case study in what we might call the larger “identity crisis” in postmodern Western culture.

Prior to the Industrial Revolution, our sense of “self” or identity was more or less static—our social roles defined, our frames localized. But as the world pushed toward modernity things became much more fractured, specialized, and our social roles diversified. Soon the “self” became “selves” that corresponded to the different hats we wore and locales we existed in—the home, the workplace, the playground, etc… Modernity eroded our certainty about pretty much everything, including the notion that “who we are” is something we can control or understand… if it exists at all. People like Freud, Jung, and Lacan emphasized the massively complicated and elusive nature of personality, and later postmodernists like Foucault (who positioned “self” as a discursive construct rather than a real entity) and Baudrillard (who called identity “the label of existence”) further deconstructed any notion that there is a Self above and beyond our “selves.”

Dylan was living at a time when all of this was very much in the air—with modernity wreaking havoc (Vietnam, Cold War, etc) and the postwar “technocracy” breeding cookie-cutter specialists and subsequently a counterculture that defined itself in terms of the multiplicity of things it wasn’t. In some ways Dylan is the pop cultural embodiment of all this socio-cultural confusion. As society was struggling to define itself amid a world spinning in so many directions, so too was Bob Dylan.

But beyond the historical context of Dylan and the 60s, this film struck me as something I could relate to on a much more personal level. I’m not sure I subscribe (at least cognitively) to the postmodern theorists and rhetorics of the indefinable self, but watching this film I couldn’t help but recognize myself in the whirlwind of existential fluidity being displayed on screen.

There is a real sadness in the film’s desperate search for the self. The questions are never asked explicitly—and indeed, fractured identity is never problematized but rather organically assumed—but nonetheless, beneath the cool exteriors of each version of Dylan lies a spiritual angst and unsettledness. It is a spirit of confusion and fragmentation that I think we all—in this hyperlinked, frenetic world—can relate to. Who am I really? Am I the guy on TV? On stage? The character written about in the press? Or more germane to the non-celebrities among us today: Am I my Facebook profile? My blog persona? Or is that all a “separate” self from who I am with my closest friends and loved ones? Are all these individuated selves just some version of the same thing? And if so, does what I think I am really matter when everyone I ever meet sees me through different eyes?

The feeling that you get watching I’m Not There is the same hollow, perplexing feeling that the title implies: that in everything I’m seeing, experiencing, saying, performing, there is one thing that is conspicuously absent: myself. It is the feeling of being removed from yourself and simply observing from afar, akin to that dream experience of observing yourself as a character is some narrative that you are simultaneously experiencing first-person. It’s a feeling that reminds me of video games and avatars—playing “myself” in both a first and third person sense.

This is all very confusing and perhaps counterproductive, but there is an undeniable exhilaration to it as well. Being able to step back and analyze the breathtakingly complex nature of humanity—indeed, even within the one human being that is yourself—provides a fittingly diverse array of emotions. If that’s something you are not afraid to experience, go see I’m Not There.

Top Twenty Defining Films of the 00s

Because I LOVED this post about the top ten films of the millennium (thus far), and because I love lists, and probably because I’m sometimes a copycat, I decided to compile a list of the twenty most defining films released since 2000.

The key word here is defining. My list isn’t so much about the BEST as in raw, objective quality as it is about how well these films capture or embody the moment of the 00s. Just as films like The Graduate, Easy Rider, and Medium Cool defined the zeitgeist of the Sixties, what are the films we will look back upon as the best and most defining films of the first decade of the 21st century? Here is my list:

Inland Empire (2007): Though David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001) is probably the better film, Inland Empire is certainly more “of the moment.” The all-digital, hallucinatory epic (it looks like a home video from hell) is a three-hour montage of nightmarish postmodern images and rabbit trails—an assemblage of 21st century anxiety and scatterbrained vignettes of the most mind-bending sort.

The New World (2006): Terrence Malick’s film, though set in the earliest days of the American republic, has a lot to say about how we view the world now. The film is an elegiac tone poem for a paradise lost— ecologically, spiritually, and culturally. Its fluid images and hushed voiceover fragments create one long, cathartic purge for our collective, world-weary soul.

A.I. (2001): This film ushered in the 21st century with a particularly 21st century gimmick: the mashup. The Spielberg/Kubrick film is also thoroughly modern in its dystopic imagery and technophobic preoccupations: the all-too-immediate question of what happens when our technology becomes more real to us than our fellow humans.

Lost in Translation (2003): Brilliant in the way that it embodies globalization and its discontents in the twenty-first century, Sofia Coppola’s graceful, nuanced film captures both the joys and existential angst of a glossy, post-industrial, spiritually-wayfaring society.

Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005): This quirky little film from artist Miranda July is all about the odd mutations of human communication and connection in a digital age. What happens when our computer-mediated relationships turn out to be less than appealing in the real world?

Nine Lives (2005): Nine fragments of nine individual lives, told in segments over a series of nine long shots: all of them women, all unresolved glimpses into tangled lives with branching trajectories. It may sound convoluted, but this film evokes so much truth in its snapshot structure. It’s akin to the soundbite news stories or googled tidbits that populate our everyday windows into other peoples’ worlds… only better.

Children of Men (2006): Like A.I., this futuristic sci-fi epic provides an exceptionally dour vision of the not-too-distant future. The film deals not so much with technology, however, as with the consequences of politics, war, terrorism, immigration, and environmental disintegration. Like much of the doomsday rhetoric in society today, however, there are some glimpses of hope within the chaos.

Before Sunset (2004): This film, which is essentially an extended conversation between Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, is perhaps the most elegantly urgent film of our increasingly anxious historical moment. It’s about not letting things slip away in a world where second chances—where nothing, really—is guaranteed.

George Washington (2000): David Gordon Green’s debut film is anachronistic (there are no computers or cell phones to be seen), but while it may not feel completely comfortable in the 21st century, neither does it feel at home in the 20th. The film is in some ways a lament for the “olden days” of green grass, safe streets, American dreams—but it is also looking away from all that—towards a new future that leaves behind the racial, relational, and economic strife of bygone days.

Flags of Our Fathers / Letters From Iwo Jima (2006): Clint Eastwood’s WWII double-whammy is both a classic war epic and a totally postmodern recasting of our collective national memory of “The War.” By showing the Battle of Iwo Jima from both the American (Flags) and Japanese (Letters) perspectives, Eastwood provides a decidedly 21st century narrative that is fueled by our general malaise (post Iraq) about America’s foreign policy.

United 93 (2006): 9/11 is the defining event of this decade (thus far), and United 93 is the best filmic representation of it. The documentary-style drama brings us viscerally back to the terror of that day, offering a disturbing glimpse inside the hijacked flight 93 as well as a resonant look at the unfolding chaos on the ground.

25th Hour (2002): Shot in the shadows of the blue-light specters of the World Trade Center, Spike Lee’s film captures the complicated post-9/11 mood of America. Ostensibly about one man’s (Edward Norton) last night before heading off to prison, 25th Hour is really a letter to NYC and America—full of all the rage, love, sadness, and hope that Lee so keenly conjures up in his films.

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001): Wes Anderson’s most complete, satisfying cinematic entrée, Tenenbaums is a gloriously somber iteration of the sort of hip-cultural/youthful nostalgia that has defined the 00s. Anderson’s hyper-stylized, immaculately arranged art direction and mise-en-scene also seem to have started numerous trends in both film and television.

