Horton Hear a Who (Seuss and the Dangers of Prophecy)

After the disaster that was the film adaptations of both How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Cat in the Hat, I decided to skip the recently made Horton Hears a Who animated film when it came to theaters. I just wasn't sure if I could see another example of my cherished childhood stories being translated into something "hip" and modern.

Thankfully, my local Blockbuster forced me to rethink my decision. Playing across one of the screens, used to sell Blu-Ray technology, I caught the very beginning of the film. And instantly, I was reminded of just how powerful of a story the Horton fable is, as is most of Seuss' work. What I hadn't realized as a child and didn't fully recognize until watching the animated variant as an adult is that at the core of the story is a call for brave prophecy and counter-culture action.

Much criticism and analysis has been offered to the Horton story as a post-WW2 allegory for the relationship between the United States and occupied Japan, presenting the United States as the protectors of a once proud, now humbled people. But more has to be read into this from an author of Seuss' background.

Seuss did a series of fairly incendiary political cartoons that depicted Japanese soldiers in the stereotypical racist style of the time. These cartoons have become something of an infamous portion of Seuss' career, showing the darker (and more human) of an otherwise beloved figure. It is not hard to see how Seuss' could have taken the situation seriously and personally; as a German-American who found the harsh actions of Hitler's fascism as an affront to humanity, he needed someone to post his anger and hatred on. Unable to demonize the Germans, like many other Germanic Americans, Seuss turned to the Japanese. Seuss once explained his relentless attack on the Japanese this way:

But right now, when the Japs are planting their hatchets in our skulls, it seems like a hell of a time for us to smile and warble: "Brothers!" It is a rather flabby battle cry. If we want to win, we’ve got to kill Japs?, whether it depresses John Haynes Holmes or not. We can get palsy-walsy afterward with those that are left.

So how is it that this man, who saw no difference between the Imperialist Japanese and Japanese-American immigrants, can get to the point to actually dedicate one of his books, one of his most beloved books, to a Japanese friend? Especially a story with the conviction that "A person's a person, no matter how small." That is a fairly unitarian message from someone who before adopted a rather "us versus them approach."

And even within the story, Seuss acknowledges that as simple as an idiom as this might seem, it has a dangerous ring to it. Horton's love and care of the Who's is not met with great acclaim. Rather, it is seen as an affront to the status quo, to the very stable nature of the jungle. The other members of the jungle are so shocked by the fact he can hear people on the tiniest speck (thanks to his relatively large ears, Horton can hear what others can't; this does the job standing in for the Bible's preferred symbol of vision), that they actually tie him up in ropes and throw him in a cage.

Being a prophet is dangerous. It is not just dangerous for the prophet, but for the society receiving the prophecy too. But as we see in the parallel story of the Who's reluctant to listen to their wise men (in the book and original Chuck Jones cartoon, Professor Whovee; in the more recent CGI cartoon, the Mayor of Whoville), that their reluctance to listen can make things far more dangerous. It is only by finally listening and raising their voices, every last one of them, are they saved at the last moment. Indeed, the danger (and sad commonness) of people not listening to their prophets is shown on both sides of the story. In one example, Whoville is almost destroyed by their sloth and inaction; in the other, Whoville is almost boiled to oblivion by fear and ignorance.

That latter example is probably the one that hit closest to home for Seuss.

The Day the Earth Stood Still

In 1951, the original version of The Day the Earth Stood Still served as a sort of message of the cultural climate of anxiety of the time. In the still fresh radioactive afterglow of a WW2 victory, America was both excited and worried about its new found place at the forefront of an increasingly smaller Earth. The film, considered even now a classic of the golden era of 50s science fiction filmmaking, reflected on the fears of atomic power, authoritarian rule and what seemed (and still seems) like a technological advancement gone out of control.

The film also had a sense of religious and spiritual importance to it, specifically around the figure of Klaatu, wise alien visitor who's visage looked remarkably human. Played with cool authority by Michael Rennie, Klaatu's Christ-status is firmly set in the final moments of the film, where he is resurrected, delivers a final if somewhat ambiguous charge to those that have gathered around his spaceship and then accends into the sky with Gort, his robot guardian. Screenwriter Edmund North admitted to the Christ-parellels in the Klaatu character, although he always depicted them as being subtle. In reality, they are a single part of a much larger statement.

