I often speak to students about the moral nature of our intellectual lives—there are right and wrong ways to learn and there are limits to what God wants us to know. Listen to the psalmist who did not concern himself with things, “too great and wonderful” for him (Psalm 131:1). Now contrast that to Job who spoke in haste of things “too wonderful” for him (Job 42:3), only to lay his hand on his mouth. Knowing is a venture fraught with ethical and spiritual risks.
Many students have since approached me with questions about how to read well. After all, if there is a limit to what we can and should know, there must be corresponding limits to how and what any of us should read. That has led me to create this list of personal reading rules that I try to live by. Like the Ten Commandments in the Law of Moses, I’ve made my list with two “tables”—the “whats” and the “hows” of reading.
What to read:
- Read little. This was once hyperbole but in the day of the Internet it should probably be taken literally. We only have so much time and capacity for learning and understanding new ideas. So a crucial decision in all reading is to say ‘no’ to a lot of ‘interesting’ things in favor of ‘necessary’ things. If you develop good habits here, you’re way ahead of most people. Don’t fret for one minute the ambitious list of books you intended to read last year. Instead, ask yourself: Did I read one or two good things?
- Be humble and stay focused. Related to the rule above, I try not to worry if I’ve never heard of a book or author. Making this a habit has helped me avoid the pressure to rush out and buy a book, or click on a link to an article I probably won’t finish. Stick to your calling and close those open reading tabs.
- Read with specific goals. My reading includes specific things for depth, for breadth, and for leisure and refreshment. I spend most of my time on the first, then the second, then the third.
- Listen to wise counselors. I get a lot of recommendations, and so I have to use a refined filter to choose what to read. I try to focus my reading on established writers and only those books recommended to me by a very few trusted friends. I also read more old stuff than new stuff. I’ve nearly abandoned Christian bestsellers, hot new books, blogs, the popular news media, anything that took less than a month to write, and most of what comes through connections on social media (of which I read very little).
How to read:
- Read critically and carefully. When I’m reading for breadth and depth, I choose the time of day carefully and limit distractions as far as possible. No music, phones, or computers nearby. Then I pray and read with pencil and colored sticky flags nearby. When I restart these books I often go back over the flagged pages to remind myself of things I want to take away from the reading over the long haul. Most people can only focus like this for about 30 minutes at a time, and maybe 2-3 hours on a good day!
- Read in conversation with the author. This is a human thing after all. I try to read as if I’m in a conversation with the author: Is this true? Show me. What do you mean? Can you give me an example? Well said. And, Do I understand you correctly here? Give the author the benefit of the doubt. The best reading happens when you’re on a search for something with the sense of someone looking over your shoulder. This keeps your mind on the page and out of the many distractions in life. If I find myself drifting too much, I put down the text until the energy returns. You cannot read well when you are tired!
- Remember the right things. I use journals and a couple of software tools to record important thoughts in a retrievable place. The journal is for my own wrestling with an idea before it goes into writing or teaching, and it’s probably more important than saving the information electronically. Be very selective in what you choose to remember; we’re easily prone to have eyes bigger than our stomachs.
- “Re”read. I reread many books and articles. I saw recently that we remember less than 10% of what we read over a lifetime. I remembered that because I reread the study. To help my memory I use flags and notes to maximize what I take away, but I also go back to important pieces, sometimes often. I’m rereading one author now for at least the fourth time in twenty years and finding all new insights I’d simply missed in earlier readings. That’s true for anyone I reread. In the first reading of a difficult book, I look for a few things and questions to follow up on in the future.
- Pace yourself. Try not to read over your head or take it all in now. Learning goes in developmental stages and you have to build up patiently. This is an area of recent personal growth. I worry less about what I know today than where I want to be in 20-25 years. “Genius is long patience,” as the Dominican scholar Antonin Sertillanges once wrote. Or as Eugene Peterson often quotes Nietzsche, “The important thing is a long obedience in the same direction.” Read with patience and endurance rather than fear and urgency.
- Read in community. Scripture everywhere portrays us as socially connected. We depend on one another as a body and, so far as possible, we ought to learn together. Find like-minded people and draw on their wisdom. Read alone and slowly first, of course, but then always discuss.
The “two greatest commandments” that Jesus quotes in the gospels are not among the Ten Commandments written on stone (though they were among the commandments given to Moses). It seems fitting to add a summary commandment that covers these ten. I draw this command from the long tradition of Christian medieval scholars:
Read under the bond of love. That is, read and study with love for God, love of neighbor, and love of wisdom.
 My thanks to Zachary Lee for sparking the idea of “Ten Commandments for reading.”
I first met Michael Cromartie ten years ago at the Emerging Evangelical Intelligentsia Project Conference hosted by Peter Berger at Boston University. It was a remarkable gathering that included historians George Marsden and Mark Noll, philosophers Alvin Plantinga and Nicholas Wolterstorff, sociologists Nancy Ammerman and Michael Lindsay, and legal scholars Bill Stuntz and David Skeel among many others. When Mike spoke, I was reminded of the old Sesame Street refrain “One of these things is not like the others.” Mike was scholarly but not a professor. He had several published volumes to his name, but as an editor rather than an author. As a speaker, he was insightful and funny.
