Films and Shows I'm Thankful For in 2025

In 2020, I started a Thanksgiving tradition of creating a list of twelve films or shows I was most thankful to have discovered, rediscovered, reappraised, or otherwise gained a greater appreciation for since the previous Thanksgiving. (Click here to see the previous lists.) Here are my picks for 2025. I’m thankful for …

The Acolyte (a greater appreciation): I didn’t include this on my Thanksgiving list last year because my initial reaction to it was more measured, but watching this Star Wars show a second time convinced me it’s one of the most rich and complex Star Wars projects of the post-Lucas era. It shares a lot of DNA with The Phantom Menace and The Last Jedi. That statement will scare many people away, but coming from me it’s a big compliment. Tim Lawrence and I have each written a number of Jedi Archives posts on The Acolyte here.

Fiddler on the Roof (a [re]discovery): I saw the musical on stage in middle school and I played percussion in the orchestra for a high school production. Since then, Fiddler has always been on my shortlist of favorite musicals, but this was my first time watching the 1971 film version. I enjoyed its New Hollywood sensibility: compared to some classic musicals, it hardly ever feels stuffy or stagey thanks to the rapid montages, the mobile camera, and shooting on-location.

Hugo (a reappraisal): When I last saw this over a decade ago, I would have said it was big on style and short on substance and that it lacks focus from trying to tell two different stories at once. When I watched it again this past year, what seemed like disparate parts clicked together for me, and I was deeply moved by the conclusion. I also noticed a lot of funny similarities to one of my all-time favorite films, The Terminal. 

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom (a discovery): I was not expecting the second-best Jurassic Park film to be one of the Jurassic World legacy sequels no one asked for, but I was sold on the idea of the second half of this film: what if, instead of being another “escape the jungle island” story, this pivoted in the second act to become an “escape the Gothic mansion” story? If that isn’t enough to pique your interest, consider this: This is probably the closest we will ever get to seeing a cinematic adaptation C. S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength.

Matilda (a rediscovery): I loved this film as a kid, but what I did not notice about it at the time is just how accomplished and artful Danny DeVito’s direction is. Matilda can very nearly stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Mary Poppins, Hugo, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and Babe in the canon of sophisticated family-friendly cinema that is not animation. 

Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning (a discovery): As a big fan of the Christopher McQuarrie era of Mission: Impossible (Rogue Nation, Fallout, and Dead Reckoning are among the greatest action movies I’ve seen), I was sadly let down by this, what is supposed to be Ethan Hunt’s last hurrah. I talked about why in a Notebook post this summer. But I’m still thankful for this film as a celebration of a particular kind of blockbuster filmmaking that we may see less and less of in the coming years. 

A Raisin in the Sun (a discovery/greater appreciation): Since last Thanksgiving, I have taught the play three times, and each time my love and admiration for it has grown. Although there are things I don’t like about the film adaptation that Lorraine Hansberry herself helped make, watching it one year ago helped the play click for me in a way it hadn’t when I studied it in high school and then again in grad school. Poitier’s performance here might be one of the all-time greats.    

The Rescuers Down Under (a rediscovery): The film as a whole has significant weaknesses, but the grandiose opening scenes always captivated me as a child, and watching them again this year was exciting. If you like Disney’s later epic adventure movies (Atlantis, Treasure Planet), you’ll probably enjoy this one, too.

Skeleton Crew (a discovery): As a fan of Star Wars and various Disney projects about pirates (Peter Pan and Swiss Family Robinson as a kid, the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, and especially Treasure Planet, of which this is virtually a remake), of course I had a lot of fun with this. I've written a few Jedi Archives posts about this show, and Tim Lawrence has written a bunch.  

Temple Grandin (a discovery): I think the way this movie simulates the experience of sensory overload has helped me to better understand and sympathize with those who struggle to navigate the modern world’s audio-visual noise, frenetic pace, and inflexible expectations. 

Tron: Ares (a discovery): This past month I finally watched Tron and Tron: Legacy in preparation to see the third film in this odd little franchise. The first film only mildly intrigued me and the second film impressed me, but watching Ares on the big screen thrilled me—even more, oddly enough, than watching The Final Reckoning. (P.S.: This would make for a good double feature with Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom if your theme is: Severely Underrated Legacy Sequels That Pivot Genres and Have Affinities with C. S. Lewis’s Abolition of Man/That Hideous Strength.)

The Wonderful World of Henry Sugar and Three More (a discovery): Another Roald Dahl adaptation on this list, from the filmmaker behind my favorite Dahl-inspired movie, Fantastic Mr. Fox. Wes Anderson has a highly specific style that many find off-putting and contrived. I sympathize, which is why I was glad to find another film of his that I could get into. I’m fascinated by this film because it is a short-story cycle (the genre that is the focus of my dissertation), and because each story, in both content and form, is about concentration and attentiveness. 

Honorable Mention: Andor Season 2 is very good—better overall than The Acolyte and Skeleton Crew—but I liked Season 1 more; my list has two Star Wars shows on it already; and I didn’t want the less popular shows to go without a good word amidst all the accolades for Andor.

FilmFisher Undefended Lists of 2019

While writing for FilmFisher regularly a few years back, I contributed to a monthly feature called “Undefended,” where each writer submitted a top-five list based on a themed prompt. As you can see below, I really got into making these. With the recent relaunch of FilmFisher and its migration to Substack, I thought it would be nice to revisit my Undefended lists and put them all in one place. Here are the ones I created in 2019. Click on the list titles to see the original articles with the other contributors’ lists.

P.S.: Spider-Man and other Marvel projects, and Westerns by the Coen Brothers and others, make multiple appearances on these lists.

Best of 2018 (January 2019)

1. Best Picture: Mission: Impossible – Fallout

2. Best Director: Bob Persichetti Jr., Peter Ramsey, and Rodney Rothman, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

3. Best Actor: Josh Brolin, Avengers: Infinity War

4. Best Actress: Zoe Kazan, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

5. Best Screenplay: Ethan and Joel Coen, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

Marriage (February 2019)

Conventional wisdom would say that most movies either end with the euphoric beginning of a marriage or begin with its bitter end. I wanted to challenge that narrative by highlighting some movies that portray marriages in the middle that are healthy and instructive:

1. William Powell and Myrna Loy’s legendary chemistry would make any of the six Thin Man films worth watching, but the third one, Another Thin Man (1939), has this added bonus: it lifts a scene right out of Chesterton’s Manalive (probably accidentally). One of the ways Nick and Nora Charles stay in love is by pretending they’ve never met before.

2. In It’s a Wonderful Life (1946), George Bailey (James Stewart) discovers that his marriage to Mary Hatch (Donna Reed), far from distracting him from his sense of mission and vocation, is actually one of the key reasons he is able to do real good in the world. [To a lesser extent—but I’d hate to leave it out—the same idea is at play in 2006’s Amazing Grace. In it William Wilberforce (Ioan Gruffud) regains his resolve to fight the slave trade (and recovers his singing voice, literally at the altar) when he marries Barbara Spooner (Romola Garai). After the wedding, however, the marriage subplot largely recedes into the background, hence the bracketing of this example.]

3. In A Beautiful Mind (2001), the courtship of John and Alicia Nash (Russell Crowe and Jennifer Connelly) is sparked by the volatile fuel of eros, but through adversity their marriage matures and is sustained by agape.

4. In The New World (2005), John Rolfe (Christian Bale) marries Pocahontas (Q’orianka Kilcher), even though she is still in love with Captain Smith (Colin Farrell). When Smith reappears, their commitment to each other is tested and confirmed. Ultimately it is death and not another lover that severs their bond, all too soon – yet neither of them parts with any regrets.

5. Tie: In Disney movies it is hard to find a functional nuclear family, and in superhero movies the heroes rarely ever get married or have kids. But in The Emperor’s New Groove (2000) and Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015), the marriages and households of Pacha and Chicha (John Goodman and Wendie Malick) and Clint and Laura Barton (Jeremy Renner and Linda Cardellini) serve as oases of stability and joy in the midst of worlds turned upside down by self-love and self-reliance. (Surely it isn’t a coincidence that Tony Stark is a less over-the-top version of Kuzco, or that both families live in the countryside, have two young kids (a boy and a girl), and are expecting a third.)

Double Features (March 2019)

I have ordered my choices by the time gap between the films’ releases, from the shortest to the longest.

1. Ratatouille (2007) and The Wind Rises (2013) — 6 years: Legendary auteurs in animation meditate on the meaning and value of the creative life by telling the stories of craftsmen who work in non-artistic mediums. (Fun Fact: Both craftsmen are coached by imaginary personifications of their European-accented idols.)

2. A Civil Action (1998) and Amazing Grace (2006) — 8 years: A life spent and a career risked showing mercy and seeking justice can never, in the grand scheme of things, be considered wasted. (Consider this: Amazing Grace is one of the best films about Christians ever made, but the people most responsible for its excellence are probably not Christians. And A Civil Action arguably has a more compelling conversion story or moment than any movie by or about Christians.)

3. Citizen Kane (1941) and Lawrence of Arabia (1962) — 21 years: Somehow two of the most towering achievements in the history of cinema are also two of cinema’s most terrifying indictments of the hollowness of human greatness. Life is hell when we try to be our own gods, let alone the gods of others.

4. Triple Feature (I had to break the rules somewhere): The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh (1977), My Neighbor Totoro (1988), and Where the Wild Things Are (2009) — 32 years: Our imaginary friends are among our earliest teachers. They helped us know ourselves, understand our worlds, cope with our earliest traumas, and ultimately grow up. Perhaps our imaginary friends also taught us to love our real ones, and prepared us to seek after the friend who, though invisible, is more real than anything we see.

5. It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) and The Truman Show (1998) — 52 years: While we pursue the American Dream of comfort and respect, what we really need is to be a part of a genuine, interdependent community, and to know the God who is both sovereign and good.

