As George Grant recently quoted on his blog, “When a thing ceases to be a subject of controversy, it ceases to be a subject of interest.” – William Hazlitt

Summer is a time for novelty. New music, new weather, new friends (this town clears out in the summers). So don’t fear the cutting edge – in can be as sophistic or esoteric, or not, as you like.

Here’s my first attempt:

But what do you do when the ending fails to live up to the rest of the movie? Of course, this rarely ever happens; however, oddly enough, this is exactly how I’ve felt about the last two movies I’ve watched.

The first was Redbelt, David Mamet’s latest movie about a mixed martial arts fighting instructor. To begin, the dialogue in this movie is superb. It drives the plot forward, engagingly, all without giving away too much information too soon. And though the plot will feel familiar to anyone who’s watched Mamet’s earlier work, it’s still fresh: our hero is the lovable, down-and-out Mike Terry who’s fighting to watch out for his friends, uphold virtue, and convince his wife that he can be a provider.

To be fair, the ending doesn’t unravel the rest of the movie. If anything, it just doesn’t tie things up neatly enough. There are unanswered questions about characters, unresolved characters even, and the ending feels like it needed to be at least two-and-a-half minutes longer. I want to know what happened to the actor, I want to know what Terry will do next (it doesn’t feel like the end finishes his arc), and I want to know what happens with Emily Mortimer.

Still, I’m glad I watched it. If you haven’t, believe me, you could do worse.

In many ways The Visitor is perhaps the most compelling movie I’ve seen since I became infatuated with Hellboy II: The Golden Army. (High praise, eh?) Its plot is nothing groundbreaking (snarky old professor forced to learn how to live with and for others), but the dialogue is captivating. Richard Jenkins’s delivery is particularly compelling, even though he tends to speak slowly: in a way, he pushes you forward while still holding you back. Perfect, beautiful stuff.

But the movie’s climactic scene seems to unravel a few threads. It turns away from revealing character, revealing love, and spirals into an incredibly preachy monologue. “It’s not fair!” the professor yells at two disinterested bureaucrats. From there to the end, the movie undoes its good deeds: it breezily removes the UST that had dominated the screen for the last forty minutes, so breezily that you feel like you’re watching two lusty teenagers instead of two full-grown adults. (Is that real? Perhaps. But it destroys the flow of the film. Suddenly, what was about real love—self-sacrifice—dissolves into a rather unbelievable and unsatisfying moment of “passion.”)

Even the film’s closing scene, though touching, fails to satisfy. I was left wondering whether the Professor had learned anything at all, if he had really started a new way of life or had simply changed out his toys and scenery.

I won’t deny that I still enjoyed these films, but I have to admit that I’d rather a watch a terrible movie that ends well than a pretty good movie that doesn’t. The former type feels like a deathbed conversion, the kind that is undoubtedly a miracle and moves you to sing, “Hallelujah! Amen.” On the other hand, the latter—even while it has much to offer and teach—is like watching the end of the life of David, a man so full of hope and promise, who sees his family tear themselves apart and dies weak, out of touch with reality, noble and yet broken in a way that brings tears instead of song.

Allow me a few “preface” points. First, I realize that this is not the heart of Wright’s argument. (I love this book very much and consider it lifechanging.) Second, what I have to say is a personal statement: please keep that in mind. Third, I am no expert in these matters. What I offer here is merely the best sense I can make of my own gleanings and meditations. Fourth, I make no claims to 100% sound logic or clear thinking. It’s late, I never really understood all those danged symbols, and the brain doesn’t work that straightly anyway. If you can point out my errors, miscalculations, or misjudgments, I will truly be most grateful.

To proceed, the quote:

The Cold War years enabled the United States to build up its persona as God’s answer to communism. Many conservative churches there still live by the belief that what’s good for America is good for God—with the result, for instance, that if their country needs to produce more acid rain in order to keep up car production, then God must be happy with it and anyone who talks about pollution or is disappointed that the president didn’t sign the Kyoto protocol is somehow anti-Christian or is simply producing a “baptized neosocialism,” as one reviewer accused me of. Rampant belief in the rapture lends strong support to this, as we saw earlier: Armageddon is coming, so who cares what state the planet is in? The irony is that those American churches that protest most vocally against the teaching of Darwinism in their schools are often, in the public policies, supporting a kind of economic Darwinism, the survival of the fittest in world markets and military power.
– N.T. Wright, Surprised by Hope, pages 219-220.

