Theology + Movies

Ad hoc reflections on cinematic depth

Category: 2016 films

Arrival (dir. Denis Villeneuve, 2016)

Most science-fiction films exchange intimacy for spectacle. This is as true for popcorn flicks such as Independence Day (1996) as it is for classics such as 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). And perhaps there is good reason for this tendency. After all, the reality of existence in space or on planets beyond our own, not to mention the uncanny possibility of extraterrestrial life, naturally boggles the mind, asking us to imagine what we otherwise cannot experience or describe. To encounter the transcendent is to encounter the sublime.

And yet, on occasion, a piece of science-fiction comes along that is able to cast new light on very earthly and all too human concerns and questions. Arrival is an example of such a work. Based on Ted Chiang’s 1998 novella “Story of Your Life,” Arrival centers on a linguist named Louise Banks (Amy Adams), who is thrust into a dire situation when twelve alien spacecraft alight on various points around the Earth. In a series of suspenseful scenes, handled with aplomb by Quebecois director Denis Villeneuve, Louise is able to establish a relationship with the inhabitants of one of the alien ships. She acquires the rudiments of their language, realizing that its circular written form bears a certain way of perceiving reality — namely, as a whole, without a beginning or an end.

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This language of the “heptapods” (as the aliens are called) contrasts with linear and thus formally temporal languages such as English, and, in learning it, Louise comes to see the future or, perhaps more accurately, the world from the perspective of eternity. It is a power that both enlightens and aggrieves, giving her insight not only into the crisis with the aliens, but also into a tragedy that will one day befall her.

Thus Arrival‘s tense plot is actually in service to a poignant question: would you turn down an opportunity for love, if you knew it would entail suffering? This is a heartrending question precisely because it is a universal one. All human beings must, on some level, decide whether or not they will choose to love — that is to say, to will to live and to seek the good of the other — in the face of certain pain and death. And though that choice is not always easy, it is one that most people continue to make and to make in the belief that life is worthwhile, even beautiful.

This fact is not necessarily theological, at least not on the surface. One need not see life and love as transcendent goods in order to value them, even if there is a genuine discussion to be had about the philosophical coherence of such a view. But Arrival does not engage this issue discursively. Instead, its sci-fi premise lends itself to a theological reading. Upon the arrival (or, one is tempted to say, advent) of the heptapods, there is great fear about what will happen next. As it turns out, however, the aliens come bearing gifts, especially the gift of a new way of attending to reality. Their circular “frame” is not understood by all, but, for Louise, it is nothing short of a revelation. She sees time from a transcendent point of view, her life as part of a larger whole. This perspective does not take away her freedom, but it does cast her freedom in a new light. The heptapods give her the strength to move forward by showing her what is to come — the joy, the beauty, and the pain. She comes to exemplify what Kierkegaard writes in his 1845 discourse “At a Graveside”: “Let death keep its power, ‘that it is over,’ but let life also keep the right to work while it is day; and let the earnest person seek the thought of death as an aid in that work.” Further, the heptapodic language makes Louise more empathic, allowing her to reach out to others who are suffering, even when just this vulnerability appears risky.

In short, Louise has received the gift to begin at the end or, indeed, to see the end as an opportunity to begin — a gift that could be understood in, say, Heideggerian terms but, in any case, clearly and strongly resonates with Christianity’s attempt to frame time from the perspective of the eternal. Here it is also worth noting (however provisionally) the “linguistic turn” in Christian theology, whereby doctrine is viewed as a kind of “grammar,” allowing those who are “fluent” in it to see life in a particular way. The strengths and weaknesses of this approach remain debatable, but Arrival highlights its significance nonetheless. In portraying the acquisition of an eternal language, the film calls attention to how words (or grammars) can open meaning to us — or close it.

