Jindabyne
Review by John L. Ng
October, 2007
Jindabyne, the title of a little independent movie directed by Ray Lawrence and loosely based on Raymond Carver’s story “So Much Water So Close to Home”, is also a sleepy resort town in Australia. Claire (Laura Linney), an American, lives there with her Australian husband, Steward (Gabriel Byrne), and their son, Tom. Dark memories of things past between them have damaged their marriage. In brokenness, they do their best to move on but with quiet desperation. Hurting and hurtful emotions beneath their thin veneer are sipping out slowly.
What flushes their latent desperation to the surface is a gruesome discovery Steward makes while on a fishing trip with his buddies. He finds a murdered young Aboriginal woman on the river. Though horrified, inexplicably the men go back to fishing after they tie the corpse to shore with a fishing line. A day and night pass before they report it to the police while on their way home. The repercussions from the men’s depraved indifference expose a more pervasive desperation among all those involved. The story confronts us with a troublesome question: What is the moral obligation of people in community, even toward the dead? Each character reacts differently. With fresh grief and anguish, Claire, being typical American perhaps, wants to bring closure by facing the incident openly. Her Australian husband and friends, with suppressed shame and opened fury only want to move on. Meanwhile, the Aborigines in their own quiet desperation cry racism and injustice.
These varied reactions seem to suggest that gender, culture and race determine our sense of moral responsibility. As the story unfolds, a more profound pathology undergirds all those involved. Being human that they are, each is flawed with moral weakness and social blind spots. No one seems capable of perceiving reality with adequate understanding. Worst, although they mean well, each person is somewhere irresponsible in their relationships with one another. Claire and Steward live with their friends. They eat, drink, laugh and play together in community. Yet beneath the laughter and horseplay, everyone, unhappy with one another, senses that something is not quite right among them. The incident forces their true self to the surface, sometimes explosively with anger and resentment.
The movie, as an analogous to life, is painfully slow. Every frame broods slowly and begs for pathological reflections. The lingering shots of Australia’s beautiful but bleak landscape bear witness to our quiet desperation. In the opening scenes, the unexplained evil of a local electrician who murders the woman further adds to our collective pathology. The notion that his murderous motive is unexplored or unexplained contributes to the dark mystery of our flawed humanity.
Jindabyne is a somber and sobering movie. To appreciate its many dark layers, it should be watched in solitude, as I did in the middle of the night. The movie’s slow brooding allows me to brood along with contemplation. Claire and Steward in their quiet desperation are just like us. Or rather, we are just like them. They try hard to be responsible members of their community. But their shared pathos fails them. The tortured and confident words of St Paul come to mind: What a wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! Romans 7.24-25.
October, 2007
Jindabyne, the title of a little independent movie directed by Ray Lawrence and loosely based on Raymond Carver’s story “So Much Water So Close to Home”, is also a sleepy resort town in Australia. Claire (Laura Linney), an American, lives there with her Australian husband, Steward (Gabriel Byrne), and their son, Tom. Dark memories of things past between them have damaged their marriage. In brokenness, they do their best to move on but with quiet desperation. Hurting and hurtful emotions beneath their thin veneer are sipping out slowly.
What flushes their latent desperation to the surface is a gruesome discovery Steward makes while on a fishing trip with his buddies. He finds a murdered young Aboriginal woman on the river. Though horrified, inexplicably the men go back to fishing after they tie the corpse to shore with a fishing line. A day and night pass before they report it to the police while on their way home. The repercussions from the men’s depraved indifference expose a more pervasive desperation among all those involved. The story confronts us with a troublesome question: What is the moral obligation of people in community, even toward the dead? Each character reacts differently. With fresh grief and anguish, Claire, being typical American perhaps, wants to bring closure by facing the incident openly. Her Australian husband and friends, with suppressed shame and opened fury only want to move on. Meanwhile, the Aborigines in their own quiet desperation cry racism and injustice.
