The Cross is offensive to everyone, religious people (“Jews”) and secular people (“Greeks”) alike. It is this radical undercutting of who is in and who is out that makes the cross so deeply threatening to many. All human achievement, especially religious achievement, is called into question by the godlessness of Jesus’ death. If God in three persons is most fully revealed to us by the Son’s accursed death outside the community of the godly, this means a complete rethinking of what is usually called religion.” (p105)

I have spent a lot of time, far too much to count, reading the Bible over my lifetime. Over that time I have found inspiration, challenge, a bolstering of my belief, and a reoccuring call to step out in confidence with faith and action. All good things that are meant to come out of my daily devotional life and the teachings of the Church.

What I didn’t always understand, and still don’t fully do if I am being honest, is that this inspiration, this bolstering, this call to step out, they all formed the basis by which I was to be a Christian and live out my Christian life as one who is “saved” according to a specific doctrine. They were truths given to me to help declare myself as an insider, one of the faithful within this doctrinal system. These teachings helped to form a line in my mind between who was in and who was out, thus providing me with the tools I needed to judge the world accordingly against God’s good grace afforded to me in His saving work and from my privileged position being one of the saved.

I think the moment my life was really turned upside down in my understanding of this connection between my Christian life and my salvation is when I began to recognize just how much of scripture actually stands as a condemnation of these privileged positions. The Gospel arrives from the places that least expect, condemning the safety and piety of our religious positions. It is really quite striking and unsettling when this hits for the first time, and it also revealed to me how convoluted and dangerous my ideas of salvation had unkwoingly become in the process of missing this reality.

The reason scripture was inspiring and comforting and bolstering of my beliefs is because it tells me how and why I am on the “inside”. It tells me why I am on the right side of the truth. And yet, scripture, by nature of its coming to us from those outside places, exposes this way of thinking as dangerous, not just for us but for the world. And all of the grand theories and belief structures and formulas that I had spent so much time constructing and holding near and dear suddenly became sign markers of this condemnation.

The more I thought about this the more it made sense though. The very things that seemed to assure me of my salvation were the things that also seemed to continuously leave me in fear of it. Back and forth this would go, even though I didn’t realize this was pendulum was swinging or even why I felt the things it was making me feel. The more I tried to find confidence and assurance in my salvation, the harder I would crash when scripture threw this off balance, because the words I thought were bolstering my beliefs were actually condemning my privileged position.

At the core of this struggle sits the Cross. There is no other symbol in Christianity that so directly implies and reflects the idea of salvation in its essence. And at the root of my understanding of the Cross sat this idea that it was my sin that killed Jesus, and that the reason Jesus had to die in my place was because, as God, He was the one who had committed no sin.

The real problem with this way of thinking about the Cross is that it turns Jesus into the very thing that scripture, and His ministry, condemns. If, as I had so often been taught, the law cannot save us, but Jesus in turn does save us from the law, how can it be that Jesus salvation then comes by way of the law? To make the Cross synonymous with this way of thinking holds salvation in bondage to the very thing the Cross is meant to deconstruct. It sets Jesus under the law and makes salvation a works based endeavor,  creating a conundrum that is difficult to ignore. I would eventually come to discover that nearly every modern denomination was born from a desire to address this problem innately particular way and with a particular motivation, but in the meantime my own emotional state was certainly affected by this conundrum in a very real way.

Sin As Sin, Sin as Power
It was through N.T. Wright that I first encountered a way of seeing God and seeing Christianity that freed me from this way of thinking, and subsequently this awful pendulum of fear and anxiety that it induces. And it all comes down to the way we understand this tricky and precarious word “sin”.

As I mentioned in my previous reflections, my enslavement to fear and anxiety over my salvation had never been more heightened than when I walked into a particular belief system that elevated the notion of sin to the highest of levels to . In the idea of penal substitution, the cornerstone of this particular belief system that I had inherited, sin causes us to be removed the from equation entirely. Salvation comes by way of Christ’s ability to not sin, it comes through the death of the one who committed no sin, and it is given to us in the fact that God can now see Christ (Himself) in our place rather than us because of the sacrifice He endured. This is how we then are saved.

And yet, in the modern, highly evangelical way of thinking which holds this kind of penal substitutionary thought captive, the way we know that we are one of the saved is through our lives imitating Christ and being a witness to our salvation by echoing this same sinless nature. The fear that I had remains, only it is now heightened within this more concrete understanding that Christ chooses some to be saved and some to perish, which by nature, according to this approach, is what makes God sovereign and supposedly gives us the confidence we need to trust in our salvation.

Ironically, the immediate effect it had on me personally was that it made me even more piously protective of that insider position (I am the chosen one), and made the crashes on the other side of that never ending pendulum that much harder every time I encountered scripture and it caused me to question whether my life was doing enough to prove that I was in fact one of the chosen at all. Again, it is striking how much grace scripture gives to those on the outside and how condemning it is of those on the inside of these protective, theological structures.

What really offered me freedom though was this. The idea of “Sin” in the Bible is not primarily seen as human activity, a list of rights and wrongs that define whether we are saved or not, but rather denotes the idea of “Power.” Sin is the “Powers” that hold this world and us in bondage. It is the state of being in which the world sits. In the second chapter of her book The Crucifixion, the book that has been inspiring these personal reflections on the Cross, Fleming Rutledge writes this.

“He knew no sin; he was made sin. Note that Paul does not say “Jesus never sinned” or “Jesus did not commit sin.” That is because Sin in Paul is not something that one commits; it is a Power by which one is held helplessly in thrall.” (p101)

Rutledge shares much in common with N.T. Wright here, recognizing that before we arrive at any sort of attempt to unpack ideas of “justification” (the means by which we are made right through salvation), we must make sure to see Sin in the light of its Pauline, and very Judeo-Christian centric understanding. Because if we don’t we are very likely to end up somewhere lost in the endless systems of theology (systemic theology) that try to wedge it into some corner of Christendom and turn it into an idol, the danger of course being that we then miss the Jesus and the Cross that was so central to the Pauline witness.

“For Paul, it is not God, but the curse of the law that condemned Jesus. In his death, Paul declares, Jesus was giving himself over to the Enemy- to Sin, to its ally the Law, and to its wage, Death (Rom. 6:23; 7:8-11). This was his warfare.” (p101)

There is a reason why Rutledge spends time outlining in her introduction some of the terms she feels needs qualification. Sin is one of the most apparent of those terms, because it is the word upon which we find so much division within our religious systems. And it is the single word through which we find so many in the New Testament scripture building their case against Jesus, simultaneously being condemned by their own desire to position their piety over and against Jesus’ ministry, undercutting the reality of the “Word of the Cross”, or the Way of the Cross as the Way of Christ into the world.

What is being condemned in scripture over and over again is the act of the religious using religious theories and constructs to identity the nature of what it means to be on the inside or the outside of God’s saving work. And not surprisingly, the measure of these religious constructs come by way of the “Law”, the very thing many modern Christians like to condemn while working to recreate a new Law in the likeness of their new life in Christ.

Sin and the Law
What I really like about what Rutledge does in Chapter 2 is that she uses our understanding of Sin as a way to then expose our understanding of the “Law”, both in what it is and what it does. Many of us, as Christians, are taught that the Law is what condemns us and that Jesus is the one who saves us from the Law. It’s in how we understand the Law to function that this gets tricky. Once we interpret it as a list of to do’s and to don’ts, we are then able to place the Law back within the its Jewish context as the key measure of their judgment and their salvation. The Law is what they must follow in order to be saved, and yet their reliance on the Law is also what condemns them. We are left once again with a conundrum.

And in truth, it doesn’t take long in the New Testament, be it in Paul’s writings or later in the Gospels, for us to see this is precisely what the religious elite were preaching as well.

The problem comes when we try to re-apply this and reframe this against the Cross.  In the arrival of Jesus the Law now holds no power. Jesus has fulfilled it in His sacrifice and thus we ar no longer underneath it. And yet Jesus is seen to do this by following the law perfectly in a way that se could not do for ourselves. The truth that emerges in this train of thought though is that the Law, then, still holds power. And it still holds power because it remains the measure of the salvation we hold near and dear. The Cross becomes a symbol of a salvation dependent on dos and don’ts.

Here is where the understanding of Sin’s relationship to the Law becomes important. Rutledge writes, “Paul shows that Sin and the Law are partners in a conspiracy involving a third partner, Death.” (p100) She goes on to say, “In Romans 7:11, Paul depicts Sin using the Law as an instrument to deal Death to humanity, almost as though Sin were using the Law as a lethal club. And indeed that is more or less what Paul is saying.” (p101)

According to Rutledge (and Wright), the Law in scripture is not the measure of our salvation, rather it is the natural (and necessary) measure of our reality. It is the thing that declares the Powers that holds this world bondage to be real and active. And it reveals Sin as the Power that wields it. The Law signifies the great spiritual war that is waging between Life and Death around us, in which injustice, suffering, hurt and struggle find their way.

The Cross and Spiritual Warfare
One of the most glorious things about encountering both Wright and Rutledge is the way in which they seem free to tap into a long lost aspect of the Christian faith we find in the West- the idea of spiritual warfare. In the West, the idea of Spiritual Warfare has been either ignored or abused. Both writers appear to have a connection with and a value for more Eastern ways of thinking, a tradition and practice which retains closer ties with the ancient world and more ancient ways of understanding our faith. In their perspectives, the idea that the Cross must be placed directly in the context of the “Powers”, if it is to be properly understood, is as natural as saying in the evangelical, Western world “Jesus Saves.” Further, this is precisely why they can declare that Jesus Saves so readily, is because of what the Cross declares to us about this great spiritual war.

And I know, to speak in a Western context using such seemingly supernatural terminology is to sound ludicrous and foolish. But to borrow from Wright, to distinguish between the natural and the supernatural is the first sign that our thinking might be off track. As Rutledge writes, “It (the cross) is foolishness to secular people not only because of its intrinsic nature but also because of its affront to the educated, sophisticated mind.” (p85) More surprising sometimes though is how foolish it sounds to Christians who feel like using this language somehow poses a threat to rational and systematic thought. We much prefer the language of sin, as it is something that we can control, manage and locate in the rational world.

And yet, to understand such grand ideas as Law and Sin in this light is to be freed from that never ending pendulum that our addiction to these rational and systemic enslaves us to. It is, in the end, the very thing that brings us to where many of our theologies believe and declare we already are- freed from the constraints of the law, and freed from our own abilities to save ourselves.

Finding My Way Back to the Cross
Let me be clear here. This is not to do away with Christian ideas such as sanctification, forgiveness, and small letter “sin”. These are still relevant aspects of our Christian lives. It is simply to say that if we cannot approach these ideas theologically without seeing the Cross first in light of the Sin (Powers) that hold us bondage, we stand in danger of elevating any of those ideas to prominence over and above the Cross as the means of our salvation. And that is dangerous territory to tread.

Most importantly though, beginning with the idea of the Powers as that which Jesus is engaged with on the Cross freed me to look again in wonder and marvel at the Cross as the source of Christ’s saving work in this world and my life. Rutledge writes, “It has always been difficult for the Church to hold on to the cross at its center.” (p82) This is true for both secular and the religious, if one can be so bold as to resurrect those problematic terms. And it is true for so many reasons, not the least because of its intellectual affront. As Rutledge has pointed out, the Cross has been scrutinized in light of its most valued source of witness in both its ancient and modern context, including the Women who first declared it to be, the Pauline traditions that bear its earliest witness, the seemingly contradictory Gospel writings, the offensiveness of trying to read God as a human and a human as God, and the affront it presents to our rational and progressive way of thinking.

By and large, by breaking into our world from the outside in, from the margins to the inner circles, from the perceived sin soaked places to the pious faithful, “the cross is irreligious because no human being individually or human beings collectively would have projected their hopes, wishes, longings, and needs onto a crucified man.” (p75) And yet, somehow and in someway the Cross still holds immense power in this world, in our lives and in our theologies. It remains today as seemingly absurd as it was for the ancient world, even if for slightly different reasons. But, when seen in the light of what God was and is doing, it has the power to free us and bring us hope in the most hopeless of places.