Cromartie passed away on August 28th, and initial assessments of his contribution to religion and public life are rightly rolling in from a wide array of folk:
- Carl Cannon at RealClearPolitics;
- Ross Douthat and Sam Roberts at the New York Times;
- Cherie Harder at The Trinity Forum;
- Michael Lindsay at the Gospel Coalition;
- Kathleen Parker at the Washington Post;
- William Saletan at Slate;
- Grant Wacker at Education and Culture; and
- Peter Wehner at Christianity Today.
This summer, my wife Julie and I had the serendipitous privilege of spending ten days with Mike and his wonderful wife Jenny as members of a tour group visiting biblical sites in Greece, including Athens, Corinth, Phillipi, and Thessolonica. Upon arrival it was clear that Mike was frail, his body already ravaged by years of cancer. If he turned sideways in a crowd you could lose him.
But he was still a ball of fire. On the island of Patmos, after visiting the cave where John is believed to have received his revelation recorded in last book of the Christian Scriptures, we headed up to the Monastery of St. John. It was a steep hike, and arguably Mike had no business being there. But he was not one to argue with. Especially for him, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he was not going to miss it. With the companionship and patient encouragement of Jenny—and the tour group’s doctor—he made it up and eventually back down. Although he retired early that evening, the next day he could be seen banana boating!
Stomach cancer apparently does no favors to one’s appetite, and at meals Mike struggled to eat. He was also almost comically uninterested in matters medical. Thank God for Jenny, who was always at his side, answering questions others had about his cancer that he couldn’t answer for himself, all the while encouraging him to get as much protein as possible. Mike’s mouth was so fully engaged in lively conversation that one wonders how he ever made time to eat. Whether the topic was religion and public life or anything to do with basketball, his table was sure to have the liveliest of exchanges.
Mike was opinionated but humble. When I challenged him on his critical assessment of a mutual colleague, he stopped talking for a while and just listened. Later he thanked me—“I needed to hear that,” he said. If one of the hazards of spending a lot of time with really smart people is that you might become like them in their insistence on being correct, Mike was a rare and refreshing exception.
The Faith Angle Forum, which introduced mainstream journalists to religious ideas and scholars they might otherwise be tempted to dismiss or deride, was the brainchild of Mike’s professional life. “A number of religion reporters have told me that Mike was their ‘go-to’ person for perspective and quotable comments on evangelicalism,” Rich Mouw wrote to me. “He had genuine friendships across the political spectrum, and was gifted at bringing together people who disagreed, simply to have a productive conversation. In these engagements, he clearly was not advancing a particular agenda, but rather doing his part to create spaces for mutually respecting civil discourse.” The forums were always fascinating, and included Cornell graduates and Chesterton House advisors Elaine Howard Ecklund and Ard Louis. The byproducts of Mike’s efforts include many interesting pieces such as David Brooks’ feature on John Stott. In a manner that mirrors the ministry of the Holy Spirit, who by nature calls attention to Another, Mike spent his life humbly pointing people to the good work of others.
In addition to the great personal loss to so many friends and family, Mike’s passing raises a question: What is the future of the project to which he devoted his prodigious energy? I refer here not just to the Faith Angle Forum, but to the forum’s mission—the development and promotion of thoughtful Christian faith, which of course is also the mission of Chesterton House.
The Emerging Evangelical Intelligentsia Project seems to have fizzled without much to show for it, and many of the aforementioned scholars—whom James Turner once called the “evangelical mafia”—are now retired. Wheaton’s Institute for the Study of American Evangelicals closed in 2014, and Books & Culture, the flagship publication of the movement, has just folded. Patronage for these sorts of projects also seems to have dried up. Later this month some of the folks associated with the movement will gather for a conference entitled “The State of the Evangelical Mind: Reflections upon the Past, Prospects for the Future.” The not so subtle subtext of the conference is “Is there a future?” Simply put, the trends are not encouraging.
All of which brings me back to Patmos. The trends in John’s time also were not encouraging. He wrote from prison to his fellow believers who were victims of real persecution, including at times death by burning, crucifixion, or worse. And yet the Book of Revelation is a manifesto for hope.
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” And he said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give from the spring of the water of life without payment. The one who conquers will have this heritage, and I will be his God and he will be my son. (Rev. 21: 1-7)
Even and perhaps especially when there is little reason for optimism, we have plenty of reason for hope. The resurrection of Jesus, as wonderful as it was, anticipated an even greater restoration of all things that is yet to come!
Mike understood all this. He was not discouraged. His laugh endured even when his appetite did not. He knew of the New Jerusalem. In his final days, Jenny reports, he was reading (and highlighting!) an essay by Jonathan Edwards on heaven—a place where there will be no more crying or pain, where Jenny’s tears will be wiped away, and where, at a banquet table, he again will eat and drink with fullness of appetite.
In a memorable Op-Ed piece (“The Moral Bucket List”), David Brooks ruminated on what he calls ‘the eulogy virtues,’ which he contrasts with ‘the resume virtues.’
“About once a month I run across a person who radiates an inner light. These people can be in any walk of life. They seem deeply good. They listen well. They make you feel funny and valued. You often catch them looking after other people and as they do so their laugh is musical and their manner is infused with gratitude. They are not thinking about what wonderful work they are doing. They are not thinking about themselves at all.”