Heroes (April 2019)

5. Tie: Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (2011-2019) and Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) in the Mission: Impossible franchise (1996-2018—minus M:I:2). Two mythic American boy scouts who sacrifice their personal lives for the sake of what they hope is the greater good. Two men who, in their commitment to protecting the little guy, often find themselves at odds with the institutions that enlisted them for that very purpose. “I’m with you till the end of the line.”

4. Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Éowyn, Théoden, Faramir, and Aragorn (to name a few) in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003). Although I could have listed the entire trilogy, Return of the King particularly strikes me as a film about a host of heroes. “My friends: you bow to no one.”

3. Neville, Lupin, the Weasleys, and Snape (and many others) in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part II (2011). Same principle as with #4. It’s no accident I failed to put Harry on the list. It’s not that Harry isn’t heroic, but what is significant about his story is just how many people are willing to lay down their lives to help him, and how he would have utterly failed if they hadn’t. “I’m sorry. I never wanted any of you to die for me.” “Others will tell [my son] what his mother and father died for. One day, he’ll understand.”

2. The farmers and the gunslingers in The Magnificent Seven (1960). One of the gunslingers, Bernardo O’Reilly (Charles Bronson), insists he is not a hero and points to a deeper, truer version of heroism. But even he becomes a true hero in the end. “Responsibility is like a big rock that weighs a ton. It bends and it twists [your fathers] until finally it buries them under the ground. And there’s nobody says they have to do this. They do it because they love you, and because they want to. I have never had this kind of courage.”

1. Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) in the Spider-Man Trilogy (2002-2007). It’s not just predictable, it’s almost mandatory. I can’t think of any other film or franchise, superhero-based or otherwise, that deals with heroism so directly or profoundly. “With great power, comes great responsibility.”

Honorable Mention: The multiple Spider-Folk of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018).

Summer Break Movies (June 2019)

1. High Noon (Fred Zimmermann, 1952) – Before Star Wars and superheroes, Westerns were the genre of summer. As in 12 Angry Men, it is also a blazing hot summer day, but here Gary Cooper fails to convince even one person to take his side. Figuring out why that is the case would make for a fantastic post-movie discussion.

2. The Dark Knight (Christopher Nolan, 2008) – The epitome of the brainy blockbuster that doesn’t skimp on thrills or on thoughtfulness. It is also a great present-day follow-up to High Noon. Make it a double feature.

3. Treasure Planet (Ron Clements and John Musker, 2003) – I associate the summers of my youth with reading adventure novels, watching epic films, traveling, and growing up. Treasure Planet takes all these things and melds them into a near-perfect package. (Ironically, the film was released in November – but that might help explain why it flopped at the box office.)

4. The Sandlot (David Mickey Evans, 1993) – This list would be incomplete without at least one baseball movie, and Sandlot is about what summer means to us when we are growing up. But if you are looking for a baseball film that is more substantial (and less given to juvenile humor), Field of Dreams or Moneyball would also do.

5. Jaws (Steven Spielberg, 1975) – The earliest definitive summer blockbuster, and still one of the best.

The Best Trailers of the Decade (July 2019)

1. Trailer, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (2012). The Hobbit films went from being disappointing to being outright terrible, but this trailer is still a perfect encapsulation and wistful reminder of all that they could have been. Note to directors: If you can have your composer score your trailer and introduce the leitmotifs of the film, do it.

2. Trailer #1, Foxcatcher (2014). Steve Carell is terrifying.

3. Trailer, Logan (2017). I haven’t even seen this movie, but this trailer is incredible. This is how you use a song to structure your trailer and give it an emotional arc.

4. Trailer, Avengers: Endgame (2019). Sure, much of the trailer is fairly generic, but it opens and ends so well, and Marvel should be credited for how the trailer is 100% emotion and 0% plot. Thanos demanded silence, and he got it.

5. Teaser, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker (2019). When you start with a scene that riffs on Wild West showdowns and North by Northwest, use the same tagline as The Phantom Menace teaser, and end with that ominous image and that bombshell, you have figured out the secret to movie trailer alchemy.

The Best Film Music of the Decade (August 2019)

The hymn-inspired True Grit and hip-hop-infused Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse would have been on my list, but since they’ve already been claimed I’ll put two honorable mentions as my #5 and #4.

1. Hans Zimmer Double Feature: Inception (2010) and Interstellar (2014).

2. Michael Giacchino: Dawn of / War for the Planet of the Apes (2014, 2017)

3. John Powell: The How to Train Your Dragon Trilogy (2010, 2014, 2019)

4. Alan Silvestri: Selections from the Marvel Symphonic Universe (2010, 2012, 2018, 2019)

5. Justin Hurwitz, et. al: La La Land (2016)

The Best Scripts of the Decade (September 2019)

1. True Grit (2010). Screenplay by Joel and Ethan Coen, based on a novel by Charles Portis.

2. Moneyball (2011). Screenplay by Steven Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin and story by Stan Chervin, based on a book Michael Lewis.

3. Locke (2013). Screenplay by Steven Knight.

4. The Wind Rises (2013). Screenplay by Hayao Miyazaki.

5. Arrival (2016). Screenplay by Eric Heisserer, based on a short story by Ted Chiang.

Tied Honorable Mentions:

• Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015). Screenplay by Joss Whedon, based on comics created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby.

• Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017). Screenplay by Rian Johnson, based on characters created by George Lucas.

The Best Performance of the Decade (October 2019)

In chronological order:

1. Hailee Steinfeld as Mattie Ross in True Grit (2010)

2. Andy Serkis as Caesar in The Planet of the Apes Prequel Trilogy (2011-2017)

3. Chris Evans as Steve Rogers in Marvel’s Infinity Saga (2011-2019)

4. Barkhad Abdi as Muse in Captain Phillips (2013)

5. Adam Driver as Kylo Ren in the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy (2015-2019), or as Paterson in Paterson (2016)

FilmFisher Undefended Lists of 2018

While writing for FilmFisher regularly a few years back, I contributed to a monthly feature called “Undefended,” where each writer submitted a top-five list based on a themed prompt. As you can see below, I really got into making these. With the recent relaunch of FilmFisher and its migration to Substack, I thought it would be nice to revisit my Undefended lists and put them all in one place. Here are the ones I created in 2018. Click on the list titles to see the original articles with the other contributors’ lists.

P.S.: There’s a lot of Harry Potter on these lists.

Action Scenes of the 2000s (July 2018)

1. The Mines of Moria chamber fight (“They have a cave troll.”), then the chase (“to the bridge of Khazad-Dûm!”), then Balrog face-off (“You shall not pass!”) in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001).

2. Another three-parter, the Geonosis arena battle(s) in Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones (2002), complete with monsters and men, comic relief and pathos, and every young boy’s wildest dream come true: hundreds of Jedi with lightsabers going into battle together.

3. Jack Sparrow, Will Turner, and James Norrington sword-fighting on a runaway mill wheel in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (2006).

4. With the help of only a feather, tiger villain Tai Lung escapes from an underground prison and defeats hundreds of rhino guards in Kung Fu Panda (2008).

5. One last three-parter: Tom Cruise survives drowning, then survives a car chase and crash, then survives a motorcycle chase and crash in Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation (2015).

Truths and Lies (August 2018)

1. “Mr. Carter, if the headline is big enough, it makes the news big enough.” (Citizen Kane, 1941)

2. “Luke, you’re going to find that many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.” (Return of the Jedi, 1983)

3. “Will I lie to myself to be happy? In your case, Teddy, yes. I will.” (Memento, 2000)

4. “We have protected innocence that I’m not willing to give up.” (The Village, 2004)

5. “Sometimes the truth isn’t good enough, sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded.” (The Dark Knight, 2008) / “It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth.” (The Dark Knight Rises, 2012)

Teachers (September 2018)

I hope the examples are so similar and specific you won’t mind me listing double. 5 Common Teacher Archetypes:

1. The Gifted “Chosen One” Student Turned Novice Teacher of an Unlikely Resistance: Jack Black’s Po (Kung Fu Panda 3, 2016), and Daniel Radcliffe’s Harry Potter (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, 2007)

2. The Truly Awful Principal with Cruel and Unusual Punishments for Students Who Use Magic: Pam Ferris’s Trunchbull (Matilda, 1996), and Imelda Staunton’s Dolores Umbridge (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, 2007)

3. The Hapless, Lanky, and Paranoid Disney Cartoon Teacher Who Should Not Be Teaching: Lou Romano’s Bernie Kropp (The Incredibles, 2004), and Ichabod Crane (The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad, 1949)

4. The Morally Ambiguous, Rough-Around-the-Edges Teacher (Complete with Peg Leg and Artificial Eye) Who Mentors the Protagonist Under False Pretenses: Brian Murray’s John Silver (Treasure Planet, 2002), and Brendan Gleeson’s Mad-Eye Moody (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, 2005)

5. The Whimsical Professor (with an Affinity for Magical Furniture) Played by Jim Broadbent: Professor Digory Kirke (The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, 2005), and Professor Horace Slughorn (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, 2009)

Scares (October 2018)

1. While Jonathan goes outside to move his car, Aunt Abby and Aunt Martha go to check on the window seat… (Arsenic and Old Lace, 1944)

2. After the Halloween party, Ichabod Crane rides into the forest… (The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad, 1949)

3. Donovan chooses, poorly… (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, 1989)

4. The drums, the disappearance of Alan Parrish, and the mosquitos… (Jumanji, 1995)

5. Harry and Hermione follow Bathilda Bagshot to her house… (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I, 2010)

America (November 2018)

In order of historical period:

1. John Adams miniseries (Tom Hooper, 2008)

2. Good Night, and Good Luck. (George Clooney, 2005)

3. JFK (Oliver Stone, 1991)

4. Selma (Ava DuVernay, 2014)

5. The Terminal (Steven Spielberg, 2004)

Time (December 2018)

1. In less than an hour and a half, a marriage begins and is severely tested, a career of public service ends in defiant bitterness, and the true character of an entire community is exposed in all its cowardice and pettiness in High Noon (1952, dir. Fred Zinnemann).

