The Greatest Story Ever Told

Among the classic biblically-based films out of Hollywood, and the first to show Jesus’ face, The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) is a highly idealized rather than realistic depiction of the Gospel story. Only when Jesus is on the cross does emotion show on Jesus’ visage; even the horrendous suffering from the torture leading up to the crucifixion is not shown. The Christology is thus idealized, with Jesus’ divine nature impacting his human nature even though the two natures are theologically distinct. Because the film was the first to show Jesus’ face, it could be that depicting Jesus’ human nature in its fullness, absent sin of course, would be too much for a film made before the social upheaval that began in 1968 in the West to depict. The main drawback in depicting Jesus in such highly idealized terms is that it may be difficult for Christians to relate to Jesus in emulating him by carrying their own proverbial crosses in this fallen world. The main upside of the almost Gnostic idealization is that the theological point that the Incarnation is of the divine Logos, which in turn is the aspect of God that created the world, is highlighted. Reflecting David Hume’s concern, I submit that transcending (rather than denying) the anthropomorphic “God made flesh” to embrace God as Logos—God’s word that creates—more fully captures the insight of Pseudo-Dionysius, a sixth-century theologian, that God goes beyond the limits of human cognition, perception, and emotions. 

The narrator’s first and last lines in the film highlight the theological doctrine that the Son of God is God’s Logos, which has been (with) God since the beginning of time, rather than just since the Incarnation of the Logos as Jesus, the Son of God. The film begins with a voice saying, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God. I am He. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was made nothing that has been made. In hi was lif, and the life was the light of men. And the light shines on in the darkness, and the darkness grasped it not. The greatest story ever told.” The statement, “I am He” can be interpreted as Jesus himself speaking, and saying that he is the Logos, which was (with) God even in the beginning. This connection, I submit, between Jesus Christ and the divine Logos has typically been missed by Christians, including those who preach from the pulpit. This has probably been so because the Logos transcends the Incarnation, which in turn has been the focus in Christianity since its beginning.

Connecting the first words in the film, especially if it is the resurrected Christ that is speaking, with what Jesus says after the resurrection at the end of the film connects the Logos, the Incarnation, and the Kingdom of God in a way that is very useful to people wanting greater insight into Christian theology. That film as a medium can serve such a purpose ought not to be lost on the reader either.

The final scene of the film depicts a larger-than-life Jesus amid clouds speaking to his disciples. “Make it your first care to love one another, and to find the Kingdom of God, and all things will be yours without the asking. And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” That Jesus begins with the distinctive nature of the Kingdom of God resonates with Jesus’ statement in the Gospels that he has come to preach the mysteries of the Kingdom of God. He situates himself thusly as the means rather than an end in itself, for the goal for his followers is to manifest the Father’s kingdom. The task is to “find the Kingdom of God,” and the means thereto is to love one another(caritas seu benevolentia universalis). Both in his preachments and example (agape seu benevolentia universalis) in the Gospels, Jesus is oriented to people being able to instantiate the Kingdom within by an inner transformation that transcends ethics, for religion does not reduce to ethics as the Biblical stories of Abraham and Isaac, and Job, attest. The Kingdom of God is within, so “(m)ake it your first care to love one another, and [thus] to find the Kingdom of God [within].”

Drawing on the first spoken words in the film, the last line, “I am with you always, even unto the end of the world” can be understood in terms of the Logos, which was (with) God even in the beginning, and thus at the end of the film it is clear that the Logos is eternal, existing through time from its beginning to its end. I submit that this transcends even the theological point that from the Incarnation on, Jesus’ resurrected body clothes God’s word for the remainder of time. It is interesting to ponder the alternative that the Logos reverts back to being solely God’s word, or rational principle, after the resurrection, such that the Logos transcends even Jesus’ resurrected body, but this is not recognized as theologically valid; perhaps theology only goes for far, given the inherent limitations of finite, subjective beings, such as in terms of cognition, perception, and emotion.

In short, the Logos, Jesus Christ as the Incarnated Logos, and the Father’s kingdom are explicitly linked by the first and last words spoken in the film. Perhaps it can be said that the Logos, which is God’s word and thus is God’s creative aspect (e.g., God spoke, and there was light), creates the Kingdom of God and provides us with the means to enter it, which boil down to extending compassion even one’s detractors and people who are rude. Jesus preaches and exemplifies this means in the Gospel narratives; even so, it is noteworthy that the first thing that the resurrected Jesus says at the end of the film is to love one another, rather than to speak first about himself. It may seem rather profane, or too close to our daily lives, that the Logos and its Incarnation don’t get top billing at the end of the film. In fact, “I am with you always” can be interpreted as referring to caritas seu benevolentia universalis (especially including people who have done us wrong). The spiritual interpersonal dynamic that manifests when compassion is shown to a detractor in need of help is, I submit, the spiritual substance of the Kingdom of God, and that substance available within even human nature until the end of time.

Eternal You

The documentary, Eternal You (2024), is one film that zeros in on the use of AI to contact loved ones who have died. As the marketing departments of the tech companies providing these products say, AI can deliver on what religion has only promised: to talk with people beyond the grave. Lest secular potential buyers be left out, AI can provide us with “a new form of transcendence.” Nevermind that the word, transcendence, like divinity and evil, is an inherently religious word. Nevermind, moreover, that the product is actually only a computer simulation of a person, rather than the actual person direct from heaven or hell. The marketing is thus misleading. In the film, a woman asks her dead husband if he is in heaven. “I’m in hell with the other addicts,” he answers. She is hysterical. Even though people who write computer algorithms cannot be expected to anticipate every possible question that AI could be asked and every response that it could give, government regulation keeping the marketing honest and accurate can significantly reduce the risk that is from AI’s use of inference (inductive) and probability that are beyond our control to predict and even understand.

The AI products in question do not include a conscious intelligence; for such to be the case, we would need to understand human consciousness, which lies beyond human cognition. It is important not to go too far in projecting an actual person, especially if one is dead, onto the product. To be sure, the lapse is easy to lapse into, for the product draws on a treasure-trove of archival data; in fact, only a little from the person’s emails, recorded phone calls, and texts is needed for such an algorithm to be able to make incredible inferences based on probability by drawing on all the general data-base. The effect can be stunning to the person using the product, but even if it seems like it really is the dead person speaking and writing, it is crucial to keep remembering that even the most striking likenesses are simulations. Even if neuroscientists figure out consciousness in the human brain and coders can simulate that in algorithms, the emergent AI consciousness of the person is not really of the person.

AI does not in fact deliver on the promises of some religions regarding being united with our loved ones in heaven (or hell). This is crucial to keep in mind when a simulation of a dead spouse writes, “I’m in hell along with the other addicts” because the algorithm has inferred based on probability being applied to the relevant data that drug addicts probably go to hell. None of the data that an algorithm can draw on contains a report of hell or heaven existing and that souls of dead people are in one or the other, so a simulation’s judgment should be taken with a grain of salt (i.e., not taken as a fact of reason).

Therefore, asking about the afterlife should automatically generate a statement from the algorithm’s coder to the effect that the actual person is not in contact. Even though a person who is still living can generate a digital “footprint” that can be used by an AI algorithm by one’s loved ones after the person has died, everything in that footprint is on the living side of a life/afterlife dichotomy.

To be sure, there is value in descendants being able to hear the cadence and vocal tone of a long-deceased parent, grandparent, or great grandparent. That voice could inform on the deceased life, religious beliefs, political positions, and more. Used this way, AI represents a new way of remembering and knowing a person who has died. A religiously devout person like the sister of a dead man covered in the film might still say that there is something not right about recreating the soul of someone whose soul is (presumably) in heaven. But such a critic has lapsed into assuming that the actual person who is dead is talking or writing in the simulation.