Being John Malkovich (2000): You could argue that the most pressing question of the digital age is that of identity. Being John Malkovich takes this question and runs with it—to very trippy results. Spike Jonze’s film feels like a video game in an online puppet fetish community; it is wildly postmodern and nonsensical.

Southland Tales (2007): This soon-to-be cult classic from Richard Kelly (Donnie Darko) is a frenetic, insane, balls-out overture to all that is off-kilter in 21st century, post 9/11 America. Like the decade it satirizes, the film is a mashup of politics, religion, entertainment and technology—a warped but beautiful vision of a surrealist Lynchian apocalypse.

The Departed (2006): Last year’s best picture Oscar winner is a thoroughly contemporary film in both obvious ways (the importance of cell phones for the script) and on more subtle levels (the transnational migration of the film from the Hong Kong original—Infernal Affairs—is a decidedly recent phenomenon in cinema). Furthermore, the film’s urban, unrepentant nihilism feels quite authentic in the context of our current cultural quagmire.

Waking Life (2001): One it tempted to write this animated (via rotoscope) film off as an exercise in high style (which it is), but Richard Linklater’s 2001 film is also stunning in its seamless and gloriously garrulous vignettes full of new millennium philosophizing.

Kill Bill (2003-04): This two-volume epic from Quentin Tarantino throws together a zillion pop culture artifacts to form a surprisingly effective, coherent narrative that fits nicely into the post-9/11 revenge-film trend. The genre, musical, stylistic, and thematic hybridity demonstrated in the film(s) may not be solely Tarantino’s domain any longer, but he still does it the best. Garden State (2004): Some called it The Graduate for the Net-generation; others called it commodified cool. Whatever you call it, this film struck an unmistakable chord with many, many young people—disillusioned, medicated, and unsure of physical place and “home” in an increasingly de-physicalized world.

Tarnation (2004): Using a mass of accumulated home video from throughout his life, director Jonathan Caouette takes us on a harrowing journey through his troubled childhood, messed-up family, and drug-addled existence. It’s a truly tragic and very personal film, and perhaps the first masterpiece of the “home movie / iMovie” genre.

Southland Tales

Southland Tales is a gloriously incoherent, colossally ambitious, creatively explosive masterpiece of American cinema. Such breathless critical hyperbole is fitting for such a breathlessly hyperbolized film. Everything about Richard Kelly’s second film (following cult hit Donnie Darko) is over the top, super-sized, and shamelessly indulgent. It’s a million little pieces of postmodern ramblings, pop-culture pastiche, and political farce… but it all adds up to an experience that’ll bowl you over in its ballsy cinematic exuberance.

Tales is the type of film critics love to write about. But it’s also the type of film you can’t really write about. There’d never be enough words to capture anywhere near what one could say. Thus, because Tales eschews conventional structure, narrative, and a general concern for rhetorical efficacy, so too will my “review.” The film is a fluid, freestyle hemorrhage of scatterbrained thoughts, arguments, and observations. It’s a film that glories in the art of irreverent, probably pretentious mimesis; and so go I down the same meandering path.

• First scene of the film: home video, Texas, July 4, 2005. Neighborhood kids gathered in general frivolity for child’s birthday party (ala South American alien scene in Signs). Suddenly: boom! Mushroom cloud! Terrified screams! WWIII, terrorism, CBS’s Jericho (a name that comes up throughout the film), Pat Frank’s Alas Babylon!
• I do NOT trust the Cannes Film Festival. Southland Tales almost didn’t get distribution because those snobby cinematic dilettantes booed it to all hell. But they also loathed Marie Antoinette and The Brown Bunny. Case closed.
• Tales is wicked political farce: a strikingly insidious steam valve for the bubbling rage, seething malaise, and widespread 21st century disgust with American democracy. It’s Fox News Channel, Enron, neo-Cons, hippie liberals, neo-Marxist performance artists, racist cops, gerrymandering (via severed thumbs), militant electioneering, Fallujah war stories, Big Brother surveillance, Patriot Act-sanctioned federalized Internet, frathouse beer bongs, American flags, Hustler billboards on tanks, wildfires, riots, earthquakes, and Armageddon all rolled into one.
• Video screens and interfaces define the look of this film. “HD Live”—bringing you all the best of Iraq War footage and “Girls Gone Wild” Springbreak debauchery… sponsored by Hustler, Panasonic, and Bud Light. Miranda Richardson (playing the conniving, backroom mastermind wife of a presidential candidate) sits in a control room with wall-to-wall screens pumping real time war updates, LAX bathroom stall surveillance, celebrity news, scrolling updates, and teaser tidbits (“How safe is your car? Find out which cars are the favorites of the terrorist car bomb underground… after the break!”). The revolution WILL be televised!
• Sarah Michelle Gellar plays Krysta Now, a porn star turned multi-media talkshow host with a cable TV show called “Now”—a “topical discussion chat reality show” in which a panel of porn stars debate a slate of important issues like war, crime, “social reform,” abortion, and teen horniness. The show equates “important national issues” with X-rated banter about sexual positions. It’s as captivating and ridiculous as any Ann Coulter diatribe on a cable news talkshow.
• In addition to Buffy, the film’s cast is loaded with a who’s-who of pop culture icons, B celebrities and other such unconscionable casting choices (“Booger” from Revenge of the Nerds is in it!). The Rock (or, as he likes to be called now, Dwayne something) is the mysterious locus of the film—a celebrity wrestler turned-politician/screenwriter who’s married to Mandy Moore (playing a daughter of a senator) and writing a script that becomes Southland Tales somewhere around the one hour mark. Seann William Scott plays dual roles as an L.A. cop carousing with neo-Marxist revolutionaries (played by SNL stars Cheri Oteri and Amy Poehler) and his identical brother/clone who spends a good portion of the film in a dumpster. Other stars of the film include Bai Ling (as the heavily eye-shadowed “Serpentine”), Kevin Smith (as a philosophizing mastermind of the 4th dimension…similar to “The Architect” of The Matrix), and Jon Lovitz (as a corrupt and moribund L.A. cop).
• Justin Timberlake—God bless him—steals the show. He’s a celeb-turned Iraq War vet named Private Pilot Abilene. He also narrates the film, quoting T.S. Eliot (“this is the way the world ends, not with a whimper but with a bang”) and half of the book of Revelation. He’s a God-fearing prophet (perhaps one of the “two witnesses of Jerusalem”?) and a beer-guzzling druggie (addicted to “Fluid Karma,” which is a revolutionary substance somehow key to the oil-strapped world’s energy crisis).
• Best scene of the movie: Timberlake (in all his SexyBack/NSYNC glory) breaking into a dance sequence/lipsync to “All These Things That I Have Done” by The Killers. Backed by a chorus line of blonde-wigged dancers, Timberlake mouths the words to the song (“I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier”) while walking toward and glaring at the camera, music-video style (i.e. uber-serious), all the while pouring Bud Light beer onto his head.
• Tales is a cinematic homage to L.A. (via films like Short Cuts, Magnolia, The Big Lebowski) but more than anything it’s a love letter to David Lynch (himself an auteur of L.A. in all its incomprehensible Southland mayhem). Moby’s thick, synth-happy score is an MTV-age riff on Angelo Badalamenti’s ethereal sonic layering that defines the Lynch brand (Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, etc). There’s a lurid, primal elegance to the artifice of Tales that both stems from and expands on Lynch’s feverish cinematic delirium. The climax of the Lynch love comes in the film’s final act—with an unforgettable performance of “The Star Spangled Banner” sung partly in Spanish by Rebekah “Llorando” Del Rio (the crystal-voiced mystery singer from Mulholland Drive’s stunning “Club Silencio” sequence). Simply astounding.
• Krysta Now is the prescient voice of cultural narrative in the film. She comments on the past (“All the pilgrims did was ruin the Indian orgy of freedom”) the future (“Scientists are saying the future is going to be far more futuristic than originally predicted”), and even the apocalyptic now: “The New York Times said God is Dead!” Buffy Michelle Gellar exudes a sharp comic timing that gives the film some of its funniest moments (and there are a lot of them).
• The music in the film—anchored by Moby’s luxuriant score—kills. Great songs are featured from the Pixies, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Jane’s Addiction, Waylon Jennings, Big Head Todd and the Monsters, and a slew of Britpop bands (Radiohead, Blur, Muse, Elbow)… even a well-placed Beethoven’s 9th.

