Review: Into Great Silence

The monastic life-style has always intrigued me. From the self-discipline of daily rituals to the stripping away of everything one owns, the faith and dedication a monk uses is noble and true. Or maybe the attraction lies in the fact that you get to dress like a Jedi. Whether I could have survived, is one question. Since most that enter such monasteries never last but a few years. But the more pertinent question is: Could I have survived psychologically? I would probably best the psychology… but definitely not the silence.

German filmmaker Philip Gröning apparently spent about six months living as a monk before attempting to capture their lives in film. And his patience and persistence paid off. Into Great Silence, the documentary about the Grande Chartreuse Monastery in the French Alps lived up to my expectations. The silence associated with the lives of these monks was captured by the endless silence (2:40 hours) of the film. That in itself is a story.

Apparently, the filmmaker went to the abbot to discuss his idea of a film about the monks. The abbot responded somewhat positively and said that he would get back to him. Reply he did… 16 years later! Time passing through an hourglass.

The filming was a study in time itself. Gröning captured light and darkness, color and shapes extraordinarily well. It was like watching an infinite number of slides merging one into the next effortlessly. As the viewer slows down and moves into the world of the monastery, the endless silence changes the sounds of the simple task into a chorus of movement and meditation.

The entire quarter moved towards being able to take the gift of transcendental film. Fridays have been an interesting ride and truly a gift perfectly placed at the end of a long week of studies. Being able to slow down and observe the world through new eyes of a filmmaker was not only a gift of transcendence, but a gift of transportation away from the hustle and bustle of a seminarian life and into a tranquility of quiet reflection.

Review: The Wind Will Carry Us

Contrasting the simple beauty of life itself with the absurd intrusions and blinders of modern deadlines and technology, Abbas Kiarostami presents a film that is both compassionate and ironic. The Wind Will Carry Us follows a group of media professionals, identified early on as “engineers,” who travel to a small village in Iran.

We later discover that the “engineers” were really in town to document the archaic and brutal grieving rituals the local townspeople submit themselves at times of mourning. But along the way, the viewer is invited to experience the new world just as the town’s visitors do. The film is an investigation – a philosophical examination into the nature of man, existence and civilization.

The story of the engineer is counter-pointed against the lives of the people he encounters: a young boy who becomes his guide, a laborer who discusses the restrictive roles of women, a pregnant woman who shelters them, and the village elder, or teacher, who surmises the reason of their visit.

Kiarostami has a wonderful ability to take the rustic and mundane of everyday life in a normal rural Middle Eastern town – and show the mysterious and beautiful moments as poetry. The script frequently recites poetry throughout the film while the images display equally deeply poetic lines. And the continual play of the “engineer” having to drive to a mountain top to find a cellular signal is the perfect metaphor for the stories plot line of the modern age set against an old world where modern invention is not needed. The film is a beautiful tale of contrast that is translated by subtitles but not in need on translation of truth.

Review: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring

Kim Ki-Duk's Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring is a bold, beautiful and breathtaking glimpse at Buddhism. The director delivers stunning visuals full of artistic originality. Lessons learned are slow and patient and done with little or no dialogue.

The setting is a monastery that floats on a lake surrounded by mountains and the events take place over the course of about 50 years. The story is broken into five chapters, one for each season in the title. Not only do the chapters take place during those seasons, but they are also corresponding to times in one man’s life as he grows from small child to an old man. Every chapter starts with a title card of the season. Then ornate doors, which sit on the banks of the lake, open up to reveal a monk's monastery.


It's more a fable than a storyline, because it can applied to how Buddhists would describe the world, and what they would expect of it, what they wish to achieve. The symbolism is very heavy, but does not distract from the movie -- it's the kind of film symbolism that you pick apart after the film that grants greater appreciation and understanding, but does not require comprehension during (else it'd be pretentious).

I've never seen a film be so meditative in tone, so simple, yet still speak so universally. After we finished watching the film, I said to Craig that it was "perfect." After being reminded of the extremely unnecessary kung-fu still shots, I have to change my comment to "almost perfect."