[1] I am not an economist. To be honest, I’ve disliked economics for a long time, despite the fact that my father taught it to me in high school. (Sorry, Dad. I love you, I promise.)

[2] My father (the economist) taught me long ago that just because a person gets one thing right, doesn’t mean that they’re white as bleach.

[3] The common accusation against conservative Christians is this: they have fallen to the temptation of dualism (that is, thinking merely in terms of “right” and “left”). This is true. Far too often human beings are lazy in their discernment and thinking. Instead of weighing every issue, they side with what is familiar, what rings true. (Is this ideal? Of course not. I won’t even claim it’s inexcusable. However, it is inevitable. No one person can weigh every single issue fairly and come out with a fair answer. We should do our best, of course, but it means we ought to be fair in our condemnation of others who fail in this manner. “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”)

[4] I’d like to suggest that Wright (and possibly others who follow/parallelize his critique) misjudges “conservative churches.” Now, given that he is more experienced with the broader world than I, I admit that it could simply be a case of “being sheltered.” That said, the “conservative churches” that I have been a part of do not fit into Wright’s description. My parents taught me from an early age that “Republican” did not equal “white knight in shining armor.” They may have disliked Bill Clinton, but they did not consider Bob Dole an ideal candidate. And while they did oppose the Kyoto Protocol, they did so not merely because left-wing environmentalists like David Suzuki promoted it; rather, they opposed it because its science was far from certain.

[5] May I level a modest accusation? I will, with or without your permission. I believe that Wright unfairly implies that those who oppose the Kyoto Protocol are close-minded. And I believe that similar unfair implications often lie behind attacks on “capitalism” and the “free market.” Is the “free market” abused? Most definitely. But may I also remind you that many other good things—including the written word, non-totalitarian government, and even (*gasp*) the church—have been similarly abused?

[6] My primary point (resting, perhaps in a muddle fashion, on the previous points) is this: I believe that conservatism is often unfairly condemned. Is it perfect? Of course not. Any conservative worth his or her salt would admit that immediately. And I’m not upset that Wright or others may have problems with conservatism in general. After all, if we conservatives cannot listen to criticism, then we are indeed close-minded.

[7] I believe there is good to be found in the writings of F.A. Hayek, Henry Hazlitt, and Gary North. I also believe that any who treats those writings as solid, unshakeable gospel is a fool. (And I know for a fact that the “free market economists” I know would never do such a thing.) Furthermore, I believe there is much good in “free market economics” to be gleaned, and I’m rather tired of hearing it maligned. Is capitalism perfect? Of course not. No system is, nor ever will be. That’s the beauty of humanity: it can never be systematized.

[8] As I wrote earlier, these points may be muddled. I am not a philosopher, a theologian, or an economist. I am merely a layman, trying to sort this out and make some sense of how these theories can actually be lived out in this world. As such, I’m not looking for a label or to label anyone else. I merely ask, “Can someone please stand up and tell me that there is something worth saving in ‘free market’ economics?” Because until Cavanaugh, Wright, or someone else is willing to do so, I can’t listen to them: they’re merely making the same mistake they accuse others of making.

(I should note here that I consider the Bourne movies—all three of them—exceptions to this rule.)

If you haven’t already guessed, I consider The International to be a colossal disappointment. Perhaps I should have known that going in, but can you blame me for hoping? Here we have an intelligence operative trying to take down an evil bank that hopes to prosper off the rebellions and wars of third world nations. Which means that in the end, the said evil bank should be crushed, right?

Wrong.

In essence, The International tries to do Andrew Niccol’s Lord of War all over again. “Corruption is insurmountable,” it says. “Break one of us, and another sleazy banker, politician, or special agent will take our place and continue our soul-sucking activities.” Blah, blah, blah. We’ve heard that before. Lots. We don’t need another movie to tell us what we already know, thank you very much.