This is what it means to discover and rediscover the Cross over and over again. It’s a reminder that where this world is not right, we can know that it is being made right. And to re-engage the stories of those who first encountered it is to know that it is in the ability of the Cross to reorient our way of seeing this world, our faith, God, Salvation, and even ourselves, that remains the most alluring aspect of it. As Rutledge writes,

“.. the early church was threatened by far worse consequences than the contempt of the fastidious. During the first three centuries, the cross was not the sign in which the emperor conquered. It did not adorn medals and honors. It was not bejeweled, enameled, or worked in precious metal. It was a sign of contradiction and scandal, which quite often meant exile or death for those who adhered to the way of the crucified One.” (p82)

The Cross might be scandalous and foolishness, even to the religious and religious elite, but it is its declarative presence that can tell us that the Powers that hold us bondage need not hold sway over us anymore. And that is a great hope indeed.

“The way ahead is found in the tension itself. This is not the same thing as having it both ways by seeking a bland, safe position in the center between the poles. Christian theology and the Christian life are best found on the frontiers, where our thinking and doing are engaged by the dynamic tension between two seemingly contradictory truths.”
-Rutledge

In both the introduction and in the first chapter of her book “The Crucifixion: Understanding The Death of Jesus Christ”, Rutledge recognizes the existence of contradictory feelings, ideas and truths as necessary constructs for understanding what it is that faith desires to do within the context of Christian theology and the Christian life. Both faith and science hold equal interest in exploring the tension that our questions, the source of these contradictions, are able to bring forth, but where faith differs from science is in its greater interest in exploring the intersection of theology and a life lived in relationship to this God we are wondering about.

The Christian faith, then, shapes the way we live particularly according to the ministry and witness of Christ, and it is Rutledge’s conviction that the Cross, and the idea of the Cross, remains its greatest and most important source of tension. This is true for a variety of reasons, but Rutledge does an amazing job in her first chapter of outlining the relevance both of our common resistance to the (idea of the) Cross and the primacy of the Cross in the Gospel of Jesus.

If faith is about hope, the Cross is often the thing that feels the least hopeful, while at the same time being declared as the most vital part of hope’s emergence in the story of the Christian faith. As she writes, “The Gospels are designed, each according to its own perspective, to show, after the fact, how Jesus’ sacrificial life led to his sacrificial death.” And yet, as she goes on to point out, history has marked itself by a familiar resistance to the Cross and its imposition. The Cross has long been considered and described as an “offense”, a contradictory roadblock in our attempts to understand a loving God.

What underscores this resistance is the ability of the Cross to “reorient” our lives in ways that make us uncomfortable. That is what makes the cross an offence, is its imposition. And yet that is also the power the cross holds as a “contradictory” statement. What makes contradiction necessary and vital is its ability to protect an idea or truth from becoming a product of our own making. It helps us to know that what informs our lives, our questions, comes from something outside of ourselves, which is what we are able to trust. This is true for scientific method and theory. This is even more true for the process of faith.

The Offense of the Cross and A Cross of Offense: Facing a Contradiction
I wrote in my earlier blog that part of the tension that I carry with me into my reading of this book is the way I had been taught to view the Cross. To see the Cross was to hear the singular message that God despises me because of my sin, and that the only way for God to see me was to see Christ in my place. This was, as they said, an act of love. And despite coming to this view by way of a desire to find a more intellectually aware and robust faith, this way of thinking led to an incredible struggle with depression, a devaluing of not only myself but others, and a constant state of fear and anxiety.

One of the things that I had to do was confront and recognize this apparent tension or contradiction within the confines of my faith. I questioned this view of the Cross, but at the same time I also recognized that without the Cross my Christian faith had lost its relevance. This became apparent when I abandoned my faith for a while, and even more apparent when I came back to the idea of faith in God later on. Only now I knew that I needed to rediscover the Cross with this tension in tow, a journey I still find myself on.

So much of what Rutledge writes keeps poking at the source of this tension for me. As she points out, it is human nature to want to spin out and away from the offense of the cross when confronted by it. Despite the challenges I had and have in reconciling the way I was taught to see the Cross with the Cross I was rediscovering, the even greater problem was rediscovering a Cross that was perhaps even more offensive than the one I left behind. Only it is a different kind of offense. To open myself up to what the Cross wants to do in my life can be a frightening prospect precisely because of the ways it wants to reorient my life in unexpected directions. It turned me from being offended by the Cross to understanding the offence of the Cross.

Rediscovering The Cross: A New Found Freedom
What I have found in this space though and on this journey is a greater degree of freedom and hope. And what I have found particularly helpful in reading this book is the way Rutledge seems to have given definition to this freedom and hope as, to use her term, the “Word of the Cross”. The Cross is a revelatory, life shaping, spirit forming reality that wants to shape the way I live according to the Way of Jesus. This is the offense, and this is also the freedom and hope that we find in it.

Further, perhaps one of the most informing things about this is the way Rutledge has helped me (re)frame the Cross the Resurrection together as the singular work of God in my life and in this world. Tension often arises when we see the Cross as the less than hopeful part of the Christian story and the Resurrection as the source of our hope, and thus compartmentalize them, separate them, and isolate them as separate parts of the same story. And yet,

“The Resurrection, being a transhistorical event planted within history, does not cancel out the contradiction and shame of the cross in this present life; rather, the resurrection ratifies the cross as the way “until he comes.”

What she goes on to define in chapter 1 is that the ways in which the Resurrection vindicates the Cross. In other words, we approach the Cross in light of the resurrection. That is what gives the Cross its shape. This is the idea of “redemptive suffering”, that we are called as Christians to travel in the Way of Jesus not away from it, and the reason this distinctive is so important is because of the relationship between faith, hope and love.

The reason redemptive suffering is a necessary idea in light of this relationship is because it is still the reality that we find in this not yet but already reality that frames the Cross and the Resurrection as a whole. This points us back to what God is doing and what God desires to do in the midst of this suffering as participants not observers, a people of God attentive to the suffering of others.

Rutledge does such an amazing job at helping to unpack how this was and is the great tragedy of Gnosticism, is that it pulls us out of suffering for the sake of ourselves rather than pushing us into it for the sake of others. Not in the sense of looking for suffering, but rather in recognizing that the work of God is to attend to this suffering. This is why she can say something so bold as, “The Christian gospel- when proclaimed in its radical New Testament form- is more truly inclusive of every human being, spiritually proficient or not, than any of the world’s religious systems have ever been, precisely because of the godlessness of Jesus’ death.” And this becomes our witness because, borrowing from Bonhoeffer, she writes, “God lets himself be pushed out of the world on to the cross (Bonhoeffer).” 

The Cross as Signposts For Our Lives
I love this image that Rutledge paints- resurrection life must always be marked by the signs of the cross. In reflecting on my own story and what the spirit is looking to teach and show me as I journey through this book, I am struck by how the Cross, despite my inability to understand it, my resistance to it, and even its problematic place at points in my life, has been shaping me and molding me according to its hopeful purpose even in my ignorance. There is a point in chapter 1 where she speaks about how people tend to look back on classical Christendom and classical Christian teaching with less than favourable eyes because they see “creed” as synonymous with outdated and dangerous. It’s interesting then to consider that in my own journey I found myself eventually drawn into a liturgical and confessional Church environment that gives classical Christianity a presence and a place. I think I was drawn here because I had come to understand that a faith without lived without tension was not much of a faith, and that to live in a way that ignored the Cross or with no faith at all was to live in a world of my own making. A world made in my own image.

I need a faith that is able to reorient me out of my places of self interest, a self interest that can be located firmly within the realm of Gnostic (and modern) teaching. If Gnosticism, as Rutledge helps us to understand, is the great rival to Christianity precisely because of the ways it sees “privileged spiritual knowledge” as the way to salvation or enlightenment (thus creating a natural hierarchy with people on the top and people on the bottom), it is in the way that the Cross is able to place us all on equal ground that love as an idea both lavished and imparted on us can emerge.

“In gnosticism”s portrayal of salvation, the power to redeem (God’s power) has been subsumed into our capacity for being redeemed. Therefore the crucifixion becomes unnecessary.”

These signposts, these Cross markers in my life become the story God is telling as I, and we, anticipate the New Heavens and the New earth being made new. It is this cruciform pattern of life that must mark our communities as self giving and sacrificial as we anticipate this reality. This is the love that we find at the Cross. To live in the resurrection without the cross is to neglect the “now” for the not yet, and “to believe that we can do this without the cross.” The Eucharist declares itself as food for the journey not because it frees us from suffering but because, when seen in the light of Resurrection hope it can reveal to us through the Cross that this world is being redeemed, that we are being made new, and that we are being made whole. 

I still remember the day I picked up my first John Piper book, the popular preacher, teacher, theologian, and resident spokesperson for many in the ultra conservative brand of the Reformed Calvinist camp. The book was called “Desiring God”, and at the time it represented a major shift for me in how I understood my faith. It was an effort to return to scripture and a more intellectually concerned and robust way of being a practicing Christian.

Piper represented a movement of fellow disgruntled Christians, long caught up in popular forms of what called Church “lite”, towards a worship that could better reflect good and proper theology. I bought into it and even craved it, reading one, and then another, and then another yet. The well was deep, and there were many impassioned voices willing travel deep into the well along with me. I even passed along his name (and books) to skeptical friends, thinking they need to read this with me and be enlightened to its wonders.

The irony was, at the time I had no idea what “Reformed” actually meant, or the difference between a Calvinist and a Methodist or a Lutheran and Arminian. All I knew was that I was attracted to the promise of greater, intellectual engagement.

Calvinism, The Cross and A Growing Disillusionment
It would be a number of years later (and a good number of Seminary years later) that I would gain a better understanding both on what I was craving at the time (and still do) and the ways in which this movement, rather than satisfy this craving, actually left me greatly unsettled and kind of dead inside.

Which is not to belabour my spiritual journey since this point. I have written about that in this space at length already. Rather, the reason I bring this up is because one of the areas in which I was left greatly unsettled was in the way this movement had taught me to understand the work of Jesus on the Cross. The essential belief of popular Calvinism is what you would call “penal substitution”, and it is this belief that John Piper preached and wrote about on a daily basis (along with others in his camp). To borrow from a very simplified definition, penal substitution choses to see Christ as taking the punishment for our sins on our behalf in order to appease God’s anger. When one applies the layers that go along with this, which are written and expressed all over the Desiring God series, what you then discover is a God who not only cannot look at us because of our sin, but a God who when he does look at us sees not us but rather Jesus in our place.

This way of thinking about the Cross, and Jesus’ work on the Cross, has led me through years of crisis and self doubt. It not only came to seem strange to me, particularly as I began to engage more with scripture itself, it seemed incredibly harmful and misplaced. If sin is an idea that we find in the Christian story, and I believe it is, it was as if this understanding had reached in, extracted it from the Gospel story and turned it into some form of an idol meant to glorify God at the expense of His creation. And what’s interesting to note about this idea is that most of what I had been taught and experienced up to this point was a form of Penal Substitution. It was simply filtered through a different theological expression, and articulated in a way that failed to narrow down (intellectually speaking) to such a pointed and expression theoretical position.

Rediscovering The Cross
Although I had long since distanced myself from Calvinist teaching, it was perhaps fitting that both Piper and N.T. Wright, someone who would become an invaluable source on my journey out of that Calvinist bubble, would go on to pen two complimentary conversational pieces regarding their competing views on the “justification” of God, which is simply a theological term that describes the specific “act” of God removing our guilt and our sin and claiming us as righteous in its place. In any case, what has become important for me over the years, and necessary as I continue to wrestle with these theological ideas, is a continued reconciling and meditating on what Jesus’ work on the Cross means for my life, for the life of others and for the world. It seems necessary to me, because if I cannot reconcile this confession (and for me it is confessional), it seems that my Christian faith loses much of its relevance.

