Book Review: "Let's Talk about Love: A Journey to the End of Taste"

I WAS WATCHING The Colbert Report a few weeks ago when a music critic came on to promote his book centered around Celine Dion, called "Let's Talk about Love: A Journey to the End of Taste." With the phrase "the end of taste" I assumed that he meant that Ms. Dion had more or less sailed off the edge of the world of taste, that she had somehow broken the needle off the the taste-o-meter, or that she had murdered taste in the cold of night and buried its corpse in the woods. After all, what else would a self-respecting music critic have to say about Celine Dion?

But Carl Wilson isn't a self-respecting music critic. He is an other-respecting music critic, or at least desiring to become so. He asked himself the question: Rather than just denigrate hypothetical Celine fans for having no taste — imagining them to be frumpy spinsters, preening teens, or weak-spined conformists worthy of contempt — what if he actually talked to some flesh-and-blood Celine fans? After all, she's one of the best-selling artists of all time, so there are no shortage of them, even if they are reluctant to raise their hands and identify themselves lest they be subject to a game of critical-whack-a-mole. After years of being a guardian of taste as a reviewer for the magazine 33 1/3, he asks the question: Are there other, cohesive, taste profiles out there other than the ones cool and edgy enough to make it into a music magazine, and of course the answer is yes.

This is such an amazing act of empathy that I am still flabbergasted after finishing the book. Did I really read that? Did a professional warrior just set down his tools of the trade and sit down and have lunch with his opponent? Did someone who calls himself a critic actually seek a greater understanding of humanity rather than heap praise on a singular view of the heights of humanity?

Why don't we all do that? Why is it that we find it so necessary to scoff at others' taste, whether it be their music, their movies, their food, their clothes. Do we do it to validate our own taste profiles, to set ourselves apart and above? Why are we so quick to denigrate and try to convert, instead of taking time to listen and to break bread with those of other perspectives? Why can't we see that each person's taste is a convoluted mish-mash of identity-staking anyway, one that is continually churning and evolving and being re-written as one grows and changes, meets new people, gets older, finds love. We are none of us the sum of our tastes; we know that, but how often do we read someone's Facebook profile and cringe that someone we know and respect actually likes that book or that band? Wilson's book is a good place to start for a recoil-antidote.

MY OWN EXPOSURE to Celine Dion has come mainly through her movie-soundtrack songs: "Beauty and the Beast," "When I Fall in Love" from Sleepless in Seattle, "Because You Love Me" from Up Close & Personal, and "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic, as well as a smattering of other songs I heard on the radio but often didn't know they were hers until I read this book. I'm probably one of those few middle-of-the-road people on Celine, because I've never actually sought her out or bought an album, but I never really cringed at her either — potentially because I didn't cringe at the open sentimentality of the movies associated with her songs. Yes, "My Heart Will Go On" was mercilessly overplayed in 1998, but in the context of Titanic, as the song plays over the end credits, what else would you want but an openly effusive tribute to the resilience of the human spirit, the ability to move past adversity but still hold in remembrance what is lost? What would be the point of something more restrained?

Wilson writes: "In critical discourse, it's as if the only action going on when music is playing is the activity of evaluating music. The question becomes, 'Is this good music to listen to while you're making aesthetic judgments?' ... Celine Dion, on the other hand, is lousy music to make aesthetic judgments to, but might be excellent for having a first kiss, or burying your grandma, or breaking down in tears..."

The whole point of art, I think, is that is is meant to be of use to us, to be entwined with us. It is meant to intersect with our emotional life. If you don't have at least ten good stories of experiences you've had at the movies that outshine the movies themselves in your memory, but you love the films all the same for bringing back those memories — of first dates, romantic escapades, graduation parties, a family outing, a drive-in, a trip downtown, a birthday, a reunion of friends, a vacation escape — then maybe you're missing out on what film has to offer. It's the difference between enjoying a Thanksgiving feast around the family table and eating alone at the highest caliber restaurant. The emotional component is part of the appeal, not a hurdle to get past.

"When this album was first released I assumed that it was shallow, that it was beneath me. A decade later I don't see the advantage is holding yourself above things; down on the surface is where the action is, the first layer of the unfathomable depths. Down there is where your heart gets beaten up, but keeps on beating. It does go on and on. The story is true."

My emphasis has largely been on the intersection of faith and art, between Christian living and artistic experience, and even though Wilson is not a Christian, he nails in this paragraph the key intersection I have found between the two, which is that you get the most out of them when you get your hands dirty, when you go where the action is. As long as Christianity remains a certain set of beliefs and theoretical abstracts about life, it is entirely missing the point. Our experiences and failures with trying to love our neighbors brings us to a deeper understanding of the mystery of God and the grace of Christ that ten thousand sermons or hours of study cannot bring us. Analysis is important, to be sure, but moreso in reflection and contemplation after the fact, after jumping in headfirst and wading through the unknown. In the same way, an analysis of art is mostly useful to me only after I've made myself available to be swept up, and fully immersed in the art — when I am seeking to better understand my reactions, my process, and the reasons that the experience affected me a particular way.