In the contemporary remake, starring the much less charismatic but far more alien Keanu Reeves in Klaatu role, similar Biblical allusions abound. The central point of the film is, like its predeccesor, a group of extraterrestial authorities have been made nervous by the actions of humans on earth. However, unlike the first film, the concern is not for the other alien planets near Earth (atomic power in the hands of such a relatively underdeveloped race makes them anxious, even more so than our own anxieties,) but for the Earth itself. The sins of global warming and poor ecological planning and stewardship are used to prove that the people of the planet Earth are unworthy to live, threatening the precious gift they have been given. "If humans survive, Earth dies. If humans die, Earth survives," Klaatu explains coldly to a reasonably concerned Jennifer Connelly, standing in as the prime defense for the fate of humanity.

The religious implications and allusions are fairly apparent in the set-up, reminding most prominently of the twin Genesis stories of Noah's flood and Sodom and Gomorrah. (In a moment of cringe-worthy exposition, the Noah comparison is bluntly explained to the viewer.) An authority (or in this case, collection of authorities) from above decide that the inferior humans are so wicked in their desires that they no longer deserve to live. They must be cleansed away for the planet and all of its other life to thrive. This judgement may seem harsh and cold, but really, it is also an act of love. As Klaatu himself explains, he doesn't come to save or destroy humanity, but rather to save the Earth. As Agent Smith from the Matrix would say, humanity is a cancer that must be exercised from the body of the planet, or it will become choked and wither.

The turn comes in the realization by Klaatu and other members of his unnamed races finally realizing that humans, for all their dangerous, destructive personality flaws, are also capable of great things, as well as capable of change. The final proof for Klaatu is the love Connelly's character has for her dead husband's son. They have no genetic bond, yet she loves him like her own. Through her love, his pain and the bond they create, Klaatu is convinced that these are a people capable of great things. In the final moments of the film, he speaks the most magic of all magic words in sci-fi, "Klaatu barada nikto", releasing humanity in the last moment from ultimate judgment.

The end is left ambiguous, much like its inspiration, leaving the fate of the earth in the hands of the audience. We are given the choice: to succumb to the great dangers of our destructive spirit, or appeal to the power of our ability for change, reform and most importantly love, for our families and our planet. And while there is no rainbow provided by Klaatu as he leaves Earth, he does explain that the direction of where we go now is our decision, with free will and commission to do great or terrible things. It is a heavy and daunting order.

W.

While this entry isn't firmly in the stated purpose of the blog, I have been thinking about this film since I saw it and so feel compelled to write my impressions.

It goes without saying that the current President isn't terribly popular. When respected newsmen like Paul Begala can say pretty inflammatory things about him without anyone arguing back, it is clear that our confidence in our country's leadership is at an all-time low. It is one of the main reasons I'd say that the country's eyeballs have been glued to the Presidential race like never before: after what the majority of America views as an eight-year costly mistake, we are ready to look forward and see where we can stumble towards now.

Except, one man is still looking backwards. Oliver Stone has made a biopic about a standing president, an unprecedented gesture from one of America's most enigmatic filmmakers. Stone's films are liberal, psychedelic and in many ways prophetic. He isn't afraid to criticize the country he loves, in the hope that through his criticism he challenges us to be better ourselves.

Thus it comes as a shock that W. is a largely sympathetic view of the man. Yes, Bush is presented as being conservative, short-sighted and a man of limited intellect (though Stone goes to great effort to push the idea that Bush's memory and personal skills are actually exceptional if nor admirable). But he is also presented through Josh Brolin's depiction as a complicated and tragic figure, a man who loves his country, his wife and, yes, his God.

I would argue that Bush is not the villain of the film, but he certainly isn't the protagonist either. Throughout the film, Bush feels the need to remind people that he is the President of the United States, or as he defines that role, the Decider. He makes the final choice in all cases. That is his power. He pushes the button, controls the pen.

Only, of course, he has no control over his destiny. He surrounds himself with dangerous men (most chillingly Richard Dreyfuss' Oscar-worthy turn as Dick Cheney) who have much less pure motives, but know which buttons to push to get W. on their side. Stone argues that Bush bought into his own smoke operation, that his movements against Iraq were based on his personal hate of Saddam Hussein and his desire to protect his country, not on the greed for oil that Cheney in the film openly states in the reason for this war.