Not unlike the topic of prayer, the idea of Jesus’ death and resurrection is something I find I need to return to over and over again in order to reconcile that tension that still exists within me, between the oppressiveness of what I felt and the freedom that I know Jesus’ death and resurrection declares as a Gospel reality. While this reconciliation certainly happens through the liturgy of our weekly Sunday Worship, thanks to a book recommend, along with the reality of this current Easter season, I have found yet another opportunity to come back to this Gospel reality over the coming weeks by engaging with a book by Fleming Rutledge, an “American Episcopal priest, author, theologian and preacher”, called The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ.  

Here is a link to the author: https://generousorthodoxy.org/
And a link to the book, which is currently available for $3 on Amazon for the Kindle version. Can’t turn that down :): https://www.amazon.ca/Crucifixion-Understanding-Death-Jesus-Christ-ebook/dp/B01AJ5P014/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=The+Crucifixion&qid=1586114618&sr=8-1

A Process of Self Reflection in Self Isolation
My hope in the coming weeks is to be able to use some of this global self isolation time we all find ourselves in at the moment to reflect on and think about some of the things that come out of my reading of this book. I’ve only just read the introduction and already I find my highlighter going a bit crazy, so I have high hopes for the journey.

I’ll be honest though, any time I approach a book on the subject with an author I do not know I find myself treading with much trepidation, fear and caution, waiting for the bomb to drop that this individual is going to present an “argument for…” this theory or that theory. She set me at ease on page nine when she took to task our tendency to boil theology down into theories. As she writes,

“Theory is a poor word to choose when seeking to understand the testimony of the Bible. The Old and New Testaments do not present theories at any time. Instead, we find stories, images, metaphors, symbols, sagas, sermons, songs, letters, poems. It would be hard to find writing that is less theoretical.” (Page 9)

Later she goes on to talk about the shifts in modern scholarship and current trends that she identifies as moving towards a more “literary style of interpretation” and rediscovering the “plain meaning of a text.” She sees this as an important facet of conversing about the death and resurrection of Jesus, because this can lead “to a discussion of the Word and a discussion of Jesus not being a reconstruction of the past but a living and breathing reality in the here and now.” 

This aspect of our faith feels deeply important to Rutledge, and in fact vital and necessary for the Cross to hold any meaning in our lives at all. As she says, “Christian faith has never- either at the start or now- been based on historical reconstructions of Jesus, even though Christian faith has always involved some historical claims concerning Jesus. Rather, Christian faith (then and now) is based on religious claims concerning the present power of Jesus…” (Page 29).

Which resonates for me as I continue to discover the power that the “Word of the Cross” has, to borrow her descriptive, to reform and transform my life on a daily basis. What I have come to hold onto over the years is that the Cross is less of a statement on my condition and more of an invitation into something new and something healing. I have no problem understanding dissatisfaction and dissolution with the present, be it in my own life or within the present reality of our world. Somehow and in someway the Cross speaks to this in a necessary and life giving way. That is the hope that I have come to cherish, not this idea that God can only see my sin (and even worse then, subsequently the sin of the world), but that the incarnate God continues to pursue me in hopes of inviting me into the work that Jesus is doing in this grand vision for the New Heavens and the New Earth.  After all,

“If God is not truly incarnate in Jesus as he accomplishes his work on the cross, then nothing has really happened from God’s side and we are thrown back on ourselves. If there is no incarnation of the Godhead in Jesus’ sacrifice, then there is no salvation apart from what human nature can contribute.”(Page 31)

and that to me feels hopeless. Thank god that the Gospel brings us good news.

A number of years back I remember listening to a podcast (which I’ve tried to track down but to no avail, my apologies) that was interviewing a native Australian about the differences between the Australian Western and the American Western. According to this individual, while American Westerns tend to be defined by ideas such as expansion, progress, the taming and conquering of the land and American idealism (born out of lawlessness, liberty, and opportunity), Australians see “the west” as symbolic with death, struggle, isolation and natures relationship to man (as opposed to man’s conquering and taming of the natural landscape in the American Western). One of the distinguishing factors of Australian Westerns then is a more melancholic and introspective presence, especially when it comes to dealing with the impact of colonialism on the indigenous peoples of the land. There is a more readily available and recognizable humility present in the way colonialism confronted the wide open spaces, leaving it perhaps more open to conversation and relationship than the larger than life myth that we find in American Westerns, even if Australia’s cinematic and cultural history is mired by some of the issues we see in America in terms of the oppression and silencing of the indigenous peoples.

It was a fascinating and enlightening conversation not just because it opened my eyes to some key and important differences on a cultural and historical level, but because it opened my eyes to Australian Cinema. As a big fan of the Western genre, I was delighted to find a whole new Western culture to engage, but in truth that is proving to be just the tip of the iceberg in what is an impressive cinematic history and slate of films. And as I travel the country in film, if there is one major takeaway of my time in Australian Cinema it is the working paradox of a Country that has invested in true Australian films that Australians simply do not seem interested in and have not made efforts to see, opening up a wealth of conversation and thought about the connection of a people to (and their awareness of) their Country’s working ethos and narrative.

Australian Cinema and its Relationship To Indigenous Cultures
If I can come back to this thought regarding the Australian Western, while Australia’s relationship to the indigenous cultures (namely the Aboriginal peoples and Torres Strait Islander peoples, recognized as one of the oldest living populations in the world… talk about a heritage) has had its problems (largely due to colonialism), its cinematic history has played a vital role in keeping an awareness of Australia’s relationship to these cultures at the forefront. And this is because one of the key injustices that occurred beyond their misplacement was the suppression of their language and practices, a vital part of their cultures survival. Given how the earliest films in Australian history documented and captured indigenous culture, it became a viable and valuable source later on.

This fascinating article (https://www.nfsa.gov.au/latest/history-australian-ethnographic-film) helps to underline the role, even if unintentionally, that early Australian film played in protecting some of this from extinction, and further the role Australia’s golden age of cinema (70’s-90’s and beyond) played in putting the camera “into the hands of the indigenous peoples.” As it writes,

“It was only when Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander filmmakers, following Essie Coffey’s example, claimed and got the opportunity to represent themselves and their cultures and stories in film and television that the history of what really happened could come out and restore some balance to the record.”

What I would like to underscore here though is that it can’t be understated how much early Australian cinema afforded the Country a chance to discover and claim a clear and decisive narrative, beginning with The Story of the Kelly Gang in 1906, to apply to their Country’s story, with good and bad, and the degree to which it helped form an innate awareness of its development, its relationship to the indigenous peoples, the challenges of colonialism, and the importance of investing in and protecting the future of Australian culture.

One of the reasons for this clarity was because of early efforts to unify Australian culture. The fact that this current New Wave of Australian Cinema could see such growth in terms of rediscovering and engaging that narrative is a testament to its consistent cinematic presence and strength of character, and also to the relevance of its early development and Western mythology.

And Yet… The Challenge of Australian Cinema
But even then, the paradox does persist. Australia’s ties to the British (still not quite an independent State, even if they, like Canada, choose to operate as one) and the close connections this created with the U.S. over time has historically proved to be a rather tall and ongoing challenge for establishing Australian Cinema and culture. The early unifying measures, through the establishing of the Australian Films and Union Theaters between 1910 and 1912, led to an unmitigated agreement to secure Australian cinemas for U.S. releases. While this bolstered numbers in the immediate, it is a measure that proved in the long term to run largely antithetical to its vision for building a strong presence of Australian film and domestic filmmakers. It went from a Country that can boast some of the earliest screenings of moving pictures (1896), (arguably) the earliest feature film ever made (The Story of the Kelly Gang in 1906, or possibly even Soldiers of the Cross in 1899, if you are willing to count that) and the first major Film Studio ever built (Limelight in 1899 through the Salvation Army) to succumbing to the shadow of the powers that be (and even feeding them to a degree) over and over again.

“By 1929 a combination of forces – the introduction of sound films from overseas, an increasing stranglehold on the local market by American and British distributors, and the economic devastation caused by the Depression – signalled a serious downturn in Australian film production from which it would take decades to recover.”
– A. Pike (Australian Cinema)

This relationship would continue through the wars and post war landscape, finding every policy move and government change somehow feeding back into the seemingly necessary temptation to chase after the business of the growing industry domestically and abroad. In the interwar period you see this in the short lived establishing of Efftee Studios (which lasted from 1930 to 1934) and Cinesound Productions (lasted into the 1940’s), which tried to copy the “Hollywood model” under the newly established Cinematograph Films Act and were meant to invest in Australian film but ended up attracting more Hollywood films from America than giving space to Australian voices. According to most of what I read, the complexity of this relationship only grew more problematic once these British and American filmmakers started to film on Australian soil.

Consider this- the American Film Institute, Australian Council for the Arts, the Australian Film Development Corporation , the National Film and Television Training School, the South Australian Film Corporation, and the Australian Film Commission were all created to support Australian film both domestically and abroad, and every single one of these initiatives could not overcome the challenges of the global industry even with adjacent “film tax incentive schemes” and “legislative amendments” such as “The Special Production Fund.” Overcrowding of international features in Australian cinemas, dependence on co-productions, inability to properly advertise Australian films, foreign filmmaking using Australia to film, and increasing risk factors associated with funding Australian projects are all spoken about as part of the ongoing challenge. “Australian cinema, originally stimulated by the desire for cultural and social exploration through film, was becoming an industry predominantly predicated upon business concerns.”

At best, as one source suggested, the Australian film industry had come to depend on the odd Australian film hitting it big in America first, and only then would it find the space it needed to succeed back home. And in more recent years, attempts to invest more in the local film industry has also made it more difficult for Australians to gain access to international releases right away. So much appears behold to seeing what is successful abroad first and then bringing what works over for Australian audiences, which is still more often than not American film.

But ultimately the real problem was this.

“With theatrical production and distribution dominated by foreign companies, a whole generation of Australians were growing up and going to the movies but possibly never seeing an Australian film.”
– David Straton

A Neglected But Developing Cinematic Identity
But here is the upside to the Country’s dedicated approach to its local film industry. Although much of Australian Cinema simply wasn’t being seen, through the 80’s, 90’s and through the New Millennium it was still able to establish a real sense of identity. It was able to diversify Australian genres based on its unique emphasis on the Outback and survival themes, even venturing into niche horror territory (Outback Gothic). It was able to reclaim some of the indigenous focus that its early cinema was able to bring to the forefront, while also pushing ahead into stories that could reflect modern Australian culture and social concern with a real emphasis on Australian born stories and an intentional shift towards “urban and suburban dichotomies.”

“For much of the last half of the nineteenth century and the early part of the twentieth, Australia was a culture trying to establish and articulate its distinctive characteristics. The bush and the outback provided the iconography and values for this, and the bush-city dichotomy in the pre-1941 rural comedies and rural melodramas reinforced a mythology based on the virtues of mateship, sport, physical labor, and egalitarianism.

In the 1990’s it began to more confidently deal with contemporary Australian culture, with focus on urban and suburban life. As time went on, Australia became more and more diverse, and film was one of the key ways of capturing these changes (it used to be uniformly British).”
(Australian Film and Australian Culture)

Which is to say, the narrative is there, and the confidence to embrace this narrative and explore it already exists within Australian Cinematic culture. And even more so it is arguably thriving just waiting to be discovered. And part of the reason for this is the filmmakers themselves. Recognizing that they were forced to consider the international factor as part of the puzzle for convincing Australians to see Australian films, one author writes,

“For many producers this posed a challenge: how to make films which had an Australian character and flavour, but which also appealed to an international audience, beyond the historical-drama genre which had already proved so popular.

Film makers rose to this challenge by developing diverse styles and narratives as they explored different genres of film making and new presentations of the Australian character, landscape and mythologies.”
– Luke Buckmaster

Reflecting on a historical problem while using this same modern context, Ben Goldsmith wrote an excellent article about the necessity of building relational space rather than geographical space to help bridge this divide. He writes,

“The new geography of international film production is a geography of comparative economic stimuli as governments vigorously compete for production using various policy levers to assist migrating projects. This international turn changes the view of policy. Rather than the inward–focused policy vision that encourages introspection in Australian expression, and which dominated production assistance policies until the 1990s, much policy is now oriented outwards and made for the benefit of incoming international producers”

 

“In 1994, Thomas Elsaesser wrote that the concept of a national cinema only

makes sense ‘as a relation, not as an essence, being dependent on other kinds of filmmaking to which it supplies the other side of the coin.’ Rather than understanding Australian cinema as a territory, Australian international cinema is conceived as a space of relations.”