"It's often assumed that audiences for schmaltz are somehow stunted, using sentimental art as a kind of emotional crutch. ... Isn't it equally plausible that people uncomfortable with representations of vulnerability and tenderness have emotional problems? Sentimental art can be a rehearsal, a workout to keep emotions toned and ready to use. ... Sympathy and compassion are prerequisites to charity and solidarity. So between the sentimentalist and the antisentimentalist, who is the real emotional cripple? Me, for one."

As I read the book, I was stunned by how many of his observations like this seemed to mirror my own journey as a critic. I too came to a point where I realized that my encounters with art had to lead to more than just reflection, but to action — to be propelled the exercise of sympathy and compassion. I resonate with his characterization of art as a practice ground for the deepening of charity and solidarity.

But while I got to my conclusions through instinctual wanderings and reactive lurches, Wilson lays out his reasoning with strong arguments and good theory and historical precedent, with substance and facts, with humor and humility and cordiality. He's made me so much more aware of how critical interpretations have changed in the last ten and twenty years, and the historical roots of different philosophies of critical theory. My experiences have not been in a vacuum, but have been been shaped by a context larger than what I was able to perceive on my own. I value his book deeply, as a companion piece to my own story. Like a good song, it lets me know that I'm not alone out there in the universe, that others have felt and thought as I have.

Musicals for Artists

A few days ago, I lumbered out to a faded red storage shed and began sifting through several art prints that traveled with me from my last move. The bland upstairs walls of my office and bedroom needed some color and life to inspire stories and ... living. The shift involves both resignation and hope; I'm resigned to the fact that my parents need the help I can give them only by staying with them, and I hope that the Old Testament command of God to honor my parents will, indeed, lead to “a long, full life in the land” also given by the LORD (Exodus 20:12).

At the same time, I don't know how to live this life—really live it. Most days I struggle out of bed at 9:30, do a set of practiced stretches to a few favorite CDs, eat breakfast cereal and a banana, and feed my dog. Then, amidst the drone of an oxygen machine, I avoid the haphazardly parked walkers and stray phone calls. I rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher, grab water and kibble for the barncats, and add another layer of compost to the outdoor pile. Then, either doctor's appointments constrain my parents and I to the car for a trip to town—and to the friendly, local cafe—or it's time to put together a low-sugar lunch. Some days involve a change ... of sheets, clothing and laundry loads! So, while I dump the trash, sort the bills from the junk-mail, and steamclean over the latest “accident,” I try to keep in mind Brother Lawrence peeling potatoes or Saint Julian of Norwich holding a hazelnut—or even Wonder Woman wearing neon-red boots. Give me inspiration!

I easily see time stretching out before me like an ocean of undulating wheelchairs and oxygen bottles, or a desert of wheezing snores and two-dimensional TV ads. But, where is the fullness? Where is the deepening spirituality of Henri Nouwen or Mother Teresa of Calcutta? Where is the call to adventure so popularized by self-help gurus and scriptwriting handbooks? I feel perpetually harried, tense, overwrought and underwhelmed—not like a heroine or saint, at all; I'm so busy with what has to be done that I'm only dimly aware of W/who I'm doing it for. Lately, I scribble in my journal no more than twice a month, and this is the first film article I've written since (gulp) late 2004. Yet, it's in stripping the packing tape and bubble-wrap from my gilded artwork that I hear the whisper of God, ... urging me to dust off beauty and seek art in the everyday.

The scenes of my favorite artists are most often of common places: a garden, a breakfast nook, a porch, a staircase. It's not the subject matter that mesmerizes me, but the colors, the folds of fabric, the emotions of each piece; and it's all held together by one thing. The frame. As Frederick Buechner writes, “the frame sets it [that is, art] off from everything else that distracts us. That is the nature and purpose of frames. The frame does not change the moment, but it changes our way of perceiving the moment” (Beyond Words, pgs 26-27). Books, paintings, pieces of music—all art forms use frames. And the musical uses layers of these. First, there is the frame of film—itself composed of story, movement and sound; then, the frame of music. There are three musicals I can watch repeatedly, and these musicals are particularly for artists: Anything But Love, Bride & Prejudice, and Once.


