These films
have two things in common. They depict characters that are marginalized, living
on the edge of society bearing secrets that isolate them from ordinary human
relationships. And they both star the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman, an
extraordinary actor who has an uncanny ability to appear understated yet
riveting.
In every
other way, however, they couldn’t be more different.
A Most Wanted Man (2014) is a film based
on the novel of the same name by John le Carré. A tale of international
espionage set in the world of terrorism, we watch a Chechen man, Issa Karpov
(Grigoriy Dobrygin) tortured and fearing for his life, enter Hamburg Germany
illegally only to be caught up in forces far beyond his control. And we watch
Günther Bachmann, played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, a German antiterrorist
agent seek to unravel a web of deceit and danger only to discover that he too
is caught up in forces far beyond his control.
As in most
le Carré stories, the action is not found in high speed car chases, gun battles
and fisticuffs but is located in a deadly cat and mouse game that unfolds as
intelligence agents manipulate events and people to try to reach some desired
end. Hoffman plays his role brilliantly, a rumpled, alcoholic agent who has
been burned by his German superiors and American allies, has watched carefully
constructed networks unravel and informants killed, and who is willing to wait,
and scheme,
The tension
is palpable as the story unfolds, and as John le Carré never tires of reminding
us, in the world of international espionage there are not always clear winners
and losers. Even the winners able to shut down some terrorist plot before it
occurs can lose something of their souls in the process. A world where deceit,
lies, and manipulation are the tools of the trade is hardly a kind place.
The last
film in which Hoffman starred before his death, A Most Wanted Man is very worth seeing. It is both good cinematic
art and a compelling, deeply human story.
Rated R,
122 minutes.
Mary and Max (2009) is a feature length
claymation film, starring two characters, Mary Daisy Dinkle (voiced by Toni
Collette) and Max Jerry Horovitz (voiced by Philip Seymour Hoffman). Both are
painfully lonely when they become pen pals. Mary is eight years old, lives in
Melborne, Australia and has a large birthmark on her forehead that is, as she
puts it, “the color of poo.” Max is a 44 year-old severely obese man with
Asperger’s who lives alone in a dingy New York apartment. “People often think I
am tactless and rude,” he tells Mary. “I cannot understand how being honest can
be improper. Maybe this is why I don’t have any friends.”
If your
exposure to Claymation is limited to Wallace
and Gromit (must viewing, by the way) or Veggie Tales (good for babysitting but badly moralistic) Mary and Max will be a revelation. The
attention to detail is astounding and the humor is dry—in one scene in a
cemetery a tombstone in the background reads “R.I.P. Adam Elliot,” with the
epitaph “very over-rated.” The film’s director and writer is Adam Elliot. The
characters, all troubled and broken, are depicted with a warm sympathy that
insists they be website , “Mary and Max is innocent but not naïve,
as it takes us on a journey that explores friendship, autism, taxidermy,
psychiatry, alcoholism, where babies come from, obesity.” It also explores
chocolate, atheism, and the delight of snail mail letter writing.
Mary and Max is a superb example of the
art of clay animation in film, and very worth seeing. Expect to have scenes
from the movie lodged deeply in your imagination.
Not rated,
92 minutes.
A note in a faculty memo from James Pakala, librarian at Covenant Seminary (St Louis,
MO):
The
Christian Century August 10, 2010 – Four American myths are listed (p.
9) from Claude S. Fischer’s Made in
America
: A Social History of American Culture and Character (U of Chicago
Press, 2010). Despite the myth: a) Americans changed location less in recent decades
than either in the middle of the 20th century or in the early 19th
century; b) Americans have not turned away from religion, as membership has
remained proportionately higher than in eras prior to the mid-20th
century; c) crime rates by 2000 were almost down to 1950 levels; and d)
destitution is lower.
: A Social History of American Culture and Character (U of Chicago
Press, 2010). Despite the myth: a) Americans changed location less in recent decades
than either in the middle of the 20th century or in the early 19th
century; b) Americans have not turned away from religion, as membership has
remained proportionately higher than in eras prior to the mid-20th
century; c) crime rates by 2000 were almost down to 1950 levels; and d)
destitution is lower.
Source: Select Items #277.
In Ridley Scott’s action film, Body of Lies, the key moment comes not in an explosion (though plenty of bombs go off) but in a rather quiet moment of dialogue. C.I.A. agent Roger Ferris (played by Leonardo DiCaprio) meets Hani (played superbly by British actor Mark Strong), the head of Jordanian intelligence. Ferris has come to ask Hani’s aid in tracking down terrorists that have established a safe house in the Jordanian capital. Hani agrees, but insists on one condition. “Never lie to me,” he says.
On the surface Body of Lies exposes the dark underbelly of our dangerous world. Of how, if former CIA Middle East agent Richard Baer is correct in See No Evil, America’s intelligence agency has begun depending far too much on technology and far too little on developing human assets that can provide eyes and ears on the ground around the world. Of how much more dangerous the 21st century is compared to the decades of the Cold War.
On a deeper level, though, Body of Lies is a study of trust. The same element that disappeared in the world of high finance, and suddenly solid Wall Street firms crumbled like a house of cards.
“Most people are against lying,” Sallie Tisdale says in, "Tell Me the Truth," a wonderfully insightful essay on salon.com, “at least, they claim to be. Who knows if they’re telling the truth? Perhaps the only thing we can really agree on about lying is that everyone does it sometimes. The person who claims otherwise has simply told you the first one.” For Christians the stakes are high, because we claim to follow not simply the One who insists his followers tell the truth but that we seek to incarnate the One who claimed to be The Truth. Tisdale continues:
Certain lies are oil in the social machine, the ritual courtesies of daily contact. A little exaggeration, casting careful shadows and flattering light upon ourselves, upon each other. There are ordinary lies I’ve never told. I’ve never lied about my age or pretended my hair color was natural. I’ve never cheated on a test. But other lies come quickly. I've always found it hard to say, “I made a mistake,” and would exaggerate to protect my fragile self-esteem. Most of us lie in just this way: little deceits and quick dissimulations to spare ourselves from some impending small doom—social embarrassment, parental anger or spousal punishment.
These lies, the ones we claim to engage in for the sake of other people, are often meant to save ourselves from a little discomfort. No more, no less… So many ways to fail here. We lie by commission, by omission and with silence. We lie to get and to avoid having to pay the various prices extracted from us, to punish others and to avoid punishment. We lie to stay safe. Everyone lies.
When my good friend Ed Hague first showed me Tisdale’s piece my initial reaction was to ask whether she isn’t overstating the case. Everyone lies?
Church potlucks are an occasion for lying, I think. We ask one another “How are you doing?” and reply, as expected in this social ritual, “Great.” Sometimes that isn’t really true—the truth would be to say, “I’m not doing well, actually, but you aren’t a safe person to explain that to.” The real brokenness here is probably not the social ritual response which hides the truth but the breakdown of trust that sadly infects us so deeply.