The lasting image of the film, for me, is Bush as a man of great passion and personable character with limited vision. Throughout the film, we are reminded what a serious sports fan Bush is. He knows baseball the way that we expect presidents to know foreign relations. He is shown watching college football constantly in the height of his political difficulties. This obsession seems to shed some light on the limit of his political vision; Bush has generated much criticism for his "you're either with us or against us" stance, but the dichotomy perfectly reflects the mind-set of someone who views the world as a sports contest. Near the end of the film, Bush states his frustration and belief that there is Good and Evil in the world, and it is Good's responsibility to fight Evil.

There is no room for discussion or any gray area in that world view. And for Stone, that seems to be where Bush has fallen short and hurt our nation; we don't live in simple, black and white times. And we never have.

The Films of Brad Bird

Paul O'Brien, one of my favorite cultural bloggers, in his review of Ratatouille commented that the Brad Bird's two Pixar films are essentially a celebration of "well-founded elitism." The argument goes something like this: both The Incredibles and Ratatouille are about what can be described as supernaturally gifted people/animals that should not be ashamed of their gifts that they've been given and "true excellence should be celebrated."

All of that is certainly an interesting view of things, but I also can't help but think it is also a bit short-sighted. Yes, both Remy the Rat and the Parr family are displayed as being exceptional. But they also aren't shown as being perfect, or necessarily better than anyone else. The Parrs especially are shown as being jealous, self-obsessed and otherwise human throughout the film. Yes, they are heroes, and yes, in the end they do the right thing. But to say that they are elite or in some way elevated from common people seems to miss the point somewhat.

The Incredibles' core is about not merely taking charge of those exceptional qualities, but using those gifts towards bettering the world. To use the classic Stan Lee axiom, the Parrs learn that with great power, great responsibility isn't far behind. When Mr. Incredible sees victimization, he can't help but think that he should do something. There is a core somewhere in him, beneath that narcissistic streak (his own elitist tendencies) is a person called to selfless service of the world. Within the model of the superhero, Mr. Incredible serves as an example of doing the right thing with the ability you've been given.

While Ratatouille is certainly less flashy than Incredibles, it is no less prophetic in its charge to better the world in any way that you can. Remy the Rat is a gifted chef, due to his amazing sense of smell and taste. He is also an outcast; his rattiness causes him to be a reject due to his refined tastes not exactly being appreciated within his clan. So like many artists, he has to find his own place in the world, and figure out a way to express himself somehow, a wanderer without a home.

He finds his soul mate in Alfredo Linguini, the nervous but well-intentioned garbage boy who also has no family any more. Alfredo, who has no skill in cooking (like most of us, I'd assume) , needs a job, and has his last chance in the kitchen of the late Gusteau. Soon, a symbiotic relationship is created: Remy gets a home and gets to do his favorite thing and cook, Alfredo keeps his job and starts to get some fame. Remy and Alfredo help each other, and in the kitchen Remy quite literally moves Alfredo, reflecting the way some believe that people are "moved" by the spirit. Remy serves as a guide to Alfredo's hand, helping him to make excellent food for people.

But haute cuisine is really an elitist skill, isn't it? There is certainly a celebration of foodyism throughout the film, as well as a not so subtle condemnation of mass-produced frozen food. But what is more life-affirming, to say nothing of life-giving than food? It is one of the staples of human existence and community; there are several scenes throughout the film, including one prodigal sonesque party among the rats upon Remy's return that show the gathering of people around food; it is what initially binds Remy and Alfredo together.

As if to make the point, the film ends with the heartless Anton Ego being fed "peasant food," the titular dish. Instead of taking notes and critiquing the meal, he has a flashback to his childhood and how his soul would be lifted when his mother fed him. Food binds us, makes us human and keeps us alive. Remy's skill is feeding people, which is one of the things that Christ calls people to do: feed the hungry. Ratatouille may never feed the physically hungry, but he sees a hunger and emptiness in Anton Ego that needs to be fed as well.

Strange Days

"Memories were meant to fade. They're designed that way for a reason."

I first encountered Strange Day during a “Women Making Films” class at the University of Iowa. Within that context, the film devastates; a meditation on the roll that women have played in popular film and their victimization in American society, there seems to be little redemption in its narrative. The film’s most infamous scene is a rape scene shown from a first-person perspective, not exploitative but functioning as an indictment of the audience. Both director Kathryn Bigelow and screenwriter James Cameron seem to be asking the audience, “How can you live with this? How can you look away? What if you couldn’t?”

Thus I was shocked when our professor argued that the film’s primary theme is one of hope. This movie? The film where almost every single woman is either a victim or a leech? The film where the MacGuffin of the plot is a snuff film of a prophetic African-American rapper, recalling both the Rodney King beating and the killing of Tupac Shakur? Strange Days is a futuristic film noir written by one of science fiction’s most skeptical and cynical voices. So how can it possible be a story about hope?