2. A time-obsessed, proudly resourceful man is humbled by three years of isolation on an island in Cast Away (2000, dir. Robert Zemeckis).

3. A man and his wife learn the secret to slowing down time, grow old together in a dream, and return to waking life as middle-aged adults, only to be haunted by the repercussions of tampering with time in Inception (2010, dir. Christopher Nolan).

4. The audience witnesses the mundane yet beautiful moments of seven ordinary days in the life of a bus driver/poet and his artist wife in Paterson (2016, dir. Jim Jarmusch).

5. Six parables on the shortness of life and the brutal and banal suddenness of death in The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018, dir. Ethan and Joel Coen).

Bonus Round: In what could have been the seventh chapter of Buster Scruggs, with a similar concept as the one found in Inception, three brothers attempt to outwit Death with his own instruments in the animated montage of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I (2010, dir. David Yates).

Reintroducing FilmFisher

I am pleased to announce that the Christian classical film-review website FilmFisher was relaunched recently, now on Substack. Please consider subscribing!

Thanks to then-editor Timothy Lawrence, I wrote a number of reviews and articles for the site from 2018 to 2021, and a few of those pieces have been migrated over to the new site:

• An Ode to Po: Celebrating Goodness in the Kung Fu Panda Trilogy

• Avengers: Endgame

• Wonder Woman and the Bronze Serpent

But It's Ours

In my last post, I had said that “I am not opposed to patriotism, but I take issue with a patriotism that comes at the expense of other nations. (You can be thankful to be an American without saying it’s better than being a Canadian or German.) More to the point, I take issue with a patriotism that’s propped up by half-truths and selective evidence.” 

What kind of patriotism do I support, then? Can patriotism be sustained without making comparisons and without ignoring shameful parts of a nation’s past or present? Yes, I think so.

When I think about my ideal form of patriotism, my mind goes to a scene from the Hungarian film A Tanú (The Witness, 1969, directed by Péter Bacsó), a satirical look at life in Hungary under communism. In one part of the film, the protagonist József Pelikán is tasked to oversee a government initiative to grow oranges. Hungary’s climate is not conducive to cultivating citrus trees, yet the government wants to try it anyway to promote national pride.

Pelikán’s team of scientists succeeds in growing a single, not-very-orange-looking orange, and the government’s top brass attend a celebration where the first-ever Hungarian orange is to be presented. Just before he is to present the literal fruit of his labor, however, Pelikán discovers that his son has eaten it. To save himself from embarrassment, Pelikán presents a lemon to the top official instead. The official bites into the lemon and is horrified by its tartness: “What is this?” Pelikán replies, deadpan: “It’s an orange. … The new Hungarian orange. It’s a little yellower, a little more sour, but it’s ours.”     

I think a healthy love of country—or for that matter, a healthy love of one’s hometown or family, one’s church or denomination, one’s alma mater or favorite sports team—finds its justification in just those three little words: “but it’s ours.” That is to say, “It may not be this, it may not be that, but it’s the one we have, and so we will love it.” I don’t think a healthy love of country can ground itself in any other claim. The patriot loves his nation (or his family or denomination or team) above all others, not because it is better than anyone else’s, and certainly not because it has no serious flaws, but simply because in his mind it is preceded by that possessive pronoun, his. With that kind of love, the patriot can be happy for others who also love their own nations simply because they are theirs, with no compulsion to argue with them. With that kind of love, the patriot can be honest and critical about his nation’s history and leadership and people, without whitewashing or excusing or needing to say, “At least we’re not as bad as that other country!” 

For the Christian, a but-it’s-ours approach to patriotism is consistent with recognizing that God has placed each of us in a particular place and time (Acts 17:26) and put each of us there for a reason (Esther 4:14, Jeremiah 29:7). The Christian citizen should say, “God could have put me somewhere else, made me a citizen of a different nation; but I’m here, so I’ll seek to be a good steward of the citizenship I have.” For the Christian, a but-it’s-ours approach to patriotism can also be a reflection of God’s steadfast, gracious love for His own nation, the church (1 Peter 2:9-10). God loves the church, not for any merit of its own, but because it is His. 

Maybe You Shouldn’t Rely on the Audience’s First Impressions

When I began this Notebook blog two summer ago, my first post was titled “Maybe You Should Give That Film/Book/Album a Second Chance.” In it I argued that “so often, the first viewing/reading/listening is for finding out what the film/book/album is not. It isn’t until the second viewing/reading/listening that I can begin to appreciate what the film/book/album actually is.”

At the time of writing that post, the work that was at the top of my mind and prompting these reflections was Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning, which I had seen in the theater a few weeks prior. I went into that film with high expectations and came out feeling somewhat disappointed. At the same time, I strongly suspected I would need to give it another try. Having recently rewatched Dead Reckoning in preparation to see its follow-up, The Final Reckoning, I can confirm that Dead Reckoning was worth the second chance, and I look forward to giving it a third and a fourth. There is more going on in that film than I could appreciate on a first viewing.

I didn’t mention Dead Reckoning or any other film or book or album in that post, since the point there was to describe the hermeneutic principle and not to argue for the merits of any particular misunderstood or underrated work. But when my friend Timothy Lawrence wrote a similar post about unreliable first impressions to inaugurate his blog, he did cite Dead Reckoning as one of his examples. So, funnily enough, we both started blogs in the summer of 2023 while mulling over how Dead Reckoning challenged us to move beyond first impressions.

Now that The Final Reckoning is out and Tim and I have both seen it, the added irony is that reflecting on this new film has prompted both of us to consider the corollary of that principle I repeated at the top. If the audience shouldn’t rely too much on its first impressions of a work, then the corollary is that the makers of that work shouldn’t rely too much on the audience’s first impressions, either.

As I wrote in my Letterboxd review of The Final Reckoning, the film’s director “Christopher McQuarrie said they made substantial changes to this film after the underwhelming responses to Dead Reckoning … I wish they had stuck to their guns, because this finale did not provide the payoff I was hoping for after all the exciting possibilities set up by its predecessor.” Now, to be consistent with the first principle, I’ll acknowledge I’ve only seen The Final Reckoning once and may yet change my mind about it. As I said already in the Letterboxd post, “It may grow on me as Dead Reckoning has.” But right now my inclination is to say that, by being too sensitive to initial audience reactions to Dead Reckoning and by being too eager to please the audience with The Final Reckoning, McQuarrie failed to carry over into The Final Reckoning the elements that made Dead Reckoning a great film. I’d add that Tim, who has seen The Final Reckoning multiple times now (and therefore is not as tied to a first impression as I still am), is of the same mind. In a recent blog post, he writes that “The Final Reckoning’s determination to be ‘for the audience’ is its greatest weakness.” (I recommend reading the whole post, “Is Art for the Artist or the Audience?”) The Final Reckoning is to some degree a failure because McQuarrie thought that Dead Reckoning failed—and that because the initial audience said so or implied as much. If McQuarrie had made The Final Reckoning closer to the way he had envisioned it before audiences reacted negatively to Dead Reckoning, it may have garnered similar negative reactions, but it might have gained a stronger chance of standing the test—or should I say reckoning—of time.

You Love Him More Than I Do

There is a scene somewhere in the second half of Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life in which Fani Jägerstätter is praying for her husband, Franz, who is in prison and facing execution. Fani tells God, “You love him more than I do.” It is a moment of recognition that, if Franz should die for his faithfulness to God, it will not be because God abandoned him.

I don’t know if this line originated with Malick or if it came from his reading the real Franz and Fani’s letters. But in the past eleven months since I last watched the film, this statement, “You love him more than I do,” has been a comfort and help to me. 

The idea seems so obvious. If I am finite and God is infinite, He has an exponentially greater capacity for loving others than I do. Moreover, if am a sinner and God is holy, His love is pure and it is far wiser and more constant than mine. 

And yet, the idea that God loves my loved ones more than I do is hard to accept in practice. It is more intuitive to me, in my pride and from my limited frame of reference, to think that I know what would be the most loving thing to do for so-and-so—and for some reason God doesn’t see what I see and is failing to love so-and-so in that way. It also comes more naturally to me, when I don’t know what would be the most loving thing to do for so-and-so, to despair and think there is no remedy as he or she wanders in error or sinks deeper into suffering. I assume that if the situation is beyond me, it’s beyond God as well. I’ve also realized that I tend to think that if I don’t do something for so-and-so or pray to God and his or her behalf, so-and-so’s plight will escape God’s notice or fall further and further down His priority list. God is so busy managing the cosmos, after all, and if I don’t help him out with some of his minor administrative tasks, or if I don’t keep spamming his inbox with petitions, He may never get around to loving so-and-so in the way I think so-and-so needs to be loved. Indeed, I take for granted that if so-and-so’s sufferings increase, or if so-and-so departs from the faith or never receives the faith to begin with, I will be at fault because I did not love so-and-so enough to intervene in action and intercede in prayer at the most crucial moments. It sounds ridiculous to think this way once I say it loud, but this is how my mind works.      

“You love him more than I do” is an antidote to this way of thinking that, even though it purports to be about my love for others, is really more about propping up my skewed sense of my own importance.