Likewise, there is value in using the AI products to help grieving people let go of the dead person and move on. But for this to be effective, the algorithms would need to be such that the grieving person is not stuck in the grieving process as a result. There is thus a need for AI companies offering such a product to consult with psychologists. The experience of a user of the product is of course going to be emotional, even if the user knows intellectually that the product is really just a simulation. At the very least, we would expect the managers to want to reduce any potential liabilities; buyer beware on such a product would not hold up in court, especially if the marketing is promoting being able to speak with a loved one beyond the grave.

Therefore, it is vital that AI companies offering such products are not allowed by law to claim, “You can talk with your deceased loved one!” Perhaps those companies should also be required to send customers a picture of Batman taking a card from a computer in the Batcave to read.

Religion in Film: Resisting the Formulaic

Historically, meaning in the history of cinema, perhaps too much effort or attention initially went into fidelity to doctrine, especially in Christianity. Heavily stylistic, unrealistic epics could be said to merely illustrate doctrines. Then as filmmakers began to think in an open-ended way concerning how to depict the transcendent both visually and ideationally (i.e., as an idea), the dominance of the earlier control-orientation slipped away to be replaced by innovative ways of understanding how the transcendent may relate to the realm of our daily mundane existence in the world. The extraordinary potential of filmmaking to tap into the human imagination without necessarily providing definitive answerers could be seen. I submit that this historical trajectory is a positive development. This does not mean that heterodox belief has or should win out; in fact, religious practitioners, including the clergy, can help filmmakers to depict the transcendent and its relationship to our existence in novel ways that do not seem so formulaic as to be easily brushed aside as less than credible. Old wine can indeed go into new jugs, and even new wine may be tasted without the world collapsing as a result.

Let’s begin with the old approach. “In his 1936 encyclical Vigilanti Cura, Pope Pius XI argues that, insofar as ‘the motion picture has become the most popular form of diversion which is offered for the leisure hours . . . ,’ it is crucial that Catholics pressure ‘the industry  [to] produce motion pictures which conform entirely to our standards.’ Only in this way can ‘the motion picture be no longer a school of corruption’ but ‘be transformed into an effectual instrument for the education and the elevation of mankind.’”[1] But what standards?  Are they moral or theological in nature, or both? Are the standards moral only that can be derived from theological doctrines? If not, on what basis are the extrinsic moral standards legitimate for the Church to enforce on Hollywood? The very notion of standards, moreover, connotes the negativity of prohibition, whereas teachings instead would imply that films are made proactively to illustrate through narrative principles and values found in Christianity. Rather than fixate on Hollywood as being corrupt, the pope could have pictured it as an opportunity full of potential, ignoring the decadent films. For beyond educating people, films can elevate us, as the pope admits. In short, rather than viewing the glass as half empty; it can be viewed as half full. Rather than concentrating on emptying out the stale brew, the focus can be on that which is added that is salubrious from a distinctly religious standpoint. What does it take to do so?

Going from the mentality of slapping a ruler on a wrist to helping filmmakers to render the transcendent through narrative using visuals and sound entails eclipsing the subjectivity of the filmmakers as well as “’the immanent frame’ of technological modernity,”[2] which includes not only the techniques but also the business of filmmaking.

Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968), for instance, eclipses Polanski’s own subjectivity (or secular bias) in leaving it to the viewer whether Rosemary is dreaming or really is raped by Satan, although the short cut-away later briefly showing the baby’s face in the crib provides an answer that the supernatural realm that is transcendent of our world is indeed real. Furthermore, showing the animal raping Rosemary hardly fits with modernity, including the business interests of Hollywood. In short, Polanski took a risk, and he was not out to superimpose his own views of the supernatural onto his audience. That is, Polanski resisted what Heidegger calls the “culture-industry,” wherein, according to Barnett, “cinema merely discloses the rich subjectivity of the artist rather than any truth conveyed by the work itself.”[3] Instead, Polanski allows Heidegger’s “letting be” to occur by not trying, as Barnett puts it, “to wrest determinate meaning” from the work.[4] Polanski creates the openness in which viewers can be open to transcendence in a metaphysical sense.

Barnett points to The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) as being an example of what to avoid in this regard, as “the thematization of Christian doctrine or dramatization of Christian conversion” in the film “is most likely to elicit eye rolls and snickers.”[5] The characters are so stylized and idealized as to please not only the camera, but the financially-inclined producers as well. Nothing offensive. Nothing challenging. To be sure, at the time, as the first film to show Jesus’ face, the film could have been reckoned by some people as controversial. Even so, merely illustrating a Biblical narrative visually and with sound goes only so far.  The Ten Commandments (1956) too, goes only so far. Both films are “safe” in that they follow well-established doctrines exquisitely and present the Bible in the modern medium.

To be sure, over-stylized, non-realistic illustrations of Biblical narrative can contain allusions to the holy that seem genuine or real. In the television miniseries, Jesus of Nazareth (1977), for example, an eerie scene takes place in which other-worldly instrumental music plays as Jesus silently walks, with bright back-light behind him highlighting his meager, weak (yet paradoxically strong!) form, toward Pontius Pilate, whose facial expression intimates that something wholly other is going on in the case of Jesus. We see something similar in the realistic reactions of the disciples witnessing Jesus recusitate Lazarus in The Greatest Story Ever Told. Both scenes resonate with the qualities of the holy described by Rudolf Otto in The Idea of the Holy. So the phenomenon of the holy can be depicted in a catching way even in heavy-stylized (i.e., unrealistic) films whose primary orientation is to present established Biblical narratives in an orthodox way. 

It would take perhaps until The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) for the transcendent itself to again be raised as a question rather than an established fact with respect to Christology, or Christian dogma. The Exorcist (1973) explicitly raises the question of whether the supernatural demon really exists, though the psychological bias of modernity is eviscerated by supernatural feats that cannot possibly be explained as mental phenomena.

Of course, the very existence of the transcendent need not flagged and left up in the air for a film to represent religion in a way that resists the easy and convenient stylization of modernity.  The Others (2001) resists simple movie technique by turning the tables on the viewers without questioning the reality of the transcendent. Ghost (1990) also provides an innovative way into there being another realm, though with the familiar bipolar trappings of heaven and hell that ironically give the film the veneer of established doctrine—such easy formulaic being used by the modern industry of film to sell.

To draw out the transcendent in a way that does not seem trite or already well-groved, “Filmmakers must uncover the tensity between beings and Being, between the systematized habits of the human world and the raw primitivity of non-technical existence. Thereby, the mystery of being-in-the-world is manifested, and with it, the possibility of a truly poetic encounter with Being itself.”[6] Overstylized, too-conventional depictions of Biblical narrative can fall short in terms of showing the human “struggle to discern the divine presence.”[7] To manifest “the ineffable and invisible” beyond “normal sense experience,” “a fundamental incongruity between human everydayness and the transcendent world is expressed” even as both are contained within a oneness.[8] This incongruity must burst through preconceived notions, as are in heavily stylized Biblical epics, or the depicted transcendent will not seem real to viewers. Put another way, raw Being should challenge the viewer, yet not be so different or new that it is not believed to possibly represent something real beyond the movie theater or living room.

The subtle, almost-invisible cascade of ghosts going down the stairs in Poltergeist (1982) and the human’s facial expressions of simple wonder are much more suggestive of another realm than is the over-fabricated, almost sensationalistic hole in the bedroom closet heading to the other realm. The liminality of the numen, which lies between realms in at least the human imagination, is difficult to capture visually, and is thus too susceptible to being done up in a meretricious or gaudy way by filmmakers in line with modern sensationalism and cinematic technique.

