Why Art is More True than Life

"The truth of a work of art is both its adequacy to the basic structure of human experience and its correction and deepening of our understanding of this structure, so that we rightly say not only that art is true to life, but that art is more true than life.”
- Sallie McFague, Literature and the Christian Life

*painting is "Momentum" by Stephanie Roberts

"The Dark Knight" and the Final Scapegoat: Or, When Batman Meets Girard

Some films utilize philosophical and theological themes as a way of adding a little substance, some reflective moments, to a plot which could just as well do without it. Christopher Nolan's "The Dark Knight" is different: He weaves into the fabric of the narrative explorations of the nature of humanity and reflections on the possibilities for the future of our society in a context characterized by pessimism about the future and by an always latent fear of "the other." The implications of this fear are intensified by the faulty assumption that violence can only be overcome by violence.

No philosophical theme is more obvious in The Dark Knight than the pervasive allusions to Nietzsche's Uebermensch, (the "over-man"), that ideology-buster who spurns all social rules and expectations, throws all caution to the wind, and deconstructs the falsely erected boundaries through which the powerful elite (and their imposed rules of behavior) try to subdue the spark, creativity and strength of the primal human will. Ledger's "The Joker," plays Nietzsche's Uebermensch to perfection. Unlike everyone else in the narrative, the Joker has no "plan." His behavior is beholden only to the strength of his own primal passions; his only objectives being the release of instinct, the unleashing of chaos through violence, and ultimately, the deconstruction of society's illusion that safety and predicability can be secured through the rule of law. He does this by erecting situations in which people must choose between their own will to survive (primal, human instinct) and their (socially constructed) desire to prolong the lives of others. The Joker's faulty assumption is that altruism (beneficent concern for the welfare of others) will always give way to egoism when a life is confronted with the possibility of its elimination.

On the theological side of things, Renee Girard, a philosophical anthropologist whose work has influenced many contemporary theologians, explored the role of sacrifice in the formation and sustenance of human cultures. Girard proposed that human cultures employ ritual violence as a way of channeling their collective violence, alleviating their own guilt and as a way of subduing violent conflict within their own communities. When violence and chaos erupts, someone (or some thing) must pay the price. The "scapegoat" then serves as a kind of canvass upon which the guilt and anger of a community can be laid. And as a result, the collective violence of the community is subdued--for the time being. In Biblical terminology, the scapegoat becomes the "expiation" for the sins of the people, and those sins are "expiated" when the animal is rejected from the community and sent out to die (or slaughtered in ritual sacrifice).

In The Dark Knight, Harvey Dent (the district attorney and, as the "White Knight," symbol of all that is good in humanity) and Batman take turns serving as scapegoat for Gotham. Each manifests their willingness to "be whatever Gotham needs them to be," in order to bring an end to violence and, simultaneously, to appease the wrath and guilt of the community. Batman, of course, is the "final scapegoat" of the narrative. The final appeasement of Gotham's anger--and, presumably, the end of the cycle of violence (for a time, anyway)--occurs through the ritualized destruction of the bat symbol. It turns out that Batman is no "superhero" at all. A true hero is singled out from within a society as the very best (strongest, brightest, bravest, etc.) that society has to offer. A hero is, while one of us, the best of us. Batman recognized he had to be "more than a hero"; he would become a scapegoat in order to bear the shame and anger of the people, and to bring about peace. He would be the "Dark Knight," rather than the "White Knight" (read: Harvey Dent).

While this diverges from the plot of the film, one is reminded here of Jesus of Nazareth in the Gospels, who as Girard points out, serves as the "Final Scapegoat." His sacrifice served to put an end to the usefulness of the scapegoat model as the way to eliminate violence and guilt. In taking guilt, anger and sin upon himself, his sacrifice declared an end for the need for ritual violence and, most importantly, it exposed the scapegoat function as fundamentally mistaken and misguided. The object of sacrifice is not deserving of punishment, exile or death. The object of sacrifice is, in fact, a victim (and not, for Girard, the object of God's wrath). Rather than seeking to perpetuate the sacrificial system, the Gospels then proclaim that, on the basis of the Christ-event, the sacrificial system is now null and void. The cycle of violence can (and should) end.