First, it has made a difference in how I pray. Several times in the past eleven months, when my heart has ached over the situation of a loved one and how little I can do to help or don’t know where to start, God has graciously brought it to mind that He loves that person more than I do. If my heart, with its weak, imperfect love, aches for them, how much more is His heart, with its strong, perfect love, intensely moved for them—and not only moved, but moving to do something for them, even if I can’t see or understand it? If He is as all-powerful and all-wise as He is all-good, then can’t I trust Him to love them with that fierce, faithful, all-surpassing love of His in a way that will be truly best for them? When I remember this, it relieves me of the false burden of thinking I need to convince God to care about so-and-so or figure out for Him (presumptuous thought!) a strategic plan of response. Instead, when I don’t know what else to ask, I can pray, as Fani does in the film, “Lord, you love this person more than I do.” When I acknowledge that truth before God, I release the person into God’s care—or rather, acknowledge that the person was always in God’s care, not mine—and find myself more at peace.

Second, more recently I’ve realized that “You love him more than I do” is a counter to my over-scrupulosity and my paranoia about the possible effects of my actions or inaction, or what Faith Chang identifies as a Christian variation on perfectionism. In Chapter 7 of her helpful book Peace Over Perfection (The Good Book Company, 2024), Chang writes about how perfectionism can keep us from trusting God’s providence. Earlier I mentioned my fear that “I will be at fault because I did not love so-and-so enough to intervene in action and intercede in prayer at the most crucial moments.” Now, it is true that people bear responsibility for others, including their souls, but Chang reminds us that, “though Scripture affirms both human responsibility and God’s providence as equally real, they are not equal in influence. The Christian’s future is not ultimately determined by her own power to always know and do what is right but by the gracious providence of God” (p. 119). That’s good news! If it weren’t so, we would all be doomed—and doomed to doom others by our shortcomings and failures to love them well enough. Chang goes on to say that “it is the love of God for those I love which anchors me when I’m tossed around by regret and fear—his love and his power to accomplish his perfect will, in spite of my weaknesses” (p. 124). Thus, when I trust that God’s love for others is greater than mine, I can still take responsibility for loving them as well as I can, but I can do so without suffering under the debilitating presumption that my failure to love them could separate them from the love of God (Romans 8:38-39). 

When I was reading this chapter a few weeks ago, the phrase “the love of God for those I love” immediately reminded me of Fani’s prayer in A Hidden Life. In fact, at the end of the chapter Chang includes “A Prayer for When You Fear Missing the Way (and for All That’s Left Undone),” which includes this almost-identical statement: “You love these dear ones more than I do” (p. 130). I wonder if Chang has seen the film. Either way, she confirms the liberating power of acknowledging this simple yet profound truth.

A P.S. on Letterboxd

In my last post, I explained the rating system I use when reviewing movies on Letterboxd, which I referred to as “Facebook for Film Buffs.” On that note, it’s worth noting and expressing my appreciation for how unlike Letterboxd is from Facebook and other social media platforms.

What with the recurring temptations to compare my circumstances to that of others or get angry at someone’s half-baked or insensitively-worded opinion, I’ve found checking Facebook to be spiritually hazardous. But checking Letterboxd does not tend to upset my mood if I’m having a good day or worsen my mood if I’m not. Sure, every once in a while I will read a film review on Letterboxd that bothers me, but that’s much better than getting depressed or worked up almost every time I check Facebook. I also have more control over what appears in my feed on Letterboxd than I do on Facebook. It helps that, whereas Facebook has become overrun with advertisements and the algorithm favors the “friends” who post the most, Letterboxd doesn’t disable my ad-blocking browser extension and I only follow a few other users. It also helps that I don’t know personally most of the users I follow: if I should decide to unfollow one of them, it’s less emotionally taxing to do so than to “unfriend” someone. 

I am not on any other social media platforms, but I feel reasonably confident in guessing that Letterboxd doesn’t feed into self-aggrandizing performativity like Instagram does, into political polarization like Twitter/X does, or into the diminishment of attention-spans like TikTok does. Maybe some Letterboxd users are bent on amassing followers by any means necessary, and no doubt some vitriolic users and comment sections should be avoided. Maybe there are some users who restlessly flit from page to page for hours on end without reading any of the longer, more substantive pieces of amateur criticism. But I don’t think the platform’s very architecture incentivizes these behaviors, as is the case elsewhere. It doesn’t seem to have the same addictive properties and character-deforming tendencies.  

Maybe the reason Letterboxd works so well as a social media platform is that it is about only one, and one very specific, thing: movies. People join the site because they love to watch movies, to read and write about them, and to share and find recommendations. There is no other reason to create an account. On other platforms, a user is more likely to be tempted to use his account to promote himself or his pet causes. But Letterboxd doesn’t work as well for crafting a public persona or building a brand. It doesn’t turn the user’s attention back on himself, but to something outside himself. 

Of course, the temptation that C. S. Lewis describes in The Great Divorce, to love what you have to say about something rather than love the thing itself, may be ever-present for anyone who engages in film criticism, online or anywhere. And Letterboxd does have serious flaws. But  they aren’t the same flaws as the ones that have made the other major social media platforms so destructive for individuals and our social fabric.

How I Rate Films

Five years ago, in the beginning of 2020, I started using a rubric when rating films on Letterboxd. I had been using this “Facebook for Film Buffs” website for logging and reviewing films for a few years already, but I became dissatisfied by the lack of precision and consistency in my star ratings. For example, two films could each receive four stars from me but for different or even conflicting reasons. So I created a rubric that takes into account each of the driving factors I consider when evaluating a film. It was an experiment at first, but five years of using it has proven its usefulness and reliability. I haven’t made any changes since I instituted the rubric in February 2020, except that one year later I added “Excellent Films” alongside “Favorite Films” as an alternate designation for five-star films—because not all the films I consider excellent are my most favorite, and not all my favorite films are the most excellent.

The rating system has four categories: Content, Craft, Rewatchability, and Recommendability. The first two categories are more objective and have to do with artistic quality. The second two are more subjective and have to do with whether or not I think the film worth dwelling on or commending to others. This way I can recognize a film for being well-made while registering my strong disliking for it, and I can celebrate a film I love even while acknowledging its flaws.

The Rubric:

CONTENT
5 points: A masterclass in screenwriting/storytelling
4 points: Accomplished screenwriting/storytelling
3 points: Skilled screenwriting/storytelling
2 points: Competent screenwriting/storytelling
1 point: Incompetent screenwriting/storytelling

CRAFT
5 points: A masterclass in filmmaking
4 points: Accomplished filmmaking
3 points: Skilled filmmaking
2 points: Competent filmmaking
1 point: Incompetent filmmaking

REWATCHABILITY
5 points: Film friend
4 points: I want to watch it again
3 points: I am open to watching it again
2 points: I am unlikely to watch it again
1 point: I won’t watch it again
0 points: I regret watching it at all

RECOMMENDABILITY
5 points: Strongly recommended
4 points: Recommended
3 points: Recommended with reservations
2 points: Ambivalent
1 point: Not recommended
0 points: Do not watch!

The Rating Scale:

The points from each category are added up, divided by four, and rounded up to the nearest whole or half star rating. To each star rating, I’ve attached a representative adjective (or two, in the case of five-star films) that I think fairly describes virtually all the films to receive that rating.  

19–20 Points = 5 Stars = Favorite/Essential Films
17–18 Points = 4.5 Stars = Excellent Films
15–16 Points = 4 Stars = Great Films
13–14 Points = 3.5 Stars = Good Films
11–12 Points = 3 Stars = Decent Films
9–10 Points = 2.5 Stars = Passable Films
7–8 Points = 2 Stars = Mediocre Films
5–6 Points = 1.5 Stars = Failed Films
3–4 Points = 1 Star = Bad Films
2 Points = 0.5 Star = Terrible Films

The Rationale: 

When evaluating Content, I am thinking about the narrative: plot, pacing, character development, dialogue, theme, and the moral vision or lack thereof implied by all of these. I think the best films in this category, what I call “Masterclasses in Screenwriting/Storytelling” (which I keep a running list of here), would be great picks for studying how to create narratives for the screen, stage, or page.

When evaluating Craft, I am thinking about all the big and little things the cast and crew are doing to realize the narrative through visual and auditory means: casting and acting, production design, cinematography, editing, music, sound design, and special effects. I think the best films in this category, what I call “Masterclasses in Filmmaking” (which I keep a running list of here), would be great picks for studying what these various arts can accomplish when used to their fullest potential.

I keep the Content and Craft categories separate, because a great script could be given less-than-great execution, and the beauties of an excellently-produced film can often make up for deficiencies in the storytelling.

I don’t give 0s in the Content or Craft categories, because even incompetently written or incompetently produced films evidence some talent behind them. How else would the project have seen the light of day and come to my attention, let alone persuaded me to give it a try? Having made some films myself and knowing how many skillsets and resources and how much perseverance and tenacity it requires to finish one, I’ll give any film some credit just for existing.

When evaluating Rewatchability, I am thinking about how much time I would want to spend with the film in the future. Is this a film I want to revisit? Is it one I can see myself rewatching many times? Here I am not only considering how much I enjoy the film but the shaping influence it could have on me: would that influence more likely be for good or for ill? I think the best films in this category, what I call “Film Friends” (which I keep a running list of here), are the ones that have had the most positive influence on me so far and the ones I want to keep having the strongest influence on me. (I got the term “Film Friends” from reading an article by my friend Timothy Lawrence.)

When evaluating Recommendability, I am thinking about how readily and enthusiastically I would encourage someone else to watch it. With so many films that one could benefit from watching, so many films that one could be harmed by watching, and so many films that, if nothing else, could be a waste of one’s time, I think I have a responsibility to others to make careful distinctions between levels of recommendation and levels of non-recommendation. I think the best films in this category, designated as “Strongly Recommended” films (which I keep a running list of here), are the ones I could most heartily encourage almost anyone to watch, provided it is appropriate to the person’s age or tastes.

I keep the Rewatchability and Recommendability categories separate, because there are some films I love for particularly anecdotal reasons and therefore others may not find the same value in them, and there are some films that I think everyone who values great filmmaking should see but I don’t have as personal a connection to them. 