There are of course new ways of telling old stories. The Chosen, a television series made in Texas of Jesus and his disciples, is a case in point. They are all presented in a realistic way, as are the Romans. Matthew is mildly autistic. Jesus has some very human reactions to everyday situations. Yet the world depicted is one in which miracles take place. The transcendent is real even as the characters are portrayed realistically. So while some stories, such as The Others, may do away with conventional notions of a heaven and hell, other stories are quite conventional yet they resist easy formulation repeating oft seen epics. There is indeed so much potential in filmmaking to depict transcendence in a myriad of ways that the old way of controlling the medium so that it conforms with doctrine in a conventional way has thankfully been defeated.  Nevertheless, the danger of an over-reaching subjectivity of a filmmaker imposed through the medium is still with us, given human nature, and it may still be too tempting for filmmakers to turn to heavily stylized Hollywood props and well-trodden plots instead of thinking outside the proverbial box. I am convinced that the human imagination applied to religion in film has not come close to having been exhausted.  

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1. Christopher B. Barnett, “Can Cinema Be ‘Religious’? Heidegger, Technology, and the Transcendent,” Insights: The Faculty Journal of Austin Seminary, 139, No. 2 (Spring, 2024): 19-23.
2. Ibid. Barnett is quoting Charles Tayler, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 539-93.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Michael Bird, “Film as Hierophany,” in Religion in Film, John R. May and Michael Bird, eds (Knoxville, TN: The University of Tennessee Press, 1982), p. 4.
8. Paul Schrader, Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (Boston: Da Capo Press, 1972), pp. 3-13.

Lolita

In being able to engage an audience both visually and audibly, and to do so at close range—something we don’t get from watching a play on a distant stage—the medium of film is capable of resonating with, challenging, and rebounding from both heart and mind. That is to say, the medium can engage us at a comparatively deep level and even touch us profoundly. The medium can tug at our ethical strings and even provoke uncomfortable thoughts and feelings precisely because sound and image can conjoin at close range such that we are brought closer to an ethical harm than is likely in our own daily experiences. Some ethical harms, such as that in a young woman not being able to stop a rape by an older man abusing a stark power differential, may simply be too horrific up close to experience even vicariously. A filmmaker can use devices, whether photographic, audio, or narrative, to moderate our exposure without sacrificing the depth at which the harm and its sordid scenario can reach in us. Such exposure to ethical problems or even to situations in which the ethical verdict is debatable can give to an audience a better realization of the ethical dimension of the human condition and improve our ability to render ethical judgements on specific issues and generally. Writ large, the medium of film can do these things for a society, reflecting and even provoking it with just enough directness to be palatable and grasped. The genre of science fiction in particular has been used to serve this purpose. Even by contrasting an original film with its remake decades later, a society’s changing nature can be glimpsed by an audience, especially as censorship guidelines are loosened as per changing social mores and ethical sensibilities of a society. The fictional film, Lolita (1962), and its remake, Lolita (1997), provide us with an excellent case study not only of changes in twentieth-century American society, but also of how powerful the medium of film can be in its treatment of the ethical dimension of the human condition.

Both the original film and the remake center around the ethical problem of incest. That it is wrong ethically is beyond dispute in the films. That this message is easily received even as the respective filmmakers use various techniques to dilute the intensity of the harm is a credit to the filmmakers. Make the presentation of an ethical harm too intense and audiences will bolt. On the other hand, the salient role of censorship on the original film risks that the harm is too distant to be grasped by audiences.

In terms of the narrative, both films, and especially the remake, mollify the audience, as if diluting whiskey so it doesn’t sting “going down the hatch.” In both films, the harsh atrocity of the incestual relationship would be harder to take were Prof. Humbert Lolita’s actual father rather than her step-father, and if he were that even before he marries Charlotte, Lolita’s mother, when he is merely renting a room in the house. Also, that the incestual sex between Humbert and Lolita begins midway through the film, when Humbert is no longer married to Charlotte and thus not technically her step-father and he and Lolita no longer even live in Charlotte’s house, makes it easier for an audience, which can view the relationship more from the standpoint of the difference in ages, which is still problematic because Lolita is fourteen years old, than from that of a biological father having sex with his daughter. To be sure, the ethically problematic co-existence of the parental and sexual roles by Humbert is obvious, as is the fact that Lolita is a minor whereas Humbert is a middle-aged adult, and both of these elements can be expected to make the typical viewer uncomfortable.

The remake makes a significant departure narratively from the original film in lessening, albeit marginally, Humbert’s blameworthiness. The story begins with Humbert as a teenager when he has a beautiful girlfriend who is not coincidentally also (i.e., like Lolita) fourteen years old. They are so in love, but she tragically dies of typhus. We sympathize with the teenage Humbert as he cries over his lost, beautiful love, and perhaps even feel that he deserves another such love. Tempering and adding complexity to the ethical issue of incest is the adult Humbert’s very human desire to get back a lost love, even if vicariously. The resemblance of the actresses playing Annabel Lee and Lolita is likely no accident. The sympathy dissipates, however, when Humbert crosses a line with Lolita by letting her perform sexual acts on him during their first hotel-stay.

Paradoxically, even as the remake, relative to the original film, makes the offence more palatable to us by adapting the narrative even more, we are brought closer to the sexual act both directly and by the story-world seeming more sensual. This is accomplished by both zoomed-in visuals and selective magnification of some ordinary sounds of things that we usually don’t notice in our daily lives but that, were we aware of them, could provide empirical experience with added depth. In fact, the medium of film moreover has great (generally unappreciated) value in being able to make us aware of the depth that experience is capable of, and thereby enrich our experience of living.

The original film, released in 1962, lacks sensuality and the references to sex are only indirect. Not even the word “pornography” is mentioned; it is instead artfully referred to as “art film,” as if every “Indie” film were pornographic, by Lolita when she tells Humbert that she refused to be in such a film. Neither Humbert nor Lolita visibly show much physical affection generally, Humbert even being physically revolted by Charlotte. Even when Lolita runs upstairs to say goodbye to him before she leaves for summer camp, she merely hugs him, with the camera doing a quick cut-away so not to show her kissing him on a cheek. In the same scene in the remake, Lolita literally jumps up on him, wraps her legs around his waist and gives him a big wet kiss on the lips. From such an exact comparison, we can infer that a shift in cultural attitudes in American society occurred between when the original film and the remake were made. The only time Humbert embraces Lolita is when she is mourning her mother’s death, and the contact does not imply anything sexual. For it is normal, and even expected, that a parental figure would hug a crying child.

In the remake, touching is a staple between Humbert and Lolita even when he is just a boarder in the house. In fact, Lolita’s legs and arms touch him so often that the girl comes off as uncoordinated. Interestingly, she sits in his lap early on when he is working at the desk in his room, and then again later in the film when both are naked and his dick is obviously inside her. In both cases, neither person is complaining. Although the first sexual episode between the two is not shown, three subsequent episodes are shown—two of which are not enjoyable for Humbert, as Lolita has learned how to use sex with him to get things, including money. All the touching, complete with its sound, makes the incest more real for the audience.

At the same time, that Lolita entices Humbert when he is a boarder by touching him even while sharing a porch swing with him and her mother, and kissing him goodbye, and then offers to give him a blow-job (and likely more) on the first morning of their first night at a hotel after Charlotte’s death moderates the ethical harm of the incest because she is willing even when she eventually realizes that she can get money from him from having sex with him. In one scene, both are naked in bed, obviously having sex, and she is trying to collect the various coins that on the sheets. “You’re demanding that I pay more in the middle?” he asks her. She smacks him with a hand for obstructing her collection effort.

To be sure, and this point should be made perfectly clear, an adult is ethically bound to refuse the sexual advances of a child, but at least in the remake the sex is not forced, and thus rape in that sense. The ethical harm is more in how Humbert’s monopoly of her in terms of dating and sex ruins the rest of her life than being only in the sexual act itself.