So much more to be said, but I’ll wrap it up with an incoherent string of images, phrases, and adjectives that Southland Tales evokes: American dysfunctional “party on” ethos, decontextualized soundbite windows media, reality as pop art vaudeville, entertainment/political/technocratic superstructure, Huxleyan dystopia, SUVs humping, The Hindenburg in flames, Jesus Christ stigmata tattoos on The Rock, spacetime continuum rifts, Kubrick, Robert Frost, Tarantino, off-road rollerblades, Venice Beach freaks/anarchists, Santa Monica pier snipers, Skid Row version of Children of Men firefight, Cheetos-eating stalkers, pop pastiche trifle with Herculean vigor and convenient election-year timing, epoch-defining, Gen X orgy of cultish Trekkie fanboyisms, desacralized Neo savior complex, O.J. Simpson/early 90s L.A., Greta Van Susternist exploitation, Lacan’s mirror stage, the fractured postmodern self, and pimps who are never suicidal.

Christianity 101: Exclusivity

I have had several conversations and encounters in recent months that have made me worried about the extent to which the world—including Christians—does not understand what Christianity really means. In June I attended a panel discussion on the film A Mighty Heart, which featured representatives from Christian, Jewish, and Muslim backgrounds. The major theme throughout the discussion was the increasingly popular sentiment of collective goodwill/hope: that all major religions—regardless of who is being worshipped—are chiefly about love and peace. We must stop viewing each other as different or wrong... just diverse paths to a similar end.

More recently (this weekend), I attended a screening of a new documentary produced by Morgan Spurlock (Super Size Me). The film, entitled What Would Jesus Buy?, uses the forms and traditions of Christianity to mount an argument against out-of-control consumerism, though it never really offers Christianity or Christ as an alternative or solution. The film (which I will write about in more depth soon) follows “Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping”—a performance art/activist group that looks like a gospel choir but makes no claims of believing in the gospel. Following the screening of the film, I interviewed Spurlock and asked him about how Christianity fits into the message of the film. He said that the film's theme reflects the true meaning of Christmas—the arrival of a man who would revolutionize the world and shake things up through his radical message of peace, love, and equality.

But Christians, as I pointed out to Spurlock, would argue that Christmas represents more than peace and goodwill and love. It represents the Answer to our dissatisfaction in the arrival of a person who becomes a savior. True satisfaction, the Christian argues, comes not simply from the message of Jesus Christ (which if it is only peace/love/equality is not unique to him), but through his person. The sacrificial death and resurrection of Jesus—and through that alone—provides our redemption and ultimate happiness. Spurlock (who was incredibly nice and easy to talk to) responded by saying that yes, happiness can be found in Jesus Christ, but also in Allah or Buddha or whoever it might be. All of us are essentially about the same business: which is to try to make a change in the world.

It seems that the Christianity being invoked in What Would Jesus Buy?—and which is cooperating ecumenically for social justice and political causes (a good thing)—is increasingly being stripped of its claims of exclusivity. It is pretty clear in the scriptures that Jesus Christ was not of the mind that his way was just “one of many.” Rather, he said “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6). C.S. Lewis articulates the vital importance of Christ’s claims of exclusivity also in his famous “Lord, liar, or lunatic” reasoning in Mere Christianity:

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on the level with a man who says he is a poached egg – or he would be the devil of hell. You must take your choice. Either this was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us.

In other words, Jesus Christ cannot merely be a teacher, or prophet, or rhetorical genius (all of which he is). His message of love/peace/equality is great, yes, but part of his message is also that “my way is the only way.” Thus, to accept him as a peace advocate or political revolutionary but reject his claims of divinity is to undermine his whole legacy and legitimacy.

Christians today are struggling with the exclusive nature of our faith. It’s the hardest thing for people to get past, for sure. We don’t want to come across as condemnatory of every other religion. We hate having to tell others that our faith necessarily excludes other faiths as valid alternatives. We want to work together with Jews, Muslims, Hindus, etc without judgment or tension. And we can.

It is possible to live and work amongst other faiths, because we do have some common ground and shared concerns for peace and justice and a better world. But ultimately we cannot equate ourselves, because the final solution, in Christianity’s view, is none other than Jesus Christ himself. Not just the general, social reform causes he championed, but Jesus Christ the man: God incarnate. He offers himself to all—no matter where you were born or what you have done—and in that way he is the most inclusive.

Halloween Special: The Ten Creepiest Films

In honor of Halloween, everyone seems to make a list like this. As someone who never passes up a chance to compile a top ten list, of course I had to join in the fun! But rather than a top ten horror film list, I thought I’d broaden it to include films of other genres. Thus, my collection is of the creepiest or most insidiously disturbing films: less about blood and slashers than heart-pounding shock and awe.

10) The Last Wave (1977): The horror of this film comes not from blood or violence or other conventional thrills. Rather, Peter Weir’s feverish aboriginal nightmare of an Australian apocalypse provides psychotropic ambience of the most unsettling kind.

9) Freaks (1932): The creepiest thing about this film is its exploitative use of real dwarfs, midgets, Siamese twins, and other circus freaks… And when the maligned freaks get angry and rebel against the “normals,” watch out…

8) Three Women (1977): Though it’s not a typical horror film (some might even call it a comedy), Robert Altman’s serenely pagan study of identity is remarkably ballsy and deeply disturbing. Sissy Spacek is even creepier here than she is in Carrie.

7) Lost Highway (1997): David Lynch makes sick movies. He’s a twisted, tortured soul. Lost Highway is particularly creepy, however, mainly because of the image of Robert Blake’s ghost-white, alarmingly devilish face.

6) The Hitcher (1986): I haven’t seen the recent remake, but the 1986 original is a heartpounding thrill a minute. C. Thomas Howell plays a teen stalked by a madmen on the highways of the American West… a conventional setup that devolves into uncharted territories of nihilistic despair.