I used this column to address our graduating seniors one year ago (“Embrace Place”), and President David Skorton used it in last month’s Cornell commencement address. I found myself turning back to it this week because of Louie.
Louie Rudin, Chesterton House Property Manager in residence, passed away unexpectedly on Sunday, June 7th, not long after his 63rd birthday. He was found in his room by some of the other Chesterton House residents on their way to church.
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Louie was a lively presence, exuding contagious joy and laughter. He served on Young Life staff since graduating from Cornell almost 40 years ago, and though Young Life was the perfect vehicle for his skills and interests, his service to others was never merely a function of his job. He simply loved young people. And he modeled a way of being young at heart that marveled people half his age.
Louie led many young people to faith in Christ, and discipled and encouraged many more. In addition to his impact on youth, Louie was also a fixture on the Cornell and Ithaca College campuses for over a generation. To say he had a positive impact on a lot of people would be a gross understatement. He was always available, always interruptible. He touched many, many, many lives, and he will continue to serve as an inspiration for all who were privileged to know him.
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Louie had a vast repertoire of stories from his many kooky capers. I have a story of my own about Louie—one that speaks volumes about his character.
When Louie applied to be a chaplain at Cornell (which is not a job, but an affiliation granted to many persons from all religions), his application was denied. I served on the committee that made the determination. I didn’t agree with the decision but got outvoted. Although the stated reason for the determination was that Young Life is focused on high school youth rather than college students, it was also abundantly clear that the committee chair did not appreciate Louie’s desire to introduce people to God. You’d think it’s the sort of thing that might be in a chaplain’s job description! But no—this faculty member thought that young people should be “free” to create or discover their own conception of God. (Never mind that, according to recent scholarship, “proselytizing” is the single most important variable in the emergence of liberal democracy and is arguably also “the single largest factor in ensuring the health of nations.” This scholar apparently couldn’t be bothered with scholarship.)
Here’s the thing: Louie was disappointed but not bitter. He expressed frustration to me in the immediate aftermath, and then he never raised the matter again. Ever. That, I would suggest, is part of the lesson of Louie’s life. It’s not just that we could all be a bit more joyful (though we could), but we would do well to let disappointments roll off of us and not drag us down. Come to think of it, those two things are surely related.
In God’s providence, this rejection actually may have released Louie to continue doing what he did best without institutional restraint. He was not an Organization Man. Even at Chesterton House, as long as the plumbing worked, I never required him to attend staff meetings. One of the last emails I received from him began “A special thanks to your sensitivity to my crazy schedule and the lack of necessity for my attendance at multiple meetings.” Yep. Some of us are called to build or work within institutions. Louie wasn’t. (Kudos to Young Life for accommodating his unique genius for so many years.)
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Speaking of the Louie-ness of Louie, one thing that has stood out to me more than ever during the long days since his death is the appropriateness of his name. To me, there’s something about “Louie” that sounds like a grade-school-aged kid you might not want your child to play with (an impression based not so loosely on my own childhood next-door neighbor). And there was that element to him—not just youthful, but utterly unpredictable…not governed by the rules of polite society. But I’m also struck how the single, first name was always sufficient for recognition. He was like a Brazilian soccer star: Nobody ever seemed to say, “Louie Who?”
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At Chesterton House, Louie fixed leaky roofs, built bunk beds, and inspired all around him to lead lives of faithful service to God in Christ—all at the same time. And he made people laugh—did we mention that?
When Louie first arrived at Chesterton House, I steered him toward the caretaker cottage. It’s cozy and cute and a stand-alone structure that affords some privacy. He might want to stay there, I thought, because—well—that’s where I would want to stay. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m kind of an extrovert.” (Ya think?) “I’ll just live in the house.” A single then, Louie? “No, no, I’d actually prefer a double.” And so at the ripe young age of 62, Louie entered fully in, yet again, to the life of undergraduate students.
When Louie told me last month he was ready to move into a single, I told him he could have the largest single in the house. “Actually,” he responded, “I’d like Room 6.” Ah, yes, the famous Room 6—that would be the smallest room in the entire house. It’s basically a closet with a window. So he whipped up a loft and made use of the entire place…all 87 square feet.
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Louie lived simply, with one notable exception. When I generated an employment contract that provided for one parking space, I might as well have been poking my finger in a leaking dam. Pulling into the driveway of Chesterton House this week, the first thing that catches your eye is his Volvo wagon…and his cargo van…and above all his 1966 Ford Ranch wagon. Three times the allotted number—not bad, for Louie. We recently found “Louie’s Lifetime Automobile Registry”: Over 50 cars, mostly from the ‘50s, ‘60s & 70s. Mostly Fords. What abourt Volvos, you ask? Well, the list is over 15 years old!
I expect Louie will be missed not only on campus but also at Hunts’ Auto, AutoZone, and Ithaca Foreign Car Service. Despite being a Cornell alumnus, he was more at home in a car shop than on campus. Ironically, his cars seemed to be in the shop so much you would see him walking all over town, traversing the hill that connects town to gown. He carried nothing with him. No books, no knapsack. Just his tattered baseball cap.
Speaking of which, Louie was the only sixty-something person I knew who could get away with wearing a baseball cap backwards and not look like a complete dork—or, better, not look like he was trying to be someone that he wasn’t.