When we first see the 14 year-old Lolita in the remake, she is a smiling, carefree girl enjoying summer in her backyard. Lying on the grass, she is even enjoying the water from a water-sprinkler falling on her as she looks at pictures in a magazine. Her innocence can be seen in her beautiful smile, and this seems to be what catches Humbert’s gaze, but in retrospect it is clear that he is sexually turned on by the sight of her body even though she has not yet even developed female breasts. In her last scenes in the remake, she looks terrible, wearing a cheap dress and glasses and living in a shack with her new, impoverished husband. Significantly, she is no longer smiling. In his last scene in the film, Humbert laments that she is not among the children laughing in a distant village. “Can you forgive me for what I’ve done to you?” he asks her as he is leaving her small house after giving her what can only be guilt-money.

Lolita’s relationship with Humbert is clearly dysfunctional. Even though this takes place after Charlotte’s death, so strictly speaking, he is no longer Lolita’s step-father, he refers to himself as such to her and takes on a parental role. She is, after all, a child and behaves as such, and is in need of parental supervision. The power differential is uncomfortable for her, and us, though not for Humbert. She naturally bristles at his totalitarian control over her life, including her sex life even when she is attending a school while living with him as he teaches at a college. Anger and even violence result. To escape from him, she secretly plans to live with another pedophile, Clare Quilty, whom she claims to be attracted to, though he kicks her out after she refuses to be in a pornographic, or “art,” film in which she would have to “blow those beastly boys.” She is left alone with no money and with no previous normal sexual relationship. Due to his possessive selfishness and his refusal to respect the proper sexual distance between a child and an adult, Humbert clearly acts very unethically with respect to Lolita. Out of all the ethical theories promulgated historically, one in particular is especially applicable to this film, and to the nature of the medium in being able to provoke visceral emotional reactions.

David Hume theorized in the eighteenth century that the sentiment, or feeling, of a gut-level disapproval triggered by a moral wrong is essentially moral judgment itself. As one of my professors used to say, if you walk by a dead body that has a knife in its back, you are going to have a negative emotional reaction, unless you are pathological. This feeling is your ethical judgment that something unethical has happened. By engaging both our eyes and ears, film can reach down deep and trigger such a sentiment of disapprobation, and thus trigger ethical judgments in an audience during a screening. This is much more powerful than merely having an audience told that something unethical is happening in a film. Although hearing a neighbor tell Humbert in the original film that “the neighbors are talking” about Humbert’s relationship with “his daughter” and even seeing the concerned look of the drug-store clerk who serves Lolita an ice-cream shake in the remake provide subtle and thus believable indications of just how ethically problematic the “father-daughter” relationship really is, actually feeling a sentiment of disapprobation while watching and hearing Humbert and Lolita having sex is much more powerful in giving an audience a sense of the ethical dimension in the human condition.

Playing a “supporting role” in making the ethical problem “real” for an audience watching the remake are the means in which sensuality in the story-world is brought out by close-ups and the magnification of particular sounds. The remake is hardly alone among films in being able to bring taken-for-granted ordinary sounds to our notice, and thus giving us the opportunity to sense the depth of experience that is possible even in our banal daily lives. The sound of shoes walking on a hard floor, the sound of air-pressure from the car-door of a new car being closed, and the sound of a pen or pencil being used on paper are just a few examples of sounds that we typically overlook and yet can be made aware of in a film. Even the sound of rain can be made to stand out. One byproduct of this cinematic experience is that we might then notice more sounds in our daily experience, and thus have a fuller, or deeper experience of the world in which we live.

In the remake, not all of the heightened sounds are related to or intimate sex; sensuality as sensitivity in experience goes beyond the sexual. The lazy tires of Humbert’s car in the first scene, for example, bring us into the story-world without any suggestion that sex will be a salient feature of that world. The magnified sound of moths being electrically zapped on the hotel porch, where Humbert first meets Quilty, is likewise devoid of sexual inuendo; the point of that exaggerated sound is perhaps that both men are living dangerously in having sex with children. The sound of chocolate syrup shooting into Lolita’s glass, followed by the sound of a scoop of ice-cream being released, however, conveys more of a sense of sensuality, though still not as sexual as the sound of Lolita’s body moving under a sheet in a hotel bed that she will soon share with Humbert during their first night at a hotel (in the original film, he sleeps on a cot at the foot of the bed). That the sound of the two kissing even back when Humbert is a boarder can be easily heard is no accident. Even when Lolita’s disjointedly throws a leg or arm in Humbert’s direction when he is a boarder, the sounds can easily be heard and suggest a story-world in which touching is real. I submit that such use of sound ultimately brings the audience closer to the incestual act as being real in the story-world.

Film can employ both sound and visuals to enhance sensitivity to particular things in a way that leaves the audience itself more sensitive during the screening, and thus open to the ethical dimension, which is then more likely to stay with the viewers after the movie. In other words, by heightening experience, a filmmaker can prepare an audience to be brought closer in without feeling threatened or revolted. Hume’s sentiment of disapprobation can accordingly be really felt, rather than just thought about. In this way at least, the medium of film can get “inside” of people ethically and thus enhance our understanding of the human condition from an ethical standpoint.

In fact, the ethical dimension overshadows the dysfunctional psychology in Humbert’s obsession over Lolita even though James Mason’s Humbert in the original film is clearly shown as pathological in his reaction to the final rejection by Lolita when he visits her and her husband near the end of the film. We are perhaps more accustomed to film being used, as by Alfred Hitchcock, for psychological effect than to focus on the ethical dimension of the human condition by means of particular ethical problems or dilemmas.

The ethical dimension also overshadows the religious implications. In the original film, Charlotte asks Humbert if he believes in God. “Does he believe in me?” is Humbert’s telling reply. But nothing more is said or suggested of religion in the original film. Humbert is more interested in the state of his soul in the remake. As the narrator, he admits that having sex with Lolita is a sin, and furthermore that it has played a direct role in ruining her life. In asking her, “Can you forgive me for what I’ve done to you?” it is clear that he is thinking about forgiveness. He is explicitly interested in his redemption, for he says that Quilty prevented it by taking Lolita away. Perhaps the implication we can draw from this is that Humbert thought at least at one point that he could eventually make Lolita happy. That he is delusional in this is clear as he asks her to leave her husband and return even though she has just told him that Quilty is the only man she ever liked romantically. In short, Humbert’s understanding of his redemption is clouded by the delusion in his sexual obsession.  Even so, it is the ethical dimension rather than the religious and psychological explanations that stands out in Lolita.

The Lion in the Desert

In 1929, after nearly 20 years of facing resistance in Libya, Benito Mussolini, the Fascist ruler of Italy, appointed General Graziani as colonial governor to put down the military resistance of Libyan nationalists led by Omar Mukhtar. Graziani was ruthless, and fortunately he was arrested when Mussolini was toppled. His foremost atrocity was putting over a million Libyan civilians in a camp in a desert, with the intent to starve them in retaliation for the guerilla fighters objecting to the Italian occupation. The film, The Lion of the Desert (1980), faithfully depicts the historical events that took place in Libya from 1920 to 1931. The sheer arbitrariness other than from brute force in the occupation and the impotence of the League of Nations are salient themes in the film.

Both in peace negotiations, which Gaziani posed merely to given him more time with which to build up his army in Libya, and after Mukhtar’s capture, the direct refusal of Mukhtar to accept the legitimacy of the presence of the Italians on Libyan soil combined with the inability of the Italian brass to furnish a legitimate justification for the occupation leaves the viewers with the sense that overwhelming modern military power was the reason in search of justification. At one point, Graziani admits to Mukhtar that the fact that Italy is there is what justifies the presence. The Libyan’s guns and horses are no match for the Italian metal tanks and machine guns. The result is a foregone conclusion. Yet Mukhtar holds to his principles rather than accepts bribes to turn on his cause.