5) The Wicker Man (1973): This British film (not to be confused with the horrible Nicolas Cage remake) about a secluded island in Scotland populated by happy-go-lucky occultists (who like to sing cheerful songs while sacrificing goats) inspired parodies like Hot Fuzz, but it remains one of the most disturbing, shocking films of the 1970s. The last five minutes are unimaginably f*#$%d up.

4) Night of the Living Dead (1968): George Romero’s groundbreaking horror classic terrified audiences back in the already-tense late 60s, and it terrifies even today. The low-budget, black-and-white, “band of survivors in a farmhouse” setup turns into an unrelenting Cold War zombie hysteria by the end.

3) The Exorcist (1973): Demon movies are inherently disturbing, and this one takes the cake. The unrepentantly earnest realism of the film is its most frightening quality, as are the flash-frame images of indescribably scary demon faces (I dare you to pause it on those images!). The subliminal spiritual warfare of this film is intensely terrifying.

2) The Silence of the Lambs (1991): In addition to the indelible horror that is Hannibal Lecter, this film features the most thrilling climax of any film I can think of. The “blackout” moment near the end is quiet nearly unbearable to watch.

1) The Shining (1980): When I first saw this film for the first time, it was quite simply one of the most scarring moments of my young life. But the months of nightmares are worth it in retrospect, as Stanley Kubrick’s film (from a book by Stephen King) remains one of the most compelling, complex, skin-tingling thrillers of all time.

Next Ten: Pyscho, Carrie, Halloween, The Sixth Sense, Rosemary’s Baby, Zodiac, Scream, The Others, The Birds, Alien.

The Commodification of Experience

In Wes Anderson’s new film, The Darjeeling Limited, three brothers from an aristocratic family meet in India to go on a “spiritual journey.” Loaded down with designer luggage, laminated trip itineraries, and a hired staffer (“Brendan”) with an albino disease, the dysfunctional trio embarks on a train ride through the richly spiritual terrain of India.

It is clear from the outset that the brothers—or at least Francis (Owen Wilson)—are here to experience something: something deep, profound, and hopefully life changing. And they are oh-so methodical about maximizing the “spirituality” of it all. Francis stuffs every spare moment of their schedule with a temple visit or some sort of feather prayer ritual. It might be odd and a little offensive that these three rich white guys—decked out in fitted flannel suits by Marc Jacobs—are prancing around such squalor, making light (by juxtaposition) of the decidedly exotic culture that surrounds them… But this is what makes the film funny. It’s a comedy.

But it also rings very true. These guys are swimming in things (designer sunglasses, clothes, trinkets, keychains, etc), but what they really want is to feel. And because acquiring commodities is in their DNA, they assume that these types of immaterial experiences can be collected too. Thus, their exotic pilgrimage to India.

The film made me think a lot about my own life, and how I increasingly feel drawn to experiences rather than things. It’s all about seeking those magic moments—whether on a vacation abroad or on a sunset walk on the beach—when we feel something more. And of course, it helps to have an appropriate song pumping through your iPod to fit whatever mood or genre of life you are living at that moment. In Darjeeling, the “iPod as soundtrack to a nicely enacted existential episode” is given new meaning.

In his book The Age of Access, Jeremy Rifkin applies this all very neatly to economic theory, pointing out that our post-industrial society is moving away from the physical production of material goods to the harnessing of lived experience as a primary economic value. For Rifkin, the challenge facing capitalism is that there is nothing left to buy, so consumers are “casting about for new lived experiences, just as their bourgeois parents and grandparents were continually in search of making new acquisitions.” Rifkin believes that the “new self” is less concerned with having “good character” or “personality” than in being a creative performer whose personal life is an unfolding drama built around accumulated episodes and experiences that fit into a larger narrative. Rifkin keenly articulates how this user orientation toward theatricalized existence creates a new economic frontier:

There are millions of personal dramas that need to be scripted and acted out. Each represents a lifelong market with vast commercial potential… For the thespian men and women of the new era, purchasing continuous access to the scripts, stages, other actors, and audiences provided by the commercial sphere will be critical to the nourishing of their multiple personas.

And so as we (the spoiled, affluent westerners among us, at least) become more and more dissatisfied with all the physical goods we’ve amassed, and begin to seek lived experiences and dramatic interaction as a new life pursuit, we must not delude ourselves that this is some higher goal, untainted by commercialism.

On the contrary, the economy is shifting to be ready for the “new selves” of this ever more de-physicalized era. The question is: are we prepared to allow our experiences to become commodities? Are we okay with the fact that our “to-buy” wishlists are now being replaced by “to do” lists, of equal or greater value to the marketplace? What happens when every moment of our lives becomes just another commodity—something we collect and amass to fill the showcase mantles of our memories?

Am I Missing Something?

Evidently I'm the only film critic in America who isn't convinced that Lake of Fire--the new abortion documentary from Tony Kaye--is the hyper-balanced, exceedingly fair film it's been touted as. My 2 star review for Christianity Today is listed at Rottentomatoes.com as the only "rotten" rating, thereby bringing the film's total percent score down from 100% positive to 96%. This both thrills me (b/c this film does NOT deserve a perfect rating) but also worries me. What are the other critics missing? Or what am I missing?

Here's an excerpt from my review of Lake of Fire:

Coming in to the film, one expects (or at least hopes) that it will be a thoughtful consideration of the issues at stake in the ongoing abortion debate. Heaven knows we are desperate for a congenial sit-down in which all perspectives, arguments, and scientific evidence are presented and considered evenly—apart from personal attacks, cynicism and vitriol. But in this respect the film is a huge letdown—a wasted opportunity to truly consider the issue/act of abortion and its moral meaning.

Instead, we get a lopsided parade of talking heads in which well-mannered, intellectual liberals (Noam Chomsky, Alan Dershowitz, Peter Singer) represent the pro-choice viewpoint and firebrand country bumpkin fundamentalists represent the pro-life side. Defenders of the film might point out that the brunt of screen time goes to Christians and pro-lifers, which is true. But the majority of time devoted to the "pro-life" contingent centers upon the fringe extremists who picket and sometimes bomb abortion clinics, and occasionally assassinate abortion doctors. This is the face of the pro-life movement, as represented in Lake of Fire. (read more...)

It seems to me that this film represents the strangely paradoxical nature of representational politics in the media. On one hand, we are an extremely PC culture in which all races, orientations, minority groups, etc are supposed to be given a fair representation (either in film, or TV, or print media, etc). In my classes in graduate school, this is a HUGE emphasis: the ways in which we should critique media for uniformed, unfair, or otherwise skewed portrayals of minority groups.

An unwritten assumption for many such "progressives" in academia or media, however, is that Christians are NOT to be included in the "minority groups abused by the media" category. Perhaps it is because Christians are perceived to be part of the hegemonic "establishment": the WASP-dominated coalition that wields all the power and money and spits out hate and bigotry. Surely this group needs no advocacy when it comes to fair media portrayal. If anything Christian representations should be actively and visibly dismantled or lampooned in the media. Or so goes the unspoken rhetoric.

Does anyone else see the contradiction here? Why, in film after film, are Christians being portrayed so unfavorably? Sure, you can't say that the people in Jesus Camp or Lake of Fire weren't asking for it, but there are plenty of other more moderate Christians who could have been featured just as easily. Documentaries (and any media, really) are in the business of selection. They reveal their bias through the choices of what and who--given all the options--is highlighted or used to "stand in for" a larger group or phenomenon.