These varied reactions seem to suggest that gender, culture and race determine our sense of moral responsibility. As the story unfolds, a more profound pathology undergirds all those involved. Being human that they are, each is flawed with moral weakness and social blind spots. No one seems capable of perceiving reality with adequate understanding. Worst, although they mean well, each person is somewhere irresponsible in their relationships with one another. Claire and Steward live with their friends. They eat, drink, laugh and play together in community. Yet beneath the laughter and horseplay, everyone, unhappy with one another, senses that something is not quite right among them. The incident forces their true self to the surface, sometimes explosively with anger and resentment.
The movie, as an analogous to life, is painfully slow. Every frame broods slowly and begs for pathological reflections. The lingering shots of Australia’s beautiful but bleak landscape bear witness to our quiet desperation. In the opening scenes, the unexplained evil of a local electrician who murders the woman further adds to our collective pathology. The notion that his murderous motive is unexplored or unexplained contributes to the dark mystery of our flawed humanity.
Jindabyne is a somber and sobering movie. To appreciate its many dark layers, it should be watched in solitude, as I did in the middle of the night. The movie’s slow brooding allows me to brood along with contemplation. Claire and Steward in their quiet desperation are just like us. Or rather, we are just like them. They try hard to be responsible members of their community. But their shared pathos fails them. The tortured and confident words of St Paul come to mind: What a wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! Romans 7.24-25.
Breaking and Entering
Review by John L. Ng
August, 2007
The title of Anthony Minghella’s movie, Breaking and Entering, can be a synonymous phrase for “trespass.” That old fashion word is frequently used by St Paul in the Newer Testament to capture our human condition. In Ephesians 2, he observes that we all are dead in our trespasses and in need of God’s forgiveness. To trespass is breaking and entering into places we don’t belong and shouldn’t go. It is invading the space of another without consent. Everyone in the movie has trespassed and is in need of repentance and forgiveness. Whether it is the angry burglar, his distraught mother, the self-absorbed architect, his disdainful live-in companion or her autistic daughter, each needs to apologize for trespassing. In fact, “I’m Sorry” is uttered too many times by too many people in the movie for me to keep count. However, too often, their apologies are more for self cleansing than out of genuine remorse.
The story is about a successful architect, Will played by Jude Law, whose firm has opened a new office in a rough section of London as its small attempt for urban renewal. Will shares a town house with his long time companion, Liv played by Robin Wright Penn, and her autistic teenage daughter Bea. Bea’s condition, Liv’s inner struggles and Will’s self absorption strain their domestic stability as they drift slowly apart. It is further threatened by a series of office burglaries. One of the burglars, Miro, is a Bosnian refugee whose father was killed and who lives with his seamstress mother, Amira played by Juliette Binoche. Their painful past and equally painful present also threaten their relationship as well. Will meets Amira by happenstance and has an affair with her. This too threatens the other’s relationships.
Lives and families are in danger when people break and enter places where they should not go. Each is hopelessly lonely and in need of love. There are fleeting moments of hope and love between Will and Liv, Liv and Bea, Miro and Amira and even Will and Amira. But in their own flawed selves, each is guilty of breaking and entering. The names Liv and Will are too obvious of a play-on names to miss. We all want to live and have the will to make choices toward that end. There is pathos in those choices because they are very imperfect people in just as imperfect circumstances. A sub-story in the movie illustrates this human pathology we all share nicely. Sandy is Will’s business partner. He is lonely and infatuated with an office cleaning woman. She is attractive and articulate. But they come from disparaging worlds. He is privileged with entitlements and she empties other people’s garbage. Their cultural and social inequality strains their poor attempts with romance. And yet both will to live in their imperfect and hurtful choices.
Hannah Arendt in The Human Condition writes that we have two powers to cope with our human condition. We have the power of forgiveness to change our regretful past and we have the power of making and keeping promises to control our hopeful future. In Breaking and Entering, saying sorry is not enough. The trespassers will have to change their past by forgiving those who hurt them. To secure their future together, they will also need to keep the promises they have made with one another. The movie ends well when imperfect people learn to forgive and keep promises. How else can we make good of our apologies.