Perhaps the most offensive part of this film is its non-ending. Owen’s character (INTERPOL agent Louis Salinger) isn’t even given the dignity of an anti-hero. He’s a failure, a lost cause. Nothing he can do can stop the bank, or the corruption, or the warfare. There’s a slim hope that his forcibly alienated partner (played by Naomi Watts) may one day make a small dent. But definitely not enough to turn the tide. Which means that you’ve just spent two hours of your life watching a movie that says, “Hey, true change is impossible.” *yawn*

I will say, however, that it was satisfying to see the Guggenheim riddled with bullet-holes. That, if nothing else, was fun.

Nevertheless, here are my 8 theses, naked and unsubstantiated as they may be. A real discussion of all this would require picking up volumes of Friedman, Adam Smith, William Cavanaugh, and G.K. Chesterton, among others.

I.
Protectionism can = selfish nationalism. I’m sure there are plenty of economic jingoists who proudly hold to protectionism. But that’s not anything I wish to defend. I much prefer the “localist” label. So…

II.
Localism stands against globalism, which isn’t to say that it is not concerned over the plight of other peoples. Rather, localism makes the case that globalism is actually one of the great oppressive forces in the modern world. Globalism wishes to provide products and services for the cheapest cost that “The Market” can offer. If a Chinese factory can produce G.I. Joes for one-quarter the cost of a domestic toy manufacturuing plant, guess who wins out? In 1965, manufacturing made up 53% of the American economy. As of 2004, that number is just 9%. So first, from the American point of view, globalism has made us utterly dependent on countless foreign industries to continue to exist. We are no longer self-sufficient. If a foreign power felt emboldened enough to completely shut down its exports to the US (e.g. if the UAE enacted an oil embargo), we would be in a desperate condition. Globalism has fueled almost limitless growth in the first-world, but at a tremendous cost to both the first-world and the third-world.

III.
Localism, even in its most “protectionist” forms, is not against trade between nations. It is not against the idea of imports. And it is certainly not mercantilism—not by a long shot.

IV.
Positively defined, localism prioritizes community rather than growth.

V.
Localism manifests itself in a number of different movements, including agrarianism and New Urbanism. It stands against modernity and its ugly bastard children: suburbanism/urban rot, strip malls, industrial agriculture, corporatism, Washington D.C., and iPods. It stands for urban renewal (read: parish life), regional architecture, small businesses, local and seasonal agriculture, city councils, and the local symphony. Localism doesn’t believe that economic hegemony (i.e. having a McDonalds on every street corner from St Louis to Turin to Bangkok) is healthy for a society. Localism disapproves of putting the liveihoods of a third-world village entirely at the disposal of a first-world corporation.

VI.
Localism emphasizes that in a global economy, the winners are the US corporations who can cut costs and the corrupt foreign leaders who offer up their laborers at unimaginably cheap rates. The losers are the third- and second-world poor. Even worse, when third-world villages are conscripted into the global economy, they become dependent on the “mercy” of their foreign employer. If the first-world corporation closes down production in the village, the workers are even worse off than before.

VII.
Localism believes that just rulers should protect the weak against the powerful. Some might argue that tariffs are a good way to do this. Others might advocate an alternative. See Phillip Blond.

VIII.
Localism is skeptical of the Babelesque goals of globalism. Christian localists often point out the religious dimensions of economic globalist rhetoric. Cavanaugh has an excellent article on this, as well.

Have fun with all this. My neck is on the chopping block.

The Decemberists have dabbled in prog-rock/rock-opera several times already. This new album promises to develop the band’s symphonic talents even more. Colin Malloy’s lyrics are some of the most playful out there; he actually seems to enjoy working with the English language, as opposed to most twee-pop and even Indie artists for whom words appear to be more of a chore than a delight. Here’s hoping he hasn’t lost his touch.