These are good thoughts for an ever changing and evolving cinematic landscape. While I’m not entirely sure this addresses the problem of how the American ethos and identity can be both protected, built and embraced, it might offer an inroad, at least in a more immediate and proactive sense, for figuring out how to build towards a way to do this more effectively. In truth, current streaming trends, particularly Netflix which tends to dominate abroad, tend to mirror some of the same issues for foreign Countries (to the streaming companies), as they are driven primarily by companies that have no physical presence in those territories and little to no ties to local film communities. The money made from these projects don’t feed back into local economies in the same way an industry does, creating a weird and somewhat ambiguous space for these films to share as opposed to creating the kind of conversation and relationship the article speaks to above that can actually create a uniquely Australian identity and narrative.

In any case, regardless of how this future ends up being navigated, what I do know is that in my travels I have discovered an industry and a culture that is well worth saving, preserving and investing in.

Here is my list of films that I have watched on my journey, rated, ranked and reviewed:
https://letterboxd.com/davetcourt/list/film-travels-2020-australia-in-process/edit/

SOURCES:

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/oct/26/australian-film-australian-audiences
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinema_of_Australia
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Jz0WNKM9RM
https://www.abs.gov.au/Ausstats/abs@.nsf/Lookup/C83EBE935009D14CCA2569DE0025C18A
https://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/fact-finders/cinema/industry-trends/historical-admissions/before-1900
https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Cinema_of_Australia
http://www.filmreference.com/encyclopedia/Academy-Awards-Crime-Films/Australia-AUSTRALIAN-FILM-AND-AUSTRALIAN-CULTURE.html
https://www.researchgate.net/publication/261181091_Outwardlooking_Australian_Cinema
Australian Film: A Bibliography
The last new wave by David Stratton
The Avacado Plantation
https://www.theguardian.com/film/2015/oct/20/australias-lost-wave-of-film-or-the-renaissance-nobodys-noticed
http://www.filmreference.com/encyclopedia/Academy-Awards-Crime-Films/Australia-AUSTRALIAN-FILM-AND-AUSTRALIAN-CULTURE.html#ixzz6HuMbKxBm
Not Quite Hollywood: The Wild, Untold Story of Ozploitation! A film documentary

In one of Ingmar Bergman’s most reflective and personal works “Wild Strawberries, we find the story of an aging and prosperous man looking back on his life as he struggles to find meaning in his accomplishments. On the cusp of receiving a lifetime achievement award, he struggles with feelings of insignificance and purposeless as he searches for some kind of narrative to which he can feel he belongs. It reminds me of powerful A Man Called Ove, another story about an aging man stuck with feelings of insignificance and purposeless, although his journey is shaped by grief.

It’s a powerful film from one of Sweden’s most celebrated Directors, and in no small way this film captures the spirit of Swedish film history in a significant and powerful fashion, a history that mirrors the story of the Country these films have helped define.

Neutrality, Drama, and Cinematic Storytelling
Perhaps most significant is Sweden’s long history of neutrality. As the rest of world twisted and struggled around it, Sweden managed to remain largely unscathed, finding economic prosperity and stability in times where other Countries were left to rebuild.

This same trajectory follows the Country into the modern age, setting the stage early for the development of a strong social system, a unifying characteristic of Sweden’s national and civic expression. This is a Country that has found “cooperation” between all levels of of class and sector, allowing it to avoid the class divisions that tend to define so much of film worldwide as democracies struggled to emerge. One thing that’s important to recognize here as well is that if you follow Sweden’s cinematic growth, unlike other industrialized nations it remains decidedly unindustrialized, having no real need to get wrapped up in the business of it all because of the way the Country has functioned as a welfare state. This protects it from the trappings of the movie star that we see in many other Countries, as well as distinctions between filmmaker and film viewer. There is much to learn from Sweden in this regard.

Which is simply to say, if film tells the story of a Country’s struggle, often giving voice to the people as they try to make sense of their nations “story” and their role in it, what happens to cinema in a Country where these common human dramas, save for the rare economic struggles that would emerge late in the modern era (perhaps due to their commitment to those same social policies)? What kind of stories do you tell in a landscape that is decidedly undramatic, cinematically speaking?

For Sweden, they tend to turn their stories inwards into self reflective pieces. And they contain a surprising amount of spiritual reflection as well, inspired by Bergman but also reaching back into the fabric of early Swedish film as well. When you aren’t talking about wars and socio-economic instability, it leaves plenty of room to consider those deeper questions, and not unlike the aging man in Wild Strawberries this becomes a means of finding significance in a life that seems and feels methodical and perhaps predetermined. With the lack of outside forces motivating their story in one way or another, they are left to find meaning, and even wrestle it out of their story.

Cinematic Identity, Industry and Invention
In the early 1900’s, Sweden travels a similar path as most of Europe, emerging around 1907 and becoming “organized” between the years of 1910 and 1920, particularly with the development of the “Svensk Filmindustri”.

And while Sweden avoided many of the trappings of industry, most sources recognize its desire to develop Swedish films and bring them to the “world’s stage”. Their unifying social character benefited them to this end, allowing Swedish films to develop a real identity in the silent age, accentuating the Swedish northern landscape and its unique lights, shooting on location and getting creative with exposure. And early on, which you can see in classic films like Sir Arne’s Treasure and the Phantom Carriage, Haxan, there is a dedication to inventive narrative structures emerging as well, bringing to light the sort of introspective, spiritually concerned stories that Bergman would later refine and make ultimately familiar.

Ingmar Bergman and the Evolution of the Swedish New Wave
And it would be impossible not to speak of Sweden and find yourself somewhere in Ingmar Bergman’s extensive filmography. One of my personal favorites is The Seventh Seal, an existential quest to find the spiritual in the everyday, using strong allegory and Biblical imagery to bring its story to life in a powerful way.

As one description I saw described Bergman’s films, they “illustrate the internal struggles of individuals, particularly through such themes as isolation, religious doubt, and insanity while using the landscapes of his country combined with creative composition and editing styles to reflect his ideas.” This is a great article on his aesthetic: https://theculturetrip.com/europe/sweden/articles/bergman-and-the-swedish-aesthetic/_

But what might be worth pointing out even more so, given one could dwell on his filmography for a good length of time and still not exhaust the commentary and perspective available, is just how long Bergman stood as the face of Swedish film, essentially emerging in the post war period, a time of relative stability, opportunity and global reach for neutral Sweden left relatively untouched and unscathed, and defining its trajectory both locally and even more so internationally. Which is great for Swedish film. With his rise after the war, Sweden was able to stay creative and influential as an industry while others were not. However, this also created challenges for Swedish society as the years moved forward, given the long shadow that he cast, particularly in a society that was still largely patriarchal.

So perhaps the most interesting faze to consider in Swedish cinema is its New Wave, a period of filmmaking that would emerge in the wake of Bergman’s peak and into his retirement as we lead into the new millenium.

All a New Wave suggests is a period of time in which we see a burst of fresh creativity and prosperity, new styles of film emerge, and a reinvigorated spirit and potential for filmmakers, much like the one we see in the post war period with Bergman. Leading up to this period would see a host of young filmmakers gradually stepping into the industry, breathing into it certain liberties and social expressions that could push its boundaries and allow it to recreate itself with time. It certainly helped that emerging with this fairly modern new wave in the new millenium were some economic struggles that added to the Swedish story, giving these filmmakers something to comment on on a domestic level. This reinvigorated these films with social interest, new genres and focuses, and more importantly began addressing the lack of female auteurs (Pernille Fischer Christensen’s Becoming Astrid being one of my most recent favorites).

What’s interesting too about this most recent New Wave is that one could see it from the larger perspective of Scandinavian films and Nordic Cinema, something it shares in common with the Scandinavian Nations that surround it. There is a shared story here, one that perhaps gets richer once boundaries have been broken and socialist states and cultures that did get wrecked by the war, civil issues and economic problems can speak to one another more liberally and effectively. Heck, even my home Country of Canada has a real interest in these modern narratives, as they can help shed light on how to navigate certain socio-political ideas on a human level, particularly as we look at our Swedish immigrant roots. It’s in ways like this where film can play a powerful role in helping foster dialogue among cultures, and it is what continues to make Sweden a fascinating Country and narrative to discover and explore on a cinematic level.

Here is the List of Films That I watched for my cinematic travels through Sweden, ranked and reviewed:
https://letterboxd.com/davetcourt/list/film-travels-2020-sweden-in-process/

SOURCES
https://swedishsushibeardnets.wordpress.com/2014/11/18/sweden/
http://blogs.studyinsweden.se/2017/03/21/swedish_cinema_history_part1/

https://www.academia.edu/5943663/A_short_history_of_Swedish_cinema
http://www.svenskfilmdatabas.se/en/the_golden_age_of_cinema/
a brief history of Swedish film

Click to access experimental_utan_bilder.pdf

https://www.sweden.org.za/sweden-cinema.html
https://books.google.ca/books?id=krlcCgAAQBAJ&pg=PA48&lpg=PA48&dq=Did+Swedish+silent+films+use+double+exposure&source=bl&ots=6vXbsMiU9Z&sig=ACfU3U1iakkS_CYHI1-eHQodpG4b66sHDw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjckueVrbnoAhUSpZ4KHczCAtUQ6AEwA3oECAkQAQ#v=onepage&q=Did%20Swedish%20silent%20films%20use%20double%20exposure&f=false

Is There a Swedish New Wave?

Given the infamous position the Lumiere Brothers have as the pioneers of early cinema,
(and coincidentally, the anniversary of their Cinematographe was a couple days ago),

https://www.indiewire.com/2020/03/lumiere-brothers-workers-leaving-factory-anniversary-1202219698/?fbclid=IwAR0RsjHaKTgh4Xt5wYGNWicdfVAjzXnA2jILimSHoPoP3RQ8L1_KI7UFer8

perhaps slightly less aware is the competing story of two German inventors, Max and Emil Skladanowsky, the creators of the Bioscop, a film projector eventually proved to be inferior to the lumiere brother’s creation. 

Fun fact. The screenings of the Bioscop were actually the first payed screenings of moving pictures in Europe (November 1st, 1895 in a restaurant called Feldschlößchen), and actually played a vital role in the development of German cinema and its influence on cinematic history despite it being short lived.

Recognized in history as the birth of a theoretical idea now called the “cinema of attraction” (by a film theorist named Tom Gunning), the early years of German cinema for the most part travels a similar line as much of Europe in that it continued to balance the allure of this new thing called the “moving image” with the perception of it as either art or entertainment. These travelling projections, or the German Kintopp as they came to be called, moved through the Country capturing the imagination of its people through the power of the image, using visuals to evoke emotions (the root of cinema of attraction).

As history goes, the fascination with seeing moving pictures on screen eventually led to the creation of something more concrete being established within the German landscape, with the Kammerlichtspiele Cinema in Berlin 1912 being the first cinema of note, but with cinemas emerging in places like Mannheim as early as 1906.

Cinema and Class Structures
What is interesting to note about these early years of travelling entertainment within Germany, and eventually the glorious German architecture that would follow, is that even in its formative years cinema was functioning as a commentary on class. According to many of the sources I encountered, the novelty of these pictures eventually gave way to popularity, shifting its focus to lower and middle class audiences. The popularity of the medium in Germany began to divert the higher classes away, causing them to dismiss it as frivolous entertainment. It would be later though, as the idea of film began to take concrete shape in the form of a more visible architectural presence, that it began to be considered as serious art.

This relationship between film and class continues throughout German cinematic history, with this social concern informing everything from German expressionism, Nazi propaganda, post war cinema, to the eventual re-education purposes entering into the modern age. But intiatilly, with this history comes the building of these grand cinemas, their destruction in the wars, in Germany’s post war period their reconstruction amidst the East-West divide and the American funding that allowed West Germany to begin to redevelop, and ultimately their familiar deconstruction once again with the onset of tv, a familiar epidemic that exists in similar form across Europe.