Anything But Love

Robert Cary with Isabel Rose, Cameron Bancroft and Andrew McCarthy 102 minutes, 2002

“The greatest good you can do for another is not just share your riches, but to reveal to him, his own.” Benjamin Disraeli

I first discovered this movie in the local library—and renewed it time and again until I bought my own DVD. Filmed in “new” Technicolor and celebrating the style and show tunes of Old Hollywood (hence the project's title), it's just plain fun! Wide-eyed leading lady Isabel Rose, newcomer to the Big Screen, plays red-haired dreamer Billie Golden—who can't find a note-worthy piano teacher, not to mention romantic partner! Meanwhile, Andrew McCarthy, 80s heartthrob from such brat-pack standbys as St. Elmo's Fire and Pretty in Pink—himself proof that someone of my generation can age very well—fights for Billie's talents, not merely her affections. There's even a cameo from Eartha Kitt, the definitive voice behind “Santa Baby” and Yzma in The Emperor's New Groove (2000); here she performs her gritty “A Voice Full of Yes.” Though I'm a writer, not a singer, I relate to the situations in this film; the lower income from such pursuits, the incessant advice to “be realistic,” the creative job that falls through. I empathize with Billie, despite her 50s-inspired outfits, because of her artistic aspirations—and the pains she goes through to follow them.

For the namesake of singer Billie Holiday, being a waitress “beats singing on a street corner with a hat out.” (Sorry, Once.) But, only because it allows her time to headline at the Skylark Lounge, a few exits from JFK Airport! From TJ (Billie's piano player) to Marcy (a fellow singer-who-waits-tables), Billie is smack in the middle of a city bustling with activity and other wanna-bes. Fortunately, her middle-class friends understand her desire to pursue what she loves—and how she'd love to also make a living—since they're performing artists, too. On the flip side, Billie lives with her down-trodden mother who takes pains to remind her of her responsibilities. Her motherly advice ranges from Billie's latest horoscope (which Billie sees as “mumbo-jumbo”) to, “There's an opening at Joey's Salon for a receptionist.” How many artists have heard something similar from their disinterested parents? In a sharper twist, Billie's mother is a one-time singer—betrayed by her own musical ambitions. Now her daughter's harshest critic, she avoids Billie's shows, adding alcohol to her tea; life is simply too bitter.

The pivotal scene for me is when Billie asks Elliot Shephard, a sarcastic piano-player with a soft spot for dreamers, why he plays the piano. “From the second I started to play I realized that there wasn't anything I lived or thought or felt that I couldn't put into my music. You know what I mean?” And Billie, hesitantly, nods. A teenager who's suddenly without a father. A waitress who doesn't see how to pay the next month's rent. A woman faced with her mother's alcoholism. A single searching for that someone who “hears the same music.” All of life is fodder for art. As Elliot says, “That's what separates the goods from the greats.” Artistically and spiritually. Those people we resonate with, who are honest and real and substantial; those people that we trust. Those people who look at our flaws (as individuals, and as humans) and still see our best self, when even we can't see it. These are the people who know who they are—or who admit they're in the midst of learning—even if noone else recognizes them.

“Sometimes people avoid the art of the soul,” artist Joy Sawyer writes, “because they think they're going to have to clean themselves up before they come to the canvas.... Wherever you're at today, you can create—and live—right in that very space. Even if it feels empty, lonely, cramped, dark” (The Art of the Soul, pgs 76-77). Can the suffering be part of the art? The weariness? Even the boredom? I hope so; if not for my sake, then for others. I want to support people in their talents—even when I'm feeling discouraged myself. And I don't believe God is wasteful. Repetitive, yes—often extravagant. Never wasteful. Difficulty, joy, wretching pain; God shapes us through it all. We can't change the health of our loved ones. We can't make decisions for our friends. We can't simply say “I think we understand each other... ,” and make it so. But, like Billie, we can go to the doctor's appointments, send a note or make a phone call to a friend (whether they're struggling or we are), and listen—especially when we disagree with those whom we expect to know us best.


Bride and Prejudice

Gurinder Chadha with Aishwarya Rai and Martin Henderson 112 minutes, 2004

“Anger often reveals how you feel and think about yourself and how important you have made your own ideas and insight.” Henri Nouwen

I can't remember why I was initially drawn to this film. Perhaps because—like various Hollywood black-and-white versions, colorized BBC adaptations, a 2003 LDS rendering, and even Bridget Jones's Diary—it's a remake of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Or, maybe it's because, like chai, Tikka Masala and naan, I crave Indian culture—including films! Like Anything But Love, this production revels in elaborate musical numbers and lavish color. Also like that project, dreams highlight the heroine's emotional landscape, and both Cary and Chadha “tip their caps” to old-fashioned musicals (like Singin' in the Rain and Grease). Unlike the first movie, however, Chadha also reveals Bollywood influences. Further, the story's focus is on national cultures more than social classes, and art is explicitly a cultural expression. At the same time, this production is about family foibles, a global village of both small towns and grand cities, and how to marry well—despite a mother who “[doesn't] say anything too intelligent!” For all these reasons, each time I watch it, I savor it more.