As for Bono’s bloated ego… let’s just say I really do pray that this album works. The single didn’t capture me, but I usually like the more hidden songs on each U2 release anyway (e.g. “In a Little While,” “Love Is Blindness,” or “Running to Stand Still”). Still, they disappointed me last time, and I’m waiting for a convincing reason to believe that Bono’s skill is at least half as large as his self-appreciation.

To read: The Myth of Religous Violence Secular Ideology, William Cavanaugh // Back to Blood, Tom Wolfe

Cavanaugh has never written an uninteresting or unprovocative book. Which is something that can be said of only a handful of living theologians. This is a must-read.

I like Wolfe, I really do. But some of his literary quirks are like Mick Jagger’s lips: they just aren’t as flattering on an old man. I admit I haven’t read I Am Charlotte Simmons, so maybe my condemnation is unmerited. Wolfe’s style doesn’t seem to have matured all that much, certainly not in his novels. So, for all the good will earned from New Journalism, I’ll probably ignore Back to Blood unless friends insist otherwise.

To watch: Sunshine Cleaning // The Brothers Bloom

I first saw the trailer for Amy Adams’ new movie several months ago, and loved it. Then, after Frank posted it on HPN a while back, I realized I’d forgotten about it completely. Maybe it’ll just be another ultimately clichéd indie-flick like Little Miss Sunshine. But I’m willing to trust the watchability of Ms. Blunt, Ms. Adams, and Mr. Arkin. Plus, I need to see a good movie with Frank, since a viewing of Slumdog Millionaire didn’t work out.

I loved Rian Johnson’s first film, Brick. You could tell he really loved film noir, and that was enough to win me over, even without the surprisingly good plotting, as well as the Chandler-esque dialogue. So on account of that previous success, there’s good reason to put faith into his upcoming film (not to mention the all star cast). But sophomore acts often fall flat. And while Johnson was able to reproduce the feel of an old Howard Hawks noir, this new film looks completely different. From the trailer, it almost appears like he’s reworking the old classic, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. If he pulls it off, I’ll be elated.

Second, start at the beginning: don’t try to break into the middle of the story. (Trust me, it doesn’t work, and it’ll spoil your future Hellboy reading.) Mignola is a deliberate writer who unveils the Hellboy myth slowly, story by story. Ignoring his chronology would be like reading The Two Towers without first reading The Fellowship of the Ring. Why would you want to do that to yourself?

Third, always remember what you’ve read before. Nearly every story stands on its own, but when you read the tales in light of everything else that came before, details and layers will come to light. Characters who appeared briefly at first will be given pivotal scenes. Stories you once considered “throw-aways” turn out to be integral to the overarching plot. Until the series is finished, it’s unlikely anyone will be able to truly judge these stories.

Fourth, pay attention to what is said about Hellboy and what he is told to do. He always does and proves the opposite.

Fifth, have fun. Enjoy the monsters. Laugh whenever Hellboy says, “Crap” or “Son of a –” (it happens a lot). It’s a comic book, for Pete’s sake. If you can’t follow the previous steps and enjoy yourself at the same time, then practice some more and learn how.

(The following is one such reflection that was helped along by Davey.)

I’ve always found Pan’s Labyrinth unsatisfying, and I know why: because the movie ends in death. While the little girl is “restored” to her place as princess in a grand kingdom, her restoration is anything but real: it’s ghostly and spiritual. As the little girl’s spirit ascends a throne under the earth, her body is left in the arms of a weeping Spanish woman whose wail guides the moviewatchers into the credits.

Fairy tales, as Davey pointed out, work chiefly as exhortations—matured parables, if you will. This does not mean that the message rules over the story, but merely that it must work within and through the story. Thus, Andersen’s “The Ugly Duckling” looks forward to a resurrection that does indeed come when the outcast is reborn as a beautiful swan. (The fairy tales of George MacDonald, as well as the writings of Lewis and Tolkien follow this same example.) Indeed, resurrection is a key element of the fairy tale genre: without it, there is no satisfaction.

Of course, it is possible (as Davey pointed out) to have a tragic fairy tale, like Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid.” However, tragic fairy tales only work if the protagonist’s wishes and desires are inappropriate. The Little Mermaid is punished for wanting what she ought not to want, just as Hamlet is punished for seeking only after revenge.