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I never spoke to Louie about Peter Pan. I don’t know that he ever gave Peter Pan a moment’s thought. And yet it’s hard not to ponder the connection. Despite the fact that he had visibly aged in recent years, there remained something almost preternaturally youthful about Louie—a resistance to aging for which Peter Pan is our common cultural referent.
Although Peter Pan is commonly associated with irresponsibility, Cornell history department chair Barry Strauss tells us we have misunderstood him. Peter Pan is a paradox, he says, and he is at least half Christian (named for St. Peter). Pan author J.M. Barrie “never preached eternal adolescence”—he adored childhood but “came down on the side of adult responsibility.” Peter Pan, Strauss says, is best understood as “untamed but upright.” That’s Louie, no?
David Brooks says that the people he most admires laugh musically while looking out for others. Barry Strauss says that Peter Pan simultaneously makes us long for childlikeness while sending us on our way toward adulthood and responsibility. These are the images that frame my memories of Louie.
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I can’t say I have known anyone else quite like him. And isn’t that the beauty of God’s creation? Seven billion people, and none quite like Louie.
Louie is now in the unveiled presence of our Lord Jesus Christ. He has fought the good fight and finished the race. Today we join with others in the community and around the world giving thanks to God for Louie. “Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.” (Ps 116:15)
We also ask for your prayers. The men of Chesterton House draw close to one another, and Louie drew close to many. His absence hangs heavily. The house is very quiet—quieter than it ever would be when he was there. The silence is loud. His absence will be felt to the same degree that his presence was felt. Which is to say, a lot.
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Obituary: Ithaca Journal
Memorial Service: Vineyard Church of Ithaca, 23 Cinema Drive, Saturday, June 13 at 2pm
Reception following the service will be at Chesterton House
Memorial Donations: At the request of alumni, and with permission of the family, a Louie Rudin Memorial Gift Fund has been set up at Chesterton House. You may donate online via Cornell and designate your gift in memory of Louie. Memorial Donations may also be made to Young Life.
This piece is contributed by Gary Villa, Spiritual Director of the Chesterton House.
On a shelf in my bedroom sits a broken pastel blue-and-yellow-colored egg shell , the remnants of the first gift I ever gave my wife, Kira. Shortly after she came to faith, we colored Easter eggs together at her kitchen table. I made a small gift to her of my “art”, an egg with crudely drawn sun, moon and stars. It was kept whole for years, through 3 apartment changes and into our current home. Finally broken by the curious hands of our first son, we keep what remains as a tangible reminder of that early date and the beginning of our love.
As I sometimes lead post-dinner conversations in the Chesterton House residential communities, I often look for ways to provoke the students to tell each other more of their own stories, who they are and what brought them here to this place. One of my favorite ways of doing this is inviting them to bring an object of their own to the table as a kind of show-and-tell. Somehow it is easier to talk about yourself when you’re holding a purple plush eggplant or a camera or a favorite pen. The items are as varied and different as our residents.
In the lovely first chapter of John’s gospel, the apostle describes Jesus as the creator of all things. But he uses an unusual term: the “Word” or put another way, the self-expression of God. John says that all things (!) were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made (John 1:3, ESV). How beautiful! There is nothing you can find that is not in some way tinged with the marks of God’s self-expression to us. His nature, his character, his power are somehow woven into the stuff of our lives, even in this sin-broken world.
Because of this we can have not just permission, but freedom and joy as we work in whatever field we find ourselves in. If “all that is” is somehow the product of God’s self-expression, we can be confident that something of Him can be known in any field of study or work. All our work – mathematics, art, science, engineering – becomes a theological endeavor. We learn of God as we learn of his world. And, what’s more, all of our work also then becomes doxological for us as well – an act of worship. We can with joy respond to God in worship as our knowledge of him grows and deepens through our vocation. The cosmos is God’s show-and-tell to us.
Of course, like the egg shell I gave my wife, the cosmos is broken. The earth that was given to us to rule and care for was just as broken by Adam’s sin as we are. It, too, is tainted everywhere by sin’s rule and effects. But Paul tells us that the gospel is good news not just for humanity, but for all of creation. The same Jesus who created all things for himself (Colossians 1:16) reconciled all things to himself by the blood of his cross (1:20). The redemptive sweep of the gospel is cosmic, not just personal.
The vision is compelling: the earth, the universe – all that God has made exists not merely as a backdrop for humanity but as a good thing in itself. God declared it to be good at creation and reconciled it to Himself at the cross. For this reason, we are free to declare vocations of every kind not only good, but Christian. Science, education, agriculture, engineering, health – these are all Christian vocations. These are things that God cares about. It is our privilege to work – wherever God has called us – to His glory and as a demonstration of His intentions for the world.
Gary Villa, a staff member of New Life Presbyterian Church, serves part time as the Spiritual Director of Chesterton House. Gary earned his BA in International Ministries from the Moody Bible Institute in 1996, and later obtained his MA in Interdisciplinary Studies (church history/spiritual formation) from Wheaton College in 2006. His interests include baseball, poetry, jazz, and gluten-free baked goods. Gary and his wife Kira, a doctoral student in Applied Economics at Cornell, have one son, Aidan.