“India's most bankable star in Hollywood”—according to Forbes and RealBollywood.com—Aishwarya Rai shines, brilliantly, as 2nd-oldest daughter Lalita Bakshi (aka Elizabeth Bennet). Having graced magazine covers from the US to the Middle East and across Eurasia, her beauty has obvious cross-cultural appeal. Her acting is disorienting, too. For his part, New Zealander Martin Henderson does a passable William Darcy—cool, privileged and unapproachable. Still, the supporting actor from The Ring and Windtalkers is rivaled here by “Lost”'s Naveen Andrews. As Balraj (aka Bingley), Will's loyal but misguided friend, Andrews is ultra-hip. His character is even referred to as “the Indian MC Hammer.” Good thing Will is such a good guy; in spite of his cultural and social faux pas, I can't help but want to see him make the right moves—and find the best dance partner! Paradoxically, it's not in the choreography but in Lalita's interactions with others where I notice the most false steps.

Lalita is a woman with high standards—for others and for herself. She consistently watches her step, in her moral convictions and in the life-choices that spring from them. Yet, whether involving her best friend, her sisters or her possible love interests, she forgets to step back for perspective on the larger situation. Independent and strong-willed, Lalita too often makes assumptions and then gives her opinion without seeking clarification. She always faces her responsibilities; however, she evades certain people, like Mr. Kohli and Darcy, because she's been too quick to judge their actions—or even their motivations. Too often, I'm like Lalita. Particularly with my parents, I'm quicker to talk than to be quiet and listen. Most of all, I get angry—not only at injustice, prejudice and slander, those circumstances at which all of us should feel fierce. But resentful of the past, of misunderstandings, of things that never change; of my parent's cankerous relationship. And soon I'm angry most of the time, with an ire that eludes my love. And that makes me out of step—with God and with myself.

In this dance called life with its demanding routine—sometimes erratic, yet often reflexive—I find it difficult to achieve balance. When I move back to follow, no one steps up to lead; and, when I maneuver to the front, someone else (humanly speaking) is already there! My parents have had to relinquish control of so many things—driving, grocery shopping, bathing independently, even breathing without aid; so, I step in. There's a lot to maneuver around, including egos and old habits. Lately, I'm repeatedly complaining to God that, while other friends and family members have a partner, I have noone to help me. Then I realize what I'm saying! Scripture speaks consistently of the Spirit as our Helper; it also speaks to self-control, which (whether we are male or female) comes from submitting to the Spirit. When old habits lull us into a “spiritual slouch,” we must become alert to a new, healthy posture. Otherwise, like Lalita, the things we criticize—being “rude, arrogant, intolerant, insensitive”—are those very things we do.


Once

John Carney with Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova 86 minutes, 2007

“Friends do not live in harmony merely, as some say, but in melody.” Henry David Thoreau

On the recommendation of a friend, against my usual caution, I added this movie to my collection “sight unseen.” Like the other productions, it's neither afraid of color nor of introducing a distinct musical variant. Also, like the preceding films, an almost tangible role is held by dreams. On the other hand, Carney's segue into a documentary style lends to a spontaneous feel—distinctly unlike the two previous projects. Both of the leads are musicians first, not actors; and Carney and the creative team made it a point to keep the film low-budget, including (according to IMdB.com) a mere 17-day shoot. In fact, Glen Hansard's mother plays a cameo as a party singer, and “flashback” footage of Guy's old flame is actually shots of the director's girlfriend (ibid). It shows—smartly! The sense from the dialogue is that you're eves-dropping; and the music is so heart-felt that it's like a sharp intake of breath—raw and shattering.

Though also a film about art and artists, unlike Anything But Love it isn't focused on Drama; nor, as with Bride and Prejudice, is it a reshaping of a literary classic. Instead, Once delves into music—lyric and melody. This movie is about the creative process, making art in a wider community, and balancing dreams and day-to-day living. It's about a girl making time over her lunch hour to visit the local piano store, where she's convinced the owner to let her use the merchandise. It's about the demo tape a guy wants to produce, for which he still doesn't have enough funds. It's about the importance of art and family and choices and timing—and the connection between it all. It's about how different people inspire and shape varying melodies in a life; how the music shapes itself. It's about knowing what to sacrifice, and when. In a refreshing change from the other two musicals, this film isn't about finding the right person—it's about being that person.

An immigrant girl, with a mother and daughter in tow, has just been asked by a local, Irish busker to write lyrics for his melodies. As the baby falls asleep, after picking up the house, she grabs the portable CD player; she then pillages for batteries to make the drained player function. Apologetically raiding her daughter's piggy bank, with newfound energy she jogs to the corner convenience store. The batteries are slid in place; the melancholy, even dissonant music begins—using an Eastern scale, of seven notes (like a Western scale), but with more intervals between. And her words: “Are you really here, or am I dreaming? I can't tell a dream from the truth. It's been so long since I have seen you. I can hardly remember your face anymore.” The girl from Chezh sings of being estranged—but, is it from her husband ... or her soul? Her dreams have become dusty and tarnished like her employers' tables and silver; the truth she is living is regular and necessary—and incomplete.