The Gospel According to Wall-E

After seeing the movie last night, my sweet and sassy wife challenged me to write a review about Wall-E. Since I've become increasingly more convinced that our current pop culture mediums have become our Athens, our "marketplace of ideas," and that theologians must thoughtfully, openly and critically engage pop culture, I decided to take up her suggestion.

The underlying message of Wall-E is that humanity is destroying its own habitat. Like so many homes heading toward foreclosure, we are letting our global house fall apart. The culprit is greed, materialism, sloth, and, in general, ecological irresponsibility and apathy toward planet earth. Simply put, in our quest for the "good life," we are amusing ourselves to death and, like the proverbial frog in the boiling pot, lack the perspective and will to notice. With every laptop and television tossed in the bin, our rubbage piles higher and the end of the world as we know it draws closer--but we feel fine.

That's Wall-E's message. But the Gospel of Wall-E, its "Good News," is that things don't have to end that way. Humanity can awaken to the impending destruction of our habitation, and to our propensity to excess, our greed, our laziness, and our avarice. We can stop the bleeding and turn things around. The single, green plant discovered by "Eve," signals hope in the face of despair. Life can be saved and preserved. But we will have to find ways to cultivate, rather than denigrate, the Earth.

The genius of Wall-E is that it tells this big, heavy underlying message through a more accessible, smaller story of robot love. The clunky but cute mobile trash compacter falls head-over-wheels for the stunning but equally terrifying vegetation collector. During his sojourn as the last, lonely robot on earth, Wall-E has evolved to the point that he is not only sentient, but relational; he wants to find love. Through his naive, awkward but endearing perseverance, he wins the affection of the beauty (and, simultaneously, of the viewer). The Gospel of Wall-E is presented through a form that is neither preachy nor disconnected from the other story it tells. In fact, the underlying story only makes a certain kind of sense in the light of the more accessible one.

A side note: In a Theology and Science course I taught recently, I received a paper from a student on "robot intelligence and the image of God." As I found myself caring for Wall-E (and in a derivative way, for Eve), I was reminded of the question this student asked: As the already stunning advancements in robotic intelligence increase, what will ultimately distinguish robots from human beings? What is the "imago Dei" that sets human beings apart from other forms of intelligence? But I leave that question for another time.

While Wall-E succeeds on so many levels, its primary flaw lies in the reductionism which only shakily supports its narrative. For one thing, the story suggests that the "habitable" status of planet Earth depends entirely on the extent to which "big business" (e.g. Wall-Mart, Best Buy--ostensibly represented in the film as "Buy and Large") has its way with the American consumer. But really, let's be honest: who of us really thinks that the fate of our future lies in the hands of Best Buy--or even of American consumerism? And, is Wall-Mart really so evil? Are they really out to "get us"? Furthermore, while the two are certainly related, isn't global warming a more imminent and ominous threat than material excess as such? And more practically, who of us really wants to do without many of the conveniences such businesses provide? Finally, the film's ending suggests that rescuing the planet after it has become uninhabitable is a simple task. Just find a fertile spot in between land-fill skyscrapers, plant some seed and, after a while you get "pizza trees."

In theology today, worries about the future of our planet are no longer reserved for fantastical, dispensational "end times" theologies. As Moltmann has noted, the destruction of the world, either largely at our own (human) hands or at the hands of evil beyond that of our own, must increasingly be recognized as a possibility--and thus a topic of urgency--for theology generally. The foreseeable elimination of life as we know it makes eschatology all the more a profound and relevant discipline. And it makes hope in Christ as the solution to the follies of humanity and to our global situation all the more urgent.

But let's recall that, in the Bible, the mission of Christ is often accomplished through his body, the church (ecclesia). That is, we cannot simply assume that Christ will do his redemptive work apart from the willing agency of his disciples. We are invited to contribute to that mission, and we cannot assume that its fulfillment is not contingent, in some way, upon our energetic response.