Grace in the Raw
Before attending Les Misérables, I heard from a friend–a long-time fan of the stage musical–that she found the rawness of the cinematography distracted her from the music. Armed with this observation, I did not expect to be as ravished by the film as I was. Most captivating is the way in which the musical and filmic elements work together to create a deeply engaging experience of the narrative and its characters that spills over into life, especially through the portrayal of grace.
Film settings necessarily contrast with the expectations established by stage dramas. Many film interpretations of musicals retain a relatively theatrical setting and the perceptual distance of a stage drama. To say that Les Misérables abandons any theatrical effect would be to entirely mistake the film, but nevertheless, the film takes advantage of the medium’s capabilities. The city is shown in various states of disarray: the prostitutes appear ill, the poor look starved and cold, the inn is chaotic, the streets are dirty. Aerial shots are juxtaposed with extreme close-ups to create a continuum of varied perspectives on the story. The close-ups are especially raw, introducing us to the vulnerability of the characters in an intimate way that is downright uncomfortable. Les Misérables thus eliminates the lens of ironic distance common to popular postmodern perception, much to the chagrin of critics. Put differently, it dares to “treat old untrendy human troubles and emotions with reverence and conviction” (Stanley Fish; NY Times).
Trained musicians tend to disparage the quality of the vocals in this film. Although Anne Hathaway presented a stunning performance as Fantine, other leads have come under some severe criticism. However, with the possible exception of Russell Crowe, I think the vocal issues are balanced and even, perhaps justified, by the circumstances in which the characters find themselves; the raggedness of the physical and emotional states of the characters is much more pronounced in this film than it could be on stage, and the rough edges in the vocals are generally appropriate to the dramatic situation. This trained musician finds that the vocal imperfections contribute to the film’s powerful effect.
One might think a film offers little advantage over a staged production with respect to large ensemble numbers, usually staged as a colorful choreographic spectacle. Yet this film production of Les Misérables balances the spectacle and the underlying character of the events portrayed. Take, for example, “Lovely Ladies,” in which shots of the whole group of prostitutes dancing are juxtaposed with disorienting footage of Fantine as she winds her way through the chaos and is swallowed up by it. The scene becomes grotesque and disturbing–the crude humor of the lyrics offset by Fantine’s desperation. We are not supposed to laugh and the film makes laughing impossible.
Consider also the intriguing contrast between musical time and the “real” time of the narrative. In Fantine’s “I Dreamed a Dream” and Jean val Jean’s “Bring Him Home,” all else comes to a halt. No other characters hear these songs; they are reflections, prayers, asides. This feature is not unique to musical dramas but is perhaps most pronounced in them because words take time to sing and are often repeated in a way that would be nonsensical if unaccompanied by music. The realism of the film setting is what makes these pauses in the narrative so emotionally striking. Combined with improbably close-up cinematography and realistic expression, these “slow” moments drag us into the characters’ inner reality.
Many reviewers have remarked on the pervasive theme of grace in Les Misérables. Here again, the film’s interwoven cinematographic and musical elements provide a suitable lens. The grace of Les Misérables is visceral rather than philosophical. We cannot distance ourselves from the ragged horror of the characters’ circumstances and experience, but are rather invited – even compelled – to empathize with and extend grace to Fantine and val Jean, Marius and the young rebels, even Javert. These are sinners all, yet desperately craving mercy. Freed of ironic distance, do we recognize our own desperate need for grace? Are we not also inspired to empathize with, extend grace to, and even act on behalf of our fellow image-bearers who are suffering in the world around us? The epilogue articulates what it might mean for grace to be extended, for all things to be reconciled, at the moment when Jean val Jean steps into death and encounters the prior dead from the story singing a revised version of “Do you hear the people sing”:
Do you hear the people sing? Lost in the valley of the night.
It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light.
For the wretched of the earth there is a flame that never dies.
Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.
They will live again in freedom in the garden of the Lord;
They will walk behind the plough-share, they will put away the sword.
The chain will be broken and all men will have their reward!
Other reviews of interest:
“Les Misérables and Irony” (Quoted above; Opinionator Blog, NYT)
“Two Cheers for Javert” (Cardus blog)
Emma is a Ph.D. student in Music Theory at the Eastman School of Music. Her research primarily emphasizes narrative analyses of music, and she writes about the challenges of living an integrated life of Christian faith, learning, and musicianship at her blog Pictures on Silence.
The greatest thing
You’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And to be loved in return.
These haunting lyrics from Nat King Cole’s “Nature Boy” weaving their way through Baz Luhrmann’s “hallucinogenic fairy tale” (James Berardinelli), assure us that, whatever else the dazzling and exhausting spectacle of Moulin Rouge may entice us to believe, it is a classic and simple love story. This romance explodes with operatic flair and surges with all the musical passion of Orpheus descending into the dark underworld, pouring out all his persuasive melodies to rescue Eurydice from death. But the first words of the story appear on paper, the typed memories of the writer and idealist, Christian: “This is a story about loveÉ and a boy who wandered so very far from home.” And he tells us the whole story in 6 words: “The woman I loved has died.”