It’s possible for a film to be so awful I would give it 0s in the Rewatchability and Recommendability categories, but in the past five years the worst scores I’ve given have been a few 1s. This is either because I’m too forgiving and hate being harsh; or it’s because I can reliably predict which films I would most regret watching and would most emphatically urge others not to watch, and so I won’t watch them to confirm my suspicions; probably it’s both.

Fun Facts:

• From the beginning of 2020 to the end of 2024, I rated 357 films with this rubric. 

• The score I assigned the most in those five years was 16 points (which translates to four stars), given to 69 films. The next most common score was 14 points (which translates to three-and-a-half stars), given to 49 films. This tells me my scoring system is well calibrated. I think there would be a problem—either with my system or with my critical disposition—if most films scored either very high, very low, or around the median.

• To date, the lowest score I have given to any film using this rubric is four points to Spider-Man: No Way Home. In contrast I have given a perfect score of 20 points to 31 films—not a few, but not many. I call the films that score fives in all four categories “The Essentials” (and keep a running list of them here).

• At the time of writing this post, I have 56 films listed as “Masterclasses in Screenwriting/Storytelling,” 77 films listed as “Masterclasses in Filmmaking,” 52 films listed as “Film Friends,” and 68 films listed as “Strongly Recommended.” This indicates, rightly, that I am most picky about what films I embrace as friends and the most broad-minded in how I judge something to be a masterclass in filmmaking. It must be because I am a writer and a literature scholar that I am more picky about what scripts I call masterclasses than I am picky about which films I can strongly recommend. The record of the past five years shows that my first desire for a film is that it be good for me; my second is that it tell a good story exceedingly well; my third is that it be good for others; and my fourth desire for a film is that it be made with excellence all around.

Films and Shows I'm Thankful For in 2024

In 2020, I started a Thanksgiving tradition of creating a list of twelve films or shows I was most thankful to have discovered, rediscovered, reappraised, or otherwise gained a greater appreciation for in the past year. (Click here to see the previous lists.) Here are my picks for 2024. I’m thankful for …

The Bad Batch Season 3 (a discovery): Each Star Wars animated show produced by Dave Filoni (The Clone Wars, Rebels, and now The Bad Batch) starts off a bit rocky, improves and appreciates over time, and reaches peak perfection in its final season. I’m impressed by how well The Bad Batch Season 3 stuck the landing.

Barbie (a discovery): Sure, it has a bunch of narrative and thematic issues, but then again … I was entertained and intrigued enough to watch it twice; I laughed a lot; and “I’m Just Ken” and “What Was I Made For?” were stuck in my head for days or weeks on end. 

The Boy and the Heron (a discovery): It’s a gift when one of the greatest filmmakers of our time comes out of retirement for at least one more project. 

Dune: Part Two (a discovery): It’s Lawrence of Arabia meets Revenge of the Sith—which is to say, it’s my kind of space epic tragedy.

Godzilla Minus One (a discovery): I did not expect to be so moved by a monster movie.

Ikiru (a discovery): Finally, I can say I’ve seen a film by Akira Kurosawa. And it’s near-perfect and powerful.

Lawrence of Arabia: Not on this list because it was a discovery, a rediscovery, or a reappraisal or re-appreciation, but because one of the film-going highlights of my year was seeing this on the big screen, where it felt both grander in the first half and more devastating in the second. 

Quiz Show (a discovery): I watched this on a whim knowing nothing about it except it was directed by Robert Redford and was nominated for some Oscars. It turned out to be a forgotten gem.

Spider-Man 2: As with Lawrence of Arabia, this wasn’t a discovery, a rediscovery, or a reappraisal or re-appreciation. It was just an absolute delight and privilege to see this on the big screen again for the first time since it came out twenty years ago. While the credits rolled, I turned to my friends and asked, half joking, half serious, “Why do we bother making movies anymore? Why do we need any more?” It’s that good.

Star Wars: Episode III — Revenge of the Sith (a greater appreciation): I’ve seen this many times and it’s grown on me a lot the past decade. But I don’t think it ever clicked for me or moved me as much as it did when I watched it this year. 

Twisters (a discovery): A pleasantly old-school blockbuster, and refreshingly human.  

VeggieTales: Lord of the Beans (a rediscovery): This summer I watched some VeggieTales for the first time in years. This is still one of my favorites and maybe the best parody (of anything) I’ve ever seen.

Looking for Home Across the Stars, Redux

Last October, I wrote a long post and a short follow-up post on homes/homelessness in Star Wars. Now, over at The Jedi Archives, I have a new post about the significance of the Lars homestead in Episodes II, III, IV, and IX. 

There is a homecoming at the end of the Skywalker Saga, but although a specific location is involved the homecoming is spiritual rather than geographical.

Think with Your Chest?

Yesterday my YouTube feed recommended a newly released music video by a band I’d never heard of, Gable Price and Friends. The song is titled “Think With Your Chest.” If the song had been titled “Think With Your Heart” I wouldn’t have given it a second glance, dismissing it as another variation on the wrong-headed (ha!) “follow your heart” cliché. But the use of the word “chest” intrigued me. Being me, I naturally wondered: Could the song be a response to The Abolition of Man by C. S. Lewis and its critique of a modern education system producing “men without chests”?

Alas, I don’t think Gable Price and Friends have read The Abolition of Man. If they had, and had been convinced by it, their song wouldn’t have so simplistically opposed the Chest to the Head, as if only one can win and the other must lose. Lewis argues the Head and the Chest must work together. To be sure, he believes the Head should lead, but he also says the Head will be ineffective or go astray without the Chest. And I think the reason that the song is stuck in this zero-sum binary is that it doesn’t consider an idea that has been around for two millennia: the tripartite soul.

In Lewis’s understanding of the human person, which he gets from Plato, there are not two but three parties jostling for control: the Head, the Chest, and the Belly. According to Plato, it’s this third, appetitive part of the soul that craves pleasure, and especially money to secure its pleasures. It’s to regulate the desires of the Belly that the Head and the Chest must work together.

In the song, the Head is associated with “surviving,” “the calculated outcome,” “the status quo,” and “thinking with me income.” Lewis and Plato would say that’s the Belly talking, not the Head. People who think with the Head are seeking to discern and live according to transcendent ideals. Contrary to what the song says, people who are living to make enough money to just get by and maintain their comforts might be using their brains—it takes some strategy to climb the corporate ladder or develop a strong portfolio—but ultimately they’re using their brains to serve their stomachs. The struggle described in the song is not really between the people who think with the Chest and those who think with the Head, but between the people who think with the Chest and Head and those who think with the Belly—and think with the Belly because they haven’t strengthened and harmonized the other two parts of the soul which should be in control.

The song is right that repressing the Chest in the name of a cold rationality is making people “depressed.” But ignoring the Head to follow the Chest is no solution. The song anticipates the objection that “the heart can be misleading,” and even validates that concern: “I can admit [my heart has] made some mistakes.” While I agree “I’d rather live with [the heart] than die so comfortably”—I’m reminded of what Lewis says elsewhere, in The Four Loves, about the necessary risks of loving others—how can a person think with the heart without falling into grave error? The song doesn’t offer a way out of that conundrum. 

Yes, we shouldn’t live for comfort, or as if we were computers or disembodied and soulless brains. But instead of living by the whims of unregulated emotions, which is just another way of thinking with the Belly, we need what Lewis calls the “trained emotions” and “stable sentiments” of the Chest. And training and stabilizing our feelings so that they accord with reality is only possible through exercising reason to discern reality.

P.S.: It’s ironic that, in the first few seconds of the music video, you can see a bust of young Anakin Skywalker, in his podracing helmet, sitting on the dashboard of a car. As Timothy Lawrence has convinced me, Star Wars is all about resolving the tension between reason and emotion by rightly ordering the tripartite soul.

Readers Are Unpredictable

To continue my train of thought from the previous two posts—on what the humanities can do, and why we need not worry so much about whether such a claim instrumentalizes them—I want to add the following qualification: it is impossible to say with any confidence, “This is what studying the humanities (or reading good literature or attentively watching good films and the like) will do for you.” There is much that engaging with philosophy, literature, and the arts could do for us, but so much will depend on our disposition: how we approach these things and what we seek to gain from them. So much depends on our hermeneutical framework and whether we have (or at least seek to cultivate) the virtues needed for the kind of reading that has a chance of changing us for the better. 

Regarding our hermeneutic: Are we seeking to learn or be challenged by the text, or only to have our biases confirmed? Are we seeking to understand what the author is intending, or are we projecting our own thoughts and feelings onto the text? 

And regarding the requisite virtues: Are we practicing patient attentiveness? Are we both discerning and charitable? Do we have the humility to be receptive to new or challenging ideas?

Of course, the worth and excellence of the text studied also matters. Some books or films will be much better suited to aiding our moral formation than others; indeed some can only be corrosive. But Karen Swallow Prior is right to say in the introduction to her book On Reading Well that, if reading is to help us become more virtuous, we must practice certain virtues as we read. It will not do to say that if only so-and-so would just read Republic or Pride and Prejudice, it will reshape their vision of the good life. Reading is not a “just add water” solution.

Unfortunately, there are very good readers out there who are terrible people. I think of the scene in the Coen Brothers’ remake of The Ladykillers (2004), in which the lead criminal played by Tom Hanks waxes poetic about the power of literature: “I often find myself more at home in these ancient volumes than I do in the hustle-bustle of the modern world. To me, paradoxically, the literature of the so-called ‘dead tongues’ holds more currency than this morning's newspaper. In these books, in these volumes, there is the accumulated wisdom of mankind, which succors me when the day is hard and the night lonely and long.” He is seen enjoying his reading, but clearly it hasn’t softened his conscience. On the other hand, it’s possible for good people to be poor readers, prone to take passages out of context or just not have the desire to sit down and read at all.