There are two central characters of Strange Days. The first is Lenny Nero (played with contagious nervous energy by Ralph Fiennes), a former police officer turned drug dealer. Nero is like his namesake in the sense that while Los Angeles is quite literally burning down around him due to ongoing racial riots, he is still peddling his product to the underbelly. To raise the stakes even higher, Nero’s drug of choice is SQUID recordings, the memories and experiences recorded and sold to Nero for duplication. As Nero explains to a potential client, “this is not ‘Like TV, only better’…this is a piece of somebody’s life,” completely realized as if the user was in the skin. In a very scientific sense, Nero buys and sells souls in a city where no one has one.

Of course, Nero is every bit of Faust as well; he’s been recording his own life for years and often replays his favorite memories in his moments alone. When he is with his clients or his friends, Nero is cool, confident and charismatic; alone, he’s lost himself. He lives in a perpetual state of nostalgia and sentimentality. We see him reliving a romantic evening with his girlfriend Faith; through this (admittedly heavy-handed) moment, we realize what Nero misses. He is a man searching for his Faith, both the woman who left him and his belief in the inherent goodness of people. But living at the bottom can make it hard to see the sun.

The second main character is Los Angeles itself. Every character that Nero encounters represents different aspects of the city’s tortured soul. The crooked police, the prostitutes, Nero’s clients, Nero himself: everyone is searching for their own personal salvation. The city is cast in fire and smoke. The only person we see who has risen is Mace, a single mother who protects Nero, despite her better judgment.

In the end, it is Mace who sees that both Nero and Los Angeles aren’t beyond saving. She knows the good man that Nero once was (he was there when the father of her child was arrested); and she knows that Los Angeles doesn’t have to be the same forever, that just as the millennium is coming to a close, so is the old way of things. It is by Mace’s actions that the truth about Jeriko One are revealed and on a personal level, she convinces Nero that he needs to stop living in the past and try to live for the future, for what she calls “Real Time.”

In the final moments of the film, Nero and Los Angeles find themselves facing both their past (the truth about Faith or the brutal killing of Jeriko One/Rodney King) and facing their future, not with fear but with a certain boldness. And by entering the new world, what the film calls 2K, both Nero and Los Angeles are saved from themselves.

Cameron, when asked why he wrote the film, puts it best: “I…wanted to do a…redemption motif. I always had in mind the fate of this one guy, Lenny Nero, and his ability to find what’s right and what’s wrong. If one person can elevate themselves or redeem themselves, then…we all can.” This is the core of the hidden hope of Strange Days: that none of us, even the least of these is beyond hope, beyond a new start and a new self.

A blog is born...

Consider this a statement of purpose.

This blog is an experiment of mine. I plan to use it as a space where I can post my thoughts and critique on the ongoing conversation between personal spirituality, the mission of the church and the shared narrative of American popular culture. I hope to make these writings both accessible and thought-provoking. I aim to challenge both the reader and the author (that's me) on the understood and accepted boundaries we have set up between the secular and religious life. My firm belief is that the role of the Christian church is not to reject the culture that it lives in, but rather to view it through a counter-cultural lens. By critiquing and dissecting our culture, we can discover new religious experiences unique of the 21st century. If we reject popular culture as unholy or irrelevant, we as believers shut ourselves out from a very important window into our shared culture.

I am indebted to the writings of Tom Beaudoin, Rodney Clapp, David Dark and Greg Garrett. Their bold and groundbreaking writing on serious religious contemplation of popular cultural is both inspiring and intimidating. I walk humbly in their footsteps and hope I can only do the trail they are blazing proud.

I am also grateful for the mentoring of Rabbi Jay Holstein, who opened my eyes to the interconnections between holy scripture and popular film and literature. I am thankful for the pastoral leadership and guidance of Dan DeLeon, Wallace Bubar and Marcus McFaul. I would not have the strength of faith and eagerness to question and learn that I have today if not for their example and ministry.

And finally, thanks be to the almighty mystery that is our God, embodied in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. May my works through this blog glorify the greatness that is the Creator, Son and Holy Spirit, and may his will be done through the contemplations of my heart. Amen.



Just to give an idea of what to expect, my first short essay will be on the redemptive narrative of Kathryn Bigelow's daring sci-fi film noir, Strange Days.