Moulin Rouge is Luhrmann’s third major film (Romeo+Juliet, 1996; Strictly Ballroom, 1996). With his wife, Catherine Martin (production and costume designer), Luhrmann uses every penny of his $53 million budget to create an extravagantly energetic musical. Yes, this is a musical, but it’s not the Sound of Music even though you will hear “The Hills Are Alive.” You’ll also hear “Roxanne,” “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” Madonna’s “Material Girl” and “Like a Virgin,” the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love,” U2’s “In the Name of Love,” Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You,” Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s “Your Song,” and more–all songs of the 20th century, set in 19th century Paris, told in a film that could only belong to the 21st century. Kevin Maynard of Showbiz describes the film as “a postmodern fantasia — it’s impossible to come away feeling like you’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”
Experiencing Moulin Rouge is “like being trapped on an elevator with the circus,” exclaims Roger Ebert. The roller-coaster ride jolts to a stop, you sit paralyzed in terrified awe, and you force out the words, “I want to go again.”
The Moulin Rouge (“the red mill”) of Paris, 1899, was a gaudy icon of Bohemian independence and decadence. The night club chorus line popularized the Cancan while the clientele imbibed the dangerously beautiful absinthe. The Moulin Rouge of history paraded an endless spectacle of distractions and enticements, luring in the bored, the lonely, and the disillusioned with the promise of even greater spectacle — Spectacular, Spectacular! (the name of the play Toulouse Lautrec persuades Christian to write for the woman he loves). The Moulin Rouge seduces with the assurance that the burdens of the real world can be checked at the door. In this whirling frenzy of distracted self-indulgence, Luhrmann brings together Satine (Nicole Kidman) and Christian (Ewan McGregor) under the dizzying spell of Zidler (Jim Broadbent), the ringmaster impresario of the pleasure palace. Satine is the jewel of the Moulin Rouge, aspiring to be more than a showgirl and courtesan. Christian, the aspiring but penniless writer, believes in “truth, beauty, freedom and love” above all else — and he believes his words will set his love free. The opportunity to break free of their worlds lit in the red (Satine) and blue (Christian) lights of their respective stages is illuminated by the natural light of the real world which they discover in the presence of each other’s love.
With the self-conscious, medium-awareness of theatrical innovator, Bertolt Brecht, Luhrmann does not want us to forget that we are watching a film. The opening view draws us through the stage proscenium, past the flickering sepia of antique film, over the model city of Paris with the tilting illuminated windmill, into the staged world of the cabaret. The stage-set rooms, the artificial perfection of the night sky, the outlandish pushing for center stage by the characters (often mugging for the camera), the washes of colored theatre lighting, all remind us that we are watching a film and that the film itself is an icon, a fairy tale, a life within a dream upon a stage all captured on film.
Luhrmann has given us a device so wildly artificial yet filled with sights and sounds that are at home in any century, that what is true and enduring shines through with amazing clarity and brilliance. Genuineness amid superficiality. Sacrifice in the face of extravagance. Selflessness against the backdrop of indulgence. Love triumphing over selfishness. Weighing the value and joy of a lasting and noble ideal against a fleeting adoration that dissolves into the anonymity of passing fancy – the eternal vs the temporal. Gently strengthening the contrast between authenticity and artificiality, Kidman and McGregor actually sing their own songs, and carry the music along with their roles with great strength and resilience. The anachronisms in the way Luhrmann tells the story as we listen to so many voicesÉ so many voices familiar to us, beg us to ask of our own lives – what do we really love and what do we value as real, noble, and true? What do we love, and what are we willing to give for the sake of love? What do we hold onto as timeless and let go of as passing? In what world do we live, the artificial stage of feigned adoration or the painful world of genuine love.
The questions which Moulin Rouge asks are classic and timeless, but the way it asks them is extraordinary. Of this you can be certain: this film is not a casual moviegoing experience.
The faded family banner still flies atop the peak of the majestic Victorian homestead in which the family Tenenbaum grew up. Well, no. That’s not entirely correct. They never really grew up, and that’s the problem. Each member of the family realized notoriety, even fame and glimpses of glory. But this is no family, and they resemble no family among our acquaintances. They live lives cluttered by the elaborate ornamentation of isolated, self-centered existence. They fit themselves within the borders of a family portrait, yet the only thing they share is a mutual loathing of the family patriarch, Royal Tenenbaum. Yet, as we look into the stylized and eccentric lives of these sad, quirky, and silly people, we recognize a humanness that is common, a plight so ordinary we might miss it were it not drawn large for us upon the creative canvas of Wes Anderson.
This is the 3rd major film from Wes Anderson. The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) follows Bottle Rocket (1996) and Rushmore (1998), both offbeat comedies that focus on precious young people who find themselves out of place in the world, who discover that the world is not ready for their genius. The Royal Tenenbaums was co-written by Anderson’s long-time friend, Owen Wilson, who also appears in the film as the Eli Cash. Cash is the life-long friend and neighbor of the Tenenbaum children–he’s a successful author of western-style fiction even though his talent is panned by the literary critics.
