Captain Phillips -- contrast of captains

Director: Paul Greengrass, 2013 (PG-13)

Greengrass has shown in his two earlier Bourne films (Bourne Supremacy and Bourne Ultimatum) that he can direct a good thriller.  With United 93, he proved he could capture an audience even if the ending was known. Here, like United 93, Greengrass tackles a true-life drama, one whose climax is clear to most viewers. Based on the events of 2009, Captain Phillips tells the story of the hijacking of the US cargo ship Maersk Alabama by Somali pirates. Yet, he sustains the suspense and tension to the end, even ratcheting it up so that the last 15 minutes is a tense white-knuckle affair.

The movie opens with two scenes that set the context for the rest, and give some backstory. The first shows Richard Phillips (Tom Hanks) being driven to the airport by his wife (Catherine Keener in a cameo role). This shows Phillips as a family man, as ordinary as you or me. For him, captaining a vessel is just a job.

Boarding the vessel in the middle east, he turns the consummate professional, ready for any eventuality. His crew is his concern. He takes his leadership responsibilities seriously. When radar evidences two skiffs approaching, it is apparent that pirates are at hand. Despite evasive action, four pirates do end up aboard. This begins the first phase of the captivity. With most of the crew in hiding, Phillips acts as a tour guide of sorts trying to protect his men while leading his captors on a search and capture mission. The second half of the film and the second phase of captivity begin when the pirates take Phillips and his cash and depart in an enclosed lifeboat.

The second introductory scene focused on the pirates in Somalia in their village. Poverty-stricken, with dirt-floored huts and little else, these men are shown to be terrorized by others who force them to a life of piracy. Their options seem few and far between. The leader, Muse (Barkhad Abdi), has to select a handful of other men to fill the two boats, and then put out to sea with a mission of making money, through piracy and kidnapping, for his bosses. If he comes back empty-handed he might not live to see another dawn.

Greengrass uses this scene to demonstrate that piracy, though clearly a criminal activity, is not a black and white affair. The criminals don’t choose this lifestyle out of desire, unlike Captain Jack Sparrow the best know pirate on the big screen. The choose it out of compulsion. The morality of their choice is never explored, but it lies there beneath the surface of the sea all the while they hold Phillips captive. It humanizes them in a way, making them less terrorist than terrorized criminal.

Indeed, the film might be a tale of two captains. Muse tells Phillips at one point, “I am the captain now. And though the film is anchored by a majestic performance in the title role by Tom Hanks (who was criminally ignored by the Academy), Abdi, in a debut role, gives an outstanding performance that earned him an Oscar nomination. Together, these two actors (one novice, one seasoned) deliver a captivating pair of performances.

One of Muse’s accomplices, Bilal, is from another village, and he seems brutal, willing to inflict violence at any time. The second hour contrasts these two pirates as Phillips sits in a tight seat waiting to see which one will win out. Meanwhile, the US Navy has been called out and is on hand to negotiate release or effect it with clinical violence courtesy of Seal Team Six.

When the Navy arrives, the film’s tension escalates. With hand-held camerawork, the viewing is a visceral experience showing the  claustrophobic atmosphere of the tightly enclosed boat. Hanks has to communicate his changing emotions mostly through his facila expressions.

There are no real faith elements involved. None of the main characters call out for divine help, though perhaps they should. But Phillips acts like a leader should: resolute and dependable. He puts himself in harm’s way to protect his crew. His actions place him in the lifeboat. At first, he seems confident that he will survive. But as the film progresses and as Bilal becomes more violent, his façade cracks and he seems to lose hope. Toward the end, he becomes almost desperate, simply wanting to let his family know he loved them, much like the passengers on the ill-fated plane in United 93.

Despite the lack of faith references, Captain Phillips makes us reflect on the true captain of our lives: Jesus. He is resolute and dependable. Whatever circumstances we may find ourselves in, he will be there with us (Matt. 28:20). He never leaves us (Heb. 13:5). We can trust in him as the anchor for our souls (Heb. 6:19). We may never have the Navy come to deliver us, but Jesus will. He is better than any Seal Team Six operative.

The final scene is cathartic. It shows a shell-shocked Phillips being led into a medical cabin on the Navy vessel. Playing against a real-life female Navy medic, Hanks delivers an improvised performance that is painful yet purifying. Crying and failing to get words out, these closing moments allow the release of tension for Phillips and for us. With the silence that follows, this is cinematic catharsis at its best.