I resonate with the practical, responsible girl—the one who advises another to pursue his dreams—who is “letting myself down, while I'm satisfying you.” The girl who pauses before the recording studio's Baby Grand, and sings, haltingly: “I wish I didn't have to make all those mistakes. But, you can't say I'm not trying.” I hear her because this is the same girl who is both losing and finding herself in the creative journey. In her struggle, she reaches out, drawing another to do the same. As with both life and music, when we hear a good composition, we know. It moves us, because it's both like and above everything else. More than talent, and deeper than heart, it has an intensity that makes us smile (or cry) to ourself. Such it is with her life; because of her challenge—to do not what is easy, but what is right—a guy finds meaning is layered like chords on staff paper, and life is arranged into something greater than itself. As he describes, “You have suffered enough and warred with yourself. It's time that you won.” Such a gift—someone who struggles with us, and rejoices when we succeed!


In my dream, it seems a long path from the faded, red storage shed to the house. Stepping over the barncats, through the kitchen, and around the walkers. Humming up the stairs as I ... trip on the landing! Clasping my bum foot, I realize there's so much to learn before I can smoothly sing and dance! Still, as I glance to the framed prints that now line the walls of my office and bedroom, I'm again reminded of Buechner's words: “Literature, painting, music—the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives...” (Beyond Words, pg 26). Perhaps this is why, for me, film is so powerful. Because, at one time or another, all of us need to be reminded how to live. How to balance everyday concerns with the stuff of imagination, and high standards with a posture toward others. How to be true to the soul God shapes in us. How to be honest and vulnerable. How to look into the lives of others—and really see them; to see myself.

Mother Teresa writes of God speaking to her: “You don't need to change to believe in my love, for it is your belief in my love that will change you. You forget me, and yet I am seeking you every moment of the day...” (I Thirst for You in Bread and Wine, pg 188). The LORD seeks me through musicals, through the lives I see there—and the tensions or harmonies I hear within my own life. As an artist, God moves me in the connection between life and art, Spirit and time: “Music both asks us and also enables us to listen to certain qualities of time—to the grandeur of time, says Bach, to the poignance of time, says Mozart, to the swing and shimmer of time, says Debussy.... We learn from music how to listen to the music of our own time—one moment of our lives following another moment the way the violin passage follows the flute...” (Buechner, Beyond Words, pg 266).

Some readers may think this article isn't widely applicable. After all, we're not all artists! Then consider these words: “Is it too much to say that to stop, look, and listen is also the most basic lesson that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us?... If we are to love God, we must first stop, look, and listen for him in what is happening around us and inside us. If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors.... Here it is love that is the frame we see them in” (ibid, pgs 26-27). In this way, all those who follow Christ are artists. At least, we can attempt to be such, and not merely art critics; even when all we can contribute is an understatement, like “Wow. That was nice.”

Movies I own: "Pieces of April" & "Moulin Rouge"

As I look over my movie collection, I notice I own quite a few films heavy on romanticism. I don't mean movies heavy on romance: the intense love stories and the date-night comedies, although there are plenty of those. I mean that I am particularly drawn to romantic characters: those who embrace a quixotic spirit, who make bold and sweeping gestures, who live lives of foolish risks.

A perfect example would be "Pieces of April," a movie I've loved for years and just recently added to my shelves. There is nothing much remarkable that happens in the film: It takes place all on one Thanksgiving day, with a grown daughter inviting her family over for turkey dinner for the first time. Most people have probably experienced something similar on the holidays. But in April Burns's case, this invitation is a romantic gesture. It's an improbable stretch, a hopeful longing. She, who was such an aggravation to her parents, who rebelled and took drugs, who left them emptied and hollowed out, is inviting them back into relationship. It's the story of the prodigal son, but with the wayward youth throwing the feast, and with the abandoned parents unsure of their reception.

Watching the film requires -- well, I was going to say a suspension of disbelief, but that's not quite right -- rather, a tenacious belief that hope might find its reward. Of course it makes no sense that, if your oven were broken and you had to cook your turkey, you could knock on the doors of neighbors in your New York walkup and find people willing to help you out. It's unreasonable, it's absurd. But it's also the reason that you never try it in the first place. A low chance of success so often leads us to give up before we start. The sheer unreasonableness of hoping for kindness or grace, for help, or for reconciliation, is too powerful in our minds to let us take the risk. April Burns may live in a movie but she does not live in a fantasy world; she lives in our world, but with courage, and moxie, and perseverance.