August, 2007
The title of Anthony Minghella’s movie, Breaking and Entering, can be a synonymous phrase for “trespass.” That old fashion word is frequently used by St Paul in the Newer Testament to capture our human condition. In Ephesians 2, he observes that we all are dead in our trespasses and in need of God’s forgiveness. To trespass is breaking and entering into places we don’t belong and shouldn’t go. It is invading the space of another without consent. Everyone in the movie has trespassed and is in need of repentance and forgiveness. Whether it is the angry burglar, his distraught mother, the self-absorbed architect, his disdainful live-in companion or her autistic daughter, each needs to apologize for trespassing. In fact, “I’m Sorry” is uttered too many times by too many people in the movie for me to keep count. However, too often, their apologies are more for self cleansing than out of genuine remorse.
The story is about a successful architect, Will played by Jude Law, whose firm has opened a new office in a rough section of London as its small attempt for urban renewal. Will shares a town house with his long time companion, Liv played by Robin Wright Penn, and her autistic teenage daughter Bea. Bea’s condition, Liv’s inner struggles and Will’s self absorption strain their domestic stability as they drift slowly apart. It is further threatened by a series of office burglaries. One of the burglars, Miro, is a Bosnian refugee whose father was killed and who lives with his seamstress mother, Amira played by Juliette Binoche. Their painful past and equally painful present also threaten their relationship as well. Will meets Amira by happenstance and has an affair with her. This too threatens the other’s relationships.
Lives and families are in danger when people break and enter places where they should not go. Each is hopelessly lonely and in need of love. There are fleeting moments of hope and love between Will and Liv, Liv and Bea, Miro and Amira and even Will and Amira. But in their own flawed selves, each is guilty of breaking and entering. The names Liv and Will are too obvious of a play-on names to miss. We all want to live and have the will to make choices toward that end. There is pathos in those choices because they are very imperfect people in just as imperfect circumstances. A sub-story in the movie illustrates this human pathology we all share nicely. Sandy is Will’s business partner. He is lonely and infatuated with an office cleaning woman. She is attractive and articulate. But they come from disparaging worlds. He is privileged with entitlements and she empties other people’s garbage. Their cultural and social inequality strains their poor attempts with romance. And yet both will to live in their imperfect and hurtful choices.
Hannah Arendt in The Human Condition writes that we have two powers to cope with our human condition. We have the power of forgiveness to change our regretful past and we have the power of making and keeping promises to control our hopeful future. In Breaking and Entering, saying sorry is not enough. The trespassers will have to change their past by forgiving those who hurt them. To secure their future together, they will also need to keep the promises they have made with one another. The movie ends well when imperfect people learn to forgive and keep promises. How else can we make good of our apologies.
Mr. Brooks
Review by John L Ng Jul 06
While leaving the theater after enjoying a thriller of a movie, Mr. Brooks, directed by Bruce A. Evans, I felt guilty. For two reasons. I was strangely attracted to Kevin Costner’s serial killer. I actually liked him and was silently rooting for him. Mr. Earl Brooks, a successful business man and the Portland Chamber of Commerce’s man of the year, is a good man. He is a devoted husband and a gentle father. When he speaks his voice is slow and soft with thoughtfulness. He is endearingly kind and patient with almost everyone. As I said, in the light of day, Mr. Brooks is a good man.
But when darkness falls on his day, he is transformed into a maniac monster who kills people in their acts of love, arranges their bodies in loving poses and meticulously vacuums the crime scene. His murderous impulses are fed by his alter ago, Marshall, played shamelessly by William Hurt. Visible only to the audience, he leans and whispers devilish thoughts of homicidal fun to Mr. Brooks’ ear.
I also felt guilty because I grinned with amusement throughout the movie. But there is nothing funny about human depravity. All the characters are dark with murderous tendencies. An amoral photographer, played by the comedian Dane Cook, catches on film Mr. Brooks in the act of murder. Instead of reporting him to the police he wants in on Mr. Brooks’ next spree. Detective Tracy Atwood, played by Demi Moore, while investigating several homicides, entertains murderous thoughts toward her cheating husband.
And then there is Mr. Brooks’ daughter, Jane. She suddenly drops out of college after a classmate has been mysteriously murdered. Instinctively, her father suspects that Jane is responsible and blurs out to Marshall, “She has what I have.” That bit of pathological insight captures what we are all afraid to admit – the dark side of our nature is passed down from generation to generation.