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Silence (dir. Martin Scorsese, 2016)

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One of the more astonishing things about Martin Scorsese’s Silence is that it is not obviously his work. In other words, while Silence has been celebrated as a labor of love for Scorsese, there really isn’t much “scorseseing” in it — no Brooklyn accents, no “Gimme Shelter” (in fact, hardly any non-diegetic music at all), and limited use of freeze frame, tracking shots, and other quintessential Scorsese techniques. Indeed, it would be forgivable if one were to confuse Silence with the work of a Dreyer or a Bresson or even a Malick. It is a reserved, thoughtful, even aloof film, and therein lies both its strengths and weaknesses.

Scorsese had wanted to make Silence since the late 1980s, when he first encountered the eponymous novel on which it is based. Penned by the great Japanese writer, Shusaku Endo, Silence [沈黙] met with critical acclaim upon its release in 1966, winning the Tanizaki Prize as a work of the “highest literary merit.” Since then, its stature has only increased, garnering a notable body of secondary literature and emerging as a “classic” of historical and religious fiction. Indeed, Scorsese’s film is the third cinematic adaptation of Endo’s novel: the noted Japanese auteur Masahiro Shinoda released a version in 1971, and Portuguese director João Grilo offered his own take in 1996. Hence, for all of the talk about Silence being a “passion project” for Scorsese, it is also true that his film falls in a long line of responses to Endo’s novel. This point is essential in understanding the film, lest one see Scorsese’s version as an independent work — say, an expression of his own pious yet pained relation to Catholicism or a bona fide contribution to films about “white saviors.” To whatever extent such perspectives are valid, it is far more accurate to say that Silence really isn’t about Scorsese at all. Qua director, he recedes into the background of the film, thereby implying that Endo’s story is sufficiently powerful on its own.

And what of that story? The plot is, indeed, simple enough. Set in the seventeenth century — several decades after the Jesuit missionary, Francis Xavier, brought Christianity to Japan in 1549 — Silence centers on a trio of Jesuit priests. The first is Fr. Cristóvão Ferreira (Liam Neeson), a Portuguese missionary to Japan, rumored to have renounced his faith when Japanese authorities began to persecute Christians. Dismayed by Ferreira’s alleged apostasy, two of his young pupils — Fr. Sebastião Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield, who intensively prepared for his role) and Fr. Francisco Garupe (Adam Driver, in a striking performance) — journey to Japan in order to rescue him. Yet, upon arriving in Japan, they encounter a situation even more desperate than they had imagined. The last remaining Christians in the land, almost uniformly fishermen and peasants, are forced to practice their faith in secret. What’s more, the shogunal authorities carry out periodic trials, where persons are required to repudiate Christianity in public, typically by stepping on an icon [fumi-e] of Jesus or of the Madonna and Child. Some Japanese Christians disavow their faith, but many do not, and they are tortured and often executed. Perhaps the most stunning example of this torment, both in the novel and in Scorsese’s adaptation, is the days-long process of crucifying Christians at sea:

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As the tide comes in, the water creeps up to the victims’ necks — and even higher; those who don’t drown are eventually done in by exposure and exhaustion. Scorsese, like Endo, depicts this event with judicious restraint: there is nothing glorious in such suffering, at least not recognizably so. Indeed, as the film continues, and as the persecution intensifies, doubts begin to gnaw at Rodrigues and Garupe. What are they supposed to do for the faithful? To leave Japan would be to abandon them, but to stay exposes them to danger. After all, the victims are not only dying in order to preserve their faith, but also to protect the last two priests in Japan. And yet, there is a bigger problem: why does God allow such hatred and oppression? If the suffering of the poor and the humble doesn’t incite God’s justice, what will? Is there even a God at all?

Ultimately — and without giving away too much — it is Rodrigues who is forced to wrestle with these questions most acutely. That Scorsese (again, like Endo) leaves his fate in doubt ensures that the story never becomes trite or grandiose. But he is making a theological point is as well. The English word “silence” comes from the Latin silere, which means “to be quiet or still.” Thus “silence” is not a making or a taking; it is a passio, a “suffering.” The one who is silent is one who relinquishes control.