Why am I drawn to these films? Why do I need them handy? I think it's because my natural instincts don't take me toward romanticism. I am careful, I am hesitant, I am practical. I so rarely do anything "just because." It sounds bad to admit, but I do not spontaneously volunteer to throw a party for someone, or toss out my weekend plans for a road trip, or buy a gift I happen to see without running my mind through a cost-benefit analysis. I wish I could be more free, to follow those romantic impulses when I get them -- spontaneous gestures of love for my wife, my friends, for the stranger, for God. Why look to the effect on my schedule or my budget or my energy reserves first, every time? What are we made for if not a full and unhesitant immersion into the thick of life, a cannonball into the deep end?

I've been making a few strides in this area in the last few months. It helps, maybe, that we have a little more money than we used to, and that I'm working a little bit less. I don't feel under as much pressure to portion out every ounce of energy and every dollar with caution. It also helps that I've been talking through and working on this characteristic of mine in my church small group. But more than that, I think I've broken through to a place of wanting to make that romantic gesture, to do more than offer a mere proportional response. I want to brainstorm and plot out unique and special ways to make my affection and enthusiasm tangible. I want to be inexplicably outlandish -- inexplicable even to myself, maybe especially to myself.

One of the turning points recently, I think, was when I popped in my DVD of "Moulin Rouge" again to watch with my wife. I'd seen it four or five times before, but it had been a while, and this time it hit me differently. I had embraced the film at first for its warped, unprecedented use of pop songs, its evocative design and decor, its energy and pace. It's a wild ride, sensual and exhilarating and heartbreaking in a single moment. But the actual love story I saw as something of a contrivance. The film centers on a young writer in 1899 Paris who falls in love with a star courtesan and pens for her a musical of their love story. Their improbable relationship, sparked by a simple glance across a crowded room and a few minutes alone together, seemed to me just an excuse to set the rock-circus in motion. Satine and Christian were just constructs, brought together by dramatic convention; it was the same as every Hollywood story, shallowly focused on the intensities of new love and not on the steadfastness of growing a relationship over time.

But watching it this time, I had to wonder: so what? So what if the writer feels only the emotion of giddy discovery -- at least he acts on it. Maybe he is naive and rash to put his life in danger for someone he doesn't know he can trust -- but who wants a reasonable lover? Who wants affection in measured doses, of a respectable degree? Should our passions not consume us, overrun us, at least some of the time? Would a person like Satine, broken and bruised by the men in her life, have any affection at all for a timid and respectful suitor? Would we not all wish for someone to revel in us, to be inspired by us, to throw out his or her arms and sing to the stars for us?

How do I love God? How do I love my neighbor? How do I love my wife and my son? Do I love them in reasonable measures, with adequate effort, or do I embrace the romantic gesture? Do I make myself a fool -- an impassioned, spontaneous, outlandish, holy fool? May I seek such moments in my life. May I keep hold of the authentic desire to overflow with love.

Recent rentals: "Half Nelson"

"HALF NELSON" had to come across my radar screen about five times before I finally decided to watch it. I'd heard that it centered on an idealistic teacher who is also a drug addict -- my immediate thought was that the film was either about him succumbing to his vice, which could easily be gritty and depressing, or it could be about him finding redemption, which would probably be nauseatingly simplistic. To my surprise (SORT-OF-SPOILER ALERT), neither one happens. Dan Dunne (Ryan Gosling) is simply a functioning addict, who has been for years and will probably continue to be so. The film's main theme is this dichotomy: How badly do we, as human beings, want to characterize and judge this person for what he is?

One of the characters in the film asks him if he's a communist, based on some of the books on his bookshelf. Another implies he's a deviant because he has formed a friendship with one of his students, a thirteen-year-old girl. There is no lasciviousness in his connection in her, but it doesn't stop people's suspicions. His students see him as a kind of hero, or at least as one adult who doesn't condescend to them, and awakens their interest in the wider world -- teaching history not as dates and names but about struggles between opposing systems of thought, tied together in push and counter-push.

Every character in the story wants to hang a label on Dan, and as an audience member you want to hang a label on him, but he argues the position that human beings are undoubtedly more than one thing; they can be opposite things at the same time, just as a tree trunk may be both crooked and straight. It takes time, attention, curiosity, listening, presence, and an open mind to understand the complexity of people, but for the sake of expedience we tend to simplify people to the components that we most value or most fear, and ignore the rest of them.

Christians are unfortunately very good at our rushes to judgment, which is odd considering that the Bible presents its characters unvarnished, filled with concurrent contradictions.I remember the first time that I understood that most of the "heroes" of the Bible were tremendously flawed, that they didn't walk around in glory and perfection in all that they did, that they struggled and rebelled and sinned and had conflicts. I was stunned. Were they really like me? Was I really like them? I thought that everyone around me, every Christian who looked to be cloaked in perfection, was through-and-through good. Yet here I was carrying around these secret compartments of guilt and hidden vices that I tried so hard to keep hidden.

