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The
carefully crafted controversy surrounding actor Mel Gibson's much hyped
directorial debut "The Passion of the Christ" over its alleged anti-Semitic
message (Jews killed Christ, now they want to kill my movie) will likely
succeed in tempting millions of Americans to sit through a film with
subtitles for the first time in their lives. How they'll manage to
move their lips in the dark with Mars Bars and corn dogs stuffed in their
mouths is anyone's guess, which is probably why it's never been tried
before.
America's Christian majority have cause to rejoice over Hollywood's
temporary transformation into "Holywood". Families can now safely venture
into cineplexes without worrying about what Pee-Wee Herman may have left on
the seat. So much for "secular excitement." Some might argue that a man
being impaled, flayed alive and left to bake in the desert could hardly be
categorized as wholesomely edifying entertainment, unless of course you're
Mel Gibson's dominatrix.
Like Kevin Costner and Clint Eastwood before him, Gibson's "Dances with
Crucifixes" looks like yet another over-his-prime beefcake's foray into
serious filmmaking -- only this time the amateur auteur has his eye on a
bigger prize than an Oscar. If sainthood can be measured in box-office
receipts then Mel can trade in his hairpiece for a hairshirt and let the
beatification ceremonies begin.
Even before its release date, the controversy has already forged an unholy
alliance between the Evangelical Christian right and conservative
Catholics. Their combined spending power guarantees Mel Gibson a
healthy return on his initial $25 million investment through merchandising
alone. Still, there's even more reason to praise the Lord and the marketing
geniuses on his payroll: In two words, cross nails. What better accessory
for a film whose S/M themes make it this year's "Lord of the Nipple Rings."
For children not old enough to watch an 'R' rated film, these pricey
trinkets may very well make up for the lost revenue - (just don't ask Junior
which part of his anatomy he plans to pierce with them).
Given the current political situation, it's perhaps not surprising that
Jesus is making headlines again, or that "news" these days is being torn
from the pages of the New Testament. Irrelevant theological debate has
always flourished in a climate of war. What better way to detract
scrutiny from unbearable images of suffering than to put them up on the big
screen? The present administration, along with their corporate handlers are
manufacturing yet another faux crisis of faith, dumbing down political
discourse to the level of a pop-up bible so that the unholy guardians of the
Empire can go about their more worldly business.
In the late 1980s, a similar controversy erupted when artist Andres Serrano
exhibited a "blasphemous" series of photos depicting the crucifixion
as seen through a jar of the artist's own urine. Using the iconography
of his Catholic childhood, Serrano's work challenged the virulent homophobia
of America under Reagan. A dying man bearing the cross of his
unacceptable passions became an apt and powerful symbol of a nation coming
to grips with AIDS. Now, as the issue of a constitutional amendment to
ban gay marriages provides the impetus for a new onslaught of homophobia,
Gibson gives us a battered and muscly defender of "family values," murdered
by a howling Jewish mob; a minority anti-Semites throughout the ages have
associated with decadent sexual practices and "tainted" blood. In an
age of war, non-artist provocateur Mel Gibson explores the roots of his own
blood lust in the character of Jesus simply because he has enough money to
play dress up in the desert.
For all its "bad taste," Serrano's novelty shop crucifix floating in a jar
of pee could hardly be described as "kitsch" which may explain why
Republicans were so offended by it at the time. Perhaps the most
subversive element of "Piss Christ" was its rather melancholy and
conventional beauty. Gibson, on the other hand, adds an element of high camp
to his significantly bigger budget drama.
With oafish earnestness, Cecil B. De "Mel" gives his film the "golden
shower" treatment, pouring on the melted butter lighting effects whenever
Christ's life is recalled in flashback, as if he has loaded his camera with
parchment. Gibson not only pisses on his Christ, he ritually tortures
him for the simple reason that his vision, ultimately, is that of a failed
artist. With the theatricality of a novice kitsch meister, Gibson
fills the void onscreen with his own bombast. Arguably, it is
the absence of imagination; a falsely derived "passion," which drives
Gibson's Messianic ambitions.
It's this very theme that director/screenwriter Menno Meyjes explores in his
mostly-fictional and highly controversial 2002 film "Max" -- an account of
Hitler's youthful days as a struggling "artist" emerging from the trenches
of the first world war. The film's hero, Max Rothenberg, a Jewish art
dealer, mentors a greasy and sniveling little corporal; a fellow veteran of
the battlefield where Max has lost an arm. The scrawny and bitter
"artist" is star struck by his own ambitions to achieve greatness and sets
himself to the task of realizing his goal of conquering the art world. With
tragic consequences, the cynical yet generous-hearted Max takes it upon
himself to channel Corporal Hitler's "passion" into "art", hoping to divert
his interest away from anti-Semitic oratory -- the one "gift" Hitler has in
spades.
Hitler, stumped by his own impotence at the easel (and likely elsewhere),
can do no more than churn out faithful reproductions of architecture and
landscapes with a mechanically uninspired hand. Infuriated by his own
shortcomings, he finds a more accommodating and less demanding medium with
which to release his spittled up rage. Corporal Hitler impresses the
party's bosses with his substanceless, (the key factor of kitsch)
emotionally rousing beer hall speeches on the need for "racial purity."
Hitler's "talents" attract one of his commanding officers who needs someone
with strong oratorical skills to stir the passions of Germany's demoralized
military. The budding National Socialist Party is looking to fill the
political vacuum left in the wake of the disastrous signing of the treaty of
Versailles and restore "dignity" to the nation after its humiliating defeat.
Then, as now, a nation coming to terms with the hubris of its disastrous
leadership seeks comfort in the ancient myths of biologically determined
destiny -- a theme which rings as familiar today as movie audiences line up
for each installment of "The Lord of the Rings" and now "The Passion of the
Christ" -- films which cast good and evil in spectacular race-based terms.
At one point, Max tells his intriguingly vile new companion, "You can be a
modern artist, but you have to pay the price, and that's honesty. Can you be
that voluptuous with yourself?" Unfortunately, Max isn't around to ask
Mel Gibson that very question. With the advantage of 20/20 hindsight,
he could have answered the question himself with a resounding "no" and
pulled the plug on this abominable "passion play," averting yet another
artistic and political disaster.
Leilla Matsui
is a freelance writer living in Tokyo, Japan. She can be reached at:
Other DV Articles by Leilla
Matsui
*
Das Kanibal
* The Patriarch
Act: Who Wants to Marry a Welfare Queen?
* Planet Lunch
Attacks Mars
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Sex, Lies, Murder, and Videotape
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Presidential Placebos: Sugar-Coated Alternatives to Empire-as-Usual
*
Give a
Hand to the Governor E(r)ect
*
Incubator Babies Bite Back: The Ballad of Uday
and Qusay
*
Regime Change Begins at Home … Literally
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