While we scramble to fill quotas and level the socio/economic/cultural playing fields through media literacy programs and multicultural initiatives, some groups are glaringly omitted out of spite. And while the call for universal tolerance rings ever more loudly, the intolerant squelching of certain voices (i.e. intelligent, albeit exclusivist Christians) continues unchecked. I'm not calling for some reverse Affirmative Action or anything, but I do think the illogical nature of it all deserves some careful scrutiny.

Los Angeles the Cinematic Muse

To honor my one year anniversary of living in Los Angeles full-time, I thought I would do what I usually do in circumstances like this: compile a top ten film list!

What are the top ten films that capture the strange soul of this city? Los Angeles is certainly a singular municipality, and to live here is both enthralling and frustrating, for many of the same reasons. There is a definite beauty to the geography here (beaches everywhere, mountains, hills, palm trees, exotic flowers, purple trees, unnaturally-colored nighttime skies, etc), and an odd charm to its uncontrollable sprawl. It’s strangely comforting to know that I can drive fifty miles in every direction (except west!) and still be in greater L.A.

Anyway, as the birthplace of the modern cinema (and the entertainment capital of the world), L.A. has probably been the most represented city in film and television. As such, we all have our glamorous visions of this “tinsel” town. But some films have been better than others at capturing the real mood and spirit of Los Angeles—from the glittery sidewalks of Hollywood to the starmap stands in Bel Air, all the way to the homeless mini-city of Skid Row. It’s a complicated, almost unfathomable city, but its multifarious personality certainly makes for some interesting cinema.

The Big Lebowski (1998): The Coen Bros’ ridiculously funny cult film is an ode to the polygot mishmash that is Los Angeles—a city almost comically diverse. The film takes us from Venice to the Valley, Malibu to the Hollywood Star Lanes, and introduces us to a bowling bum slacker (The Dude), an avant-garde artist (Maude Lebowski), a trash-talking Latino named Jesus, a trio of German nihilists, and a porn star/trophy wife (Bunny Lebowski). Just another day in L.A.

Bread and Roses (2000): Though directed by a Brit (Ken Loach), this film about the struggle of non-union janitors (mostly Mexicans) in an L.A. highrise is a sobering, realistic look at two big issues in this town: immigrant labor and socio-economic disparity. The film is based on the 1990 Justice for Janitors strike in Century City (incidentally, the section of L.A. I currently call home).

Chinatown (1974): Roman Polanski’s classic noir drama is a 1930s-set story about greed and corruption in L.A. city government, and the dangerous game of unraveling the scandal that one private eye (Jack Nicholson) undertakes. The dark underbelly of this town is on full display, as one of L.A.’s most persistent problems (water, or lack thereof) proves the catalyst for crime.

Collateral (2004): Michael Mann does L.A. well (see Heat), but his 2004 film Collateral captures the seedy after-dark feel of the City of Angels better than anything I’ve ever seen. From the cinematography (lots of fluorescent light and yellow/grey skies) to small touches like coyotes crossing the street at three in the morning (I’ve seen this happen!), Mann gets it right.

Double Indemnity (1944): Billy Wilder’s adaptation of a Raymond Chandler novella still stands as one of the great classics of film noir. Featuring Barbara Stanwyck as a malevolent blonde temptress, the film features exquisite urban detail in its Hollywood setting, and has been called the “first film in which Los Angeles is a character unto itself.”

Falling Down (1993): Shot during the 1992 L.A. riots, this Joel Schumacher film is the ultimate embodiment of the rage that the City of Angels sometimes conjures up when the traffic, isolation, and hyperdiversity are just too overbearing. Michael Douglas excels at capturing the pent-up anger of a laid-off loner who lashes out during one of the hottest days of the year.

Full Frontal (2002): Steven Soderbergh’s low-budget “experiment” didn’t go over well with most moviegoers (or critics), but I found it spellbinding and amazingly perceptive of life in the Hollywood film industry. Whether you’re an actor, screenwriter, producer, or director (and who in L.A. isn’t one of these?), the film business is mostly stress, strain, and little reward.

L.A. Confidential (1997): This amazing film by director Curtis Hanson brings to life the novel by James Ellroy (who I’ve randomly bumped into several times at a Beverly Hills café) about a 1950s gangland murder mystery in Los Angeles. The film is a great homage to film noir, blonde dames (Kim Basinger is fantastic), and the LAPD.

Magnolia (1999): What a daring move to make a film about the much-maligned San Fernando Valley! Of course, P.T. Anderson’s film is about more than just “the Valley” (in which Magnolia Blvd is a major thoroughfare), but the isolated characters and overwrought emotional drama of this stylish epic definitely capture something of the experience of living here.

Mulholland Drive (2001): David Lynch is intrigued by the character of Los Angeles, “the city of dreams.” His latest, Inland Empire, is all about L.A., but not as coherently so as the masterwork, Mulholland Drive, which revels in the surrealist specters of Old Hollywood. I don’t think “Club Silencio” exists, but it captures the moonlit mystique of L.A. in a nutshell.

Donkey Kong Nation

“Always, after he was in bed, there were voices—indefinite, fading, enchanting—just outside his window, and before he fell asleep he would dream one of his favorite waking dreams: the one about becoming a great half-back or the one about the Japanese invasion when he was rewarded by being made the youngest general in the world. It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of ParadiseNote: This is the first of a three-part post series on competition in the American psyche. Coming on Sept. 10 is part two: “The Battle of 9/11.”

A documentary film was recently released in L.A. called The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters. If it comes to a theater anywhere near you, please go see it. The film's subject matter at first appears rather frivolous: competitive videogaming, specifically the battle for world records in “classic” arcade games from the early eighties like Donkey Kong. Indeed, for much of the first third of the film, you’ll wonder if it’s a mockumentary (in the vein of Christopher Guest). All the talking head stars of the film are about as nerdy as stereotypical gamers get.

But the film isn’t chiefly about making fun of pasty, aging slackers with mullets and fingerless gloves who play arcade games all day. It is extremely funny, don’t get me wrong—one of the funniest films I’ve seen all year. But beneath the ironic 80s soundtrack (everything from The Cure to Animotion) and geeky earnestness of the whole competitive gaming world, Kong is a rather profound—and deeply moving—film.

It’s all about competition—and how obsessive, ingrained, and life-consuming it is. Especially in America. Especially for men. There is this drive within us to be the best at something. Whether it’s winning a gold medal, becoming a successful sauce salesman, being the world’s “foremost military superpower,” or simply holding the world record Pac-Man score, we all desire that glory; that “top dog” status.

The King of Kong follows two men—Billy Mitchell and Steve Wiebe—and their vicious rivalry to see who will ultimately hold the world’s top score in Donkey Kong. Mitchell, a hot sauce salesman from Hollywood, Florida, held the top score from 1982 to 2006, when Wiebe—a 7th grade science teacher and family man from Washington State—came out of nowhere to take the title away. On one level the film is a classic tale of good (Wiebe) vs. evil (Mitchell), but really it is an examination of the pride of victory and the sting of second place, and the ultimate dissatisfaction that comes from both positions.

When we win at anything it is definitely a good feeling, but after reaching any summit, there’s always some other mountain to climb, something else to go after. Being in second place is perhaps preferable: at least there is a definite goal to work toward, an end to focus upon, a definition to our life’s pursuit.