If I can backtrack a bit to the early 1900’s and the emergence of German cinema as a concrete form, a part of what moved film from a lower class distraction to an upper class and distinguished artform was the connection of cinema in Germany to its formative influence on oral, literature and cultural German storytelling methods. What made films in Germany artistic was its connection to “literary form”, which itself connected back to Germany’s historical positioning as some of the earliest storytellers to influence modern forms. This provides cinema with a foundation on which to grow in form as well as a new way of expressing shared themes and ideas.

It is out of this that German cinema is able to gain an intellectual presence, developing different styles and methods such as Schaulust (literally translated visual pleasure), which grew to become the most prominent and distinguishable characteristic of German cinema and cinematic criticism. As Walter Serner writes, “If one looks to where cinema receives its ultimate power, into these strangely flickering eyes that point far back into human history, suddenly it stands there in all its massiveness: visual pleasure (Schaulust).” And these distinct visual forms emerge from Germany’s rich history of storytelling.

What might be more interesting though is Germany’s more recent cinematic history, particularly in the years following re-unification. On a superficial level there are many ways in which it appears to mirror the development of the multiplex that we see in America, with cinemas at first spanning out into smaller and more modest venues called KoKis (Independent Cinemas meant to protect the virtue of cinema), and then ultimately growing into the big box centers that are about more than just the screen and the film. But where America’s movement created something entirely other, buildings that mirror their capitalist agendas rather than offering any clear connection to some idea of its cinematic history, in Germany the movement was and is an attempt to reconnect to the glorious buildings of their past. As film studies expert Jan Phillips writes, “In contrast to the homogenous multiplexes, the focus here is on the cinema theatre itself – which consciously reflects the glamour of the picture houses of a bygone era.” As I will touch on more below, this connection to building and art, people and architecture is a defining part of German culture and its cinematic tradition.

A National and International Cinematic Industry
The more I travel the world through film, the more common and aware the relationship between the building of a National Film Industry and the pressures of an International Industry becomes. A strong, localized Industry is vital to the health of a given Country, not just on an economic level but on a social level. And what is most important about this fact is that the history of cinema holds a deep and very real connection to the development of a Country’s ethos, identity and social awareness. This is at least in part because of the ways it has replaced (in the modern age) the theater as the means through which a Country is able to form (through the telling and retelling of their stories in a shared and public fashion) a collective narrative and recognizable identity. Film has the power to unify people around an idea and a purpose in a way that other artforms cannot.

Even more so, these stories become the lens through which people are able to both understand their history and the means by which they are able to express their experience of it. It gives voice to their past, their present and actively imagines their future, thus giving the people confidence to then step out into a more global reality. This is why you see so many of Countries in their pre and post war periods developing their industries and investing in their filmmakers as part of a renewed National vision and value. This is also where, in times of struggle, Countries with power are those with established arts (film industries), holding a strong national identity that is able to carry and influence abroad.

As Jochen Kurten writes in the article,

“Fact and Fiction: German Films and History”, “More than any book or exhibition, even more than school lessons, popular feature films influence Germans’ image of their own history. That is not new knowledge perhaps, nor is it surprising. But as articulated by Hans Walter Hütter, director of the “Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland” (House of History of the Federal Republic of Germany), the claim carries a lot of weight.”

A real problem arises when a Country needs to rebuild but is left unable to rise above the foreign influences and pressures that holds them captive. This was and is true for Germany, which found so many of its citizens having moved away and now living on American and foreign soil. Without those creatives who are able to help give voice to the narrative of the Country as it is being experienced, Germany has found itself being overshadowed by the perspective of those living abroad viewing the Country from a distance and a localized industry that has failed to capture its true ethos in a visible way.

I can say, of all the Country’s I have visited so far, either in part or in full, Germany is so far the most unique in this regard. Their history is entrenched in this national-international narrative. This is a very simplified analysis of a complex discussion, but what adds to this picture is that Germany’s lengthy and difficult political story also dictated its cinematic history towards the path it eventually followed, forming its cinematic landscape in ways that were more beholden to oppression than liberation. As the wonderful 2018 Hitlers Hollywood shows, when the cinema that is there becomes the voice of a dictator and regime, the story of its people gets muddied and confused. This is why movements like Italian Neo-Realism were so influential and so important. They helped rebuild their Country’s through film that became the voice of the people, interested in capturing their reality and their concern.

To this end, the biggest hurdle that German Cinema faced and continues to face is the fact that it has been left scattered by its relationship to international borders and its in-Country conflict, causing what began as one of the most promising centers for cinematic development (as represented in their architectural history, preserved, rebuilt and destroyed, their innovation and their early films), to give way to period after period of mass exoduses of Germans to foreign soil, with (as mentioned) one of the primary  exoduses being the eventual establishment of German cinema now being made from American soil and as American films by German Americans. European influence early on (France, Italy and Denmark) quickly gave way to the gradual Americanization of German culture, of which a byproduct was an unfortunate disassociation from the history that had informed the German peoples experiences. This is something, as a people, they are still trying to overcome, and the future of German film plays a vital role in re-establishing these connections.

Cinema, Early Expressionism and Politics
One can then add to this the difficult history Germany has faced on a socio-political level, moving through the two World Wars and towards eventual re-unification of East and West. The decision to ban imported films in both world wars, including French Film, had a two-fold effect. On one hand it did help to protect a “distinctly German cinematic identity.” Consider the Weimar period, a complex and problematic interwar era that, despite its early struggles to create a true Democracy and the infamous Article 48 that paved the way for Hitler, gave rise to some of a period of stability and cultural reform in German Expressionism and Chamber Dramas, even advancing the art of film itself. German Expressionism is heavy in symbolism and imagery, not coincidentally evoking new class distinctions and a high level of social commentary. It was a way of understanding the German experience through stylings that were unique to their form of storytelling. It reflected the voice of the people in a time of change, a drastic contrast to the Country under Nazi rule.

Even a most cursory look at Expressionism can tell you that it was interested in using style to say something about what the people were thinking, feeling and fearing. It lends itself readily to the horror genre, but expands beyond it. Even more so perhaps, Chamber Dramas, translated from the German word Kammerspielfilm which means “an intimate, cinematic portrait of lower middle class life”, comes from a style of German theater that is very sparse and very simple and has an interest in character over movement, examining the motivations of a character rather than depicting a story arc. These were perhaps the flip side of expressionism which tended to be more grand displays of cinematic fervor. Chamber films were intimate with a specific interest in digging underneath the German Psyche.

Also not surprising is the deep conviction of German Expressionism to the rejection of Western ideas and ideologies. Even then it knew the dangers of being absorbed by an international identity, and it is one of the reasons why the genre and style is still the most recognizable German collection of films on an international level. It is through both Expressionism and Chamber Dramas, among other German styles and movements, that we are able to recognize, for example, the deep connection with Germans to architecture and cityscape, buildings, streets and civic life. Knowing this can help one understand the devastation that their destruction had on their physical and emotional landscape, the motivation they had for rebuilding the old, and the power that held in giving them a future.

But whatever periods of potential and creativity that we find and discover, we also know that we are never far away from another war, another divide or another political battle, many of which decimated and or controlled the culture, architecture and national identity in its wake. With the wars came bans on importing international films and exporting German films, with subsequent Government control banning and directing what kind of films could then be seen and made. This cut off lines of artistic influence altogether, and even more tragically so abruptly. Films then turn towards propaganda with history becoming confused, the voice of the people left fighting to be heard and largely marginalized in its course.

The irony of this is that over this same period of time it could be said that Germans have had the single greatest influence on American film in its illustrious history. But that comes at the expense of being able to see and understand Germany’s cultural identity from the context of its own soil, and it has impeded its ability to heal and reform as a Country from so many of these experiences.

Facing A Persisting Cinematic Problem 
To say this another way, German film is thus caught in a catch 22. Their banning of international films led to their films not being recognized outside of their borders, which led to a declining interest in film overall, which led to a lack of creatives willing and able to make films that reflect their own story from their own perspective.

As a few articles suggested, they have tried to come up with solutions but have never really regained their footing and their ability to be inventive. They have lost a national identity both inwards and outwards, with most of the success coming from international partnerships these days and German filmmakers making and producing abroad.

As one article puts it,

“Germans, like many of their European neighbors, offer government subsidies to their filmmakers in an effort to encourage domestic motion picture production. Europeans, including the Germans, have traditionally tended to regard filmmaking as an art rather than a business. Because the resulting European films are often limited-budget, intellectually challenging productions that lack the Hollywood big-star, action/blockbuster formula, their mass appeal has been limited.”

(Further) “It is ironic, then, that the German film diet of today is predominantly Anglo-American, especially in light of Germany’s historical role in world cinema. Almost from the first days of motion pictures, both the Austrians and Germans were at the cinematic forefront, exerting great influence over the medium. And yet years of migration have made their cinematic presence in America far greater than it is in their own Country.”
(Cinema in Germany)

Germany, unlike Ireland (which I visited before travelling to Germany cinematically speaking), was never able to reconcile this predominantly Anglo-American influence with a vigorous longing to return to their homeland. Whereas the Irish have created movements meant to reclaim their heritage and rebuild their culture through Irish Cinema, Germany continues to wrestle with its complex relationship with its past and present and future, consequently struggling to find its place in the cinematic world as its creatives remain scattered abroad.

(And yet) Authentically “German” films are still every bit as important now as they have always been, and have even persisted in some surprising ways that are not always easy to recognize in an increasingly global climate. These films are important because they help one to not forget their past but to face it, to remember it and build towards a stronger future.

This is why, seeing beyond even expressionist film, recognizing movements like New Objectivity, which like Chamber Films existed as a parallel and counter to expressionist film in that it traded the expression for realism, Trummerfilm (literally “rubble film”), which distinguished films captured right after the war in the rubble of its aftermath (films largely interested in the theme of rebuilding such as “Somewhere in Berlin”), Heimatfilm (“homeland film”), which spans that post war period up until the 70’s with films interested in generational contrasts and the relationship between rural and urban life, is important to understanding Germany as a Country. All of the genre and style distinctives that do still exist with German cinema are important because they can protect and record the history of the people amidst the upheaval and the rebuilding. This is true today even with viewing films (like the Nazi Propaganda films, and even the post war films where one can see a clear agenda covering up the reality) that confused their history and manipulated it. They tell a part of their story that is worth remembering and making sense of, and provide an overarching narrative that one can look back on, think and reflect upon and piece together in a meaningful way. They also allow one to hear and see the voice of the people being expressed in the midst of trying times, offering us a glimpse of those who tried to stand up against that which was not right and tell stories that reflected their actual experience.

And seeing and supporting modern German films today becomes vital to learning and capturing and recapturing the true German spirit now. It might take more work to uncover these films than in other Countries but it is worth the investment whether one is German or not. Because one thing is true, for all that the German people have witnessed and lived through and had to overcome, they have so many stories worth telling, a strong storytelling culture to pass on and preserve, and a culture worth celebrating in its immense potential to impact the cinema of tomorrow.

*MY JOURNEY THROUGH GERMAN CINEMA
Here is a link to my working (and ranked) list of German films from my travels. There are of course many that I can still add, and I will continue to do so as I get a chance.
https://letterboxd.com/davetcourt/list/film-travels-2020-germany-in-process/

SOURCES
https://www.goethe.de/en/kul/flm/20652941.html
https://www.german-way.com/history-and-culture/germany/cinema-in-germany/
https://www.dw.com/en/fact-and-fiction-german-films-and-history/a-19321099
https://u.osu.edu/berlin2798horstbuchholz/2015/05/22/a-brief-history-of-german-cinema/
A Critical History of German Film by Stephen Brockmann
https://www.britannica.com/place/Germany/Film
The German Cinema Book by Tim Bergfelder
The Promise of Cinema: German Film Theory, 1907–1933 by Anton Kaes, Nicholas Baer, Michael Cowan
https://pro.europeana.eu/data/cinema-of-attraction
Hollywood in Berlin: American Cinema and Weimar Germany By Thomas J. Saunders
Feinstein, Joshua (1999). Constructing the Mythic Present in the East German Cinema: Frank Beyer’s ‘Spur Der Steine’ and the 11th Plenum of 1965.

