Noah Review - A Bible Epic for the 21st Century

 When I went to see Noah, the discount Tuesday night showing was pretty well attended. As the final credits started to roll, one person burst into applause. Then a woman two rows back yelled out, "Biggest lie I ever heard! Didn't even read the Bible!"

That pretty much sums up the two kinds of reactions people have had to this year's Old Testament epic "from the director of Black Swan," Darren Aronofsky. (If he has a thing for morality tales involving birds I hope he does The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner next.) The Catholic blogosphere has had the entire gamut of opinions. Since Noah is not strictly a verse-by-verse recitation of Genesis nor made purely for evangelistic purposes, some people are disappointed.

Noah's very modern feel is a red herring distracting audiences from its true spiritual merit. Yes, the wardrobe is heavy on ankle boots and skinny jeans, evoking Urban Outfitters more than the Stone Age. Russell Crowe's Noah is a vegan who stages funerals for dead animals and has visions of the ark thanks to hallucinogenic tea. Production values are slick; there are plenty of splashy CGI explosions and mythical creatures. At times I was reminded of The Hunger Games, Lord of the Rings, and Terrence Malick's sweeping landscapes. Unlike Son of God, Noah uses contemporary cinematography in a convincing way. Some of the images are truly stunning and worth seeing on the big screen. If Aronfsky's film feels like a blockbuster and not an indie flick, does that mean it's just a callous commercial grab?

Really, all Biblical movies are artistic reflections of their own time. Looking back to the golden age of mid-20th century Bible films, those weren't literal recitations either. Screenwriters added love triangles, pagan glam convents, and imagined conversations. As I mentioned earlier this week, Cecil B. DeMille's The 10 Commandments, arguably the greatest Bible epic ever made, certainly feels like the 1950s. Moses' vamping ex-girlfriend is a major plot device - where was she in the Bible? Anne Baxter's mad side eye may be not that different from angel/rock monster Ent knock-offs.

Even though Aronfsky pads out the slim Genesis account of Noah with his sometimes ridiculous imagination, he has still made a deeply religious movie that grapples with the big questions of human existence and its relationship to God. This isn't a 1990s self esteem pep talk about how everybody is special - it's a meditation on how we are all damaged by Original Sin. Aronfsky said as much in a recent interview: "Hearing the story of Noah [as a child], I thought about, "What if I was not one of the good ones to get on the boat? And I recognized that there’s wickedness in all of us." The God of Noah is very real and what He has to tell people matters.

Aronofsky positions Noah in a pre-history no man's land between Eden and God's chosen people of Israel. People have no image or name for God - they only know him as the very real Creator who also punishes. His will is often inscrutable, and there is no formal religion. The Fall of Adam and Eve looms large as Seth's descendants cling to a few relics and oral traditions from their ancestors' paradise. Now they are just trying to survive in a chaotic society where people's greed and appetites run out of control. The brutal, anarchic pre-flood world of Noah puts the rest of salvation history in perspective. Here, a covenant with God would be a welcome relief. If God gave, say, a list of ten ground rules for human behavior, that would be even better. God actually becoming a man to be punished for our sins? An unthinkable miracle.

The only time Noah flounders is when Aronofsky changes actual details of the Biblical account. In Genesis, all three sons Shem, Ham, and Japeth are married. The Noah movie makes procreation of the human race much more precarious, with Emma Watson's presumably barren character as the only young woman aboard the ark. Since the initial conflict of surviving the murderous hordes and the flood is over, this fertility drama takes over the third act of the film. Noah loses his marbles and becomes a scrupulous misanthrope while everyone else cowers in fear. [SPOILERS] Eventually he relents, and later gets wasted because he thinks he has failed God. Meanwhile Ham flounces off to be a celibate nomad and tween Japeth presumably joins Team Jacob and imprints on his newborn niece.

But I'm willing to forgive Russell Crowe's tedious extermination rage because it resolves in an incredibly pro-life story arc, discussing what being "made in God's image" really means. Noah and his family have just escaped a world where human life has little value. People were traded for food and dead bodies left to rot in open pits. Villain Tubal-Cain argued with God, shouting "I create life and destroy it, just like you!" Blinded by his outrage at this wickedness, Noah ignores his family's pleading and signs of God's clemency. Discernment fail. He stubbornly plows ahead doing his own will, until compassion reminds him to protect the lives in his care. In the end, family and the chance for new life win out.