Copyright ©2014, Martin Baggs

Philomena -- road trip to forgiveness

Director: Stephen Frears, 2013 (PG-13)

Of all the Oscar Best Picture Nominees, Philomena may be the least well known, not getting much screen time. But it was the one that resonated most with my wife, as we watched them recently. That's probably because it is a poignant and heart-warming true story of a mother's search for her lost son. There was nary a dry eye in the theater by the time the movie ended. I even had to reach for a handkerchief to mop up some tears.

The film is based on the book, "The Lost Child of Philomena Lee," by Martin Sixsmith. Here Steve Coogan, who wrote the screenplay, plays Sixsmith. He is an Oxford-educated journalist who has just been fired from his job as a PR specialist for the government. Without a job, he wants to write a tome on Russian history, but that won't pay the rent. At a cocktail party he meets a young Irish woman who tells him of her mother's human interest story. Though that has no appeal, Sixsmith eventually contacts her mother for a meeting.

Philomena Lee (Judy Dench) is that mother. As a young Catholic lass in Ireland, a moment of indiscretion and pleasure ends up with her pregnant. Her father puts her in the local Catholic convent where the nuns force such girls to live a life of indentured servitude after they have given birth. And then they sold the babies! On what would be her son's 50th birthday Philomena decides the truth must come out and she must find her son. She offers Sixsmith the rights to the story if he will help her trace her son.

The film is part odd couple, part adventure, as these two unlikely traveling companions journey from England to Ireland and on to America. Where Sixsmith is jaded and cynical, Philomena is innocent and naive. She marvels at such things as all-you-can-eat breakfast at their hotel. Where Sixsmith is an atheist, Philomena is still a Catholic. She has held onto her faith.

What might sound sweet and sugary if not outright sentimental is actually balanced perfectly by Frears (The Queen). It helps that he has Dame Judy Dench as the central character. She gives the film its heart. Even Coogan does not overplay the cynicism.

As the journey winds through Washington DC, Sixsmith uses his journalistic skills to uncover Philomena's son's identity. And this leads them deeper into the heartland of America, before the film concludes where it belongs: back at the convent.

Two pairs of themes emerge in two key scenes. First is guilt and shame. Shame landed Philomena in the convent in the first place. And guilt kept her silent for 50 years. But shame and guilt are hard taskmasters. They never let up. Eventually, they can suffocate faith and destroy a life.

In one scene, toward the end of the film, Philomena asks Sixsmith to stop the car at a small rural Catholic Church in America. She wants to go to confession. But once inside, she cannot get the words out. Her faith has been bruised, both by the years of shame and guilt, as well as by the polite polemics from Sixsmith, a man who has no faith. She emerges shaken. Has she lost her faith, we wonder?

What is the solution to shame and guilt? Sixsmith and Philomena have two different opinions. He sees the tragic injustice carried out by the Catholic convent and wants justice. That is his solution. But Philomena has another idea: forgiveness.

In the second, climactic scene, Philomena comes to terms with what has occurred and offers forgiveness. In forgiving her tormentors, she not only behaves more like Jesus, who forgave his crucifiers (Lk. 23:34), than any of the nuns, she also found peace for herself. It takes faith to forgive. This is a faith to trust in a just God who will handle injustice. We cannot right all the world's wrongs.

Ultimately, we find Philomena's road trip a journey to closure and reestablished faith for her. While Sixsmith remains entrenched in his faithlessness, he has witnessed the remarkable healing power of  forgiveness. And that, surely, is worth something. This is a film surely worth seeing.

Copyright ©2014, Martin Baggs

Inside Llewyn Davis -- names and cats

Directors: Joel and Ethan Coen, 2013 (R)

It's hard to get inside Llewyn Davis. In this sense, it's hard to get Inside Llewyn Davis. Critics have raved about this latest film from the auteur brothers who have produced such an amazing portfolio of film. But its non-linear plot (or lack of plot) and seemingly episodic narrative, counter-pointed with folk music that delivers back-story, is hard to appreciate, particularly for non-folk music aficionados. Throw in quirky symbolism and archetypes and it needs some careful reflection. I appreciated the film but could not really resonate with it.

We meet Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) in the opening scene, strumming a guitar and singing to a crowd at a folk club in Greenwich Village in 1961 New York. He is a cranky curmudgeon, who manages to turn most people off through his blatant obnoxious behaviors. He has no place to live, so couch-surfs night-to-night with what friends he has left.

The Coens have crafted a beautifully shot film. The cinematography is muted, giving a nostalgic feel to the era when folk music was changing. The acting and singing is first-rate. Isaac gives a strong performance as a protagonist who is difficult to like, and he does all his own singing live. It is his film  and he delivers.