As we see in the Fitzgerald quote above, the becoming of something great—not the being of it—is where the glory lies.

Kong is a beautiful little microcosm of American life. We are a country founded upon competition and an always optimistic ethic of tomorrow: what we don’t have is within reach, what isn’t here today might come tomorrow, who you are today is not who you will always be, etc. It’s a glistening sentiment that makes the patriotic heart beat stronger, but beneath it lies the sad reality of human nature and earthly existence: there will always be someone better, glory is fleeting, legacies are tenuous, and the greatest of the great is still just a candle in the wind.

Even so, competition is a good thing, and certainly no more pointless or temporal than anything else in this life. Competition pushes us forward, and Hegelian progress is made (through the friction of dialectics), even if there are casualties along the way. Competition is innate to humanity, and people like Plato recognized that from very early on. Plato had a term called thymos, which is the essential part the soul wherein man desires recognition, demands respect of his dignity, and feels pride. It is this part of the human soul that allows us to act in contrary (e.g. sacrificing ourselves for some greater purpose) to our reason and other instincts. It is in thymos that our innate sense of justice exists, and—as contemporary scholar Francis Fukuyama argues—where noble virtues of selflessness, idealism, self-sacrifice, courage, and honorability originate.

Thus, while competition can be painful and the fruits of winning rather unsatisfying, it is still the engine that drives a successful society. It is the chief means by which man can begin to understand his identity and see glimpses of his self-worth—and in the process realize that any worth he might have cannot come from anything he can ever do (because even the greatest achievements in the world leave us ultimately unworthy before the vastness of sin and mortality), but rather from some grace-giving Other.

The West(ern)

So I just saw a press screening of 3:10 to Yuma, which comes out in a couple weeks. It’s really good, and reminded me just how much I love the western genre. I love the “West” in general—the vast, dirty, sagebrush majesty of it all. Ansel Adams, Indian reservations, turquoise bolo ties, duststorms, Lewis and Clark, stretches of highway with “no services for 80 miles” signs. Since moving out to California I’ve had the luxury of being able to occasionally drive the 2000 or so miles back home every now and then—which for most people probably sounds horrific. But for me, the West is like this infinite, untouched wonderland, full of myth and mystery and thrilling uncertainty. “Going west” is the ultimate American mythos. You gotta love manifest destiny.

Anyway, as a tribute to the West, and because I’ll be in Billings, Montana and Jackson Hole, Wyoming next week, here’s a brief list of some films (both proper “westerns” and films that are just about the west) that I think capture the roughshod beauty and scalawag history of the American West (by no means is this any sort of authoritative top ten):

Dances With Wolves (1990): Say what you want about this Kevin Costner epic, but you can’t deny that it’s pretty stunning on several artistic fronts—namely the cinematography (shot in the beautiful Badlands National Park) and the unforgettable score by John Barry.

Don’t Come Knocking (2005): Wim Wenders’ little-seen 2005 film was probably more “road-movie” than traditional western, but Sam Shepherd’s character plays an aging Hollywood western star, so there’s some interesting genre reflexivity going on.

Fort Apache (1948): This John Wayne / John Ford classic was loosely inspired by Custer and the Battle of Little Bighorn, which is the historical high-water mark of “wild west” lore. Featuring trademark shots of Monument Valley and the great Ford horizons, as well as a teenage Shirley Temple, Apache is a very satisfying western. The Grapes of Wrath (1940): John Ford is the western genre, and his adaptation of John Steinbeck (the literary voice of the west, in my opinion), is pretty wonderful. The story of the Okie family Joad and their precarious journey west during the Depression is both quintessentially American and stridently western.

High Noon (1952): Gary Cooper exudes boot n’ spur cowboy vigilance as the lone defender of a pansy town awaiting the arrival of a revenge-seeking outlaw on the noon train. The recurrent theme song, “Do Not Forsake Me” is unforgettable, as is the famous four-count rhythmic editing sequence at the film’s climax.

The Proposition (2006): Even though it’s technically about the Australian frontier and not the American West, this film wins a spot by sheer fact that it is an incredible, unsettling and unrepentantly stark portrayal of the unruly Australian outback. Plus Nick Cave does the music, which is wonderfully dark and droning.

Ride With the Devil (1999): This is Ang Lee’s other (and better) western, which is really a Civil War film about the border skirmishes on the western frontier (Missouri-Kansas). Tobey Maguire shines, as does Jeffrey Wright and Jonathan Rhys Meyers (as the despicable bushwhacker villain). Oh, and Jewel (yeah, the singer) is the female lead.

A River Runs Through It (1992): Robert Redford loves the American west (Sundance, Utah is a testament to that), and River is his best cinematic homage to the frontier. Based on a classic book by Norman Maclean, the film tells a simple story about family and fly-fishing in the pristine mountain rivers of Montana. Not really a “western” proper, but for capturing the spirit of the West, this film is hard to beat.

Unforgiven (1992): Films don’t get much better than Clint Eastwood’s classic revisionist western—which re-frames the genre’s mythos in terms of probing psychological and spiritual questions about human nature. Truly a masterpiece.

The Wild Bunch (1969): Sam Peckinpah’s crowning achievement, Bunch is an uber-violent tale of a grizzled band of aging outlaws during one last “score” as the wild west gives way to a more modernized, tamer society. See if you can spot all the things that influenced later Tarantino films!

Stasis and Catharsis in Ten Contemporary Films

In Paul Schrader’s 1972 book, Transcendental Style in Film, the renowned filmmaker/theorist (with a Christian background… he attended Calvin College) outlined his theory for how transcendence is achieved stylistically in cinema. The ultimate embodiment of the transcendent, he thinks, is in something called stasis: “a frozen view of life which does not resolve the disparity but transcends it.” Stasis often occurs at the end of a film, and often in the final shot—when the conflict or “disparity” is not completely resolved, but “frozen” into stasis. “To the transcending mind,” Schrader writes, “man and nature may be perpetually locked in conflict, but they are paradoxically one and the same.”

This “Oneness” is a sort of resolution of the unresolved—an arrival at peace in spite of and because of a deep unsettledness within the soul. I think the concept has echoes of G.K. Chesterton’s notion of “divine discontent”—the idea that we should feel ill at ease with our human situation, and as such more aware of the divine other that will one day right every wrong. Discontent can be divine—and transcendent—when we view it as a sign of the perfect Source (God), apart from which all else is unresolved tension.

Thus, Schrader keenly points out (and I agree), that films exposing glimpses of the transcendent are often those that end on a note that is at once satisfying (catharsis) and whole (stasis), but also still in want. “The static view,” Schrader writes, represents a world “in which the spiritual and physical can coexist, still in tension and unresolved, but as part of a larger scheme in which all phenomena are more or less expressive of a larger reality—the Transcendent.”

Some examples Schrader uses to flesh out this idea include the final, lengthy shot of the vase at the end of Ozu’s Late Spring (1949), or the shadow of the cross that becomes the final shot of Diary of a Country Priest (1950).