Aronfsky took this angle to reinforce the Divine Mercy lesson of the Great Flood. "So what we decided to do was to align Noah with that character arc and give Noah that understanding: He understands what man has done, he wants justice, and, over the course of the film, learns mercy. What’s nice about that is that is how I think Thomas Aquinas defined righteousness: a balance of justice and mercy."

If a director quotes Thomas Aquinas as a source, that's probably a good indication that yes, he did read the Bible as well and spent a good bit of time pondering its lessons. Noah doesn't have the formal reverence of a Sunday School pageant, but it still tells a powerful story of the world longing for God's salvation. Its excellent performances take the Old Testament beyond cute animal pairs towards the old catechism question "Why did God make me?" Its themes stuck with me long after I left the theater, and have helped me appreciate the mercy God has shown His people in a new way.

The Ten Commandments Drinking Game

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If you're looking for some festive entertainment this Passover/Easter season, there's one Bible movie that stands as the benchmark of all others. Cecil B. DeMille's The Ten Commandments is 58 years old, but is still just as engaging and impressive as when it first toured as a road show feature. Clocking in at over three hours, it still never drags. Every shot, every set, every throwaway line by an extra is carefully arranged.

The Ten Commandments is the boss because it has gravitas to spare. Characters move like reverent statues and yet are believable and interesting. DeMille already had Bible cred because his 1927 silent film King of Kings basically invented the Jesus movie. Even so, he added an author's forward before the credits to assure audiences he was super serious about the Exodus story. It's the only movie I know of where the director parts curtains to explain both his thesis statement and his bibliography. DeMille's stated goal is "Not to create a story, but to tell a story". To prove his scholarly cred he references ancient historians Philo and Josephus, and the credits list consultations with the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the University of Chicago's Oriental Institute, and Egyptian antiques officials. The decadent set design and attention to material culture detail show that DeMille did do his homework. Moses' final wig and beard  even imitate Michelangelo's famous Moses statue.

But is The Ten Commandments really a factual account plucked from the sands of time? Not quite. Like all historical narratives, it reflects the concerns of its own era. In DeMille's case, his final movie tells us a bit about all-American post-WWII enthusiasm.His title is non-sectarian, emphasizing the moral rules that are the basis of generic Judeo-Christian values. By the 1950s Jewish Americans were no longer viewed as a suspicious foreign Other. Instead, they had been grafted into the American ideal of patriotic, God-fearing folks who defend freedom against enemies like Communism. The Cold War echoes in DeMille's prologue: "This is the story of the birth of freedom: are men the property of the state or are they to be ruled by God's law?"  Moses' final line quotes the Leviticus verse that's on the Liberty Bell: "Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land, and to all the inhabitants thereof!" Just as 1850s abolitionists invoked Moses in their work against slavery, this 1950s movie hints that Moses would  favor democracy over totalitarian governments. 

Politics aside, The Ten Commandments is a classic because it's a spectacle, full of mid-century artistic style. Cited alongside museum collections are several contemporary novels about the Bible: Dorothy Clarke Wilson's Prince of Egypt (1949), Rev. J. H. Ingraham's Pillar of Fire (1859), and On Eagle's Wings by A. E. Southan (1937). Romanticized novelizations of Bible stories were an enduring part of American pop culture from the nineteenth century, and DeMille continues that tradition with his dramatic posing, jealous triangles and star-crossed lovers. The Luxor-inspired costumes were designed by Edith Head, the queen of Old Hollywood hourglass silhouettes who outfitted practically every movie star.

I'm not complaining; the Hollywood glamour makes it a blast to watch. Thanks to the rival male leads, there is  more fierceness than the screen can handle. If you get tired of looking at awesome stuff, the dialogue is consistently epic. My current favorite is the constrat between Moses' and Ramses' management styles. Charlton Heston is inherently a mensch, negotiating enemies into friendship and worrying about slave morale. "Blood makes poor mortar." Meanwhile Yul Brynner leans in so hard he might as well be ski jumping: "Envy is for the weak." He makes it clear what he wants from his subordinates."You have a rat's ears and a ferret's nose. Add to these the eyes of a weasel." Ancient Egypt is a man's world, and these guys are basically two business suits glaring at one another across a board room.

The Ten Commandments was one of the Easter staples of my childhood, and my siblings and I realized early on that the gravitas is more fun when you're the interactive peanut gallery. We often spent those three hours counting how many times Charlton Heston denounced the slaves' "bondage." Here's an expanded version of our drinking game, for your adult beverage or grape juice and matzoa enjoyment:

Take a sip for: 

• The words "bondage," "stiff-necked," or "Goshen."
• Restatement that Nefreteri must marry the future Pharoah
• Either Prince of Egypt wearing a skirt/sandal combo that you could imagine buying from J. Crew
• Restatement of how smoking hot Liliah is
• The phrase "held me in his arms" to refer to some form of hooking up
• Dathan talking smack about Moses
• References to Ishmael or Priam of Troy
• "Ai-yah baskets!"
• "Are you a master builder, or a master butcher?"
• "So let it be written, so let it be done!"