It makes sense, then, to name a story about suffering Silence. But the suffering depicted in Silence is not just any suffering. It is, first and foremost, a suffering modeled after Jesus Christ, who remained silent under persecution (Mt 26:63) and finally was put to death on the cross. Endo’s novel makes this connection clear when Rodrigues is faced with the decision to step on the fumi-e: “Trample!” he hears Jesus say, “It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world.” In his abasement, Rodrigues comes to know the abased Christ far more intimately than he had before. He comes to know not only the humility of Jesus’ life, but also the humility of God’s patience with humanity — a patience that he, stripped of his identity and vocation, now needs in the utmost.

To be sure, the insights gained from suffering are often the most incisive, if also the most painful. And perhaps few things explain Christianity’s perseverance as well as its insistence that humility and suffering are virtues that teach us about, and lead us to, the divine. Both Endo and Scorsese seem to grasp this point well, both as Christians and as artists, though many in the media have seen it otherwise. Silence has been criticized for being too long, too boring, and, ironically, too quiet, and it has generally struggled during “awards season,” garnering but a single Oscar nomination. Some of these criticisms are fair. Silence lacks the dash and flair of Scorsese’s best work, and one senses that he let (!) his devotion to the subject matter govern his direction. But, in another sense, isn’t that the point?

I end with an anecdote: I saw Silence in Center City, Philadelphia in early January, roughly a week before its general release in the United States. The previous weekend I had seen Manchester by the Sea in a suburban theater; it was packed, and spectators were crying throughout the film. However, when the end credits began to roll, audience members quickly got up and made their way toward the exits.

Silence was different. Though the crowd was a bit smaller and less conspicuous than that of Manchester by the Sea, no one budged as the film came to a close. Moreover, there was hardly any talking; it was as quiet as a theater could be. I was surprised. My initial feeling was that Silence was a good, not great, Scorsese film. But as the audience’s contemplatio persisted, punctuated only by the nature sounds accompanying the end credits, it occurred to me that Scorsese’s film had met its objective. Silence was never about him or “awards season.” As with much religious art, it is meant to elicit self-reflection and to open up a space where God, known negatively through human impoverishment, might be encountered. It is a “passion project,” after all.

Manchester by the Sea (dir. Kenneth Lonergan, 2016)

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Midway through Kenneth Lonergan’s acclaimed film, Manchester by the Sea, sixteen-year-old Patrick Chandler (Lucas Hedges) complains that his mother’s fiancé is “pretty Christian.” He delivers this observation with a hint of adolescent sarcasm, as if being “pretty Christian” is not only peculiar but, indeed, absurd. Listening to him is his uncle, Lee (Casey Affleck), who dryly responds: “You know, we’re Christian, too, right?” It is, in many respects, a throwaway scene — a bit of conversational filler as Lee and Patrick run errands in this picturesque town north of Boston. And yet, as the film unfolds, it takes on increased significance, as Manchester by the Sea is a film about the possibility (or, better yet, the impossibility) of redemption.

Lonergan’s screenplay — which almost certainly will receive an Oscar nomination — is a masterclass in narrative structure, navigating between past and present with devastating economy. The story centers on Lee, a Boston-area handyman, who spends his days doing thankless jobs for apartment clients and his nights in expressionless solitude, beer in hand. Yet, when Lee’s older brother dies of a heart attack, he is called to Manchester-by-the-Sea to handle the funeral arrangements and to assume custody of Patrick. Lee handles the former task with guarded efficiency, as if it were an extension of his job, but the latter task proves far more troubling. Patrick is a challenging responsibility, whose social calendar is as active as his personal life messy, and Lee is faced with the burden of possibly uprooting him from Manchester or leaving him with his alcoholic mother (Gretchen Mol, in a poignant cameo). But there is an additional, and even more dolorous, complication. In a horrifying flashback, it is revealed that Lee and his ex-wife, Randi (Michelle Williams, another likely Oscar nominee), once suffered a catastrophe of incomprehensible proportions, and, in the wake of that event, Lee no longer feels capable of relationships, to say nothing of raising a young man. He simply wants to return to Boston and (quite literally, since he lives in a one-room basement apartment) bury himself underground. What’s more, many of the residents of Manchester feel the same way, effectively rendering the judgment of Job’s wife: “Dost thou still retain thine integrity? Curse God, and die” (Job 2:9).