To understand that we can be sinners and yet Christians, rebelling against God and yet being used by God at the same time, lifted such a burden off of me. To hide my inadequacies was only to perpetuate the myth that Christians were perfect, which only turns people away from God when they discover our hypocrisies. To confess my inadequacies, as I have tried to do in my friendships and in my writing, is to admit the multi-faceted nature of the human being, and the ability of God to meet us where we're at and engage us in full. I believe that our stories of surrender, not our stories of greatness, lead people to seek the God who is.

People will try to put labels on us, maybe great ones we don't deserve, or maybe hateful ones that contain only a silver of truth. Some human beings latch on to the good ones and fight against the bad; others are too bashful to accept the good and secretly cling to the bad. "Half Nelson" is about rejecting all labels, shrugging off others' definitions, and not being reduced. This is a good first step, I think, to being vulnerable and honest with others -- being honest and matter-of-fact with oneself.

Why I Left, Why I'm Back: Memoir of a Christian Movie Critic

I LAST UPDATED this site four years ago; now I'm back, at least in some capacity. There are many reasons why I set it aside, not least of which is that four years ago I lost my job, and my wife and I started a business from scratch. I didn't have money to watch films in the theaters anymore, let alone the time to write about them. By the time we'd made our business work, we had a baby, and he has consumed much of my time and energy.

But beyond that, my heart just wasn't in it anymore, and hadn't been for several years.

To explain why (if you're interested), I must take you on a journey back to the beginning of my crazy dream to become a Christian movie critic, and what I had hoped to accomplish.

AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY
Movies weren't much a part of my life growing up; being raised in a Christian household and attending a Christian school in the '80s meant a good dose of paranoia about the surrounding culture, and movies were exhibit A in the depravity department. "Back to the Future" is the last movie our whole family attended together, after our pastor eviscerated it for reversing the natural order, having a child who teaches his parents.

Then, at a new church, in 10th grade, I was invited along to see the latest Oscar-winner with a few other guys in my youth group. It was the first film I saw that was intended for adults, that evoked actual emotions. I was mesmerized. The feeling of having walked in another man's shoes was absolutely visceral, the understanding of the cruelty of war was blindsiding, and to vicariously taste the power of compassion was overwhelming.

Up until that point, every story I knew, from Bible stories to kids stories to the few kids movies I had seen, had always been presented as an Aesop's fable: The moral of the story is "___". Stories to me were bloodless, non-involving, constructs of ideals to learn and absorb. The movies were my entry point into adulthood, where not everything worked out in the end, where questions remained unresolved, where experiencing empathy for fellow human beings was more important than drawing a pat conclusion about the story.

I had learned all about hope, faith, and love in my church, but only as constructs, not how people struggled with them and suffered for them and experienced them. The movies made me realize that there was more to life then knowing the ideals, that they often collided with our humanness, and we had to struggle with that. Many of my friends and teachers feared for me, worried that the movies were going to lead me away from God, but just the opposite was true: I was finally discovering how Christianity applied to life, because I was finally learning something about what life was, rather than just keeping my head down, doing my schoolwork, and trying to be a nice person. Movies let me see the possibilities, to understand what it meant to speak out, to take a stand, to actively show grace and love in real situations.

After a few years of discovery I decided I wanted to become a Christian movie critic -- someone who could recommend to other Christians films that could help them in developing their walk as I was developing in my own. Keep in mind that this was 1992, a full decade before Christianity Today would publish its first film review in its magazine. I faced a particularly uphill battle. One of my high school teachers warned me that as Christians we are to think only about what is pure, good, and lovely. But that verse in Philippians, I believe, has more to do with what we choose to dwell on, and that's what I wanted to highlight in writing about film: dwelling on what is true, honest, and virtuous.

BUILDING A MINISTRY
I spent all four years on my Christian college newspaper as a movie critic, from my first year as a freelancer through my senior year as editor-in-chief. I started out as a terrible writer, mostly rehashing the plot of the film while I tried to emphasize the powerful emotions that it evoked, thus ruining most of the viewer's emotional experience. I am quite surprised I was allowed to stay on, frankly, but I got a lot of support from my freshman friends who were simply excited to see movies acknowledged by an official college publication as something worth interacting with.

As I learned to find my voice, and actually articulate the case that movies could be used for spiritual growth, my message seemed to confuse many people. This was still the heyday of Siskel and Ebert after all, and there were a number of friends who only wanted to know if something was good or bad, thumbs up or thumbs down. There were a number of people in the drama and media studies departments who thought I should be analyzing only high art, rather than what most students were watching. There were those in the administration who wondered why the paper was covering movies at all, particularly R rated ones, and why I wasn't busy condemning them. At the time, the only prominent Christian movie publication was focused on tallying offensive content.