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light… everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light.”
– Ephesians 5:8-14

What is the meaning of the darkness?
At the core of this question in A Hidden Life, Terrence Malick’s latest film, is that familiar visual sense that has come to define his style. Here he weaves darkness and light as both literal cinematic functions and metaphorical human experience together into a marvelous and uncertain dance of existential longing. As a big fan of Malick, particularly the equally contemplative and sensory experience of the Tree of Life, what I found in his latest work is an unexpected maturity and a willingness to ground his artistic vision in something a bit more accessible.

What might be most profound about the journey that A Hidden Life invites us to take as viewers into this inevitable and uncertain dance is that it resists the urge to paint this as a singular trajectory from the darkness to light. As one character surmises late in this story, even when it is raining the sun doesn’t stop shining. The implication is that we don’t always see the sun in light of our experiences, leaving us to wrestle, to question and to doubt when the darkness grows.

Which is precisely were we find the family whom occupy the heart of this film. A family of faith and optimism suddenly caught between the ever pressing darkness and the seemingly distant light. Faith exists for this family as a constant, a given, a gift. But God’s faithfulness also proves to be allusive, distant at difficult to understand. This is the internal struggle, the inward journey this family is forced to take and carry in the face of this darkness.

Where The Darkness Hides The Light
Hanne Johnson, a ministry leader in the Covenant Church of Canada recently penned a Lenten devotional on the verse I quote above, and in that devotional she writes concerning this imagery of the light and the darkness,

“The most beautiful thing about this light imagery is that darkness explained is the absence of light. Not the other way around. Once there is light, there is no longer darkness,” for as it says “Everything that is illuminated becomes light.”

In reflecting on the story of A Hidden Life, its images flowing through my memory and my meditation, I found this truth about the nature of light and darkness to be helpful. Because often what makes the darkness most difficult is when the darkness is all that we can see. And the reason the darkness is all we see is because the darkness comes in our suffering.

In the case of the film, suffering becomes the overarching theme, one that the film returns to over and over again as the source of the darkness. In suffering they try to make sense of their faith, coming back to the imposing reality of this darkness as one that is desperate for answers and unclear even of the right questions as it invades their world, their village, and the choices they are forced to make in one direction or another.

In the midst of the suffering the darkness appears to veil God from their sight. What invades the darkness though is this deeply ingrained sense or spirit led nudging that the light still shine and wants to unveil God to them in all God’s mystery and love.

Where The Darkness Reveals The Light 
As the Mayor of the village laments (and then professes) early on in the film, “This is what happens when the world dies. Men survive. But here (in this village, in them) life is gone. Their reasoning for living gone.” This is why they seemingly must choose to look out for them selves regardless of what this might mean for the lives of others.

The backdrop for the story in A Hidden Life is Nazi rule and Hitlers reign, with the persecution of those deemed inferior and a hindrance to their prospering the thing that is immediately informing their quiet Austrian village life and something they are forced to embrace. The above lament from the Mayor quickly turns into an unsettling form of defiant proclamation, causing the Mayor of a small Austrian village to remind the villagers that there are those he believes would impede on their ability to live good and happy lives, and thus they must support them in their efforts for their sake.

This causes tension when Franz, the father and husband of the family that lies at the centre of this story, is unable to reconcile his experience as a soldier and the unjust treatment of others with his appeal for a comfortable and happy life. He is a conscientious objector, and for him, Nazi rule is not something they can ignore and is something that stands opposed to the tenants of his (and their) faith.

And so he decides to stay true to his convictions, what he believes to be right and true according to God, virtue and conscience. Only what persists is the reality that the more they attempt to believe in and stand by what is right, the more suffering that seems to befall them, a reality made all the more prevalent as they continue to look out at the suffering of the world wondering how and why God would allow such darkness to exist and persist in the first place.

Where are you God when all we see is darkness.
As Hanne so aptly wrote in her devotional , to see and experience the light is to have it inform the darkness, and in doing so expose it to the light. This is the truth that A Hidden Life wants to point us towards and help uncover. In one sense, to make sense of their suffering they must learn to see the light. In another sense they must learn to embrace the darkness.

This is where we find the different imagery in the film gaining in power. The ringing of the bell is at once indicative of the darkness (as the Priest says, it is literally being melted down and made into a bullet) and indicative of hope. The rain is what hides the sun but it is also what sustains them, sustains creation and fills their well. The train reflects the heart and innocence of childhood and Franz’s memories, but also the horrors of his current reality.

Malick brilliantly weaves these interconnected realities into the fabric of the film itself. Some of the most powerful moments are the subtlest ones, be it the image of their child in Fanie’s (the wife and mother) arms laughing even as we see her turn her head in silent, sobbing tears. Or the romanticism of the letters Franz writes from prison to Fani, imagining a more hopeful situation at home even when we as viewers see her and the kids literally trudging through mud in isolated desperation.

If their suffering brings darkness, the power that the darkness gains over the course of this film becomes visceral, tangible and wrenching to watch. The proclamations of faith appear to give way to Gods growing silence in the midst of the “why” questions. But where there is darkness there is also light, and the darkness is what allows the light to shine even brighter.

Perhaps one of the most poignant and memorable scenes in the film for me is one where we encounter a tracking shot that takes us through the halls of the prison, imagining God Himself speaking as the suffering gives way to an elongated prayer being prayed over Franz. The way this is shot, elevating our gaze upwards and framed against the narrow confines of these passageways allows the confines of the prison walls to open up to the sun in this grand display of the light breaking through and igniting the darkness in literal and metaphorical ways. This visual piece affirms the films prevailing and hopeful position that even when we cant see God, we can believe that God is at work redeeming this world, restoring its brokenness, and healing the pain. 

And yet, even while this hope emerges, what becomes clear is that the darkness is the very thing being illuminated in its wake. It is not being ignored and it is not being done away with. To see the light we must peer into the darkness. And as Ephesians suggests, what is being formed out of this darkness is us, the faithful witness of God to a hurting world.

Where The Light forms Us Against the Darkness
Where the question of the darkness begins in A Hidden Life with the presence of suffering, God emerges through through the darkness as the light that is shaping these characters day by day in the mud and the muck and the mire. This sentiment grows from a statement like  “there is a difference between the kind of suffering we cant avoid and the kind we choose” towards the realization that it is “better to suffer injustice than to do it.” The further we get into the story the more we learn about what the darkness looks like when illuminated by the light. It is the same kind of progression that we see in the painter as he paints the church walls with images of Christ. “I paint their comfortable Christ,” he confesses, adding “how do I paint that which I do not know.” The paintings avoid the darkness and thus miss the witness of the light, leading him to profess, “someday I’ll paint the true Christ.” While the darkness allows the light to bear witness in us to the hope of faith and the the longing of our soul, this longing to know Christ and to be people of the light is what allows God to shine in the darkness of others.

I love how the prayer that frames that tracking shot through the prison halls, God’s prayer over Franz, expresses itself once again in the form of Fani visiting her husband now in prison as the darkness looms larger than ever. Her words are simple. “I love you and I will be with you always.” It is a prayer that echos God’s own promise to her and to them. Later on she confesses, for as much as she loves him God loves Him more, and for as hard s it is to believe He is capable of bringing His peace and comfort into any situation and in the way that she so desperately asks for and needs. This prayer broke me, because it’s the kind of prayer one can only pray over another, and one that is nearly impossible to pray alone. It reminds me of how grateful I am to know that in my darkness others are and have prayed for me.

The Illumination of the Light To Transform and Reform
This is the power of the light. As the quote from Eliot reads in a caption at the end of the film,

“The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

This quote makes A Hidden Life for me one of the most powerful witnesses of faith I have experienced on screen, precisely because of the way it strips us of that singular aversion we so often carry towards believe in God- the desire to do things on our own and in our own way and by our own means. We believe we know best, and when life doesn’t turn out the way we want we blame God, imaging the darkness and hiding the light. We give up, choosing the easier path, the path of least resistance. And we give in to the idea that God is not at work in the world and we are left to fend for ourselves.

The film begins with the honest admission that while we might be capable of dreaming of a better world for ourselves, we cannot ignore the darkness in others. The darkness is ever present in a world which was created for good, and those God desires to heal and to redeem are the reason God calls us to be the light. To ignore this truth, or to believe we can live beyond this by our own strength and means, is to live dangerously and foolishly.

Likewise, as one character says to Frani midway through the film, you have been abandoned (seemingly by her husband, God and the town), so the answer given to her is to do it (live life) on her own, in her own strength. Do what the others could not and rise above it. This approach is proven equally fallible and foolish in this story, because what the light unveils to her and within her is that she cannot do this on her own. So much of the film’s images depict her in relationship to others, relationships that have been hindered by peoples blindness and are in need of God’s love, or relationships that emerged from their willingness to enter into her world  and her struggle. And in the context of the story these relationships are what point her, Franz and us as viewers towards God as the one who is with us every step of the way, the one who has entered into our story and shared in our struggle.

The third tendency is to deal with the darkness by anointing ourselves the necessary judge and jury of what is evil and what is good. This is a stridently humanist approach to the world’s problems. But Malicks treatment of Franz guides his conscious action to do good towards a judgment of himself first rather than an interest in judging others. He sees the darkness first in himself, and thus is driven to love others in their darkness because of this. In one of the most powerful scenes in the film he is asked if he judges those who have committed great acts of injustice. His answer is no, because that would leave him equally undeserving of this grace he so desperately needs.

This idea that society can be good on it’s own, that we don’t need anything else but our own will and determination, and that we have the right to be the judge and jury of the world in all things good and evil, these things are present in every facet of society today. It is a bi-product of deciding that one (or the world) has no need for a God. The declaration of A Hidden Life is that we do stand in need, and living as if we don’t is what gives the darkness its power. For Franz, to give so completely of himself in the midst of his suffering even when he has no confidence or assurance that what he is doing will make any difference and and bring any change at all is what allows the light to illuminate the darkness. It strips his suffering of the power to defeat him precisely because it places it at the feet of the God who loves Him unconditionally. In faith he recognizes his own need for God and trusts that as God’s light in a world of darkness, God can and will be working through him to bring love, peace, comfort to a world in need. This is the most compelling witness, one based on on need, trust and willingness.

Over and against the loudness of those who believe they can and will change the world by their own efforts, this film finds hope in the many unknown voices whom might not make the headlines but make up that wonderful cloud of witnesses to the reality of God’s love and grace being poured out in the face of the darkness. We can trust that God is still working in the world to make all things new once again, that is the wonder and the hope of this witness. And in their willingness to trust even in the midst of their doubts and their weakness, in their willingness to step out in faith and live a life of conviction, God has and is using them and us to illuminate the darkness for the sake of revealing the light of hope, love, renewal and restoration. A vital message for the dark times we face as a world even today.

The best that can be said of Irish cinema today is that it certainly exists. Even with its
strata of ‘worthy’ and ‘unworthy’ films, its commercial entertainments and its dark
dramas, Irish film at least now produces enough films for there to be such divisions in the first place.
– The identity of an Irish cinema by Dr. Harvey O’Brien

Brooklyn, John Crowley’s internationally celebrated Irish film from 2015, features a recognizable and common distinctive among Irish film- the relationship between a longing for a distinctive Irish culture and presence and the reality of it’s prolonged Diaspora. The tension between these two sometimes complimentary and often opposing cultural forces still exists today even as Ireland’s modern cinematic landscape has managed to grow a stronger sense of identity, with some animosity existing between the Irish and Irish-Americans/Canadians (for example) who like to claim they are Irish. As one writer put it, as this conflict grew, more and more it became an obvious struggle between empire on one side and capitalism on the other.