The father of the Tenenbaum family is Royal (Gene Hackman), the smirking, irresponsible, arrogant father who has not lived with or communicated with the family for many years. When we meet him, he is being evicted from the hotel in which he has been living–his credit has run out. The Tenenbaum matriarch is Etheline (Angelica Houston), once celebrated author of a book on parenting child prodigies–all 3 of the Tenebaum children were hailed as geniuses. She now works for the museum and plays contract bridge. The 3 children are Chas (Ben Stiller), Margot (Gwyneth Paltrow), and Richie (Luke Wilson)–they are all neurotic. Chas, the business whiz kid, made his fortune in real estate before he entered high school. He is now a widower, and the paranoid parent of 2 boys. Unable to cope with his fears, he moves back into the family house. Margot wrote a $50,000 prize-winning play when she was in the 9th grade, but locks herself away in the bathroom, alone with her secrets. She decides to move back into the family house. Richie, a world-class tennis player, suffered a meltdown at the finals of the US Open–since then, he’s been traveling the world on cargo ships, until he is summoned home by the news that Royal delivers to Etheline, “I’m dying of stomach cancer.”
He’s not, of course. Royal is lying again. He’s broke, and needs a place to stay. He’s alone and has no one to be the butt of his sarcasm. Nevertheless, the family is reunited, and therein is the question posed: Can these angry, wounded people be friends? Is it possible for them to be a family? As Royal says, “I want my family back.”
There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that he does not deserve to get his family back, and that he is the root cause of the family’s dissolution and excessive dysfunction. He swindled Chas. Margot, not a Tenenbaum by birth, is always introduced by him as “my adopted daughter.” When he talks to his grandsons about their mother, he says, “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your mother was a terribly attractive woman.” Yet, even as we are convinced that Royal has been a terrible father and husband, that he has not yet experienced that deep transformation that will re-orient his attitudes and perspective, we know that he wants the right thing. We find ourselves pulling for him, hoping that somehow, some way, these individuals will find one another and learn how to love one another. There is a strong sympathy holding this story together, an urgency that breathes with frequent smiles and occasional outright laughter.
Anderson presents these characters to us–in a way, he shoves them in our face, and we see them as individuals, and we see through them. They each have their own room in the big house, rooms that are so different that each is like a private universe. They tell us their own private stories disconnected from those closest to them. They have all broken away from the home, have all been driven away from the home before the story begins. But now to find themselves they must pick up the threads back at the place where they were broken. As an ironic foil, Eli Cash, an outsider, wants the fame of the family and the talent that his friends possess. Consequently, his life has been spent trying to get into the family just as vigorously as the children have been trying to get out. He wants those impersonal superficial things that have driven the family apart. In the end, he gets what his friends are willing to give him: love.
Is redemption, reconciliation, and forgiveness possible? Royal stumbles forward in his own misguided way. As you watch this process unfold, watch how Royal begins to take his children out of the surreal existence under the roof of the old house and out into the real world. Observe how death plays a central role in the process of change. Each one of the characters must face death. In each character’s life, something must die. Anderson gives us some delightful and funny images that tease out the death theme. But don’t let the humor distract you from the important role it plays in the larger message of redemption. The uncomfortable sexual tension between Richie and Margot makes us feel how confused this family is about understanding, experiencing, and expressing love.
The cast is marvelous with crisp, thoughtful, nuanced performances by each one. Hackman is brilliant. The script and dialogue are understated so that the humor is wry not slapstick. The film is stylized – the episodes framed like portraits conveying the detached impersonal world of the characters. Each portrait is filled with the fascinating details that tell us something about the room occupied by each character. The clothes worn by the characters are like costumes or symbols. The tone of the film is gentle and sympathetic–it does not mock these characters for their troubles and their foibles, but it understands them. So will we if we listen, because these are people like us, people in need of grace, redemption, and healing. We are people who need to come home to find that for which our hearts have been longing.
Questions for discussion:
- Why is the film titled, The Royal Tenenbaums?
- Why have the characters left the homestead? From what are they running, or what are they unwilling to face?
- How are the images and how is the theme of death used to advance the theme of healing, forgiveness, and reconciliation?
- How does the family home function as a metaphor for the lives of the people who live in that house?
- What role does risk-taking play in the commentary of the story and in the transformation of the characters?
- What significance do you place on the opening and closing image of Mordecai?
- How does our discomfort at the sexual tension between Richie and Margot help us understand the film’s depiction of how love is recognized and expressed? Comment on the different ways Richie shows love to Royal, Margot, and Eli, as well as the other characters’ reaction to that demonstration.
- Why is it meaningful for Richie to put the boar’s head back on the wall? (Note that the wall still has the marks of where it once hung, and remember the scene in which the boar’s head is discovered.)
- How does Royal change, and how does his change influence the members of the family?
- Is there forgiveness and healing? Is it experienced uniformly among the family? If it is experienced at all, is it warranted?
- To what Bible passage or story does your reflection on this film take you? Why?
Aristotle, in his Poetics, describes the classic literary hero falling from greatness when a tragic flaw is exposed. The story, then, is the struggle to reclaim the heights, wiser and nobler than before. This is the stuff of legends from Ulysses to Hamlet to Darth Vader.
Our appreciation for heroes in everyday life has been renewed by the tragedy suffered on 9/11. Many are singing praises and wreathing accolades to fire fighters, police officers, and ordinary Joes who have risked and given their lives in acts of impulsive courage and selfless daring.
Who are your heroes? What does it take to be a hero? Could you be a hero?