Pan’s Labyrinth, though a beautiful film, falls into neither of these categories. The little girl does everything she should (with the exception of awakening the great eyeball-in-hands monster), and yet her final end is the opposite of resurrection: she dies, not to live again, but to reign among the dead. It’s an unconvincing end, particularly with the last shot of the weeping woman, because death without the hope of resurrection promises and achieves nothing.

Coming this Spring from Canon Press. Pretty cool, eh? The magnificent cover design is by Rachel Hoffmann, and the real thing will be available through various online bookstores (and maybe even some old-fashioned ones).

Please excuse me while I go and scream some more.

I’ll write more about what’s struck me in the comic books later; for now, I wanted to offer a few comments on the offshoot novels that I’ve managed to read so far.

First, I don’t think the three novels I’ve picked up (two by Christopher Golden—The Lost Army and Bones of Giants—and then The God Machine by Thomas E. Sniegoski) add anything of value to the Hellboy story. As Mignola notes in the introduction to The Lost Army, Golden has given Hellboy something of sex/relationship life; that is in my opinion their biggest contribution. Instead of sticking to the recurring themes and characters of the comic books, the novels depict a world full of demonic and otherworldly bad guys eager to tap into Hellboy’s power; they are wholly unrelated to the grand story that connects Mignola’s stories. The result is that the Hellboy myth is battered, scattered, and thinned out. It robs both the reader and the character of purpose, replacing it with cheap, worn-out formulas.

The comic books are wonderful because they don’t try to tell us every moment of Hellboy’s lives. What they offer is a simple ongoing storyline communicated in a series of stories that develop Hellboy’s character by focusing on his destiny and his wrestling with that. Each short story teaches Hellboy something new about himself (or, if he won’t listen, at least the reader). The novels, on the other hand, are little more than displays of just how good Hellboy is at destroying spiritual powers. But we already knew that, so why bother?

Second (and I’ll keep this very brief), the novels are poorly written. Especially Golden’s first two. Way too much information about what people are feeling or thinking, which really defeats the purpose of action and dialogue. If somebody is speaking angrily, you shouldn’t have to tell it to me like that: the words coming out of his mouth can communicate that emotion. Same goes for actions.

Third, the novels make a weakness of the stories in general very explicit: God is far too silent. Take this passage from The God Machine:

Accursed humanity.

The more he saw, the more his anger grew. Here was a species that did not deserve the wonders their Lord had bestowed upon them. Murder, poverty and war, the befouling of the planet itself; these were not the faithful creatures that the Almighty believed them to be. They were a blight, a pestilence, defying His wishes at every turn.

The Creator was blind to this, smitten by humanity’s supposed charms. With every passing millennium the angel watched, anticipating the call. He expected to hear the voice of his God, ordering the Destroyers forth from their murky prison and unleashing them upon His failure. How Qemu’el longed to see their cities crumble, the tortured faces of the human race turned up to the heavens in desperate prayer as the skies were turned to fire, and they were expunged from the world—a horrible mistake erased, never to be heard from again. (page 163)

If you’re going to write something like this—that is, describe a character’s violent anger toward God, his complaint about the Creator—then it becomes something that must be resolved by the end of the book. And yet, when Hellboy shows up to kick butt and keep humanity alive, resolution to this is nowhere to be found.

I’m not suggesting that every novel needs to be an explicitly “Christian” novel. However, if a character’s prime motivation is anger against God’s “blindness,” and that character is obviously evil and wrong, then the resolution (in this case, the declaration that God is not blind) needs to be just as obvious. God, of course, uses physical means to deal with evil men and evil powers. But then, it’s the writer’s job to acknowledge Who is actually in charge. Instead, Sniegoski offers a world where God is silent, inactive, the picture of a blind watchmaker observing how things are working out. Oh, and thank goodness for Hellboy, since we can’t thank God for him: where would we be without his self-sufficient, self-saving power?