But if anything should give us pause about making grand promises about what the humanities will do for the renovation of a soul or the renewal of a culture, let’s consider the greatest and truest story ever told, which does indeed have the power to change a heart: the gospel. “The Parable of the Sower” in the gospels shows that even the gospel will fall on deaf ears, be rejected, or even just forgotten and abandoned in the course of the cares of life. The Spirit must be at work to make the heart receptive, otherwise mere hearing does nothing.

Lacking God’s omniscience, for us the response of a hearer or a reader is unpredictable. A person could read the Bible and be drawn to faith and repentance, or twist its words to justify selfish ambition or abuse, or think it’s boring, or say, “How inspiring and life-affirming!” and miss the point. And if that can be true of a person’s encounter God’s holy, life-giving Word, how much more uncertain it is whether even the best works of fallible humans in the fields of literature, art, and philosophy will make a positive difference! A person might not have the knowledge of how to read well, or may simply choose not to.

That’s a downer note to end on, I know, but it’s worth sitting with and pondering, and this post is long enough already. 

The Jedi Archives: The First Eight Posts

I’m having a lot of fun contributing to Tim Lawrence’s Jedi Archives project. Here are links to my first eight posts:

Pieces of Junk: Escapes from desert planets in the first film of each trilogy.

So Uncivilized!: Escapes from desert planets in the third film of each trilogy.

Dangerous Idealists: Similarities and differences between Obi-Wan, Mace Windu, and Count Dooku.

Doing Her Duty: Parallels between Episodes II and VIII.

Bombs Away!: The significance of the Resistance bombers in Episode VIII.

Jabba the Hutt: An Oligarchic Soul: Jabba the Hutt matches Plato’s profile of the oligarch.

The Empire Strikes Back Against a New Hope: Episodes IV and V form a chiasm.

The Force Awakens from the Revenge of the Sith: Episodes III and VII also form a chiasm.

Some More Dangerous Idealists

In my most recent post for the Jedi Archives, “Dangerous Idealists,” I wrote about how Obi-Wan, Mace Windu, and Count Dooku fall along a spectrum that illustrates how idealism can put someone on a dangerous path toward sacrificing people and principles for the supposed greater good. Two classic works of American literature that I read in the past few months also dramatize this temptation and its consequences.

In Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Blithedale Romance (1852), the narrator Miles Coverdale joins a nascent utopian community that is doomed from the start—but not, as the reader would expect, because of flaws in its own ideals or the failure of its members to live up to those ideals, though those are issues at Blithedale, too. Instead, the community is ruined chiefly because a prominent member is a more inflexible idealist than everyone else at Blithedale and his ideals are opposed to theirs. Mr. Hollingsworth is a philanthropist who came to Blithedale, it turns out, not because he believes in its vision but because he wants to seize its land for his own social-reform project. He is so convinced of the righteousness of his own cause, he either does not see or does not care about the unrighteousness of lying about his intentions and betraying other idealists. As more than one character realizes, Mr. Hollingsworth will abandon a friendship as soon as he realizes the friend cannot be made into a cog in the machine he would build. But the worst consequence of his zeal is not the communal and relational costs, but the cost to his own soul. As Coverdale summarizes at the end of the novel:

“The moral which presents itself to my reflections, as drawn from Hollingsworth’s character and errors, is simply this:—that, admitting what is called Philanthropy, when adopted as a profession, to be often useful by its energetic impulse to society at large, it is perilous to the individual, whose ruling passion, in one exclusive channel, it thus becomes. It ruins, or is fearfully apt to ruin, the heart … I see in Hollingsworth an exemplification of the most awful truth in Bunyan’s book of such;—from the very gate of Heaven, there is a by-way to the pit!” (p. 243 in the 1983 Penguin edition). 

As the adage goes, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. In fact, Hawthorne’s novel warns that the greater the intentions, the greater the peril, since “the higher and purer the original object, and the more unselfishly it may have been taken up, the slighter is the probability that they can be led to recognize the process by which godlike benevolence has been debased into all-devouring egotism” (71). The word “egotism” is key. It isn’t actually true that Hollingsworth lives for his ideals, though he may have started that way. He lives for himself. To apply C. S. Lewis’s tripartite terminology in The Abolition of Man, when the idealist Head suppresses or cuts out the relational and principled Heart, the Head won’t be able to subdue the self-seeking Belly on its own.

The language of Head and Heart is a good segue to the other novel I have in mind, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952). (I only just now realized this novel was published exactly a century after Hawthorne’s. Uncanny!) In fact, Ellison uses the terms “head” and “heart” frequently enough that I wonder if he had read The Abolition of Man, which came out a few years prior.* At one point, the unnamed narrator who calls himself “an invisible man” gives an impassioned impromptu speech about an elderly couple being evicted from their apartment. He says of the woman that “She’s let her religion go to her head, but we all know that religion is for the heart, not for the head” (p. 278 in the 1995 Vintage International edition). His speech draws the attention of a Socialist-type organization called the Brotherhood, who want to use his oratory to build inroads into the Black community in Harlem—although some in the Brotherhood are worried his speeches are too emotional, even anti-intellectual. One of the brothers says his debut rally speech “was the antithesis of the scientific approach. Ours is a reasonable point of view. … The audience isn’t thinking, it’s yelling its head off” (350, italics added).

For the rest of his time with them, the Invisible Man will be at odds with the organization because he is not willing to sacrifice the claims of the Heart for the agenda of the Head. The leader who recruited him, Brother Jack, believes that “There’s hope that our wild but effective speaker may be tamed”—hope that the Head can subdue the Heart—so “For the next few months our new brother is to undergo a period of intense study and indoctrination under the guidance of Brother Hambro” (351). Later, Brother Jack is even more explicit: “you were not hired to think. … you were hired to talk” (469-470). But the indoctrination fails. The Invisible Man cannot stop thinking in ways that run counter to a rigid ideology that has no real sympathy for his own people. Ultimately he realizes the Brotherhood does not care about him or the Black community at all except as pawns in a much larger game. Brother Hambro tells him at their last meeting that “there’s nothing to be done about [the violence in Harlem following the death of a Brotherhood member] that wouldn’t upset the larger plan. It’s unfortunate, Brother, but your members will have to be sacrificed” (501). Brother Hambro goes on to say, “We follow the laws of reality, so we make sacrifices” (502). To the Brotherhood, only the Head—or more specifically, the heads of the Brotherhood committee—has access to “the laws of reality” and the wisdom to know how to obey them. The Heart is expendable, as it was for Mr. Hollingsworth, and once again the result is not enlightenment and progress but manipulation and betrayal.

[*Here are two suspiciously Abolition of Man-like statements spoken by people in the Brotherhood: [1]  “You have to be pure in heart and you have to be disciplined in body and mind” (394). [2] “At the proper moment science will stop us. And of course we as individuals must sympathetically debunk ourselves” (505).]

Admirers and Followers

Here’s a rule of thumb: whenever an artist, storyteller, or some other creative type shows up in a narrative and talks about his or her craft, pay attention if you want insight into the writer’s own beliefs about why we tell stories—and the responsibilities, possibilities, and potential pitfalls this entails.

For example, re-watching Terrence Malick’s film A Hidden Life (2019) the other day, I was struck again by the scene in which Franz Jägerstätter observes the painter, Ohlendorf, adding or touching up images in the chapel of the village. If Malick ever made an autobiographical statement about his vocation in a film, it would be here.

Ohlendorf acknowledges there is a danger that stories can leave people unmoved while giving them the false assurance that they have been moved. He says, “I paint the tombs of the prophets. I help people look up from those pews and dream. They look up and they imagine if they lived back in Christ’s time they wouldn't have done what the others did. They wouldn't have murdered those whom we now adore.” That is, the biblical stories he paints on the walls could confirm people in their complacency rather than shaking them out of it. 

But the work he does also poses a danger for the painter himself. “I paint all this suffering,” he says, “but, I don't suffer myself. I make a living of it.” While he “paint[s] their comfortable Christ, with a halo over his head,” he can profit off the pleasant, uncomplicated feelings it creates in the viewers. Ohlendorf, like any other storyteller, could be praised for being a truth-teller while never saying anything that upsets the lies people love to tell themselves. And, if he wasn’t honest with himself, he’d be in danger of deceiving himself that he has experienced “what I haven't lived.” This is why he hasn’t “venture[d]” to “paint the true Christ.” He doesn’t want to fool anyone, especially not himself, that because he has created a portrayal of Christ he knows something about following the true Christ. He worries about letting himself off the hook, just like he is worried his paintings let viewers off the hook. Making or receiving art about Christ cannot fulfill or exempt from the “demand” that “Christ’s life” makes upon everyone.

Through Ohlendorf, then, Malick is challenging us, and challenging himself. We could be inspired by Franz and Fani’s sacrifices to resist Hitler for the sake of Christ, and go right on paying to Caesar what isn’t Caesar’s to maintain our comfortable lives. Malick and his collaborators could be tempted to think that, because they have poured so much care and thought into telling us Franz and Fani’s story, they have been changed by it as a matter of course.

But while Ohlendorf’s words caution that stories—even good, true, noble ones!—can be used to insulate us from the call to practice hard virtues, his words also suggest they can nudge us toward answering that call. Notice I used the word ‘nudge,’ not ‘push.’ It’s very easy for storytellers and the popularizers of stories (critics, teachers) to overstate their importance, to believe things like, “If only we could put the right stories before audiences, the culture would change!” For one thing, the Parable of the Sower tells us that even the truest and best story of all, the gospel, often falls on unreceptive ground. How much slimmer are the odds that any man-made story could change a heart!