The omnipresence of evil is real and personified in every character. Every one is flawed with dark tendencies and every one has something sinful to hide. It was not a fun movie, but I enjoyed it. The bantering between Mr. Brooks and his alter ego makes evil fun, their whining, bullying and empathizing. That is why it was so disturbing afterwards. The movie reminded me how much I enjoy the thoughts of sin. There is an inner Marshall in all of us, conning us to believe that there is no greater pleasure than doing bad and getting away with it.
I got home and repented of my enjoyment of a dark movie. But my repentance was short lived. To complete my joy, I had to tell others how enjoyable was Mr. Brooks and urged them to go see it. But I warned that they would feel guilty for enjoying sin.
While leaving the theater after enjoying a thriller of a movie, Mr. Brooks, directed by Bruce A. Evans, I felt guilty. For two reasons. I was strangely attracted to Kevin Costner’s serial killer. I actually liked him and was silently rooting for him. Mr. Earl Brooks, a successful business man and the Portland Chamber of Commerce’s man of the year, is a good man. He is a devoted husband and a gentle father. When he speaks his voice is slow and soft with thoughtfulness. He is endearingly kind and patient with almost everyone. As I said, in the light of day, Mr. Brooks is a good man.
But when darkness falls on his day, he is transformed into a maniac monster who kills people in their acts of love, arranges their bodies in loving poses and meticulously vacuums the crime scene. His murderous impulses are fed by his alter ago, Marshall, played shamelessly by William Hurt. Visible only to the audience, he leans and whispers devilish thoughts of homicidal fun to Mr. Brooks’ ear.
I also felt guilty because I grinned with amusement throughout the movie. But there is nothing funny about human depravity. All the characters are dark with murderous tendencies. An amoral photographer, played by the comedian Dane Cook, catches on film Mr. Brooks in the act of murder. Instead of reporting him to the police he wants in on Mr. Brooks’ next spree. Detective Tracy Atwood, played by Demi Moore, while investigating several homicides, entertains murderous thoughts toward her cheating husband.
And then there is Mr. Brooks’ daughter, Jane. She suddenly drops out of college after a classmate has been mysteriously murdered. Instinctively, her father suspects that Jane is responsible and blurs out to Marshall, “She has what I have.” That bit of pathological insight captures what we are all afraid to admit – the dark side of our nature is passed down from generation to generation.
The omnipresence of evil is real and personified in every character. Every one is flawed with dark tendencies and every one has something sinful to hide. It was not a fun movie, but I enjoyed it. The bantering between Mr. Brooks and his alter ego makes evil fun, their whining, bullying and empathizing. That is why it was so disturbing afterwards. The movie reminded me how much I enjoy the thoughts of sin. There is an inner Marshall in all of us, conning us to believe that there is no greater pleasure than doing bad and getting away with it.
I got home and repented of my enjoyment of a dark movie. But my repentance was short lived. To complete my joy, I had to tell others how enjoyable was Mr. Brooks and urged them to go see it. But I warned that they would feel guilty for enjoying sin.
Shooter
Review by John L. Ng
April, 2007
Shooter is an action movie about men with guns, betrayal and revenge. A military sniper, Bob Lee Swagger, played by Mark Wahlberg, during a clandestine operation is betrayed by his superiors. He retreats to the woods, living a monastic existence with his dog and a vegetable garden. He seems at peace in solitude, but the world is not at peace or in solitude. Recruited on a pretense to foil an assassination plot, Swagger is once again betrayed. The story untwines in relentless gunfights, explosions, car chases and sprawling corpses. Volume and violence are cranked high and inexplicable when he bends on revenge.
Amazing Grace is a period movie about William Wilberforce (b.1759) who helped end the slave trade in the British Empire. To live out his faith as an evangelical Christian and social conservative, Wilberforce opens his aristocratic home to the underprivileged. He dreams of a monk’s pastoral life but is sought by friends to take part in the abolition movement. Reluctantly at first, he becomes a tireless and near fanatical crusader. His powerful political foes seek to do him and his causes harm, but we hope that good always triumphs and a good man like Wilberforce will win. The movie title is from a hymn composed by John Newton, a former slave trader and Wilberforce’s earlier year pastor and latter year mentor.