In the end, then, Manchester by the Sea boils down to this dilemma: will Lee choose to live (with all of the consequences of that decision, from caring for Patrick to reconciling with Randi), or will he choose to die? Indeed, it is a heartrending scenario, made all the more so by Affleck’s mournful performance. And though Lonergan seems to want to avoid neat answers, there is no doubt that his film is, finally, a tragedy. But what is a “tragedy”? It is a term that, despite a curious etymology, refers to “a play or literary work that has an unhappy ending.” In his Poetics, Aristotle argues that good tragedies bear the following characteristics:

  1. A protagonist with a basic flaw (ἁμαρτία) in his or her personality.
  2. A radical change in the protagonist’s fortune (περιπέτεια), due to this flaw.
  3. The consequent revelation or discovery (ἀναγνώρισις) of the protagonist’s true identity.
  4. The arousal of pity and fear in the tragedy’s spectators, which, in turn, brings about their own emotional purification (κάθαρσις).

Manchester by the Sea certainly exhibits the first three of these qualities, and, based on the audible sniffles and sobs in the theater, it achieved the fourth trait as well. Hence, as a formal exercise, it’s hard to conclude that Lonergan’s film is anything but a success. And yet, it is also for that reason that Manchester seemed deficient. It was as if I could hear Lonergan ponder: “What do I have to do to make Lee’s situation truly unbearable — indeed, tragic?” In that sense, I never fully accepted Lee’s περιπέτεια; rather than an organic occurrence, it felt contrived and, when combined with the other calamities facing the Chandler family (divorce, untimely death, unemployment, attempted suicide, alcoholism, ostracism, etc.), pretentiously overblown.

But I had a deeper concern, which recalls the reference to Christianity mentioned at the outset. As a tragedy, Manchester by the Sea effectively forecloses on the redemption of its protagonist: Lee confesses that he “can’t beat” his affliction and chooses to suffer his failure alone. Such a conclusion kindles our pity and fear (as it should), but it contradicts Lee’s profession of Christianity — a faith that, as Dante famously illustrated, is a comedy rather than a tragedy. That is to say, Christianity never stops at the cross but, rather, concludes with the resurrection and the ascension. Yes, it grants the pain of death, but this pain is slowly but surely overcome by love and, indeed, by Life itself. Despite featuring ostensibly Christian characters, Manchester by the Sea never seriously entertains this possibility. Its world is a world bereft of “good news.”

Needless to say, it would be surprising if Lonergan were unaware of this absence. Perhaps he’s commenting on the recalcitrance of human nature in the face of adversity? Perhaps he’s suggesting that, even if the rites and symbols of Christianity remain, we live in the era of the death of God? Whatever the case, in offering a tragedy for contemporary viewers, Manchester by the Sea takes us back in time…before Christianity, when the alluring yet haunting worldviews of Aeschylus and Sophocles reigned — an Oedipus Rex for our age.

Hacksaw Ridge (dir. Mel Gibson, 2016)

Hacksaw Ridge may be a number of things — the most violent war film in cinematic history, an allegory of the importance of religious freedom over against state encroachment, a vehicle intended to rehabilitate the image of much-maligned director, Mel Gibson. Yet, despite such complex possibilities, the film is most effective when simply taken as a chronicle of Private Desmond Doss and his service at the Battle of Okinawa (1945). I was not familiar with Doss prior to seeing the film, but, after viewing Hacksaw Ridge, his status as a compelling and even heroic figure is beyond doubt.