The want of any international constraint on the fascists was also clear. At one point, the Italian delegation to the peace talks remind Mukhtar that the Libya is not a nation and thus the fighters don’t even have a voice in the League of Nations. No one would care, anyway. Yet even if a world does care, such as in the case of Israel’s atrocities in Gaza in 2023-2024, not even the World Court’s verdict and the United Nations itself had any teeth. At one point, Israel’s ambassador to the UN shredded the UN charter document in front of the General Assembly. That it had created Israel apparently made no difference to the Israeli government. As a concurrent case in point, Russia’s unprovoked invasion of Ukraine triggered resistance from the E.U. and U.S., but pushing back the aggressor was difficult. Russia’s bully-threat of using nuclear bombs just showed how dangerous it is for the world being unable to provide a check against aggressors.

General Graziani’s mass camp for Libyan civilians is eerily similar to Israel’s camps for Gazans nearly a century later. In both cases, the world was not able to defend even such numbers of innocent civilians. In the film, an Italian military man admits that the Geneva Convention is not being followed. The same could be said of Israel in Gaza. The 9000 Palestinian hostages being held in Israel and the reports of the torture of at least some of them did not dissuade the U.S. from passing $24 billion in aid to Israel. Clearly, having the U.S. as the “global policeman” was not an effective basis for a peaceful global order. Similarly, the League of Nations is depicted as impotent in the film.

From the vantage point of more than 40 years since the release of the film, viewers could be excused for feeling utter frustration at the lack of political development since 1929. The advent of nuclear bombs just makes the lack of international political development all the more striking. At some point, humanity will likely pay dearly for its refusal to cede any governmental sovereignty to an international force with teeth. To be sure, back in the eighteenth century, Kant claimed that world peace would only be possible, rather than probable, if a world federation exists. But his notion of such a federation we would call confederal, rather than a case of modern federalism, as he makes no mention of ceding some sovereignty to the federal level. The UN, rather than the E.U. and U.S., is akin to Kant’s federation. I contend that the shift from confederal to (modern) federal would be decisive in shifting the chances of world peace from possible to probable.

In short, a film can indeed be useful in terms of depicting the need for further development in political theory. With all the advances in technology and medicine during the twentieth century, the lack of any international political development is all the more perplexing, especially given the brazen military atrocities against even civilians in Ukraine and Gaza. A look back to 1929 just shows how static the international system has been.

The Professor and the Madman

The film, The Professor and the Madman (2019), is based on the true story of James Murray, the editor of the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary in the 19^th century, and William Minor, who contributed over 10,000 entries. Minor, who suffered from schizophrenia, was at the time a patient at Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum for having killed Jack Merrett under the recurrent delusion of being chased. In the film, this narrative serves as the basis to explore whether even people who think they are unredeemable can nevertheless be redeemed, and thus freed, from their own guilt.

Once at the asylum, William Minor seeks to atone by making the injustice he has committed in committing the murder by making it up to the murdered man’s wife, Eliza, and her children by directing that all of his income go to them. Initially, Eliza refuses this offer, but facing crushing penury, she eventually accepts the income. Incredibly, guard Muncy of the asylum personally sees to it that the family is helped by the money. This generosity is a reflection of the goodness of Minor in spite of his unimaginable suffering from schizophrenia. Indeed, Minor even volunteers to teach Eliza how to read so she in turn could teach her children so they could escape from poverty. Although Minor is correct that he owes the widow and her kids money enough to survive, he is wrong that he also owes them the gift of reading. He is clearly going the extra mile.

Even so, he still believes he cannot be redeemed for his sordid act of murdering an innocent man, even though he has been found innocent by virtue of insanity. This verdict should be enough for Minor to let go of his guilt, for he is well aware of the role that his mental illness played in his heinous act. He is arguably too hard on himself, and Eliza comes to see this. In fact, she comes to love him for it. She writes down “If love…then what?” and hands the card to him. The open-endedness of the unknown expanse that opens up for a culprit and a victim once the latter has forgiven the former, who as gone the “extra mile” in making atonement, is, I contend, the most important message in the film. Minor’s 10,000 words that he donates to Murray pale in comparison; the matter of the heart is much more important, and I make this claim as an intellectual and scholar who loves words, especially when they are set in relation to each other.

It is ironic that a psychotic person goes so far beyond what the overwhelming number of “sane” criminals do in making amends to victims even to the point that a person who loved a victim comes to love the character and sense of obligation and contrition of the victimizer. Such atonement is so unusual that it is easy to feel empathy for Minor when he states that he still thinks he is unredeemable. It is not his mental illness that is responsible for his refusal to let himself accept that he can be free from his guilt, and thus redeemed; rather, it is the value that he places on being redeemed. No mention is made of a redeemer; Minor is faced with the heavy choice and responsibility of deciding whether he has atoned sufficiently to be redeemed. Indeed, his strength of character is such that he can be trusted, in spite of his mental illness, with the decision of redemption that God justly places on his shoulders.

So the movie ends with the open-ended question of where a victim and one’s victimizer go from hatred and fear, respectively. Where do they go in the freedom that the lack of vengeance and guilt open? In the film, Eliza even kisses William. Eventually, he is deported back to America, where he continues to supply Murray with words (through the letter v; Murray himself died when he was on the t’s). How far they get with the massive project is dwarfed by William Minor’s project of the heart by which he is redeemed even though he won’t accept it. Free-will, and what we do from using it, matters in terms of redemption, and "love thy enemy" is utterly transformative such that God, which is love, can be present even in the relationship between a murderer and the widow of the victim. This is perhaps the overriding message of the film.

True Confessions

The film True Confessions (1981) centers around a priest who is the heir-apparent and assistant of the cardinal of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, California. Even though the priest is a precise bureaucrat and liturgist, I contend that he lapses in what can be said to be the true mission of a Christian priest, and thus in the essence of Christianity. Moreover, the film is deficient in not making this point explicit.

The priest, Des Spellacy, enjoys a cordial yet emotionally distant relationship with is brother Tom, who is a homicide detective. Tom is working on the murder of a prostitute who was sent to a porn-maker by Jack Amsterdam, who has profited from several commercial real-estate deals with the archdiocese. Although Tom knows that Jack did not kill the prostitute, the homicide detective hates Jack and wants to pin the crime on him anyway. That Jack has profited in his dealings with the Church even while engaging with prostitutes offends Tom, given the hypocrisy. Indeed, the Cardinal and Des are in the midst of cancelling an upcoming deal with Jack. But Des does not go after his brother for intending to arrest Jack even though Tom admits in the confessional to Des that Jack may be innocent of the crime. Using the confessional to talk with his brother, Tom says that he is about to arrest Jack. “Did he do it,” Des asks repeatedly. “I don’t care if he did it or not,” Tom replies. Des says nothing.

I contend that Des, a monsieur in the Roman Catholic Church, misses an opportunity to hold his brother to Jesus’ command to love one’s enemies. At the very least, Des could go after Tom’s abuse of police power as being antipodal to Jesus’ example and teaching. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Des does not even mention the word vengeance to his brother. As a priest, Des is called to resist even brotherly attachment to proclaim Jesus’ commands; being a priest is not merely knowing how to perform rituals.

At the end of the movie, when Tom and Des are old men, Des tells his brother that he has finally come to understand the mission of a priest. I demure. Being a quiet, peaceful person is not the mission. In fact, just as Jesus goes after the Jewish hypocrites, including the money-changers in the Temple, priests should stand up to seemingly pious hypocrites. No priest should be a punching-bag in the face of hypocrisy. I submit that Tom’s hypocrisy is much more egregious than is Des’ own ‘worldly ambition” to become a bishop and ultimately a cardinal.

I contend that the film would evince the Christian message were Des to urge Tom to let go of his hatred of Jack, for we are all flawed, as well as the urge to abuse police power, and to go even further in helping Jack by befriending him while not shying away from calling Jack on his hypocrisy (while Tom admits his own to Jack). Two struggling men both in touch with their respective depravities in the context of Tom the Christian helping Jack as a friend (without enabling the hypocrisy) is what the filmmaker could have shown were the film to esteem the specifically (and uniquely) Christian ideal. Having Des relegated to a parish in the desert for a silly reason pales in comparison to depicted why he falls short of the mission of a priest.