Appropriately skeptical, then, Ohlendorf’s view of the storyteller’s role is modest, restricted. He says, “What we do, is just create—sympathy. We create—we create admirers. We don't create followers.” Some might hear those lines as a dismissal of storytelling, or art generally; if it can’t create followers, if all it can do is create sympathetic admirers, it can’t be worth much. But before someone can become a follower, he must first become an admirer of the person to be followed. And how does one become an admirer? Through sympathy. And sympathy is what narratives are so very good at creating. Stories are empathy-workouts. They draw us into caring deeply about characters, sometimes like us and sometimes very unlike us.  

It’s significant, surely, that it’s after this meeting with the painter that Franz makes his final resolution to turn himself in for refusing to make an oath to Hitler. I’d suggest the painter’s images and words prompted him to consider, in a new or sharper light, the true Christ. The painter stirred Franz’s sympathy for the sufferings of Christ—and perhaps spurred a recognition that Christ will reciprocally sympathize with him in his sufferings for His sake—and this sparked a greater admiration for Christ, and that compelled Franz to follow Christ, even unto death. The painter didn’t make Franz a follower of the true Christ, but he did help make him a greater admirer. And that counts for something.

As a former filmmaker, an amateur film critic, and a scholar (and soon-to-be teacher) of literature, all my life I’ve been asking why stories matter. Does it make a difference what kinds of stories we tell or receive? What can our stories do in the world? The answer Malick gives to these questions, in this scene, is that stories shape our affections. That’s what sympathy and admiration are: expressions of what we love. Once an affection becomes strong enough, through repeated exposure to a story or a set of similar stories, actions will follow. This is why it matters which stories we tell ourselves. For a negative example, look no further than the mayor of Franz’s village, who spews hatred because he has been shaped by the mythology of Hitler. 

Watching A Hidden Life will not, in and of itself, inspire someone to follow the Jägerstätters’ example. But if the film, in concert with other stories about sacrifice, can establish sympathy and then compel admiration, maybe some day they will have followers.

They Also Serve Who Only Stand and Wait

Timothy Lawrence and I have wondered whether George Lucas had ever read C. S. Lewis’s The Abolition of Man and whether it influenced Star Wars. But now I’m also wondering whether he ever read Lewis’s That Hideous Strength and whether it influenced his contributions to Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark. 

Initially this thought occurred to me because both the novel and the film have a group of villains, who, to help them take over the world, try to harness a higher power, even though this is at odds with their ideology. The anti-Christian N.I.C.E. wants to use Merlin for his magic, but magic is antithetical to their stated scientism, and Merlin, it turns out, is a Christian. The anti-Jewish Nazis want to use the Ark of the Covenant, which necessitates that they perform a “Jewish ritual.” In the violent finales of both the novel and the film, the cynical, impious villains are destroyed by the very power they sought.

But that last point of overlap led me to consider what may be a more important thematic connection between That Hideous Strength and Raiders. The fact is that neither Dr. Ransom and Co. nor Dr. Jones and Co. have to do almost anything to foil the N.I.C.E. or the Nazis. Dr. Ransom sends people to find Merlin before the N.I.C.E. do, but Merlin finds him. All Ransom does is instruct Merlin what to do and present him to the eldils so they give Merlin the power to destroy the N.I.C.E. And, as some plot-hole sleuths are quick to point out as if it were a weakness of the film, the outcome of Raiders would have been the same no matter what Indy did or didn’t do. He could have stayed home.

But to think that Raiders was supposed to be about Indy defeating the Nazis and instead he turns out to be useless is to entirely miss the point. The great revelation at the end is that the God of Israel does not need any man’s help to defeat His enemies. The point is that Indy moves from, as Tim puts it, “fram[ing] his search for the Ark in purely material, rational terms” to “at least [having] enough holy fear” to know to close his eyes when the Ark is opened. What if Indy is there, not to save the day, but to learn firsthand that our God is in the heavens and He does all that He pleases (Ps. 115:3)?

Ransom’s skeptic friend MacPhee would share Indy’s disdain for “superstitious hocus pocus,” and he’s also the kind of person who would make the above complaint about Raiders of the Lost Ark. In That Hideous Strength, he doesn’t understand why Ransom’s strategy for countering the N.I.C.E. is so passive, so deferential to the eldils (whom MacPhee does not believe in), and so much like just living ordinary lives. He says at one point, “It may have occurred to you to wonder, Mrs. Studdock, how any man in his senses thinks we’re going to defeat a powerful conspiracy by sitting here growing winter vegetables and training performing bears. [OK, that last part isn’t so ordinary.] It is a question I have propounded on more than one occasion. The answer is always the same; we’re waiting for orders” (p. 189 in the Scribner 2003 edition).

Then, after Merlin has overthrown the N.I.C.E., MacPhee seems to wonder whether he, too, could have stayed home. He says, “I’d be greatly obliged if any one would tell me what we have done—always apart from feeding the pigs and raising some very decent vegetables.” To which Ransom replies, “You have done what was required of you … You have obeyed and waited” (368). Ransom’s response reminds me of the last line of Milton’s sonnet “On His Blindness”: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Waiting on God and being ready to act at a moment’s notice is itself a form of action.

Besides, what MacPhee doesn’t see is that the communal life being cultivated at Ransom’s Manor at St. Anne’s is a valuable form of resistance to the cruel, manipulative culture of the N.I.C.E. HQ at Belbury. At Belbury, animals and people are tortured; at St. Anne’s, they are rehabilitated. At Belbury, people are used and turned on each other; at St. Anne’s, they are cared for and submit to one another in love and respect. I like Jake Meador’s recent observation at Mere Orthodoxy that the community at St. Anne’s is practicing something like the Benedict Option, which is say that Lewis puts the emphasis on spiritual formation within Christian community instead of on political action. 

It may seem like Indiana Jones is superfluous in his own story, or like the only characters that matter on the side of the good guys are Ransom and Merlin. Likewise, we may question what good it does to follow Paul’s command to lead quiet lives (1 Thess. 4:13) in a world of so much noise, when maybe we could try pulling the levers of political power to bring it down a few decibels. I say all this not to endorse quietism, but to ask whether we trust that God has the power to vindicate His justice in His own time and in His own way, and whether we are striving to first be faithful in the little things He entrusts to us, things as simple as growing winter vegetables.

John, James, and Joe: Film Composer Retrospectives

Three albums I’ve been listening to regularly lately are each career-spanning retrospectives from major composers of film scores: 

• John Williams and Anne-Sophie Mutter’s Across the Stars (Deutsche Grammophon, 2019)

• James Newton Howard’s Night After Night: Music from the Movies of M. Night Shyamalan (Sony Classical, 2023)

• Joe Hisaishi’s A Symphonic Celebration: Music from the Studio Ghibli Films of Hayao Mizazaki (Deutsche Grammophon, 2023)

What I love about all three albums is that they aren’t “greatest hits” compilations that only pull together old recordings from across the artist’s discography. These are all brand-new recordings, and each composer has created new arrangements of his signature works for the occasion. 

For the Williams project, the organizing principle is that each composition has been selected and adapted to foreground violin soloist Mutter. Across the Stars is primarily a collaboration between a composer and a performer. But for the other two albums, the organizing principle is that each composition emerged from the composer’s collaborations with one director. So the Newton Howard retrospective is also a Shyamalan retrospective; the Hisaishi retrospective is also a Miyazaki retrospective. As much as I enjoy the Williams and Mutter album, this gives Night After Night and A Symphonic Celebration a richer subtext: these albums are celebrations of life-long creative partnerships, even friendships. 

This friendship element is particularly striking considering Night After Night. Miyazaki has an extraordinarily consistent track record for making good-to-great films, and it would be unsurprising if this inspired a complementary consistency of excellence from Hisaishi. But Shyamalan’s films fluctuate wildly in quality, and yet Newton Howard seems to have always done his best by them as if they were all destined to be classics. Night After Night doesn’t discriminate between music made for a masterpiece like Unbreakable and music made for a career blunder like The Last Airbender. Including one as well as the other on this album shows that Newton Howard valued then and values now all of his collaborations with Shyamalan. When two people enjoy working together and bring out the best in each other’s work, the critical or financial outcome of the project is irrelevant.

Plato's Republic and Nolan's Gotham, Part IV

For the past few weeks I’ve been writing posts on ways that I see Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy interacting with Plato’s Republic. I’m sure that next time I watch the films I will see even more connections, but for now I’m ready to move on to other topics. To cap off this series, here are three closing thoughts—or rather, as it turned out, three more posts combined together. 

First, although earlier I had written about Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, oddly enough I didn’t think much at all about the literal caves Bruce falls into, first in Batman Begins (the cave that becomes the Bat-Cave) and then in The Dark Knight Rises (the prison pit into which he is cast by Bane). Yet these also fit the allegory. 

The scene where young Bruce falls into the well on his family’s estate, and his father descends by a rope to pull him out, supports my suggestion that Thomas Wayne is the closest thing Gotham City has to a philosopher-king. In pulling his son out of the well, he resembles how the prisoner-turned-philosopher returns to the cave to free others of their ignorance. After all, he tells Bruce in that moment, “Don’t be afraid,” and fear is the result of ignorance. To quote Ducard again, “Men fear most what they cannot see.” 

Speaking of Ducard, this scene of Thomas and Bruce in the cave underlines the fundamental differences between Thomas and Ducard, his foil. Ducard, with his corrupted understanding of justice, cannot really lead anyone out of the cave, and while Thomas dispels fear, Ducard instead preys upon it. When Bruce is in the prison pit in The Dark Knight Rises, he learns that Ducard once descended into that cave to exact vengeance on those who killed his wife. Just as when he attacked Gotham in Batman Begins, he did not descend into the cave to liberate captives but to slaughter them. If Thomas represents the aristocratic soul, Ducard represents the tyrannical one.