After a brief prelude, which foreshadows the violence to come, Hacksaw Ridge opens with Doss’ childhood in rural Virginia. There are intimations of Edenic bliss in these first scenes, but Gibson does not linger on them. As it turns out, Doss’ father (Hugo Weaving, in a fervid role) was an abusive alcoholic, scarred by the psycho-spiritual trauma of World War I. Consequently, the Doss home is a tense place, where young Desmond and the rest of the family often cower in fear. Attentive to his own shortcomings, Doss comes to emulate his pious mother, realizing that anger and violence run contrary to his Christian background. Now a young man (and played with winsome innocence by Andrew Garfield), Doss falls in love with a local nurse (Teresa Palmer) and hopes to start a family. But World War II intervenes, and he feels called to join the military — not as a combatant but as a medic. Indeed, Doss is adamant that he can serve his country without firing a weapon, but, upon arriving at boot camp in South Carolina, it becomes clear that the Army sees it otherwise. Ridiculed by his fellow recruits and commanding officers, Doss is nearly court-martialed for insubordination. Yet, he remains true to his convictions and, after a surprising plot twist, is allowed to accompany his unit to Okinawa. “Private Doss,” an army official sternly warns, “you are free to run into the hellfire of battle without a single weapon to protect yourself.”

It is at this point that Hacksaw Ridge erupts into a violence so grisly that even the most ardent devotee of Game of Thrones will cringe. Indeed, it’s fair to wonder if Gibson — whose The Passion of the Christ (2004) seemed to confirm a possibly unhealthy concern for bloody imagery — goes too far in his depiction of the Battle of Okinawa. Not only does Hacksaw Ridge show the shootings and stabbings typical of the genre, but Gibson is intent on portraying Okinawa as a campaign sui generis: there are severed heads, rotting bodies, halved corpses, and flesh-eating rats. It is, in short, a nightmarish vision, which is frankly difficult to watch. Be that as it may, Gibson does seem to have been true to the historical subject matter. Consider the words of Private Eugene Sledge — an Okinawa veteran, whose experience has since been chronicled the HBO series, The Pacific (2010):

“[Okinawa was] the most ghastly corner of hell I had ever witnessed….Every crater was half full of water, and many of them held a Marine corpse. The bodies lay pathetically just as they had been killed, half submerged in muck and water, rusting weapons still in hand. Swarms of big flies hovered about them. [I] saw maggots and decay. Men struggled and fought and bled in an environment so degrading I believed we had been flung into hell’s own cesspool.”

Thus the gore of Hacksaw Ridge is hardly gratuitous, even if it is disturbing. Moreover — and presumably this was Gibson’s underlying purpose — it serves to cast Doss’ efforts in the sharpest possible relief. Bearing only a small Bible and a handful of medical supplies, Doss repeatedly runs into battle unarmed, even remaining atop Hacksaw Ridge (or the Maeda Escarpment) when his fellow troops had retreated. He ultimately saves 75 wounded soldiers, including a number of Japanese men — an outcome, he was certain, that was only possible in and through the grace of God:

Still, one might ask: why make a film about Doss now? What does Gibson have up his sleeve? As mentioned at the outset, various answers have been tendered in response to such questions. To be sure, Hacksaw Ridge has quickly (and stunningly) bettered Gibson’s reputation in Hollywood, and the film undoubtedly makes a plea for the tolerance of religious convictions — a plea that is deftly handled, insofar Doss’ Christian pacifism is shown to cooperate with the objectives of the state, rather than to flout them.

And yet, it’s hard not to wonder: would this film be received in the same way if Doss were, say, a champion of school prayer or of any issue that runs counter to contemporary politics? Moreover, while Hacksaw Ridge demonstrates that certain religious “beliefs” might be worth tolerating in a secular democracy, it does not get around to weighing the truthfulness of such beliefs. In other words, is Doss’ nonviolence an idiosyncratic yet charming way of looking at reality? Or is it, in fact, the true way to live? That Gibson avoids the latter question manifests the Americanism implicit in Hacksaw Ridge: for him, what matters is that Doss is “accepted” or “tolerated,” not whether or not he is right. His “belief” is a private one, and he fights both for his right to serve according to his convictions and for a nation that putatively supports this right. The contents of, and the rationale for, his faith are little more than suggested.