The Zone of Interest

It is, unfortunately, all too easy for the human brain to relegate the humanity of other human beings—to dehumanize them. This is the leitmotif of The Zone of Interest (2023), a film whose release took place in the context of the Russian invasion of Ukraine and Israel’s ethnic cleansing of Gaza in which civilians, including women and children, were targeted as if they were culpable for the break-up of the U.S.S.R. and the Hamas attack in Israel. Under the fallacy of collective justice, dehumanizing carnage can run wild. In The Zone of Interest, the banality of evil is evident even though it is subtle under the protection of the status quo. To be sure, other films depict such banality of the ordinary; what distinguishes The Zone of Interest is how it shows us the rawness of human violence ironically by now showing it.

In the film, Rudolf Höss, the commandant of Auschwitz, his wife Hedwig, and their children live in a house next to the camp. Eerily, the house and its outdoor garden and pool have come to be home to them so much that Hedwig fights tooth and nail to stay when Rudolf is transferred. It is as if Hedwig could no longer see the ubiquitous gray smoke billowing from the chimneys, even as her mother has trouble sleeping because of the “factory” noise and the distant smoke. There are two degrees of separation between Hedwig and her mother their reactions to what is going on inside the camp. Of course, Hedwig is proud of her garden and does not want to leave what she has worked so hard on. Interestingly, the close-ups on the red flowers can be interpreted as standing for the purity of nature or, especially in light of her children swimming among human bones and ashes in the river, as intimating a funeral, and thus death itself. That the flower means one thing to Hedwig and quite another to the viewers shows us just how warped the human brain can be without realizing it. Although not arbitrary, our social realities are hardly objective, and we can be so dreadfully clueless on just how warped one’s own can be.

The language of dehumanization in the film is spoken as Rudolf meets with a few men to discuss the efficiency of adding another furnace, and later when as an inspector he compares the “yields” of different camps. Referring to the human victims as “pieces” and to “loads” to be gassed chills the ears as watching the Höss kids playing with teeth of the cremated does to the eyes. In being able to tug at our ears and our eyes, movies can make real ethical problems in ways that singular-dimension books cannot reach.

As much as “moving pictures” are visual in nature, the choice to turn the camera away and focus only on sound can be very effective in conveying sordid human interactions. In Inglorious Basterds (2009), SS Col. Hans Landa demonstrates just how quickly and starkly humans can become savagely violent once courtesy is given up. In The Zone of Interest, we glimpse with our ears only the sheer roughness in the violence with which the camp’s guards manhandle the people as they came off the trains. We hear the thuds of guards shoving the people disembarking from the cattle cars and the moans and grasping for air of the "herd animals." The sounds are raw; they depict us humans as animals, both as birds of prey and prey. 

Human beings in the state of nature, Hobbes would say. Unlike Locke's claim, there are no natural rights in such a state. That the viewers can only see Rudolf’s stoic looking-on as if above the fray only dramatizes the extent of human versatility from stoic self-discipline to unconstrained violence, the latter perhaps going even beyond the unethical to being raw nature as it is rather than how it ought to be. Whereas the Nazi policy to exterminate enemies of the state can certainly be reckoned as unethical, the raw violence itself points to our genetic makeup as animals. 

Concerning nature itself, we might say that it is problematical to get ought out of is, which is what Hume calls the naturalistic fallacy. Does it even make any sense to say that the lion should not kill and eat its prey? I abhor people who shed polite society so easily in order to instantly become violent. The experience of being in raw violence is so unique, and so different from anything ordinary, that it is perhaps the only way we have of getting in contact with what life might have been like for our prehistoric ancestors. Contending with a violent person does not lend itself to ethical analysis; even though the attacker can be deemed unethical after the fact, ex post facto, the experience itself, after the choice, seems to break through the wall into raw experience, which is beyond good and evil. 

So, we are not completely divorced from our primitive ancestors after all. For another fallacy is to suppose that reasoning, including the impersonal business calculus that can act as a cover for the banality of evil, and techological progress can sever us from our own animal nature. As Locke points out, it is possible to find oneself in the state of nature in the experience of violence even amidst being in a civilized society (e.g., before the police arrive). It is the sheer distance between our rational nature and the experience of unrestrained violence that is so well depicted in The Zone of Interest." 

The Devil’s Arithmetic

The Devil’s Arithmetic (1999) can be classified superficially as a coming-of-age film, for Hanna, the protagonist, starts out being immaturely contemptuous of her family’s ethnic and religious heritage and current practice. She tries to skip the Passover Seder at her grandparents’ house. That her aunt Eva had been a prisoner at a Nazi death camp makes no difference to Hanna—that is, until she is transported back as her aunt’s cousin (for whom Hanna was named) and experiences the camp herself. Whether she is really transported back in time (and if so, how?) or is merely dreaming is answered in the end but not so blatantly as would insult the viewers’ intelligence. Then again, it’s not every film that has allusions both to theology and The Wizard of Oz. The different ways in which that movie is incorporated and alluded to in this film are actually quite sophisticated in extending the viewers’ sense of synchronicity beyond the film’s narrative.

In the first scene, Hanna is getting a tattoo; it’s a flower; the tattoo she gets later is of something else altogether: a number at a Nazi death camp.  At the tattoo parlor, she derides Passover as “a cracker thing;” driving home, she turns the radio from a station immediately when a man starts to describe what Passover is. Been there; done that. She is so over it. At home, she asks her mother if she has to go to the Passover Seder at her grandparents’ house. Her mother replies, “We’re going because it’s important; it’s important because I say it’s important.” In other words, the ritual is important to Jews, and she is Hanna’s mother. Period. But not end of story.

Hanna does go with her parents, and once at her grandparents’ house, she asks her aunt Eva why she never talks about her experience at a death-camp. Her aunt explains that the experience at the death camp was so far from Hanna’s world that it would mean nothing to her. In other words, Hanna has no idea how good she has it, and how bad it can get—how astonishingly bad humans can treat each other out of hatred. This can be taken as the baseline for Hanna’s character arc (i.e., to measure how much she is to change).

During the Seder meal, Hanna’s grandfather says, “We would still be enslaved had God not brought us out of Egypt.” This is of course figurative; even if historical evidence were to be discovered of Moses (and that he was in Egypt), no Jews alive in the 20^th century were old enough to have lived in ancient Egypt. So it is not “they” literally who would still be enslaved. Aunt Eva’s lived-experience of being enslaved, however, is quite literal in the film’s story-world, and quite consistent with historical accounts by actual prisoners. It is important, I submit, to distinguish story from experience. This is not to deny that stories cannot have valid religious and ethical meaning; it is to say that the film goes beyond that.

During the Seder, Hanna doesn’t want to get up to open the front door to let Elijah in. Prodded to do it, she goes to the front door of the house, opens the door, looks outside, then slowly walks backwards before turning sidewise to walk down a hall that heads away from the dining room, where the people are. The hall becomes the dream, if it is a dream. After walking a bit, she is in another house. The camera doesn’t look back, so we don’t know if there is a portal that closes, or if she walked through a wall, or suddenly appears in the room. He aunt Eva is there as a teenager and is with her mother. Hanna inhabits Eva’s cousin, who also lives there, as her parents were taken away by the Nazis. Hanna is of course surprised when Eva tells her that she has been sick and that they are first cousins, and she has no idea that Eve is the same person as her aunt in New York. Hanna was named after Eve’s cousin and is said to have a similar appearance.

