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![]() What would Riggs do? And a wealthy superstar shall lead "The Passion of the Christ"
Jesus: the other white meat.
Not to be unduly irreverent about Mel Gibson's brutal, explicit
125-minute succession of graven images, "The Passion of the Christ,"
but what you will witness, if you choose to attend, is a movie more
violent than most of those condemned as part of what certain groups
refer to today as "the culture."
There have already been a variety of compelling essays and reviews
about Gibson's self-financed project and self-financed distribution, but
I want to fix on the same thing that he does: the violence inflicted
upon his Christ.
"The Passion of the Christ," is a tract, more sophisticated,
certainly, than Jack Chick's perverse evangelistic comics, yet it serves
as a vessel to hold one's established beliefs, whether one is a devout
Baptist or Matt Drudge or Peggy Noonan or Rush Limbaugh. (And the
President has expressed a desire to see the film, it's said.)
As a movie, however, it's something else altogether. "The Passion of
the Christ" is a loud, thudding lockstep depiction of torture and
murder. There is little about philosophy, goodness or celebration. It's
like many of Gibson's earlier roles writ large: I'm suffering
here! For those who found Willem Dafoe's iconography in "Platoon"
or various suffering-Christ roles by Kevin Costner and Gibson to be too
little, here is a protracted representation of the iconic man himself
having his flesh rent into tatters, shredding into gobs of viscera. Jets
of blood and bodily fluids are dwelt upon with as much reverence as
other viscous fluids are memorialized in commonplace pornography.
Anti-Semitic? Maybe to some viewers. Pornographic? Certainly.
As keenly as the work of several other artists--Clive Barker and Pier
Paolo Pasolini (particularly with his "Salo: The 120 Days of
Sodom")--"The Passion of the Christ" is, on the face of it, a
homoerotic sadomasochistic fantasia of being stripped of One's
photogenic flesh (Jim Caviezel).
We are shown the last twelve hours of the Nazarene, with elements
drawn from Matthew, Mark, Luke and Mel (Forecast: Old and New Testament
with a chance of intermittent Apocrypha). It should further debates
about the esthetics and ethics of depicting brutality, which, by
conservative estimate, include visual depictions of the act and
aftermath of thirteen punches, slaps or blows to the head, thirty-four
blows with canes; thirty-one lashes; a crown of thorns pressed to his
temples; at least thirty-one whip lashings, two draggings through the
rabble, including varieties of spitting and stoning; fifty-two blows
with a cat o' nine tails with stones and hooks, including one shot of
flesh ripping away and splattering camera and wielder; twelve blows to
get a spike through an ankle; four blows to spike the first palm, with
arterial blood jetting thickly upward; twelve blows for the second, and
the puncturing by sword of Christ's side and belly, blood and fluids
geysering onto the faces below. Gibson's Christ starts to resemble
Barker's "Pinhead" character from the "Hellraiser" movies. There are
late close-ups of Caviezel's blood-matted eye that resemble a medieval
icon, or more to point, the Icon Productions logo that opens the movies
Gibson produces, including this one, which opens without titles, only
the name of Newmarket Films, and Icon, with a flourish of grumbly
thunder.
"Jesus wept" is the shortest verse in the King James Bible; in the
Book of Mel, it's "Jesus Bled." (Or maybe we're watching "Jeepers
Creepers 3," considering that Satan is pictured as a stone-eyed drag
queen with alopecia, like a character in one of Victor Salva's twisted
fancies.) The strenuous level of violence should bear the NC-17 scarlet
rating for its sustained intensity.
The Gospels are not alien to my experience. Without taking it too
deep, my upbringing in the South was among fundamentalists, Southern
Baptists and Pentecostals, and as a kid, I was baptized in a dark
running stream. (Yep, I've heard speaking in tongues.) But the movie
remains only a movie, and a literal-minded one. He died for your sins:
so suffer through my movie! Some, perhaps, will find the movie as a
vehicle to visualize the teachings of the Bible, which allow them to
empathize more deeply with the suffering of Christ. Yet that is not what
the movie accomplishes: my skin prickles still from the memory of
certain preachers' way with language, with metaphor and the music of
storytelling. But there are only one or two flickering instants I felt
anything in this movie. A self-professed sinner, Gibson's testimony also
slots his film as a study in the piety of the reformed reprobate. Gibson
may be a fundamentalist in his own religion, but as a filmmaker here, he
is a literalist, claiming he's evoking his own version of the story of
Paul's epiphany on the road to Damascus.
Where is the glory of hope, transcendence? This is a message of
death. But also a message of marketing and a knowledge of how the world
works: Newmarket Films president Bob Berney has the rare opportunity to
top his own work in making plain-Jane "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" into
the largest "independent" movie ever. I won't be surprised if this
thing crosses $100 million in a week. "The Passion of the Christ" is playing. Conversation ensues.
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