Thomas Bunting (our narrator and central character) approaches all spheres of life through the lens of philosophy and abhors God. He is a sharp thinker, well-read, and completely unable to support himself. While his wife works all day, he sits at home smoking, reading philosophy, working on a secret Book Against God, and ignoring his already-seven-years-late Ph.D. thesis. He is a most unattractive hero, and as the last third of the book proves, he is one of the most despicable anti-heroes to ever make an appearance in fiction. No matter how much you agree with or hate God, you simply cannot like Thomas Bunting by the end of this book. His greatest and last crime is a dive into Onanism (in an attempt to prevent his wife from conceiving), and after this incident, he is completely unsympathetic.

The biggest fault of this novel is simply that Bunting is an inhumane character. He has no sympathetic traits, no good points. An incorrigible liar, you quickly learn not to trust his narrating, and his interactions with his parents are ungrateful and unfair. Sure, they may be imperfect parents and people, but they certainly do not deserve the rage he exhibits around them. Wood has given us a book about a wretch, someone whom no one can love, but to what end? This novel is (if anything) an argument for God, a proof of philosophy’s inability to stand by itself, a suggestion that atheists aren’t much different than screaming toddlers wreaking unrest in grocery stores. Moreover, there’s nothing to enjoy or learn here. This is a book I would never recommend to anyone, because it’s chiefly unnecessary—the only reason I picked it up and finished it is because I’m interested in Wood.

Wood is most famous for coining the term “hysterical realism,” a phrase applied to the verbose, bloated fiction of writers like Don DeLillo, Thomas Pynchon, and others. But I think it could just as easily be applied to this book. Its only lack in that category is length: a reader has only to suffer a mere 257 pages of intellectual refuse courtesy of Mr Bunting. But Bunting is certainly hysterical (most appallingly so at his father’s funeral) and, well, there is a certain tinge of realism here: I can’t see someone with Bunting’s ideals have a much better life. Perhaps this is a lesson about labeling; it is certainly not much of a lesson in fiction itself.

Top Five Fav Albums of 2008 (* – sample track)

#1 — Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes (*)
#2 — Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend
#3 — For Emma, Forever Ago – Bon Iver (*)
#4 — Heretic Pride – The Mountain Goats (*)
#5 — Consolers of the Lonely – The Raconteurs

Runner-up: The Midnight Organ Fight – Frightened Rabbit (*)

If I could suggest only one album worthy of a listen-through in one sitting, it would be the Fleet Foxes’ eponymous release. I could easily run out of suitable adjectives if I chose to write a full review (beginning with breath-taking and intricate, and other such hyperventilation). Check it out. Each of the other five albums stands on its own merits, regardless of personal taste. Vampire Weekend is breezily confident, witty, and impossible to dislike. For Emma and Heretic Pride may require a bit more attention, depending on one’s normal musical diet, but provide moments of excellent lyrical and musical satisfaction. And Consolers of the Lonely is just fun, even if you find Jack White to be an insufferable eccentric. I hesitated to mention Midnight Organ on account of the sometimes shocking (though not gratuitous) obscenities contained in the lyrics. But if you can stomach the stark verbal repulsiveness of some of the songs (I warned you), it’s an amazing album. I’m going to hazard the suggestion that this band writes songs straight out of Camus or Hemmingway, full of atheistic regret and Nietzschean compulsion to find some meaning in life. They would make excellent Christians. If only.

But of all the degrading elements of ’70s culture, the cuisine may be the worst. Check out this site.

Chicken Liver Bake. The “Frankfurter Spectacular.” Fluffy Mackerel Pudding. How about the delectable smoothie made of skim milk and orange pulp? Or the chaser, composed of water, sherry extract, and two beef bouillon cubes?

My, what fruity goodness!

HT: The Dreher.

P.S. Honey honey, hold me, baby, ah-hah, honey honey. You look like a movie star. But I know just who you are. And, honey, to say the least, you’re a dog-gone beast.