FAMINE AND THE DIASPORA
Ireland’s rocky cinematic history begins in the way most nations do, with the first Lumiere images making their way to the Country in the 1890’s. What is interesting about these images is that they reflected a brief period of optimism for a people people who had lived through the tragedy of the Potato Famine. These images would soon give way to violence and more despair.

And yet, these picturesque depictions of the early emergence of the moving image would become an important symbol for Irish cinema, the product of a small island and a modest population. Given how the Potato Famine had displaced its people to foreign territory, the struggle of early Irish cinema would set the tone for years to come, forcing Irish film to depict Ireland from a distance. As these stories evolved, they came to depict the immigrants story somewhere between a love and longing for the homeland and the promise of more prosperous conditions elsewhere. And while the Country continued to struggle on a socio-political level, what is clear today is how important Irish cinema would become to protecting and developing a true Irish heritage. As the Country went so did its cinematic presence, and it becomes clear looking back, and even looking at Ireland today, that where Ireland was able to establish a localized industry and film community, Country and people were also at their strongest.

WAR, CIVIL WAR, CULTURAL IDENTITY AND FURTHER DIASPORA
With World War 1 and the fight for independence just around the corner, Irish cinema would suffer the same fate as so many Countries around the world. As the war wreaked havoc on Countries and cultures and economies, the loss of cultural and national identity became a byproduct. As the war ended, cinema would go on to play a massive role in the reconstruction of this identity, and thus the Country, around the world, including in Ireland.

What makes Ireland’s story unique from places like Italy and France is that they would find themselves once again a decimated community being thrust into yet another war, this time the civil war for Independence. With the Country already struggling to reclaim its people, something that had plagued even the optimism of James Joyce opening Ireland’s first cinema in Dublin in the early 1900’s, those films coming largely from abroad and/or attracting foreign filmmakers to film in Ireland rather than developing Irish films and Directors. Even one of Ireland’s earliest and most popular films of the early silent era, The Lad From Old Ireland made by the newly established Kalem Film Company, was an example of a film that had more connection to abroad. And time would reveal that even though the Kalem Film Company was based in Ireland it had very little to do with Ireland or growing Irish identity itself (closing up shop in 1914).

THE FILM COMPANY OF IRELAND AND THE CONTINUED FIGHT FOR IDENTITY
The Film Company of Ireland (http://filmireland.net/2017/06/14/early-irish-cinema-a-new-industry-the-film-company-of-irelands-first-season/) attempted to change the narrative that had been set by the Diaspora and Ireland’s international sprawl, opening in 1915 and developing in the early post war era before facing immense struggle in the face of the civil war. The film Knocknagow, which released in 1918, is notable for its attempt to reestablish the Irish story and an Irish mythology. One note said that film was intentional in competing against the American film Birth of a Nation, apparently even outgrossing it. And while the company would not survive the civil war (their most successful film, Willy Reilly and His Colleen Bawn, coming right before its demise), it would pave the way for important policies and movements following their Independence.

Another one of the most recognizable aspects of Irish film is its relationship to Ireland’s Protestant-Catholic past and its relationship to National politics with the ongoing division of North and South. Of note is something called the “Censorship of Films Act” (https://www.tcd.ie/irishfilm/censor/), a policy which basically came to determine the character of truly Irish film according to “Catholicism and republicicicisim.” On the flip side, this would establish the means by which film could also push back on these things on an artistic, and therefore cultural level.

This policy was established in 1923, and it would connect later to the National Film Institute (https://ifi.ie/about/history/), an institution created by the marriage of Church and State to uphold Irish Catholic vision and values in film as part of their National identity. This comes in the face of the still ongoing struggle to separate Irish Identity from the dominating pressure of foreign and international presence, such as The Film Society of Ireland, an independent film company concerned with bringing international film to Ireland. What was clear in Ireland was that while Irish filmmakers abroad and international film efforts coming to Ireland to take advantage of their landscape did exist, in order to establish a National identity and culture they needed a way to define that story and that identity according to their own voice. Theater and literature had a strong presence in Irish culture, but the reach of cinema in the modern age proved most necessary to develop now, something that kept evading them even as Countries like Italy had seen a resurgence in cinema and the strengthening of their people and Nation. So while censorship is never a great thing, the one positive that did (and does) come out of it is the ability to develop a unifying ethos. The National Film Institute strengthened the relationship between the Irish people, the Government and the Film Industry, thus giving them a tangible place on which to begin defining what it means to be Irish.

It is out of this that Ardmore film studios would emerge, which as one article put it, “was the Irish Government’s first serious attempt to encourage the development of an Irish Film Industry, a modern studio facility in Co. Wicklow suitable for both national and international production. Ardmore was intended as a signal to the world that Irish cinema had a place on the international stage…”

FROM STRUGGLE TO IDENTITY- IRISH CINEMA EMERGES
As I continue to travel the world through cinema in 2020 I am continually shocked by just how big of an impact the emergence of television had on the global film industry. It is easy to assume that television was simply the latest incarnation of a constantly evolving industry (similar to how we view streaming), but that misses the context of how television impacted these Countries. What is often missed is the many shadows that so many of these Countries had to emerge from, particularly when it comes to wars both global and internal, and how vital the film industry was to rebuilding these Countries in times of great uncertainty. The truth about television is that it has never and does not play a similar role. In fact, in so many of these Countries it is had the opposite and adverse affect. Because of the nature of how television works it tends to decentralize rather than unify, blurring lines between art and its relationship to national identity. It simply does not contain the same impact and definable cultural force that film is able to have on the development and health of a Country.

At the same time, television has consistently placed immense pressure on the film industries around the world which have been so integral to protecting and building a Countries ethos and identity, and there is ample evidence to show that as the film industry goes, so does the Country in the modern age. This is at least in (no small) part due to the fact that one of the great shifts of the modern age is away from the kind of cultural touchpoints that used to bring people together (such as live theater). Cinema plays the role it does precisely because it has the ability to bring people together around these collective stories of identity and form in the way other artforms cannot. Films can hold national identity in one hand and establish that on international soil with the other.

So it was of no surprise to me then to discover that Ireland faced a similar narrative. As John Ford would release one of Ireland’s most defining films (A Quiet Man) in 1952, the rise of television would, as one writer put it, have “a disastrous affect on Irish Identity, combining with the decline of cinema.” And yet, the inspiration of the Irish cinematic story is one that makes my own Irish-Canadian heritage jealous. As we enter the 1970’s, we see a reinvigorating and hard nosed movement to not let cinema die and to breathe into it a new commitment to using it to shed light on the Irish people and identity. And while Irish Cinema today is a shadow of what, say, American Cinema represents in content and numbers, their conviction to the artform in the face of consistent outside pressures (like streaming) actually stands taller in its relevance. With the pride of cinema comes a pride of Irish heritage and a stronger and more unified Country, something doubly important in a land still divided. The Film Act of 1970 allowed Irish Film to expand and to grow (http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20120621-travelwise-the-evolution-of-irish-cinema), while the Irish government was one of the first and early adapters of a film tax initiative. The films that emerged from this became what is known as the Irish First Wave, demonstrating a fresh vision for art and Country.

“What all of these New Wave films have in common is their desire to challenge what had gone before them in cinematic terms. These films aggressively debunked stereotypical images of Ireland and Irish people on film and sought to challenge audiences to see Ireland in a different light.”

The future continued (and continues) to have its challenges of course, particularly in the eventual demise of The Irish Film Board in 1987 and the loss of that unifying voice. But the persistence of the Irish people resulted in films like My Left Foot (Jim Sheridan), The Crying Game (Neil Jordan), The Commitments (Alan Parker), all independent Irish products, paving the way for the rebirth of The Irish Film Board in 1993. Fast forward to today and you have an industry that, not unlike the earlier days of Italian cinema, has found a way to grow in genres, proving to leave quite a footprint in animation (Cartoon Saloon) and even in the likes of horror. But the most important undercurrent appears to be this-
“While big-budget international productions keep crews working and are enormously valuable to the country, it is the indigenous industry that is at the heart of creating opportunity and giving skills and experience to Irish producers, directors, writers and crew, telling the stories that emerge from Irish-based talent.”

As cinema goes, so does Irish identity. And like modern Ukraine, the stronger their identity the stronger Irish Cinema is becoming. It is proving that it doesn’t need to be America in order to succeed, boasting the highest rate of cinema admissions in Europe. It can, simply, be Ireland.

*For my Film Travels, here is the full list of Irish Films I have seen. It is a working and ranked list available on Letterboxd:
https://letterboxd.com/davetcourt/list/film-travels-2020-ireland/

SOURCES
Barton, Ruth, Irish National Cinema (Routledge, 2004)
McIlroy, Brian, Shooting to Kill: Filmmaking and the Troubles in Northern Ireland
(Flicks, 1998)
McLoone, Martin, Irish Film: The Emergence of a Contemporary Cinema (BFI, 2000)
http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20120621-travelwise-the-evolution-of-irish-cinema
http://filmireland.net/2017/06/14/early-irish-cinema-a-new-industry-the-film-company-of-irelands-first-season/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinema_of_Ireland
https://www.volta.ie/#!/page/608/a-short-history-of-irish-cinema
https://www.ifi.ie/downloads/history.pdf
The identity of an Irish cinema by Dr. Harvey O’Brien

It’s that time again. A chance to reflect on what landed for me in February, the stories that stood out and what I am anticipating in March:

WHAT LANDED
The RHYTHM SECTION, a late January holdover, turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Suffering from a lack of advertising, poor critical reception and breaking the kind of records you don’t want to break (making the least amount of money on a weekend for a film on as many screens as it had), this one was bound to get shoved under the rug and quickly forgotten. Which is a shame. Blake Lively gives an inspired performance, it features one of the great car chase scenes in recent memory, and as thrillers go its competence actually gives way to some compelling moral questions.Worth checking out when it becomes available at home.

MOTHERLESS BROOKLYN, a film that also ended up largely forgotten and mostly missed in theaters, found its release on VOD this month. To be honest, I was mixed on the film when I saw it on the big screen, but a rewatch this month grew my appreciation for it on a number of levels. I loved the New York Noir setting, and I really appreciated how Edward Norton, in his Directorial debut, shows a real knack for being able to blend together theme, performance and structure in a very methodical and natural way. He has a real future ahead of him behind the camera.

Back on the big screen front, BIRDS OF PREY (AND THE FANTABULOUS EMANCIPATION OF ONE HARLEY QUINN) is a TON of fun. It proved that when you have someone like Margot Robbie breathing life into a problematic franchise (Suicide Squad), her powerful vision, an inspired and dominating lead performance, and a willingness to scale back the budget and get a bit more creative went a long way to making this work as well as it did.

Unfortunately the film has been labouring to find the audiences that studios expected and hoped for, so the future is a bit uncertain. But hopefully it finds a way to convince the studio that the risk was worth what we gain in quality.

Also just released to the big screen are two undeniable gems, including the winning romance THE PHOTOGRAPH, a subtle cinematic work that is chalk full of wonderful beats that move us from comedy to mystery to dramatic concern. It’s quiet and not in any way flashy, but it gradually draws you in.

And then likely the best of the February crop, THE INVISIBLE MAN shows how to reimagine a familiar concept for modern audiences, being not only the more successful horror film to land in the early goings so far, but a well crafted film that earns its scares and does some really interesting things on a technical level.

Outside of the big screen, I had the chance to catch up with a few more standout FRENCH FILMS for my “Travel The World in Film” challenge (the joyous romp that is PLAYTIME, Godards emotionally resonant  VIVRE SA VIE, the infectious entry into Demy’s trilogy THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG, the horror tinged THE NUN, and the stylish PORT OF SHADOWS).

I also managed to see the spiritually compelling THE MILL AND THE CROSS, the brilliant anti-western MCCABE AND MRS. MILLER by Robert Altman, and LOCK, STOCK, AND TWO SMOKING BARRELS, one of Guy Ritchie’s earliest efforts and probably still his best.