Review: George Washington

George Washington is a bold, beautiful and honest look at a rural ghetto Carolina town through the eyes of four pre-teen children. Growing up in poor conditions with little to no parental supervision, the kids are on their own. This freedom gives the kids opportunity to explore, create and dream – while it also prohibits healthy relationships, positive development and moral standards.

The David Gordon Green film follows the children through long summer days of independence. On their own, they confront hook-ups and break-ups with only themselves to talk them through. On their own, they talk about real-life questions of spirituality. And on their own, they are confronted with a life-and-death scenario that changes their lives.


This is where the film both makes and breaks itself. Each kid deals with the scenario in her/his own way. Some turn toward a negative path of looting and stealing. Others become onlookers, waiting as bystanders. And George takes the event and uses it as a launching pad towards a new life as a “hero” trying to save the world, starting with the simple act of directing traffic at the town traffic stop.

The transcendental nature of the narrative mirrors that of Terrence Malick’s A Thin Red Line and works towards a movement of meditative thought. The powerful imagery comes unhinged towards the end of the film though, as burning hats and frantic reporters act as barriers in the overall story arch rather than bridges towards something more. One could work towards meaningful metaphors in the chaos, but I felt that a more consistant and careful progression of sticking with the true observation of real-life that the rest of the film took would have cleaned up the confusion and made a more complete film experience.

Craig claimed during class that David Gordon Green’s George Washington is where the new generation of filmmakers is heading. Although the bold, creative and honest look at a slice of America is a forthright and telling vision of one director’s story – I do not believe the film industry will ever completely move towards a completely independent model of filmmaking.

Yes, making a film and distributing it is easier now thanks to YouTube.com, Apple Computers, and the World Wide Web. But the film industry continues to pump out rehashed storylines and family-friendly remakes geared towards what can make money, rather than quality and creativity that is born in the independent spirit of young filmmakers like David Gordon Green.

Review: Badlands

Director Terrence Malick paints a pretty picture by taking his time to develop each shot, conversation, and character. You put them all together and you have Badlands, a beautiful motion picture of American sensationalism and ironic heroism created by a mass media whirlwind.


The setting is a Midwestern town, where Martin Sheen plays a malcontent 20-something garbage man named Kit who stumbles upon a teenage dreamer in Sissy Spacek starlet of Holly. The conversation starts innocent enough, but soon the young lovers turn into naïve dreamers caught up in a killing spree only a true story could produce.

Yes, the movie is based on a true story of the 1958 killings that left 11 people dead and the nation in an odd tension built between fear of the vigilante killers and the media darlings they had become.

Malick plays with this tension in the simple editing of the film. Long, sanguine shots show the gritty, dirty reality of the American skyline. These are intertwined with the matter-of-fact naivety of the young Holly’s innocent fairy-tale narration throughout the film. The stark contrast toys with your emotions as you watch the horrors of a torrent passion play unfold. And you see why the American public can become enamored with the characters, like old-school gunslingers evading modern-day peacekeepers.

The observation and patience that Malick displays in Badlands is the key to the film. The film is truly transcendental in that the film allows the viewer to live in the world of the characters on screen. It is an oddly enjoyable experience as we are allowed to ride along with the killers in a journey that cannot end well.

Review: Light Sleeper

What do you get when you mix Robert Bresson with Miami Vice and the Lost Boys Soundtrack? Apparently you get a movie by Paul Schrader. For an amazing screen writer that brought us transcendent films such as Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and The Last Temptation of Christ, we get a less-than-transcendent Light Sleeper.


The main issue is that the successful films listed above were placed in the hands of an exceptional director in Martin Scorsese. Paul Schrader is a phenomenal writer. But he is a poor director. Leave the filmmaking to the Scorsese's of the world, Schrader. Stick to the writing.

What is most confusing is the elements of the film seem like the right choices. Light Sleeper has an interesting main character in Willem Dafoe's drug dealing philosopher, an epic cityscape in New York City, and a life changing story line. Yet, the film falls flatter than a Ashley Simpson note.