As Timothy Lawrence and I discussed in a FilmFisher dialogue some years ago, the tension between Bruce and his alter-ego Batman corresponds to how Bruce is caught between these two mentors. The choice he faces is whether to become more like his father or more like Ducard. I see now that this conflict can be rephrased in Platonic terms: Will Bruce, having a timocratic soul driven by a love of honor, evolve into a wisdom-lover or devolve into someone who is ruled by his appetites? 

I think Bruce does become more like his father, and more like a philosopher, in the end. In Rises, he defies his fear in order to climb out of the prison pit; he liberates Gotham from the League of Shadows (again, “Shadows” suggests the shadows of the Plato’s cave); and finally, he passes the mantle of Gotham’s protector to Blake. Significantly, as I pointed out in that FilmFisher dialogue, well before I ever read Plato, “The first scene of the first film has Bruce falling into the cave, and the last shot of the last film has Blake rising on a platform in the cave.” If Thomas descended into the cave to lift out Bruce, Bruce descends into the cave to lift out Blake. Republic envisions a process by which the philosopher-kings would raise up and train their successors, and that succession is reflected in the beginning and end of the trilogy.

Second, for all the similarities between the films and Plato’s Republic, Nolan seems to refute the idea of using myths and useful falsehoods to govern the kallipolis. 

As Plato’s Socrates lays out a theoretical blueprint for the ideal republic, on two occasions Socrates devises a myth that would be used to convince the next generation to abide by the republic’s laws and prefer justice to injustice: The Myth of the Metals in Book III, and the Myth of Er in Book X. The Dark Knight ends and The Dark Knight Rises opens with a myth or useful falsehood invented by Batman. He convinces Jim Gordon to lie about the fate of Harvey Dent, in order to keep the city from being demoralized by Dent’s corruption. The lie does motivate the city to stamp out organized crime, but once the truth is revealed, the results are reversed, and the city is plunged into a worse chaos than before.

In contrast, The Dark Knight Rises concludes with Gotham receiving a true myth to inspire the citizens to justice. The city watches Batman fly the bomb away from the city. Although the audience knows that Bruce somehow escaped the detonation, this doesn’t drain the action of its meaning or nobility. He really did save the city. Blake thinks it unfair that people don’t know it was Bruce Wayne who saved them, but Gordon is right: “They know who it was; it was the Batman.” Earlier in the film, in two different scenes, Bruce/Batman had told Blake and then Gordon that the point of Batman’s secret identity is that “A hero can be anyone.” That is why a statue of Batman—a symbol of justice that can be embodied by anyone—is dedicated at the end of the film, not a statue of Bruce Wayne. This statue represents a better, truer Myth of the Metals or Myth of Er.

Third, I return to the way Plato treats the state of the just/unjust city as analogous to the state of the just/unjust soul. If Bruce becomes more just in the end, does Gotham? 

As I’ve already touched on above, Bruce can be said to become more just because of how he grows to resemble his father, and as I said in the first post, because of how he persists in pursuing justice even when no one rewards him for it. Indeed, when Bruce fakes his own death, for all Gotham City knows, he died a very unjust man. In the Republic, justice is a combination of moderation, courage, and wisdom, but any citizen would be forgiven for thinking Bruce was immoderate (“Look how he wasted his inheritance on pleasures!”) and cowardly (“Look how he ran for cover when the Joker attacked his home!”) and foolish (“Look how poorly he managed his company!”). In reality, the case could be made that Bruce is (or becomes) moderate, courageous, and wise. Moderate, he is never corrupted by the profligate playboy persona he plays before the public. Courageous, he overcomes his fears and holds to his conviction against killing even when he is sorely tempted to abandon it. Wise, he continues to seek after true justice and will not settle for the false alternatives propounded by Ducard (like Polemarchus, that justice involves doing harm to enemies), Falcone (like Thrasymachus, that justice is whatever benefits the strong), the Joker (embracing the view that Glaucon summarizes, that being just isn’t worth the effort), or Dent (that only chance is just).

But what about the city? In the previous post, I closed with the troubling suggestion that, because of its slide from aristocracy to tyranny over the course of three films, “Gotham City would seem to worse off at the end of the trilogy than at the beginning.” And so I find myself in arriving at the same answer as I did at the end of the dialogue I wrote with Tim: it doesn’t seem like Gotham is capable of becoming a just city. Bruce would seem to have failed to make it more just. Maybe Alfred is right and Bruce went about it all wrong, misdirecting his energies to be a guardian of the city as Batman and not doing enough to be a philosopher-king like his father.

However, this may be the result of asking the wrong question, the result of assessing Bruce by the wrong objective. In his own words, Bruce’s objective was never to make the city more just but to give it a vision of justice. He tells Alfred in Batman Begins, before returning to Gotham, that “People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy and I can't do that as Bruce Wayne. As a man, I'm flesh and blood, I can be ignored, I can be destroyed; but as a symbol—as a symbol I can be incorruptible, I can be everlasting.” And if that was the goal, he would seem to have succeeded in the end. Gotham does not become a just city, but with the example and symbol of Batman as its inspiration, it could become one yet.

Plato's Republic and Nolan's Gotham, Part III

[I have a theory that Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight Trilogy is influenced to some degree by Plato’s Republic. At the least, the two texts would make for good conversation partners. Plato draws correspondences between the just or unjust city and the just or unjust soul, and the films are as much about the struggle for justice in Gotham City as they are about Bruce Wayne’s struggle to become a just man. In this series of posts, I point out some potential links between the book and the films that occurred to me while re-reading Republic recently.]

Third, is Gotham City’s descent from order to chaos over the course of the three films a reflection of Socrates’ theory of how the ideal kallipolis can devolve into a tyranny? 

In Republic Book VIII, Socrates says there are five kinds of cities. His ideal, healthy city is the kallipolis ruled by an aristocracy of one or more wisdom-loving philosopher-kings. The other four are each “diseased cities,” diseased because they are ruled by leaders who love or live for something other than wisdom (p. 214 in the 1992 Grube & Reeves translation). They are the timocracy, in which the leaders love honor most of all; the oligarchy, in which the leaders love money and how it satisfies their necessary appetites; the democracy, in which the people use their liberty to follow their unnecessary appetites; and the tyranny, in which the city is terrorized by someone who is himself tyrannized by his own lawless appetites. Plato puts the five cities in this order because, as his Socrates sees it, the kallipolis—kind of like the nuclear bomb in The Dark Knight Rises—“must decay” sooner or later (216). The kallipolis will fall, not to external enemies, but to “civil war breaking out within the ruling group itself” (215). It will corrode from within. First, it will regress to a timocracy, which will then turn into an oligarchy, and so on.

I think that Gotham City reflects all five types of cities at different points in The Dark Knight Trilogy, and in this same order.

First, in the flashbacks of Batman Begins, Gotham is like the wisdom-loving aristocracy—or at least, it’s trying to be. Although he isn’t the mayor, the aristocratic Thomas Wayne is the spiritual leader of the city. He uses his billions to better the city and—like the philosopher-king compelled to go back down into the cave—he doesn’t sit idly by enjoying his privileges in his mansion on a hilltop outside the city, but works as a doctor in the city. That’s appropriate given how Plato portrays cities as either sick or healthy, and good rulers as good physicians. Thomas Wayne is seeking to find a way to cure Gotham’s citizens, both physically as individuals and economically as a whole, and he seems to be having some success—until he is killed by one of the very people he is trying to help. Then, just as the aristocrat’s son can become a timocrat if he sees how the love of wisdom seemed to fail his father, Bruce grows up to be someone more likely to jump into a fight to defend his honor than engage in philosophical inquiry. He drops out of college and tries to avenge his father.

Following Thomas Wayne’s death, the Gotham City of Batman Begins is a timocracy in that it is caught in a constant tug-of-war between two groups of people who are governed by codes of honor: the police and the Falcone crime family. On the one side, Commissioner Loeb hates Batman because, as a vigilante, he makes him look bad—that is, causes him to lose honor. Batman succeeding where the police have failed shows them to be too corrupt or inept to be the guardians of the city. On the other side, Falcone says to Bruce, “Yeah, you got spirit, kid. I'll give you that. More than your old man, anyway.” It is the people who are led by the spirited element of the tripartite soul who are most concerned with honor. 

Then, in The Dark Knight, Gotham City is more like an oligarchy. In the iconic bank heist opening, the banker allied with the mob tells the robbers that “criminals in this town used to believe in things. Honor. Respect.” Instead, as the Joker puts it to a mobster later in the film, “All you care about is money.” Indeed, much of the film is about money. Batman, Jim Gordon, and Harvey Dent are trying to cut off the mob’s sources of funding and put its leaders in prison on charges of racketeering. The mob hires the Joker to help them get their money back. A police officer’s debts drive her to betray Dent and Rachel.

The oligarchy continues into The Dark Knight Rises, although under a different guise. The money-laundering mob has been defeated, but now the great conflict in Gotham is between the haves and have-nots, which finally boils over into an open war. Bane deposes the oligarchy French Revolution-style—recall that the ending of the film quotes from A Tale of Two Cities—and he tells the downtrodden masses, “we give it back to you, the people. Gotham is yours. None shall interfere. Do as you please.” This sounds a lot like what Socrates says of citizens in the democracy: “each of them will arrange his own life in whatever manner pleases him” (227).

But, as Batman and his allies know, Bane’s Gotham isn’t really free. It is under the sway of whoever is holding the trigger to the nuclear bomb that is carted around the city. That person turns out to be the daughter of Henri Ducard, Batman’s nemesis in the first film, and all her actions are controlled by the all-consuming desire to finish his mission of destroying the city. Gotham is under her tyranny, and she herself is a slave to her own wrath and warped understanding of “true justice.” 

If this reading is correct, Gotham City would seem to worse off at the end of the trilogy than at the beginning. Ominously, Plato only portrays how a kallipolis can be lost, not how it can be gained, as if there were no way back from the brink of tyranny’s destruction. I’m going to think on that problem a bit more and return later with a fourth and final post in this series.