Of course, that by no means diminishes Doss’ heroism in battle, and I’m grateful that, through Gibson’s film, I’ve come to know his remarkable story. Nevertheless, to call Hacksaw Ridge a “Christian movie” seems to be a misnomer. In truth, it is a film about permitting Christian devotion, with a nod to the potential benefits of doing so.

Hail, Caesar! (dir. Joel and Ethan Coen)

Plot  The film is set in Los Angeles, 1951. Capitol Pictures’ executive, Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin), works tirelessly to keep the scandalous behavior of the company’s stars out of the press. Hilarity ensues.

Themes  Though in many ways a screwball comedy, Hail, Caesar! introduces a number of important themes. The most obvious one is that of the entertainment industry itself, which the Coens satirize with knowing affection. Not only does Mannix have to deal with egomaniacal actors, demanding executives, gossip columnists, and aggrieved writers — the latter being communist sympathizers who, led by Herbert Marcuse (yes, that Marcuse), wax poetic about Marxist theory and “the new man” — but he has to do so with the public in mind, making sure that the best “picture” is made. It’s enough to make a man feel servile, and that, indeed, is what a recruiter (Ian Blackman) from The Lockheed Corporation tells Mannix in a series of meetings at a dim Chinese restaurant — namely, that life in Hollywood amounts to little more than a joke, while “real work” is being done by the military-industrial complex.

And yet — in Hail, Caesar!‘s second major theme — Mannix can’t escape the feeling that making films is important after all. Artistic work gives expression to humanity’s greatest hopes and dreams, and filmmaking is the modern world’s quintessential art form. Thus cinema is uniquely suited to “embody” (to borrow Mannix’s phrase) sacred stories such as “the tale of the Christ,” which, in fact, is the subtitle of Capitol Pictures’ latest “prestige” movie, Hail, Caesar!. With this in mind, Mannix hosts a gathering of religious leaders, hoping to convince them that the film takes its religious subject matter seriously. “Does the depiction of Christ Jesus cut the mustard?” he asks with amusing frankness. The ensuing debate is not only comical, but it hints at the challenges of any rendering of the sacred:

To be sure, as Mannix well knows, what goes on behind the scenes of any cinematic project is messy, though the finished product may nevertheless foster genuine inspiration. The Coens, it seems, are too ironical to explore this latter point in detail, though one scene comes close. While filming the climactic scene of Hail, Caesar!, the film’s pampered star, Baird Whitlock (George Clooney), delivers a long soliloquy on the person of Christ. For a moment, everyone in the studio stops what they’re doing, transfixed by the notion of this loving and merciful Savior — that is, until Whitlock forgets his line (the word “faith,” not coincidentally) and the director is forced to cut the scene.

Still, despite the disarray of the artistic process, Mannix comes to believe in his work. A pious Catholic, he confesses to his priest that he is tempted by the Lockheed position, because it would be “easy.” In contrast, the motion picture business is “hard” but “seems right.” The priest, sympathetic yet wearied by Mannix’s scruples, softly responds, “The inner voice that tells you what’s right — it comes from God, my son.” Mannix, in turn, darts from the confessional, now certain that his career is a calling. As he puts it earlier in the film, “You have worth if you serve the picture.”

Verdict  Hail, Caesar! is not one of the Coen Brothers’ masterpieces, but it is masterful all the same. The film is that rarest of rare breeds — an intelligent comedy. Of course, this is a genre to which the Coens have already contributed in films such as Raising Arizona (1987) and O Brother, Where Art Thou(2000). For those who have ears to hear, Hail, Caesar! is likely to join their ranks.

Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (dir. Zack Snyder, 2016)

Batman v Superman is an intriguing premise in need of a better movie. For most of its 151 minute running time — a running time that, trimmed of excess explosions and frivolous plot excursions, should’ve been closer to 100 minutes — it produces more sardonic laughs than genuine thrills. My favorite: late in the film, Lex Luthor (a manic Jesse Eisenberg) unleashes a gigantic monster on the city of Metropolis. Known as Doomsday, it is a mutant fusion of the body of Superman’s former nemesis, General Zod, and Luthor’s own DNA. Needless to say, it ain’t pretty:

Apart from apparently hitting the weights — no CrossFit for this thing, just straight iron — Doomsday is also surprisingly nimble. It bounds up buildings in the manner of King Kong, and, to make matters worse, it absorbs whatever energy is fired at it, including nuclear warheads. One might quibble that the creature’s look is too derivative (it could be the love child of the Incredible Hulk and one of the Uruk-hai from The Lord of the Rings), but this is not a monster you’d ever want to see in your city. Thus I audibly laughed when a stoic news anchor, covering Doomsday’s destruction of the Metropolitan skyline, comments that at least it didn’t happen during rush hour!

Such unintentional laughs are not uncommon in Batman v Superman, but they hardly exhaust the film’s problems. Again, the plot is horribly convoluted: in addition to genetically-engineered monsters, there are Russian arms dealers, African warlords, Senate hearings, the wreckage of alien spaceships, father-son issues, and even a love-scene in a bathtub. And yet, all of this is but window-dressing for the essential plot concern, which seems to make more sense in the abstract than in the film itself: Batman (Ben Affleck) has come to distrust Superman (Henry Cavill), because he recognizes that Superman bears power that, wielded improperly, could destroy humanity. Thus he aims to kill Superman by way of kryptonite-flecked weaponry — a plan that Luthor himself facilitates, believing that his path to world-domination would be cleared if Superman were out of the way. But Luthor’s scheme is ultimately exposed, and, in an epiphanic moment, Batman and Superman realize they must work together if Luthor (and his pet demon) are to be stopped. I won’t spoil the ending, but suffice it to say that Doomsday lives up to its name, even as director Zack Snyder ensures that a sequel remains in the offing.

To be sure, no one is going to confuse this narrative arc with, say, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). But there is potential for depth here. Snyder has set up a classic allegory, which owes more than a little to the Christian tradition. Superman, of course, represents the divine, whose otherness is experienced by human beings as both a source of hope and fear. Batman seizes on this latter aspect, thereby intimating a distinction emphasized in medieval theology (William of Ockham, especially) and later in the thought of Reformers such as Martin Luther and John Calvin — namely, that the divine will is not “limited” by the good but, rather, is radically contingent and self-determining. What God did yesterday, so to speak, has no bearing on what God may do today; God can do as he pleases. Such a perspective seems to safeguard divine freedom, but there is a cost: faith in God becomes a matter of blind trust and, consequently, rationally indefensible. True, some may cower before the divine will, but others will perceive it as a threat that demands neutralization. The latter is effectively Batman’s position, which he doesn’t renounce until he realizes that Superman’s will is, indeed, conditioned by the good — that is, by the fact that Superman’s love for his earthly parents reveals his essential humility and benevolence. In turn, Superman and Batman are not only mutually sympathetic but can now unite with one another in order to conquer evil and death. Thus the immanent virtues inculcated by Batman (justice, fortitude, devotion) are analogous to and perfected by the transcendent attributes of Superman, who, in the film’s denouement, demonstrates the very depths of love’s sacrificial character.

Such, at any rate, is how one might try to read Batman v Superman theologically, and, seen in these terms,  it suddenly looks like an attempt to cinematically manifest certain key elements of the Christian message. Of course, I’m hardly the first person to make this connection, and it’s worth adding that Batman v Superman‘s predecessor, Man of Steel (2013), was directly pitched to Christian audiences. Now, in and of itself, this is not necessarily a bad thing, and I appreciate Snyder’s desire to explore the ostensive conflict between immanence and transcendence and how it might be overcome through divine self-giving. There’s only one problem: Batman v Superman is just not a very good movie. Instead of letting the story speak for itself, Snyder overwhelms it in a barrage of explosions, CGI effects, and schmaltzy dramatics. Batman v Superman may be a film about faith, but, in the end, it is defined by a lack thereof.