I’ve been thinking about current films (films of the last six or seven years) that Schrader might point to as pictures that exemplify stasis—that encapsulate a oneness or transcendence that leaves the viewer wholly affected and frozen in time. These are the films that, upon fading or cutting to black, leave you utterly breathless and emotionally (perhaps spiritually) wrecked. I’m not talking about tearjerkers or films that have shocking trick endings where everything changes in the final shot (don’t get me wrong, I love M. Night Shyamalan). I’m talking about films that leave you both devastated and satisfied, with a final image that is burned into your mind’s eye. Here are a few that are still burning in my mind (warning: spoiler city!):

A.I. (2001): The ending of this film was widely criticized by many for being both too drawn out and too sappy. But for me, it was the perfect, haunting ending to a film that remains remarkably affecting each time I watch it. It is devastating to witness Haley Joel Osment’s sentient little robot boy being forced to live for thousands of years without the human love from which he has come to derive his meaning. In the last scene, he gets to live one last day with his reincarnated mother, before they both cease to exist forever. I’m not sure what it is about this ending (perhaps the immense weight of time, mortality, and existence, which we are forced to consider), but as the camera pans back from the two going to “sleep,” something aches in the pit of my stomach.

Before Sunset (2004): Not all evocative, stasis endings have to be downers. In Richard Linklater’s marvelous Before Sunset (the sequel to 1995’s Before Sunrise), the ending—while certainly not providing “Hollywood” closure—offers a breezy, life-affirming catharsis that is both ambiguous and perfectly settled. As Ethan Hawke sits on a couch in Julie Delpy’s Paris apartment, we watch as she playfully mimics a flirty Nina Simone. Then the scene just joyfully fades to black. I can’t recall a film that left me so wholly satisfied, despite not knowing exactly how the story ended up.

Capote (2005): Sometimes the stasis of a film is reinforced by some postscript that comes onscreen after the film’s final image. In Capote, an already wrenching final image (of Philip Seymour Hoffman in a plane, looking forlornly out a window) is enhanced by the words that follow as the screen goes black: “In Cold Blood made Truman Capote the most famous writer in America. He never finished another book. The epigraph he chose for his last, unfinished work reads: ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’”

Children of Men (2006): In the case of Children of Men, the most affecting stasis comes from the aural denouement—the voices and sounds of children playing which bookend the film. As Kee and Theo drift out to sea, quietly and away from the chaos of the previous two hours, all appears lost. Theo is bleeding, and soon succumbs. Kee is alone with her newborn baby. Suddenly the rescue boat (“The Tomorrow”) appears, and our hopes are renewed. But instead of providing a full resolution, the images stop there. “CHILDREN OF MEN” flashes against a black screen, with the children’s laughter heard faintly in the background. It’s ambiguous. It’s disturbing. It’s uneasy peace.

L’Enfant (2006): Many of the films by Belgian directors the Dardenne Brothers contain endings in which some sort of cathartic resolution is achieved, but quickly halted (as in, the screen goes black in the middle of some intense, penultimate scene). This is the case in L’Enfant, a film about a man (Jeremy Renier) who does unspeakable things in order to make financial ends meet. The power of this film’s ending is in its juxtaposition to the emotional distance of everything preceding it. Not until the final few minutes does Renier—having been completely broken down—show any emotion at all. This scene provides a stunning catharsis, but very little resolution. And as the screen abruptly goes black, the unifying power of that final image is left for the awestruck viewer to mull over.

Lost In Translation (2003): Sofia Coppola really leaves us hanging at the end of this film. The two main characters (Scarlett Johansson and Bill Murray) share an intimate few whispers as they say farewell, and we don’t have a clue what they say to each other! Oddly, though, this unanswered question gives the film’s somber ending a wonderful sense of uncertain hope. Maybe they’ll meet again, maybe not. One never knows with these sorts of evanescenent encounters. As the Jesus and Mary Chain song (“Just Like Honey”) plays over a montage of the empty streets of Tokyo at dawn, and the characters go their separate ways, a morning-after mix of bittersweet joy and existential ache abides. Another day. Life goes on.

The New World (2005): “Life goes on” is a good way to look at the theme of this amazing film from director Terrence Malick. In the film, Pocahontas (Q’Orianka Kilcher) is put through the ringer, being relentlessly battered by love, change, regret, and ultimately death. Through it all, though, Malick reminds us of new life—of nature, and trees which grow always ever upwards, even when branches fall off. The final shot of the film, then, is a profound encapsulation of this theme. After a stunning closing montage (to the music of Wagner’s swelling Das Rheingold), the final shot looks upwards at a tree, stately and shining in the sunlight. The music stops, a single leaf falls to the ground, and the screen goes to black. Amazingly, the credits roll over silence (initially), which amplifies the meditation over stasis even more.

Nine Lives (2005): This little-seen, remarkably conceived film is really a collection of nine short films—each shot in solitary, 12 minute camera takes, and each with its own stasis ending. Each story is a snippet of one woman’s life, and as such we know neither where they’ve come from nor where they’re going. Because of top-notch writing, directing and acting, however, we invest in these characters enough to be jarred when their segment flashes to black and the next one begins. A couple of the episodes end on especially moving notes (the episode with Robin Wright Penn in a supermarket, for example), but the final one with Glenn Close and Dakota Fanning takes the stasis cake.

The Pianist (2002): The ending of this film is pure catharsis. After two and a half hours of death and horror, our protagonist (Adrian Brody) is finally redeemed, and over the end titles, he performs Chopin’s magnificent Grande Polonaise for piano & orchestra with the Warsaw Philharmonic in a concert hall. Like the beautiful music played throughout the film, it is both sad and triumphant—equal parts emotional release and spiritual requiem for lost beauty and innocence. Very few films’ end titles are so riveting that not a single audience member leaves for five+ minutes. But this was the case when I saw The Pianist.

United 93 (2006): This was the best film of 2006 for a number of reasons, not least of which is its incredibly intense climax and subsequent catharsis ending. After 100 minutes of heart-pumping, visceral filmmaking (the soundtrack is literally rhythmic heart-pumping) we are brought to final ten minutes—a stretch which affected me physically (as in, sweaty palms, rapid heartbeat) more than any film I can remember. Then, when the plane finally crashes and the music reaches its haunting home chord, the chaos is silenced and a numb sense of shock and lamentation takes over. I found it hard to move in my chair during the credits.

These are just ten examples that I thought of off the top of my head, but doubtless there are many more. What films do you think of when you think about powerful stasis or catharsis endings?

Top Ten Most Flattering Portrayals of Christians in Film

As a part two bookend to last week’s “Unflattering” list, I’ve been thinking this week about the films that contain the most flattering portrayals of Christians. This was, predictably, much more challenging a list to come up with. Thankfully, however, I could come up with about twenty worthy candidates, ten of which are listed here. Interestingly, only one of the listed films (#7) was directed by an American. One important thing to remember is that these films by no means represent the most Christian or the most spiritual films (that list would be longer, and different)—only the ones that feature characters who are motivated or defined, in some favorable way, by their Christian faith. These are films that portray Christians as passionate, thoughtful, loving, and (in a lot of cases) sacrificial. Here’s my list. Let me know what you think.

10) Land of Plenty (2004): This little-seen, 9/11-inspired film by Christian director Wim Wenders features Michelle Williams in a rare role—a progressive young Christian working among L.A.’s homeless at a skid-row mission because Jesus would’ve done it.