Take a long drink when:

• Seti implies he prefers Moses to his own son
• Memnet is a total mood-killer
• Moses' hair changes
• The scene opens on a gaggle of women chattering about men
• Sephora is an smart and confident feminist. "I will not be displayed like a caravan's wares, for Moses, or any other man."
• Nefreteri tries to seduce Moses with a long speech about garlic and pomegranates
• DeMille intones another pseudo-Biblical dramatic narration
• Nefreteri becomes a heinous nag. "Do you hear laughter, Ramses?"
• Fire or snake special effects clearly start out as drawn animation. 

Anxiously chug when:

• Yochabel almost gets crushed by that stone.
• Rameses and Nefreteri have their dramatic hate-kiss.
• Moses gets exiled and has a long thirsty walk through the desert.
• Risk-loving Joshua decides to hang around outside watching the Angel of Death arrive. 
• The chariots look they're going to trample everyone at the Red Sea.
• The adorable kids and old people who left Egypt disappear, and the entire Israelite population becomes lusty twenty-somethings ready to worship the golden calf. Plus Aaron. 
• Sephora's last conversation with Moses is about how much she loves him, and he says NOTHING. Gets me every time. 

If you're still not convinced, here's a trailer.

 

Rest In Peace, Peter O'Toole

He's led a long, full life, but it was still saddening to hear about Peter O'Toole's passing this weekend at age 81. I came to his films only recently, but just one brush with his astounding work is enough to make you a huge fan. With his delicious British diction and ethereal confidence, the man is a boss.

Really, if you've never seen Lawrence of Arabia, what are you doing with your life? Epic ambitious desert journeys are especially good viewing in snowy weather like this week's blustery days. I'm just saying. 

Peter O'Toole also gave not one, but two incredible performances as Henry Plantagenet, a king of England often overshadowed in historical narratives by his wife (Eleanor of Aquitaine), his sons (Richard the Lionheart and John), and the saint he had killed (Thomas Becket). O'Toole makes Henry II compelling, holding his own against Richard Burton in bromantic Becket and then Katherine Hepburn in The Lion in Winter. The second film is the ultimate depiction of family holiday drama and possibly the Southern Baron's favorite Christmas movie. You can bet we will fire up that DVD in the coming days.

"HA! What shall we hang, the holly or each other?"

Even though I live for British costume dramas, I actually first met Peter O'Toole through only his voice in a cartoon. He was the hard-nosed food critic in Ratatouille, back when Pixar made clever material culture reflections on the power of objects on memory and identity. He could make a voiceover about a rat cooking casserole with Janeane Garofalo sound like the most profound reflection on the meaning of art.

Towards the end of his life, O'Toole did small roles in a few religious films, such as the prophet Samuel in One Night With the King. Instead of the powerful monarch, he was a cleric challenging a corrupt government. (He still hacks a man apart off-camera, though, in that Esther movie, in case you forgot.) The most poignant of these was his role as Fr. Christopher in For Greater Glory, the story of the Cristero war in early 20th century Mexico. (Spoiler alert: basically everyone in this movie dies.) As political conflict is heating up, the humble Padre mentors a mischievous-but-goodhearted boy and then quietly goes to his martyrdom wearing black vestments. It's as if he's saying his own Requiem, offering himself to God's mercy.

KofC.org

Peter O'Toole's miscellaneous saintly cameos have fueled some speculation about his attitude towards the Church at the end of his life. Who knows? God understands the souls He created better than we can, that's for sure. So I'll say a prayer for Peter O'Toole's soul this week, and maybe one for Lawrence and Henry as well. Those men might still be finding their way home. 

The Bromantic Tale of Henry II and Thomas Becket

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Listen my children, and you shall hear the ballad of Becket, a bromance between Peter O'Toole and Richard Burton. O'Toole was king of the bros, spending his days partying, bagging peasant chicks, and bossing around bishops while his servants brought him snacks. His favorite wingman was Burton, who joined him on daily falcon workouts and even helped him with the essential bro tasks of bathing and grooming. They were total BFFS.