In Unbreakable M. Night Shyamalan takes this important, personal, and epic theme and tells a story much in the same style and tone of his blockbuster sensation, The Sixth Sense. David Dunn, thoughtfully and honestly portrayed by Bruce Willis, is a guard for a local security company. He is struggling to find his place in the world as a husband, father, and man. Elijah Price, played with riveting intensity by Samuel Jackson, is a collector of classic comic books. He is known as “Mr Glass” by those who know of his rare disease that makes bones fragile and brittle. The two men meet after David is the sole survivor of a commuter train derailment – he walks away from the heaps of steaming wreckage without a scratch. Yet both men are deeply broken, and long for a place to belong and call home.
The story unfolds as Elijah observes, “Real life doesn’t fit into little boxes that were drawn for it.” He muses intently about the possibility that our lives are connected to some larger reality, the greatness and the idealism that survives only in comic book heroes and villains. Shyamalan gives us a compelling and deliberate character study of flawed individuals with astonishing gifts. Superbly crafted and photographed, elegantly directly, subtle, refined, puzzling, personal, mysterious – Unbreakable invites us to think about what it means to be noble, to know the satisfaction of being valued by someone else, of donning even for a moment the mask and cape of our favorite superhero.
Remember, remember the fifth of November, The gunpowder, treason and plot, I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot.
On the Fifth of November, 1605, Guy Fawkes, the Catholic vigilante failed in his attempt to blow up the British King and Parliament. On the Fifth of November, 2010, the man know only as “V” and masquerading as Guy Fawkes, begins his year-long campaign to overthrow the totalitarian government of Britain. To the thunderous strains of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” V conducts the overture, the pyrotechnic destruction of The Old Bailey, and the first movement of his orchestrated crusade to liberate the lives and minds of a society that has given away its freedom.
V for Vendetta is a creation of the Wachowski brothers (who brought us the Matrix triology) loosely based on the 1989 graphic novel by Alan Moore, which skewered the British government and policies led by Margaret Thatcher. Moore, however, has had his name removed from the credits of the film. The film, deftly directed by James McTeigue, resets the story in a futuristic England ruled by Chancellor Sutler (John Hurt), who ruthlessly preserves order by any means. When V, branded as a terrorist by the government, eludes capture, Sutler snarls his justification for his own brand of terrorism: “I want this country to realize that we stand on the edge of oblivion. I want everyone to remember why they need us!”
The faceless V (Hugo Weaving) offers his own vindication for his own version of vigilante vengeance, a verdict “held as a votive not in vain”: “People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people.” V enlists Evey (Natalie Portman), whose family has been victimized by Sutler’s vicious regime, in his systematic plan to overthrow the government and to “hold accountable” those who by dehumanizing him, transformed him into a super-human idea (“Ideas are bullet-proof” he informs the final evil-doer he executes, strangling him with his gloved hands).
V for Vendetta’s iconographic visuals are as bold (and obvious) as its political moralizing. Sutler preaches from his looming Big Brother-like video pulpit, and V sermonizes while he plots and executes. Unlike V, the film wears no masks as it parades before us an unflinching and impudent commentary on recent history, the current world scene, and political leadership. From one of V’s homilies: “Violence can be used for good…. A building is a symbol, as is the act of destroying it. Symbols are given power by people. A symbol, in and of itself is powerless, but with enough people behind it, blowing up a building can change the world.” Symbols are as vital to the style of the film as they are to its message, and the disturbing connection between the film’s symbols of power and still-incomprehensible horror of 911 is unmistakable.
At the center of the film, between Sutler and V each playing God, Evey struggles to find herself and discover if there is an idea or a truth, larger than herself, to which she can commit herself. Whom should she trust; what should she fear? V believes that “there are no coincidences, only the illusion of coincidence.” He means that each person must act willfully and not play the victim. On that basis he holds Sutler and all those who brutalized him responsible for their actions–they cannot excuse their actions by appealing to their good intentions or the crisis of history. He holds God similarly accountable for the way things are: “I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence.”
The film is a thrilling, swash-buckling, sensational political rant against an Orwellian caricature of all that’s evil in the world–of the bureaucracies of state, religion, and corporate greed; of the abuse of power eviscerating with fascist vehemence art and sexuality. But the irony is that it is no mere idea that overthrows totalitarianism and oppression–it is the actions of humans who use power for their own ends that accomplish these things.
“Is V a terrorist leader or a freedom fighter? Or merely a poor, wronged soul, out for vengeance?” (Jason Korsner, UK Screen) The brothers Wachowski do not answer that question for us. But about this they are unambiguous: we must not be passive or uninformed about the evil and injustice that is a pervasive presence in the world. Their hope is in the power of truth and ideas, and it is this hope that launches the film with Evey’s narration: “I’ve witnessed first hand the power of ideas, I’ve seen people kill in the name of them, and die defending them… but you cannot kiss an idea, cannot touch it, or hold it… ideas do not bleed, they do not feel pain, they do not love…. And it is not an idea that I miss, it is a man…. A man that made me remember the Fifth of November. A man that I will never forget.”
The faceless and impersonal relentlessness of V, in the end, cannot mask the reality that it is human to act, to believe, to hope, and to fight. V is a man, he is a human, and he loves.