The two young women go to an outdoor wedding, and Eve’s mother joins them there before the Nazi SS shows up to take all of the Jews immediately to Auschwitz. “You don’t need to go home to get your things; all your needs will be provided,” the commander lies. At the camp, Eva and Hanna stay in the same bunkhouse for some time. To calm the fears of the young children, Hanna tells them stories at bedtime. Hanna tells part of the story of The Wizard of Oz, an American film released in 1939 whom Eva’s cousin could not possibly have seen; hence Eva thinks her cousin has a very active imagination in telling such a story. At one point, Hanna tells the kids that Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home.” Everyone in the room could relate. There’s no place like home. Aware of her distant “other life” in America, Hanna says out loud, “I used to think this is a dream; now, I’m not so sure.” Eva seems to question her cousin’s sanity at that point. This is an instance of excellent screenwriting, for the film not only loosely follows the framework of The Wizard of Oz in that the protagonist is transported to distant place in what might be a dream, but also has Hanna explicitly reference the earlier film in the dialogue!

Film has great potential in terms of multiple layers, or levels traversing both dialogue and a basic framework in that this gets the mind thinking beyond what the narrative itself can stir up. A sense of synchronicity can be experienced by the viewers that goes beyond the narrative because something empirically extant is being referenced. More on this later, so hold onto this idea.

Hanna’s character arc is moving while she is at the camp, and this arc does not revert when she “wakes up” back home in her bed surrounded by her relatives (which Dorothy does too!). At the camp, Hanna asks the guy who asks her out, “Will you teach me to pray?” He is not sure how to pray. This is perhaps the film’s indictment of modernity. Of course, a religious topic is not the typical dialogue one would expect from two teenagers discovering their mutual sexual attraction. The guy tells Hanna that he and some other men will try to escape. Now, Hanna’s uncle Abe, Ava’s brother, said during the Passover meal that an escape attempt had failed in the camp, so Hanna, now at the camp, makes the connection and tries to stop her new beau from going. In fact, she warns all of the guys planning to escape. They don’t believe her, just as Eva doesn’t believe that she lived in America. How the guys or Eva know any of this about Hanna? Her “previous life” could only be known to her. Similarly, in the Book of Genesis, to everyone else, God’s decree to Abraham to sacrifice Isaac is not revealed to other people, so they would naturally doubt Abraham’s theological claim; accordingly, Abraham could only be guilty of attempted murder. Hanna could hardly convince anyone in the camp what letting Elijah in led to or that the escapees would be caught and killed.  

The escapees are indeed caught and hanged. Hanna is distraught and the rabbi wails in Hebrew, calling out to Yahweh in existential anguish. Back in the barrack, Hanna tells Eva, “It’s too painful!” Eva tells her not to wish she were dead. “Your stories are keeping us alive; they give us hope.” Victor Frankl writes that even in such a dire, elongated circumstance, the human mind still seeks after meaning.

Three of the other prisoners are stretched to their emotional limit when the camp’s commandant comes into the barrack to take one woman’s baby away from the mother. “If you don’t let me go with my baby,” she tells the man, “I will kill you.” Another woman, Eva’s mother, tells him that he will burn in hell. He admits that he probably will, without caring much at all about that. She tries to attack him physically, but is too weak and falls into him. The Nazis take the baby, the mother, and Eva’s mother. Eva is obviously beside herself.

The next day, Hanna tells the rabbi that she wants to have a Seder later at the barrack. Hanna’s character arc is really moving! In the meantime, a Nazi guard teaches another guard how to shoot at close range to kill by having him aim his rifle at Hanna’s bent-over back at close range as she works outside. Eva talks the guard out of killing her cousin, saying, “She’s a good worker.” That night, Eva tells Hanna, “I call myself Rivka.” This is her secret name; no one else knows it. Hanna gives Eva hope, saying “You will survive; I promise you.” At her Seder that night in the bunkhouse, Hanna actually volunteers to open the door to Elijah. Before, at her grandparents’ house, she resisted going to the door because she wasn’t into the whole religion thing; at the camp, she is hesitant because she is risking her life in doing so. She is risking her life for religion. Sure enough, when she opens the door, a Nazi guard is right in front of the door and sternly tells her to shut the door.

The next day, while the prisoners are outside working, Eva is coughing. If the Nazis notice, they will assume not only that she would no longer be able to work, but also that her continued sickness could compromise the health of the workforce. Knowing this, Hanna coughs so she rather than her cousin will be taken to be gassed. Hanna even walks up to the Nazis to take their attention off Eva. The sacrifice is made; Hanna is gassed with the sick prisoners and Eva survives. The selfless compassion that Hanna feels and acts on while she is at the camp stands out, especially to Eva, whose compassion is also evident. Similar to how Gandhi’s compassion, or at least helpfulness, extended even to individual British officials even while is was strongly opposed to their policies, which included putting him in jail, the film’s screenwriter could have had Hanna and Eva extend their innate compassion to individual Nazis at the camp. The human need for meaning can be met by such inconvenient compassion and helpfulness. It would be interesting to see how such a movie would play out.

In the actual movie, Hanna wakes up as soon as she is dead in the gas chamber. Like Dorothy, Hanna is in a bed surrounded by her relatives. Black and white film is used in Hanna’s scene, just as it is when Dorothy wakes up back in Kansas. Admittedly, there are some notable differences. The scene of Hanna waking up gradually goes back to color, whereas Kansas is always in black and white in The Wizard of Oz. Also, whereas Hanna wakes up from having just experienced dying, Dorothy wakes up having just discovered that it was in her power all along to go home; she just needed to click her ruby red slippers three times and say, “There’s no place like home.” Hanna was vanquished by the Nazis, whereas Dorothy vanquished the Wicked Witch of the West.

Nevertheless, the allusion to The Wizard of Oz is conveyed—the macro “dream plot” and Hanna telling part of Dorothy’s story at the camp being the other two allusions. Being three different ways rather than only in the dialogue, the cinematic devices are more profound in terms of viewer experience. Qualitatively different modes (i.e., different in kind) expand the significance of a film to the viewer while it is in progress because the film becomes transparent in being a film and is related to “the real world.” The Wizard of Oz exists empirically, rather than just as part of The Devil’s Arithmetic. The synergy thus extends beyond evoking some of the narrative of the former film in the latter. The drawback, or cost, is that the suspension of disbelief—being in the story world psychologically—is breached.

Once back, Hanna realizes that her aunt Eva is the same person as Rivka at the camp, so Hanna reveals to her aunt the secret name that Eva only used when she was young. There is no way that Hanna could know it, and Eva knows this. Hanna provides even more proof to her aunt (and to the viewers who are trying to figure out if Hanna, like Dorothy, merely had a dream). Referring to Eva’s cousin, Hanna says, “She saved your life and went . . . “Eva interrupts with jaw-dropping astonishment, “instead of me. How do you know this?”  Hanna replies, “Maybe it’s from my imagination; maybe it’s from a dream I had. I don’t know. But what I don’t understand is how so many people could be punished: men, women and babies.” The compassion that Hanna has discovered deep within amid dire circumstances of immense suffering transcends her metaphysical curiosity—and perhaps even any curiosity she might have about whether letting Elijah in means that Elijah used a supernatural miracle to save Hanna from herself, in which case she was really at the camp, transported back in time to inhabit (or possess) another person (Eve’s cousin). Aunt Eva seems to sense something supernatural has occurred, so she asks Hanna, “Do you know how to talk to God?” Hanna answers, “So quietly that only God can hear me.” Eva says in a profound tone, “Oh yes.” Both women realize that it was no dream; that she was actually at the camp. “And I will always remember what happened. Always,” Hanna says. Her aunt admonishes her, “Yes, remember always.”