And the blame is in the direction. The movie is dated beyond-belief. From the 80's dress, to the 80's music... the 80's haven't aged well. You can see the glimpses towards the transcendental filmmakers that Schrader idolizes, but they are over-the-top in every way. From obviously placed buddhas on empty walls, to lonely cross-shaped lamps in empty rooms... the film wants to introduce divine grace in a troubled world, but doesn't have the touch of grace needed to pull it off. I love lamp. I hate Schrader's direction.

Review: Andrei Rublev

For a film widely recognized as a cinematic masterpiece, Andrei Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev failed to live up to its lofty expectations. The film follows the 15th century Russian monk and icon painter Andrei Rublev as he faces violence, political persecution and, eventually, a crisis of faith after leaving the monastery to paint a gothic cathedral's interior.

The violence, political persecution, and crisis of faith are evident throughout – but the movement from realism to transcendence was not so clear. In fact, besides the wonderful dialogue between the painter monk and other characters throughout the 3:25 minutes, coupled with striking cinematic photography, I fail to see where the divine can enter the conversation. Yes, the realism and human experience fits the transcendental definition outlined by Schrader, but the random execution and brutality of darkness fail to reach the divine and instead bathe in the depravity of human nature.

From Dreyer we were forced to understand human emotion encountering the divine. From Ozu we learned that sitting and breathing in the world around us can bring us into a reality we miss in our busy lives. And from Bresson we struggled with our freedom and learned to except what is given instead of taking what is desired. But what did we learn from Tarkovsky? I learned that sometimes long shots don’t bring transcendence, that a when a main character is missing from the story for too long it removes the element of continuity, and that violence sometimes is just violence.



I was praying for a Bresson montage during the violent scenes. Even Rocky had a montage! This may come to a surprise for those that know my favorites movies include Full Metal Jacket, The Killer, The Shining, and The Silence of the Lambs. But the long takes of death and pillage of war in Andrei Rublev was too much to bear at times. What was the point? War is evil? Okay, I get it. Thanks for opening my eyes, Tarkovsky. If this is what you choose to do with Bazin’s evolution of the image, I’d rather go visit Rublev’s iconography and find meaning in the stillness. Sweet, sweet stillness.

Review: Pickpocket

“The supernatural in film is only the real rendered more precise,” Bresson says. “Real things close up.” Schrader reminds us that Bresson’s viewpoint of the everyday reality consists of elimination rather than addition or assimilation; a reminder that is clearly seen in the renowned classic film Pickpocket.

Pickpocket is not a classic because of phenomenal acting performances or jam-packed action sequences, but rather the film is a classic because of the film as a whole, with an extremely well written script, and an exceptionally complex and layered lead character. And in the end, I agree with Joshua Lim’s connection that the “story is crucial” to Bresson’s achievement in Pickpocket.

One might be taken aback at the non-acting or static mundane shots of life. But they are life, the scenarios, dialogue, struggle and reality of life. Bresson draws the viewer into the film by removing the acting and action, only to have the story remain, in its skillfully crafted simplicity. The stark remainder makes the high points in the story higher, the low points lower, and the pivotal scenes breathtaking.


The moral journey in the film also grasps the transcendental style better than the films we have previously viewed in class. The pickpocket believes his worldview of bettering others with guile and skill brings balance and serves an ultimate good in the world. His belief is a selfish outlook that only sees his power and task at hand, rather than gaining a higher perspective where a love is waiting and a motive of sacrifice for others could be a goal greater than the ultimate lift.

The nature of a pickpocket is one of a taker. I loved that the story neatly unfolds that once the pickpocket learns to accept what is given and give of himself, he is finally free. Ironically behind bars, only able to clumsily smear his nose on his true love’s forehead.

Review: Tokyo Story

It is amazing that when watching a film, how much your state of mind can effect the experience of the film. About two years ago, I was in a different place with my life, working 50+ hours a week, rushing from place to place, a busy body in a big city. During that time, I attempted to watch Yasujiro Ozu's Tokyo Story, and fell flat on my face. I couldn't make it through an hour without fast-forwarding or losing my concentration on the cinematic moments carefully portrayed within Ozu's classic film.