9) Babette’s Feast (1987): Rob Bell is always saying Christians should re-discover the joy of “the long meal.” This film revels in it, as an effervescent group of aging Christians in Denmark prove that God’s grace is never more evident than in a long night of good food and fellowship.

8) Tender Mercies (1983): It was between this Horton Foote-penned film and The Apostle for the Robert Duvall spot on this list. Both films present imperfect people who find redemption through the loving community of the church. Yes, recovering alcoholic country music stars can (and often do) become Christians!

7) Dead Man Walking (1995): I had to include a nun movie in here, and Sound of Music seemed a bit frivolous! Seriously, though, Susan Sarandon’s portrayal of Sister Helen Prejean—a deeply compassionate woman who ministers to a death row inmate (Sean Penn) is a beautiful picture of Christ-like love.

6) Amazing Grace (2007): It’s too bad this film wasn’t just called Wilberforce or something, because it’s really just a biopic about the amazing Christian abolitionist who inspires Christian activism today. And as that, it’s more than enough to relay immense and beautiful truths about God’s guidance, strength, and grace.

5) Becket (1964): Richard Burton’s stellar portrayal of the unwaveringly pious Thomas à Becket (opposite Peter O’Toole’s Henry II in the famous church-state struggle of 12th Century England) offers one of cinema’s most principled and empathetic Christian characters.

4) Into Great Silence (2007): Not for the easily bored (but endlessly rewarding if you can sit through it), this nearly silent documentary probes the psyche of the uber-ascetic monks who live—and love living—lives of worship and solitude in a French Carthusian monastery.

3) Diary of a Country Priest (1951): French director Robert Bresson’s masterpiece of transcendent cinema, Priest charts the everyday struggles of a young priest trying his best to follow God’s will in shepherding a small parish in rural France. The ending will take your breath away.

2) Sophie Scholl: The Final Days (2005): This Oscar-nominated German-language film portrays the quiet subversion of Sophie Scholl, leader of a student resistance group during Hitler’s reign in Nazi Germany. Her profound faith drives her brave activism and strengthens her when faced with unspeakable horrors.

1) The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928): One of the best films of all time, this silent masterpiece from Danish director Carl Dreyer provides an amazingly artful and moving account of one of Christianity’s most inspiring figures. Shot almost entirely in close-up, the film’s striking images—especially Joan’s face—are imbued with the Holy.

Top Ten Most Unflattering Portrayals of Christians in Film

Because top ten lists are fun, and because I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how Christians are perceived in culture, I thought it would be interesting to comprise a list of the most unflattering portrayals of Christians in cinema. On a future post I will probably do the same for the most flattering portrayals. Keep in mind that I am not slamming these films; several of them are actually very well made. I’m only pointing out that, for secular audiences watching these films, Christians come across as crazy, annoying, dangerous, stupid, or some combination therein. Thankfully most of these films were not seen by very many people. But even so, I think it’s important to be mindful that they exist—that for some people, this is the only picture of Christianity they have.

10) Why Should the Devil Have all the Good Music? (2004) Though less hostile than most documentaries about Christians, this incoherent exploration of a much-too-broad topic leaves the viewer as confused and cynical as the disparate talking heads that sound off in the film.

9) Night of the Hunter (1955) This classic kicked off the “fundamentalist Christian as psychopath” trend that has been a favorite in cinema ever since. “Leaning On the Everlasting Arms” has never sounded as disturbing as when Robert Mitchum sings it.

8) My Summer of Love (2004) More tragic than comical, this indie film portrays a group of British evangelicals as positively bonkers and dangerous to family dynamics, as one of the church’s leaders (Paddy Considine) pays more attention to prayer meetings than he does his own struggling family.

7) The Virgin Suicides (1999) Repressive Christian parents (James Woods and Kathleen Turner) in suburbia drive their innocent daughters to suicide. Because not being able to go to prom just does that to you…

6) Citizen Ruth (1996) It’s pretty gutsy to satirize abortion, but Alexander Payne did it successfully in this film, which lampoons both the firebrand evangelical pro-lifers and the equally insane pro-choice feminazis.

5) Facing the Giants (2006) Oops! I thought this was made by Christians!? Indeed, but this horrendous film (which we have Georgia’s Sherwood Baptist Church to thank for) is as embarrassing to Christians as anything Pat Robertson ever said.

4) Saved! (2004) This film relentlessly points out evangelical absurdities, featuring a command performance from Mandy Moore as the Christian school queen bee who spreads Jesus’ love by throwing bibles at people.

3) Jonestown: The Life and Death of People’s Temple (2006) To the uninitiated, People’s Temple appears to be just one more crazy sect of fundamentalist Christianity. Which makes this true story of delusion and mass suicide one of the most damaging witnesses to American Christianity in the twentieth century.

2) Hell House (2001) A truly scary documentary about a Pentecostal church in Texas that uses Halloween, buckets of fake blood, and scenes of abortion, suicide, and AIDS to scare hordes of lost kids into accepting Jesus.

1) Jesus Camp (2006) In addition to its portrayal of six year olds speaking in tongues and praying over a cardboard George W. Bush, this film boasts the honor of having grade-A ironic footage of Ted Haggard talking smack about gays just months before his own admission of having solicited a male prostitute.

The Search Circa 1992

I just finished Jon Krakauer’s fantastic book Into the Wild, which I wanted to read before the film version (directed by Sean Penn) comes out this September. The book tells the story of Chris McCandless, who graduated college in 1990 and went on a two year trek across North America in search of raw, transcendent experience. Tired of a predictable, bourgeois existence in suburban D.C., McCandless decided to “escape” from the real world that frustrated him. He drove his car out into the Mojave desert, abandoned it, burned all his money, and proceeded to live as a wayfaring tramp and hobo for the next two years.

Into the Wild is a fascinating account of McCandless’ adventures as he travels throughout the American West—from South Dakota to the Salton Sea, Las Vegas to Astoria, Oregon, and finally to the Alaskan wilderness, where his Jack London-inspired quest came to a tragic end.

McCandless wrote in letters of his desire to break from “a life of security, conformity, and conservatism” in favor of “unconventional living.” As he writes:

“Nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future… The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.”

McCandless longed for a richer, more natural and grounded existence than what his middle-class lot had outlined for him. I can’t help but compare him to another tragic, alienated soul of his generation—Kurt Cobain—who famously rebelled against the comfortable establishment he was born into.

Whereas Cobain vented his frustrations through drugs and music, and McCandless through communion with nature, both men epitomized the “grunge” rebellion and disillusionment of Generation X in the early 1990s. Call them slackers, or neo-hippies, or whatever—but they made explicit the “search” that haunts all generations.

Writer Douglas Coupland, who has come to be the literary voice of Generation X, described in 1995 the mindset of “X-ers” as being the desire “to hop off the merry-go-round of status, money, and social climbing that so often frames modern existence."

I think we all can relate to this desire at some points in our lives—when the weight of success and the expectations of family, society, and self become too heavy a burden. Whether McCandless and Cobain are to be respected or pitied (for their searches both ended in solitary deaths, in 1992 and 1994, respectively), I’ll leave to you to decide.

But regardless of their failures and ultimately tragic ends, McCandless and Cobain were earnest in their longings—and through culture (music, movies, books, etc) their rupturing of the status quo lives on for future wanderers to ponder.