Perhaps in opening the door at her grandparents’ house to Elijah, Hanna opened the door to something supernatural, which is commonly associated with religion via myth. The film’s narrative is a story that contains a supernatural element, and this can be a powerful way of conveying deep meaning. As much as the supernatural makes for a good story, I submit that it is Hanna’s selfless compassion for the other prisoners, including Rivka, that in the end defines and differentiates Hanna not only from the other prisoners, but also from the person whom she was at the beginning of the story. In her own mind once she is back home in her grandparents’ house, her compassion transcends questions of the supernatural. To some extent, this might be because finite beings bound by the laws of nature (i.e., natural science) cannot know whether a certain event is supernatural; it may also because the point of the supernatural in stories is to inculcate compassion. It is no accident that the film ends with Hanna happily singing at the dining room table with her relatives. She may have died at the camp, but her compassion lives on.

Barbie

In The Wizard of Oz (1939), Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, tells Dorothy at the end of the film that it had been within her power to go home to Auntie Em’s farm in Kansas at any time, simply by clicking the heels of her ruby shoes thrice together. At the end of Barbie (2023), Ruth, who created the Barbie and Ken dolls, tells the traditional Barbie that she can become human herself simply by choosing to feel, and thus to live. The Witch and Ruth occupy similar roles, as do Dorothy and Barbie. But whereas Dorothy is trying to get back to the home she had known and now appreciates from faraway Oz, Barbie is trying to get to what she was made for—something qualitatively different than not being alive. Barbie’s plight is existential, and she discovers that the root of her identity transcends the feminist agenda. As home transcends ideology, what a person is made for transcends even home. Put another way, home is ultimately in being who one really is, hence being transcends location.

Many people who see Barbie undoubtedly fixate on the battle of the sexes between the Barbies and Ken, but I submit that as ideologically titillating as that ideological fix is, the tension between the humans and the dolls is more fundamental. The CEO of Mattel is motivated to close the opening that Barbie had opened between the land of the dolls and the “real” world. Indeed, Barbie does not view herself as real precisely because she cannot feel and is thus not alive. Being something that people pay for is to be of less reality than is someone who is alive and can feel, and thus be happy. To be—i.e., to exist—as what she was made for is not a simple matter with an easy answer for the traditional Barbie, unlike the other dolls. It is only after she has won the battle of the sexes in Barbieland that she goes beyond her gender identity as a woman to focus on discovering her more fundamental identity. It is only at that point that the film becomes sentimental.

In a kind, motherly tone that resembles that of Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, Ruth reveals to Barbie that it is no surprise that the doll is not sure whether she had been made to be a doll or human because Ruth made her open-ended, unlike the other dolls. We too are open-ended, though not with the extent of open-ended freedom of an uncircumscribed horizon that Sartre supposes in his existentialism. Even for an atheist, a person’s upbringing and the culture in which a person is raised detract from complete openness and thus freedom in one’s choices. One’s biology too constrains freedom; aging teaches us this vital lesson. To Barbie, biology is definitely salient in her decision to become human; once she has willed herself to become human and is in Los Angeles, she heads to a gynecologist, for, unlike human women, female dolls do not have vaginas.  Being human rather than a doll involves more than having feeling.

In “being made for” something, it is natural to think in terms of the purpose for which a person was created. Theists believe that a Creator instills in everyone a purpose. In the film, Ruth, a human being, created Barbie and left the doll’s purpose open-ended because Ruth “put some of” her own daughter in that Barbie. Having a purpose, however, can also be viewed as a human construction used to give an ex post facto meaning to what a person (or doll) has discovered to be one’s essence. Hence Sartre claimed that existence precedes essence.

I submit that a person’s biological, psychological, and spiritual makeup gets at what a person “is made for.” Einstein’s brain was “made for” physics—meaning that his brain was particularly well-suited to thinking (e.g. thought experiments) in that field. In coming up with his theories of relativity, he may have said to himself, I was made to do this. “Purpose” could be thought about later, for the aptitude of his mind in particular for physics above all other fields is the key here.

Being a writer was among the last things I thought I was made for, given that the neurological mechanism that fuses both eyes on the same object has never been operative in my brain. Even being a scholar has seemed like something I was not made for. Even if a love for words, ideas, and reasoning reveals what I was made for—in terms of happiness even more than ability—I have wondered whether I have never seen the passion I was made for; such a passion, such as a person says to oneself, I can’t believe someone is paying me to do this, presumably does not suffer from any biological impediments, and so excellence as well as happiness cohere. If only a Glenda or Ruth would say to me that the answer has been right in front of me all along and all I need to do is recognize it—to see it.  In the process in which my brain will die, perhaps I’ll hallucinate a benevolent figure comforting me that I had indeed been made for thinking and writing after all and that my handicap actually made them so. For now, I must admit to wondering if there isn’t something else, something more intrinsic to me, hence the thing I was “made for.” But I am guilty here of reducing essence to function—of thinking about whether there is something I am better at than writing and research because of how I am biologically, psychologically, and spiritually constituted, or “made.”

Barbie decides what she really is. She has transcended functionality by convincing the other female dolls that their innate functions do not reduce to serving Ken dolls. Once she has solved that problem, she finds that she is still in a quandary—still unsettled—for what she was made for goes beyond functions. Beyond even discovering what your passion is lies discovering who you are. Barbie and The Wizard of Oz converge in the mantra that a person is never at home until one is comfortable in one’s own skin. Interestingly, the camera immediately goes to a close-up of Barbie’s now-perspiring skin on her upper chest to show that she has decided to become human. That she had lost the ability to float down to her car and that she had become flat-footed indicate that being a doll was no longer working out for her—meaning that she was really made to become human. Her freedom was circumscribed in that she really couldn’t return to being a doll (whereas Dorothy could return back to the farm in The Wizard of Oz). To be fully alive, and thus happy, is what each of us were “made for,” whether by God or that of the natural sciences. This may turn out to be a false-dichotomy.

To be fully alive is to relish feeling as an end in itself. Rather than keeping up with the Jones, being fully alive is to be at home in one’s own skin. This is more fundamental, and thus more important than discovering the skills at which one excels and one’s proper role in society. Barbie as a movie goes beyond its surrounding marketing campaign and even the salience of the ideology of feminism, for at the end, the film “arrives” at the human condition itself and only does the film come alive in terms of sentiments.

There is no wizard to tell Barbie, as he tells the Tin Man, who wants a heart, “You don’t know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable,” though I don’t think this warning would change Barbie’s mind. Had I been a contributing screenwriter of Barbie,  Ruth would also quote the Wizard’s next line to the Tin Man: “And remember, my sentimental friend, that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” Essentially, the message would be that Barbie already has a heart, and that to become human all she has to do is realize that she had indeed been loved. Gloria, the human mother who, with her daughter, accompanies Barbie back to Barbieland, shows love in trying to relieve Barbie’s unhappiness, for Barbie has lost her ease as a doll and "Barbieland" to the Kens. Because Barbie is crying at the time, her existential angst running deeper than her shock in seeing the other Barbies serving the Kens, we can infer that she has feelings, and is thus "real" and human even though she doesn't realize the extent of her transition by then. Even the other Barbies and the original Ken display a slight, or muted, sentimentality when they are waving goodbye to Barbie as she walks off with Ruth, never to return to Barbieland. Therefore, Barbie’s heart can be inferred from not only from the fact that she is crying when Gloria tries to cheer her up with a feminist speech and how kind Barbie is to the other Barbies and even to the original Ken during and after the battle over Barbieland, but also how much she has been loved (by humans) and thanked by the dolls.

Pardoxically, Barbie has no freedom in so far as she transitions in Barbieland; her freedom comes once Ruth has revealed that Barbie need only to will to be human. So there is evidence of teleology in the transition, for Barbie has no control over no longer being able to float and reverse becoming flatfooted, and of freewill in choosing whether to make the transition definitive by being and living with humans or resist it by remaining in Barbieland, albeit in a compromised condition. Theists can point to Ruth and the transition that takes place in Barbieland, and humanists can point to the power that Barbie herself has merely from a realization. Only after Dorothy realizes that she could have left Oz at any time can she leave Oz. Similarly, only after Barbie realizes that she has only to will herself to be human can she leave Barbieland for good.