THE STORYLINES
February often anticipates what many perceive to be the true start to the cinematic year. That’s not to undersell this past January, which had a pretty decent showing with BAD BOYS FOR LIFE, the fairly popular DOLITTLE, the vastly underseen and underrated UNDERWATER, wide releases of 1917, WEATHERING WITH YOU and PAIN AND GLORY, the bonafide hit THE GENTLEMAN (Guy Ritchie’s latest stylish romp) and the straight to VOD LITTLE MONSTERS. But everything from big name titles to genuine hopefuls made their way onto the calendar for February hoping to kick things into full gear.

However, one of the things challenging for the attention of cinephiles this year was the earlier than usual schedule for THE OSCARS. And if you were paying any attention at all, it would be impossible to miss what likely became February’s biggest story, PARASITE’S historic win. Not only did it make history in terms of being the first foreign film to do a lot of things on the night, but the win translated into a wonderful and endless line of dialogue and articles and conversation about foreign films in general, the reward and challenge of engaging subtitles, and the nature of art on a global level.

Even more of a pleasant surprise was the storyline of the films cinematic resurgence here in NA, successfully drawing in audiences to the big screen even after releasing to VOD. Hands down, this has to be one of the most notable and impactful Oscar winners in recent memory.

On the other side of that is poor BIRDS OF PREY’s uphill battle. Not getting the attention it deserves made its underperformance the talk of a good few weeks of February. On the other side of that coin though is the unexpected success of SONIC THE HEDGEHOG. It’s problematic production, namely the uproar over Sonic’s earlier design, has caused more than a few prognosticators to ruminate on this seeming new found relationship between public opinion and its ability to impact a film’s production. They made the changes and apparently audiences are happy, coming out to show their support.

Also of note is the uphill slog that is horror 2020. GRETEL AND HANSEL does have its passionate supporters, but February has only solidified the dire state of the genres early entries. Films like FANTASY ISLAND, BRAHMS: THE BOY 2 and THE TURNING, among others, aren’t being seen and aren’t being embraced, at least until THE LODGE came out in limited release (still not available in Winnipeg) and THE INVISIBLE MAN’s  recent success turned those fates around.

One last shout out to THE CALL OF THE WILD. I consider it to be a minor miracle that this film actually debuted to a solid critical rating, and that it went on to do fairly well at the box office and with audiences. There are so many things that could have gone wrong, and it gets some of the most important things right in terms of approaching the adaptation. Say what you will about watching a CGI dog (I found Buck endearing, even in the dated style), what anchors this tough reimagining is a stubborn commitment to the novel’s philosophical core.

And in case you missed it (as I unfortunately did due to a rough February personally speaking), one of the many reasons to consider supporting our local arthouse, CINEMATHEQUE, is this past months AFRO-PRAIRIE FILM FESTIVAL. It featured a stellar lineup and is one the only places to catch some smaller releases (such as Les Miserables and Clemency). The festival is over, but look for smaller films and festivals to screen here all year round. It always promises to be a very involved and enthusiastic crowd of fellow cinephiles.

WHAT I”M LOOKING FORWARD TO IN MARCH
First off, if you didn’t get a chance to see THE INVISIBLE MAN yet, it’s still in it’s first week. So early March leaves plenty of room to squeeze that in. There is also the much buzzed about PORTRAIT OF A LADY ON FIRE, which is playing at Grant Park Cinemas here in Winnipeg through the end of this week as well.

In terms of March releases though, the month kicks off with a bang, featuring a new installment from Pixar called ONWARD. We knew very little about this film seeing as it was a largely unknown original currently being overshadowed by Pixar’s second more anticipated original to release later this year (SOUL). Early word appears to suggest that tempered expectations will work in its favor.

Also watch out for possible expansions of the well received EMMA, and the limited release of the buzzy FIRST COW, which is unlikely to show up in Winnipeg in the early running but is one to keep an eye out for.

Following on the heels of Onward is Affleck’s widely advertised THE WAY BACK, which looks to be a solid entry into the inspiring sports drama category, and the newest Comic Book installment called BLOODSHOT, headed by the popular Vin Diesel. The much postponed but still fairly hyped (somehow) MY SPY will also finally be seeing wide release.

On delayed releases, watch out for the controversial THE HUNT, a film that has had a long, rocky road to the screen. Curiosity has me interested in THE HUNT, but I won’t lie, I’ve been waiting patiently for THE WAY BACK, which feels like it will hit Affleck’s sweet spot, and MY SPY, which looks like a fun time out at the theaters.

Perhaps the biggest splashes of March releases might be A QUIET PLACE 2 and the live action remake of MULAN. They have been doing a bang up job at advertising both of these films, and whatever questions I might have had in terms of how they make this sequel and this remake feel necessary have been put at ease.

Here is to another great month. Happy viewing y’all. And as always, my reviews of the above films are available here at Letterboxd for anyone interested:
https://letterboxd.com/davetcourt/

After 4 full seasons of contemplating the afterlife using a good blend of humor, emotion and chemistry, the much beloved series The Good Place came to a close this past week. Known for its ability to take deep philosophical and theological ideas and break them down into bite size questions and relevant conversation that anyone can understand and relate to regardless of religious affiliation, the show was consistently striving to present the idea of the afterlife as a mystery to explore rather than a fact to exploit.

One of the more brilliant aspects of the way the show was scripted over these 4 seasons was how it used its depiction of the afterlife to position the “good” place and the “bad” place as a working commentary both on the lives we live in the present and the nature of the afterlife itself. By placing these two ideas as a moral construct, the show then weaved through different aspects of the  moral equation, particularly in how it plays into moral responsibility, judgement and motivation. By applying what C.S. Lewis refers to as the “Christian imagination” towards a more generalized spiritual concern for matters of life and death, it encouraged viewers to ofen wrestle with matters of faith in ways that could get us thinking about our relationship to faith in one way or another.

The way the show was able to keep this conversation alive through all 4 seasons is by seeing it through the lens of the great mystery. To speak of the afterlife was to speak of shared “human” concerns.

(SPOILER WARNING FOR THE FINAL EPISODES OF THE GOOD PLACE)
THE GREAT MYSTERY UNDONE
That is until the series decided it was going to bring the conversation to a close. This set up the daunting and challenging task of taking the wealth of its ideas and weaving it into a single and final episode as something that both honors the journey while bringing the character arcs to a fitting close.

And I do think there were ways the series could have achieved this. But it would have required them to stay true to this idea of the afterlife as a mystery to explore. Unfortunately,  the show chose to abandon the mystery in favor of easy answers and a proper solution, the end result being a frustrating and often contradictory mess of ideas.

Just to explain this further, let me unpack exactly what I mean by walking through the final two episode arc:

THE GOOD PLACE: SEASON 4, EPISODES 13-14 (WHENEVER YOUR READY)
The second last episode takes all the mystery out of the series and exchanges it for a decidedly and determined nihilistic premise. In this final picture of the afterlife, after so much time playing around with the idea of selflessness, eternity becomes little more than an idealized version of our best life built here on earth, built around the pursuit of happiness, materialism and personal pleasure. When they come to realize that happiness based on these self predicated ideals gets tired, and that once you have accomplished all that you want to do, they come to the conclusion that what affords someone personal happiness and fulfillment is actually death itself. It is knowing that something won’t last forever that gives it meaning. Thus, whenever your ready indicates the choice to die. This is the prefered afterlife that all of us truly want deep inside.

Enter the invention of a door where, after living their best life and accomplishing all that their heart desires, the people in the good place can walk through and, we are told, cease to exist. The final message of the series at this point? It could go two ways. One is that eternal life as an idea is simply an idealized version of life on earth. The second message, which is more metaphorical, is that everything we have experienced in the afterlife is intended to say something about this life on earth being all there is, so make the most of it before you time is up.

Which is really where most of the problems begins to surface. This premise only works in a world where everyone is free to write the story of their life the way we feel it should be written. By doing away with the mystery, the show essentially creates a smoothed out and glorified depiction of death that ignores the question of suffering. Its “spiritual” imagination is basically the sum total of our earthly desires, with our experience of life on earth determining our happiness.

It romanticizes death without acknowledging what death actually means for our lives. It offers a false picture of happiness in order to elevate death as meaningful. And what makes this perhaps most dangerous of all is that it provides a meaningful argument for suicide that completely ignores its tragic nature. Yes, they are already dead, but by confusing the show’s final two points, this afterlife is presented as a metaphor for life on earth, so it becomes easy to see how the show wants us to translate these truths to the choices we make now. 

Further yet, it has a serious problem to contend with in terms of explaining the immortality of the good place architects against the now mortal souls of the earthly residents. Why is it that the place responsible for life on earth is an image of immortality, while the creation itself is seemingly more enlightened? This is of course where the film begins to lean into the Eastern mysticism and philosophy, leaning towards the idea that we all become gods who then desire mortality. But the confusing mashup of ideas turns the entirely of the show into a contradictory collection of statements, a burden the second last episode places entirely on the shoulders of the final hour.

And ultimately the last hour takes the easy way out of the hole it dug for itself, ignoring the problems and going for melodramatic.

We see it backtrack on its idea of the door as necessarily nihilistic. Remember when we said the door means you cease to exist? Well, we are going to slip in a line near the end of the episode that tells us that we don’t know what happens after you walk through that door.

For all the lessons that the characters have learned about selfless love, the choice to walk through the door has nothing to do with what happens next and everything to do with what makes them ready to end their lives, all of which are a series of self serving ambitions.

And then we factor in Michaells decision to become mortal. Is that an answer to the architect/human problem? Seemingly. Maybe. But it basically turns the divine in the show into a self serving entity dependent on humanity to give it value. To experience life is the ideal, and to live and die is what gives him true dignity and purpose. Only, it turns the entire notion of the afterlife into a wishlist, a simple buffer to help erase the pain and uncertainty and struggle of life on earth so that we can die with dignity.

And then guess what. In case we had any question of a concrete world view for the show, at the last second it then decides to come back to Hindu and Buddhist philosophy as a way of coloring over the problems it chooses to ignore, but it does so in an equally disingenuous fashion. It picks and chooses in order to find the easy way out of the problems it wants to ignore, essentially ignoring the spirituality and leaning into its secularist, Westernized expression. On the surface it feels nice and emotional and complete, but once you take off the cover all the problems start to spill over, leaving me feeling very unsettled, frustrated and let down.

As someone who has long struggled with anxiety and depression, including suicidal thoughts, these final episodes left me in a pretty dark place. In his wonderful article on the finale, SPENCER KORNHABER writes, “Characters became so sated by the world’s meaningfulness, and so jaded by the seemingly infinite possibilities of creation, that they had no reason to go on. Perhaps this was a logical conclusion. It is hard for any viewer to evaluate it, much less viscerally relate, as none of them has lived an eternity—much less the specific version of eternity this show constructed.

What many people have lived are days in which the case for existence beating nonexistence seems unconvincing.”

In his article he puts into words why I felt so disillusioned with the final two episodes. This is at least in part because I was so invested in the show over these past years, a testament to its strength and vision. I had come to trust in where this narrative was going, that it would give me the freedom to enter into the mystery of life and death with freedom and grace. What I got is a show that ultimately confirmed my deepest struggles. The fact that my life looks nothing like The Good Place means that suicide and nihilism are my best option. It makes me feel lied to, not only by the show but by life.

And yet, the mystery still remains. That to me is the more powerful realization. I am reminded that there is reason to enter into the conversation and to see past myself. I’m reminded that even though this world pushes back, there is something greater to live for than my own personal happiness. That is what gives me hope. I don’t fear eternal life, nor is the answer to all my problems. What the Good Place is to me is an invitation to engage the Christian imagination and wonder about how my life here on earth points me to a life with God in ways I can only understand in part but trust that one day I will understand in whole.

I would encourage you to read through the article that Spencer wrote for the Atlantic. He articulates it so much better than I could. I would also encourage anyone who struggles with suicide or depression or anxiety to know that there is life beyond this show. Ending ones life is not the answer to our struggles with this world, it is simply the only thing we can see sometimes when everything doesn’t make a whole of sense, feels overwhelming, less than ideal and too much. If you feel that way, embrace the conversation. Seek out others. That’s the part of the show that is most important.

Here’s the link to the article:
https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2020/02/good-places-finale-made-heaven-look-hopeless/606001/