Nonetheless, it's good to be reassured that God's "got the whole world in his hands," and that Christ, the agent of creation, is also, as the eternal Word (Logos) and Wisdom (Sophia) charged with the task of sustaining it. That's the Gospel message that reaches beyond the story of Wall-E. It's the "meta-narrative" of the redemption of humanity and of the cosmos. It sets Wall-E's Gospel, true though it may be, in the larger context of Jesus' Gospel and of the future which God has in store for humanity as uniquely the bearers of God's image. But Wall-E's Gospel reminds us that there is a story of human responsibility within the over-arching narrative of the history of the world. And perhaps an apocalyptic urgency as well.

There Will Be Blood: On Oil, Despair and Kierkegaard

If there were an Oscar category for "Best Theological Portrayal of the Consequential Effects of Sin and Despair on the Self and its Relations to God, to Oneself, and to Others," There Will Be Blood would win it hands-down. Well, it might have some stiff competition from the Cohen brothers' recent masterpiece, No Country for Old Men, but since I haven't seen it I have to guess it would go to Blood. Last time I checked, though, the Oscars don't have that category, so it may have to settle for best picture, best actor, best cinematography, or some other lame, mundane award.

In any case, this stunning portrayal of the rise and fall of a turn of the 20th-century self-made millionaire oil tycoon puts you in a slight but steady choke-hold from the opening scene and kicks you in the gut at the end. The pain is well-worth the eight bucks. The film correlates Daniel Plainview's business and financial rise with his emotional and relational demise. As one reviewer has pointed out, it's a fascinating study of the dark underside of the American experiment and of the so-called "American dream."

I am most interested, though, in how the film captures and portrays that theological slippery snake called "sin." Fifty years or so before the fictitious Daniel Plainview struck silver and then an ocean of oil under western soil, S. Kierkegaard wrote that despair is the psychological side of sin. The life of sin begins with its innocent stage as anxiety, but eventually bubbles up, like the black soupy oil of Plainview's prosperity, as despair. For Kierkegaard, despair is the breakdown of the self, when a person cannot relate rightly to God, to oneself (what one is supposed to be), or to others. Sin (and despair) is primarily for Kierkegaard a relational category. It disrupts our humanity by disordering and destroying our relationships. Despair may at first be "hidden"-- that is, not recognized for what it is. Many of us are brilliantly skilled at hiding despair. We go along in life pretending that we like people, that we are comfortable with ourselves, and when the suspicion rises in us that we're living a lie, we squelch the sensation and fill up the gaps with entertainment. We simply amuse ourselves to apathy, and divulge in enough lighthearted pleasantries that it seems like all is well-enough with the world, with ourselves, and with our fellow human beings.

Plainview cuts through all of that as his hidden despair becomes increasingly revealed. In one of his more vulnerable moments, he says, "I look at people and I see nothing worth liking." Other than his son H.W., the only person he comes close to liking he kills. For the hardened oil man, relationships are merely instrumental in his rise to the top and people merely pawns in his game. Plainview is the "Uber-Mensch" whose power over others destroys even himself. The closest he comes to authentic relationality is in the context of his psychological war with the imposter-preacher Eli Sunday. In the end (spoiler alert), all Plainview wants is authenticity from Sunday. Just admit you're a crook and that God is a fantasy for weak minds. What Plainview doesn't realize is that, as straightforwardly authentic as he appears to be, he is not living a fully human life, because he has cut himself off from God and from others. Thus, while he is true to himself, he is not a true self. Not only has his despair destroyed his relationships with the people who want to love him (e.g. his son H.W.), but it has killed his spirit and turned him away from life altogether.

If there would be a sequel, one would hope that the despair which is no longer hidden is healed somehow through the very blood he spills. In a powerful nod to the Christ-event of the Gospels, Plainview exhales in exhaustion at the end: "It is finished." The shedding of blood has long signified within Christianity the chance at new life. Could despair turn to salvation? Could the "sickness that leads to death" (Kierkegaard) be healed through an ironic and tragic culmination of the depth of despair? When despair runs its full course it either leads to death (spiritual) or it reaches the end of the rope and grasps for help. From the Christian point of view, humanity's source for hope lies in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. There we find the potential restoration of authentic relationality: to God, to oneself (what one is supposed to be), and to others.