The only buzzkill was that the chicks in O'Toole's life who weren't whores were shrews. His mom and wife just sat around in doofy hats, making tapestries and nagging him when they should be greeting him with his slippers and a fresh cocktail. He coped by complaining about how unattractive and useless his wife was. They and their screenwriter seemed to have forgotten how Eleanor left the King of France for O'Toole, giving him sweet lovin', 8 kids, and a hunk of French territory. Or how his mom Matilda had fought tooth and nail to make him king. No matter, there is no room for female agency in this story. Katharine Hepburn will have to fix that another time.

When O'Toole made Burton the Archbishop of Canterbury, the lone-wolf wingman surprisingly took his new job totally seriously. He gave away his best Ed Hardy shirts to some homeless guys and started building a professional wardrobe of archbishop vestments. Sadly, they were not historically accurate, lacking embroidered panels of saints and madonnas. The cloth-of-gold stole with pearls was pretty good, though. You could tell he was serious because his intense Richard Burton gaze happened more often. Also, he really prayed; he didn't just wear flashy crucifixes around his neck.

Then the disrespect started. Anyone who watches Jersey Shore knows this is the greatest violation of the bro code. O'Toole disrespected the Church courts, Burton responded with an epic candle-snuffing excommunication ceremony inspired by re-runs of Survivor. O'Toole disrespected back by threatening to arrest Burton.

Things were getting ugly, so they went to the ultimate bro, the Pope. He talked-a-like-a-this and hung out in Italy with a crew of guidos. From the size of their cardinal robes you could tell they were juicing. Guido Pope got them to compromise, and so there was a poignant reunion horseback riding on the beach. O'Toole was all "I wish I knew how to quit you!" and Burton was all "I wish you would stop disrespecting the Church. Jesus is my bro now." When they got home, O'Toole had a meltdown of Real Housewives proportions, and everyone started to wonder exactly how he "loved" Richard Burton. You know what happened next - some other bros from O'Toole's posse went to the cathedral and slashed up Burton and his shiny vestments. O'Toole did penance, and Guido Pope made Richard Burton/Thomas Becket a saint, thus inspiring many tales of future pilgrimage roadtrips.

So there you have it. It didn't crackle like The Lion in Winter, nor did it inspire like A Man for All Seasons. I think I'll chalk it up the empty dress syndrome that plagues so many inaccurate historical movies.

Book review: Two Anne Rinaldi stories about slavery

Now that I have a public library card, I figure I should start writing about the "fun" books I am reading. So, although I have been reading some thought-provoking books for class about slavery and race in American history, I'm going to post about young adult fiction instead.

Somehow I missed out on Anne Rinaldi when I was a historical-fiction loving tween. How did this happen? No matter, I am making up for lost time now. Recently I read two of her novels that deal with slave uprisings and the uneasy relationship white Americans had with their slaves. She did a good job of capturing the paternalism, friendship, rationalization, and fear that went through slave owners' minds. Her slave characters also inhabit a complex social network with conflicting ideas about loyalty, obedience, and freedom. These books offer young readers a more nuanced view of early American society than I have seen in a long time.

That being said, their plots could be better. The spunky young heroines have life-altering adventures in convoluted ways. Oh, and the use of very modern phrases startled me. (Maybe I am just a grad student snob ;-)
Here's a brief summary of each.

In The Letter Writer, young orphan Harriet Whitehead is growing up on her relatives' Virginia plantation. She spends her days writing dictated letters for her aunt and being BFFs with her maidservant. Nat Turner is an enslaved preacher in the area, and her interest in his work leads her to be an unwitting accomplice to his violent plans. The scenes of his uprising's killing spree are truly horrifying. But once the dust settles, we get a completely contrived fairy-tale ending involving some surprise paternity. BFF maidservant gets freedom, but Harriet's opinions on slavery are otherwise unchanged. At the novel's end, her staff assure her she has the makings of a fine plantation mistress. As repulsive as this arrangement might be to us readers, it is more historically probable than Harriet becoming an abolitionist.

The Color of Fire, on the other hand, is written from the view of young slave girl Phoebe. Her story is set during panics about slave rebellion in 1750s New York, events that I had never heard of. Phoebe's wealthy master trusts her, and so she has some mobility to get involved in the drama of mob violence and helping victims of the "witch hunt." The ensuing dilemmas and dangers are gripping, but there is just too much happening too fast. In a few short chapters, readers abruptly encounter secret priests, possible euthanasia, the grotesqueness of burning at the stake, and slaves seeking freedom as indentured servants to the Indians. Rinaldi drops readers into the action, leaving them without a mooring.