These two movies of different genres and plots have much in common in their subtexts. Both stories have to do with an individual who seeks to find meaning and significance in a very broken world. Swagger and Wilberforce are good men with good souls. They try to be good, make good and do good. However, Swagger, in a trail of betrayals, sees the world through cynical eyes. In much of the movie, he is weary, angry and always alone. He trusts no one and no one should trust him. His love interest, spunky and strong, played by Kate Mara, proves trustworthy only after much travail. Ultimately he seeks revenge with his own brand of justice. The audience is sympathetic, trusting that he is a good man and has done the right thing.
Plagued by physical maladies and many disappointments, Wilberforce is also weary of a broken world. The wind of history blows strongly and turns his mere existence topsy-turvy. He too retreats into his own sense of wellbeing. If there is cynicism in him, it is well guarded by good friends and his confidence in divine providence. Wilberforce is never alone. At home or in Parliament, there is a constant community of trusted and trusting friends who provide consolation, courage and comfort. Several brief poignant scenes with John Newton, played by Albert Finney, to find his paths shows a man who needs others and whom others need.
Both movies are good entertainment in different ways. Shooter is loud and fast. I am at the edge of my seat, tense and anxious. At the end, my innate sense of jurisprudence is instantly satisfied but not without lingering doubts after I leave the theater. Amazing Grace is quiet and slow. I am comfortable in my seat. The story has a strong whiff of Anglican piety but it is not stale. It begs me to believe that with God and a little help from friends good will ultimately win. With Wilberforce, I want to believe in the worst way.
April, 2007
Shooter is an action movie about men with guns, betrayal and revenge. A military sniper, Bob Lee Swagger, played by Mark Wahlberg, during a clandestine operation is betrayed by his superiors. He retreats to the woods, living a monastic existence with his dog and a vegetable garden. He seems at peace in solitude, but the world is not at peace or in solitude. Recruited on a pretense to foil an assassination plot, Swagger is once again betrayed. The story untwines in relentless gunfights, explosions, car chases and sprawling corpses. Volume and violence are cranked high and inexplicable when he bends on revenge.
Amazing Grace is a period movie about William Wilberforce (b.1759) who helped end the slave trade in the British Empire. To live out his faith as an evangelical Christian and social conservative, Wilberforce opens his aristocratic home to the underprivileged. He dreams of a monk’s pastoral life but is sought by friends to take part in the abolition movement. Reluctantly at first, he becomes a tireless and near fanatical crusader. His powerful political foes seek to do him and his causes harm, but we hope that good always triumphs and a good man like Wilberforce will win. The movie title is from a hymn composed by John Newton, a former slave trader and Wilberforce’s earlier year pastor and latter year mentor.
These two movies of different genres and plots have much in common in their subtexts. Both stories have to do with an individual who seeks to find meaning and significance in a very broken world. Swagger and Wilberforce are good men with good souls. They try to be good, make good and do good. However, Swagger, in a trail of betrayals, sees the world through cynical eyes. In much of the movie, he is weary, angry and always alone. He trusts no one and no one should trust him. His love interest, spunky and strong, played by Kate Mara, proves trustworthy only after much travail. Ultimately he seeks revenge with his own brand of justice. The audience is sympathetic, trusting that he is a good man and has done the right thing.
Plagued by physical maladies and many disappointments, Wilberforce is also weary of a broken world. The wind of history blows strongly and turns his mere existence topsy-turvy. He too retreats into his own sense of wellbeing. If there is cynicism in him, it is well guarded by good friends and his confidence in divine providence. Wilberforce is never alone. At home or in Parliament, there is a constant community of trusted and trusting friends who provide consolation, courage and comfort. Several brief poignant scenes with John Newton, played by Albert Finney, to find his paths shows a man who needs others and whom others need.
Both movies are good entertainment in different ways. Shooter is loud and fast. I am at the edge of my seat, tense and anxious. At the end, my innate sense of jurisprudence is instantly satisfied but not without lingering doubts after I leave the theater. Amazing Grace is quiet and slow. I am comfortable in my seat. The story has a strong whiff of Anglican piety but it is not stale. It begs me to believe that with God and a little help from friends good will ultimately win. With Wilberforce, I want to believe in the worst way.