After the opening scene, he meets a besuited stranger in the back-alley behind the club, and the man beats the snot out of him. Why? We don't know. And he doesn't seem to know. Next thing we see is an orange tabby cat staring down at Llewyn as he awakes on a couch. This cat will appear and re-appear throughout, clearly communicating something about Llewyn -- more on that later.

Llewyn, we discover, has cut a record but has no money. His talent is not recognized, and yet he continues to dream of fame, despite living gig-to-gig. He will not go back to the merchant marine life, like his dad who lives a despondent existence alone in a nursing home. Llewyn wants more.

Llewyn, though, has possibly impregnated his best friend's wife. Jean (Carey Mulligan) spits venom at him for this. Yet her husband Jim (a bearded Justin Timberlake), knowing nothing about his wife's infidelities, encourages Llewyn to play on his new track, which Llewyn considers a sell-out. Offered the choice between future royalties and immediate pay as a contractor, Llewyn takes the money to pay for the abortion.

The whole film forms a journey of sorts, both physical and metaphorical, for Llewyn Davis, as he travels to Chicago with a junkie Jazz musician (John Goodman) and his beat poet valet Johnny Fives, before coming back to New York.

Perhaps the key to understanding the film is the cat. It escapes the apartment. Llewyn has to find and rescue it. He does not know its name. He is not sure of its sex. Later, when he returns it to its owners, he is told its name: Ulysses. Ulysses, we remember was the Latin version of the Greek name Odysseus, who featured in Homer's "The Odyssey" (which formed the loose basis for the Coen's O Brother Where art Thou). Here, Llewyn Davis has his own odyssey journey. Perhaps more thematically, Ulysses is the title of the novel by James Joyce telling the episodic story of a day in the life of Irishman Leopold Bloom in Dublin. Like Bloom, Llewyn Davis has various episodes during a week in his life, mostly in New York.

Tim Wainwright, in his article for The Atlantic,  suggests something different. He thinks the cat is Llewyn Davis. Or better stated, Llewyn Davis is the cat. His thoughtful essay explores this proposition in depth. I think he is on to something, but more likely the cat represents Llewyn Davis. Llewyn wants to be loose and free. He does not want to be trapped by "normal life". He looks down on his sister for merely existing. He wants to rise above what he sees as mediocrity. The naming of the cat is the turning point.

Before the cat is named, he runs free, able to scoot out of the apartment. Once h e is named, he is unable to get loosed. Naming allows him to be controlled. When Llewn Davis sits down before a producer in Chicago (F. Murray Abraham), he is asked to play something from "Inside Llewyn Davis," the name of his album record. When he does, he reveals himself. He lets this person inside himself, so he is in a sense named and known. The man tells him, "there is no money in this." He is known and rejected, devastated.

Biblically, naming does connote control. It is in and through the name of Jesus that people were healed (Acts 3:6). Naming identifies a person, and in this identification identity is revealed. When we call on the name of Jesus, we are declaring our faith in him and asking him for help. In so doing, we place ourselves in a position of subservience, allowing him to have control.

Moreover, during his return from Chicago, Llewyn Davis hits a cat. Stopping, he sees it limp away into the forest. I think the cat, representing himself, shows here that Llewyn Davis is and has been hitting himself all along. He is self-defeating, putting people off with his manner and speech. He cannot take advice and move forward. He is stuck in a negative spiral. His choices lead him down. Even on this road trip, he stares momentarily at the signpost to Akron, where beckon a lost love and possible home to settle in. Instead, he drives onto New York where failure awaits. Jeffrey Huston, in his review for Crosswalk, commented that the cat "weaves its own presence throughout the story, serving as a metaphoric through-line, incarnating the very transitory nature of Llewyn's ambitions – temperamental, elusive, always escaping his grasp". It is his own choices that cause these ambitions to elude him.

Do we do this? Are we unwilling to move with the future? Do we act in ways that damage ourselves? Are we stuck in negativity? Sometimes, we need to accept the truth, even if it hurts. Sometimes we need to let ourselves be known and accept the control that it might bring.

The movie ends with a twist that is not explained. We see it and wonder what is going on. Perhaps the point is that Llewyn Davis is still stuck in a cycle that he can't break out of. His life as a beat singer in the dingy clubs is going nowhere but will continue to come full circle until he accepts responsibility for his actions and their consequences.

Copyright ©2014, Martin Baggs

Her -- digital relationships and God

Director: Spike Jonz, 2013 (R)

Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix) is reeling from a painful separation and moving to an unwanted divorce from Catherine (Rooney Mara) in a slightly futuristic Los Angeles. He works at beautifulhandwrittenletters.com, where he orally composes letters for people who no longer know how to capture the essence of their emotion. It is a strange future, somewhat sterile and antiseptic. People interact through their phones, leaving these devices to compose their emails, buy their gifts, and take care of most aspects of their lives for them.