Now, two years later, I have learned how to slow down, I have learned that meditation can improve one's life, I have learned how to appreciate the mundane or real-life scenario. That is the beauty of transcendental style of film that Schrader believes the "Asian culture" of Zen thinking fits almost perfectly. The pairing makes sense when observing how the characters of Tokyo Story react to both the living of life and the movement of death. The children in the film were caught up in the Western industrial mindset of schedules, time, and work. They could not appreciate the nuances of life and enjoy the subtle joy of the living of that life. This is in stark contrast to the parents world of a Zen mindset, which is one of slowing down to think and meditate. They in turn do appreciate the little things like breathing or family.

When death finally came to a member of the family, the parents were prepared to deal with the finality of the end of a life exponentially more than the children were able to. I believe this is because of the pace of life each of them chose to live life. The children were shocked to find a life ending, even if it was lived long and well. Where the father knows that death is inevitable and simply says, "So this is how it ends." The understanding of the moment is evident and the beauty of the perspective is wonderfully captivating.

Review: The Passion of Joan of Arc

While watching Carl Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, I was taken into the agony, confusion and struggle of Joan’s world. With deft camera work, Dreyer placed me into the room with the judges, viewing every detail and expression in both Joan and the judges condemning her. It was a journey of heart, one where the emotions of death and the divine were heavy after the experience.


Even before discussing the pros and cons of the added “soundtrack” to the silent film production, I felt the music was not needed to understand each and every nuance of dialogue, feeling or performance. The direction did that work for us. With quick cuts, extreme close-ups, and perfectly framed characters, the message that the filmmaker was attempting to express was as clear as day. Although moving in itself, the music was not needed for a powerful film experience.

In his book, Transcendental Style in Film, Paul Schrader believes that Dreyer’s Passion in the end is not a transcendental film, but rather in the realm of “expressionist and psychological cinema” [126]. I would tend to agree with his assessment, as the viewer is constantly reminded of Joan’s humanity with a constant barrage of tears and facial expressions. Yes, there is an occasional glance towards a heavenly divine presence – but that glance is always coupled with a cut back to a spiteful judge or concerned priest. Schrader drives home the point that Dreyer “by premeditating the Transcendent on emotional empathy deprives himself of the spiritually elevating effect of transcendental style” [126]. Although this may be true, the life and death of Joan of Arc is seen in all of its gritty humanity. And for this the film is worth seeing for an experience that is transcendent, even if the film may not fit exactly the transcendental style itself.

Response: Simon's Blog [Week 8]

Simon Castagna mentioned in his post on Bevans breakdown of the transcendental model of contextual theology that, "I think God reveals himself to people who genuinely search for him, but in my opinion we can't rely only on subjectivity." In the end, I tend to agree with his analysis that, "We have sinful natures and our subjectivity is flawed."

But Simon's comments got me thinking that, if you drill down further, one could argue that the power of the Word of God transforming people that search is bigger than subjectivity itself. And when Paul describes this dramatic change in our hearts and minds as Jesus Christ living within us, we "put off the old man with his deeds" and "put on the new man" and we are "renewed" in knowledge and in the spirit of our minds (Colossians 3:9-10). Of course, the creation of righteous character is a two-way process. God gives us the knowledge and all the power we need. But we supply the choice to live righteously.

Reading: Bevans [Transcendental]

Bevans summarizes that the transcendental model of contextual theology points to a new way of doing theology. The model highlights the active, never-ending aspect of Anselm's definition of theology as faith seeking understanding.

The main critique of the theory is that if subjective authenticity is how one approaches the authentic theology the transcendental model promotes, then how can true objectivity move out of theory into true action.

Although the argument is logical in its construction, the critique doesn't hold much weight when you consider that overall every theory is just that, a theory, until put in action. As a wise Jedi once said: "No! Try not. Do. Or do not. There is no try!"