Last week, I saw Bresson’s Au hasard Balthazar, and then last night, Jean-Pierre Melville’s long-lost Army of Shadows, which was finally released in the US in 2006. While the former has some exquisite moments of pathos, it sometimes relies too heavily on Important Philosophical Ideas. Meviille’s film, on the other hand, manages truly to break your heart. Army of Shadows is about several members of the Resistance during the dark middle years of the Second World War. The opening shot is of a long column of German soldiers, devoid of personality or human feeling, marching through the Arc de Triomphe. In fact, all the German nemeses in the film are similarly unhuman — lacking in feeling, compassion, faith, and personality. This is not the result of poor scriptwriting; this is at the heart of the film. The title refers to the French Underground, who all adopt fake names and maintain a high level of secrecy, even with each other. Two brothers who both work in the Underground, often in close proximity, never realize that they are each fighting for the same cause, and therefore lose any true kinship they may have shared in the inconsequential past. There is a great deal of distance in this movie. And there is a corresponding emphasis on human trust (or lack thereof).

Perhaps the most heartbreaking scene in the whole movie comes when the protagonist, a Resistance commander by the name of Philippe Gerbier, and one of his associates kidnap a young agent who has betrayed the movement. They take him to an abandoned apartment where a newly-inducted member of the Underground has prepared a room for interrogation. But when they arrive, they inform the novice that they have no intention to interrogate. In order to protect the Resistance network, they must execute the traitor. What follows is the most affecting execution scene I have ever seen in a movie (and don’t even think to mention Braveheart in the same breath). In the empty apartment, the would-be executioners can hear children playing next door, and decide against shooting the traitor. So they search the house for a knife as the young prisoner cowers in the corner, helpless. There is no knife to be found, so Gerbier decides they must strangle him with a kitchen towel. Finally reaching a breaking point, the youngest of the executioners breaks down, saying that he has never done “this” before. The elder Gerbier replies, “It’s our first time, too. Isn’t that obvious?”

The fight in which the Resistance finds itself is no abstract battle of Freedom vs. Tyranny, nor even one for the honor of France. From what I recall, the only time you see the tri-colors of the French flag, it is associated with the corrupt Vichy government. (In this way, Army of Shadows is the counterpoint to the La Marseillaise scene in Casablanca, another great movie, but for entirely different reasons.)

In contrast to all the usual WWII clichés, which usually draw the conflict in terms of absolute good vs. absolute evil, Melville shows how humans cope with the absence of faith and comradeship. In order to survive in a world where you can trust no one, you have to forswear both friendship and kinship. If you have to hide your name from even those with whom you are most intimate, can you still claim your own personhood? In one scene, a Resistance fighter is threatened by his captors with an ultimate penalty: if he does not reveal his own true name, they will kill him and he will die anonymous, never able to reclaim his identity, never remembered, never loved or mourned.

In all this, Melville keeps asking, What makes us real, more than just vapor?

The moment of crisis strikes Gerbier when, like Camus’ Stranger, he faces his own execution. In the long, spacious dungeon of his prison, a Gestapo officer lines up a group of condemned prisoners (some of whom, unlike Gerbier, are innocent of any real crime), and points first to a machine gun at one end of the room, and then to the far wall at the other. He offers the prisoners a deal: if they can reach the far wall, they’ll be allowed to live until the next scheduled execution. When the other prisoners begin to sprint to the wall, Gerbier defiantly refuses to run. But when the bullets begin to land all around him, his legs propel him forward involuntarily (how he escapes, I won’t say). Later on, he is filled with self-loathing; how did the Gestapo officer know that, in the end, he would run for his life, just like the rest?

Why did he run? I think the answer runs counter to Gerbier’s initial self-accusation: it wasn’t just cowardice that made him flee — it was his essential humanity. Gerbier and the rest of the Resistance are placed constantly in situations which require them to act contradictory to anything they would have done before the war. They must set aside their humanity. They are transformed into murderers. They turn their backs on their own family. They are become mere specters of what they once were. But in that moment when Gerbier’s feet overrule his desire to prove the Gestapo wrong, he finds that he is still a person with real human desire and fear and — perhaps — even salvation.

* * *
For further reading, see the reviews of Roger Ebert and Anthony Lane.