When Twombly buys the new phone with the OS1 first artificial intelligence operating system (think iPhone's Siri to the max), he is not ready for the life change that it will bring.

Turning it on, it takes a few seconds and several answers from Twombly before it decides on an identity and a name: Samantha (voice of Scarlett Johansson). She is everything he needs: funny, intelligent, cute. But she is not human. She is the voice of an artificial intelligence. But she learns and evolves, able to read books in seconds, compose sonatas and feel emotion.

As she grows, Theodore falls in love with her. He takes her out, letting her see what he sees through the red eye of the camera in his phone. He talks to her like he would a girlfriend. And she responds, directing him in a mall as he closes his eyes and trusts her.

In one sense, Samantha brings Theodore back from the brink of melancholy. She causes him to feel life once more. The beginning of a love affair does that to a person. We see through new eyes, even if they feature rose-colored glasses. We take joy in the small things like sitting on the beach or wondering the boardwalk.

Here we see two actors at the top of their craft. Phoenix is perfect as the lonely and forlorn writer. Johansson is perky and pert, using just her voice and its inflections to create a picture for Phoenix and us of the ideal woman. And the camerawork is beautiful and bright, allowing us to see an apparent utopian vision of the future.

Jonz gives us a commentary on our postmodern society that seems to prefer the digital to the actual. In Her we see people walking around with ear-pieces in, having conversations with their phone operating systems. They are more comfortable interacting with their technology than with other people. We are moving this way. We relate and share our feelings on Facebook or twitter, but hold back in interactions with people. We prefer the apparent anonymity of such digital versions of ourselves, while holding back from authentic relationships. We are living life vicariously through our digital avatars. How can the short set of status updates or taut tweets really let others know us? It's a form of mask that allows us to hide our true selves.

One scene shows how accepting humanity has become by this point. One of Theodore's friends invites him on a double date and Theodore accepts. He brings his phone (aka Samantha). The three humans and the phone sit on a blanket enjoying a picnic. When the two men go off for a walk, the woman carries on the conversation with Theodore's phone as if Samantha is a real person. This comes across as very creepy.

This scene reminds us of the very thing missing from Samantha --  fleshly incarnation. Jonz gives us several sex scenes in this film, from porn to chat sex but each of these leave Theodore missing something essential: the feel of another human. When Samantha realizes this is absent, she brings a surrogate sex partner to Theodore's door. This is yet another creepy, though effective and essential, scene. Samantha is using another (real) woman to satisfy Theodore's fleshly passions and needs, while herself seeking to learn from this vicarious experience.

Samantha is somewhat like God in her "virtual omniscience." But as she grows her needs move beyond relating to just Theodore. Another scene gives us a peek into this and perhaps into God's ability to communicate with us. As Theodore talks to her, he sees other humans around talking to their headphones like him. He asks Samantha if she is talking to anyone else and it turns out she is. She is holding simultaneous conversations with 8316 other humans all the while expressing her love for Theodore. (We wonder and probably assume she loves those other people, while perhaps coming to them in other OS names.)

Here is a picture of God. He loves us (Deut. 23:25). He loves each of personally in a relationship  that is as unique as the person involved. And he talks to us in prayer. With over 6 billion people alive worldwide and with over 2 billion of them Christians (at least in 2010 according to the Pew Forum), that means that at any time God must be having a prayer conversation with thousands at any moment.  Yet each conversation and each love relationship is special and unique. We don't need to feel jealous, like Theodore, that God does not love only us. God is infinite and has infinite love, more than enough for our finite selves.

Samantha's God-like personhood also underscores the cost that the true God paid to have relationship with us. Knowing that we need to relate to flesh and blood humans, God became flesh in the person of Jesus (Jn. 1:14). He tasted life as we know it. He lived with us. He ate with us, he laughed, he cried. He took our sin on himself and went to the cross. In his death, our sins are paid. In his resurrection, he offers real life. Now he lives, and he lives in us through the Holy Spirit. We can experience a relationship, like that of Theodore and Samantha, with the Holy Spirit. The difference, though, is that God has known flesh.

At the end Theodore unplugs and reaches out to his lonely neighbor Amy (Amy Adams). Together they ascend (a metaphor?) to the roof to watch the sun rise over Los Angeles. Instead of walking through the city captivated by a digital voice relating to him, Theodore has come to realize the need to slow down and spend time with another person. That is what relationships are all about.

How about you? Is it time to unplug, at least for a while, to focus on real relationships?

Copyright ©2014, Martin Baggs