My approach was akin to that of a food critic, to use a metaphor, who spends much of his column promoting one idea: "Chew slowly. Take your time to eat; think about what you're eating; savor the flavors and textures; give thanks to God for it. No matter if you eat fresh organics or greasy burgers, haute cuisine or mom's cooking, if you take the time to taste and delight in what you're eating, giving it its due, the more aware you will be of God's gift of nourishment to you." The response to such a review would probably solicit just as many scratched heads as I was getting, from people who just wanted to know whether to eat at a certain restaurant or not, or those who feel strongly that a certain type of food is best, or those who question why food is spiritual.

But there were many people, not movie fans in particular but students eager to consider new perspectives, who took to my idea that there is something to find, some morsel worth considering, in every film, if you are willing to look for it. Where I think I helped most was to help feed the late-night dorm room conversations, ask big questions. When people wanted to chat with me about my articles, they usually didn't want to talk about a particular film, but about life, about something that triggered a new thought in their mind, or brought two disparate ideas together. I think I largely succeeded at doing what I intended: not to simply recommend a handful of films, but to help students who were trying to become more spiritually aware of themselves, more mature, more tuned in to the voice of God speaking to us through everyday experiences.

Looking back, I see now that what I enjoyed most was this aspect: the personal connections, the privilege of speaking to people's hearts and having permission to go deep with a new friend by simply talking over a shared film experience. I most loved being able to help people take a step forward in their spiritual lives. But at the time, I thought that movies were the method I had to use to get there. The silver screen, after all, was the place where I discovered how to walk in someone else's shoes, to find empathy, and shatter old notions. Movies were what tilled the soil of my heart so that new things could grow. It seemed to me that movies were indispensable to doing the work I wanted to do.

THE PLAN GOES AWRY
My original plan after college was to find a job as a newspaper movie critic until I could convince a Christian publication to bring me aboard. But the style of writing that I had developed in college -- reflective, personal, and open-ended -- didn't quite fit the standard newspaper review. So rather than postpone my dream, I decided to create it from scratch, launching a 12-page, black-and-white, photocopied magazine available by subscription, titled "Film Forum." (These days, of course, I would just have started a blog, but that technology wasn't available in 1997. How quaint!)

Response was enthusiastic, considering how little marketing I could afford. Several strangers wrote and volunteered to write for the magazine as well, and I began meeting other like-minded people who wanted to engage film. When producing, stapling, and mailing the magazine became too much for me to keep up with, one of these new friends designed a website for me so we could transfer operations online. The website started drawing traffic particularly when "The Matrix" came out, and everyone was discussing its theology and implications. I found more writers, more friends. Before long I was tapped to write several reviews of religious-themed films for the online version of "Christianity Today." In some sense, I was living the dream I'd set out to accomplish. But then something unexpected happened.

The stereotype of the movie critic is that they are cranky, grumpy, and mean. I swore that would never happen to me -- but it did. In college I had had the luxury of going to a movie only when it appealed to me, ignoring the vast number of releases that weren't my cup of tea. As an aspiring "professional" I started seeing more and more current releases and pushing myself to comment on them even when I had nothing to say. When the frustration of mediocrity confronts you over and over and over, and you have a forum in which to let your zingers fly, it's hard to keep up a thoughtful, tempered demeanor. I was the only one forcing me to do this, yet I could feel myself palpably wanting revenge on any film that left me wanting more.

The corollary is that any time I did find a movie I wanted to praise, it was of such importance to me that I almost outright demanded that everyone watch the film and recognize it as a masterpiece. Somewhere along the line I lost the casual, friendly tone of sharing discovery, and instead became stridently divisive over what was and wasn't worth watching -- particularly in my personal conversations with people, and in my forum posts, when I had less time to edit my feelings. More than once I was told that I'd made someone feel particularly small for liking a film that I'd trashed, or for not "getting" a film that I praised to the rafters. Categorizing the art had become more important to me than seeking a connection with people through art, more important than listening.

NEEDING SOMETHING MORE
At the same time, when I actually was connecting with God through film, my reflections started pointing me toward a particular conclusion, over and over. When I first discovered how powerful movies could be, it was because I only understood many of the aspects of the Christian faith only in theory. Movies helped me to feel more viscerally what it means to love, to lose love, to have hope, to take a risk, to understand a stranger. For a long time that was enough, simply to be acquainted with these truths in a heartfelt way. But after a while the nagging question became: What am I doing to actually embody and live out these ideals? When have I actually taken a risk? Whom have I loved? When have I taken leadership? In what way am I being selfless? Was I just going to write about Christian beliefs, or was I going to find a way to actually follow through on what I believe, to incarnate the truths I hold?

The next year was a somewhat schizophrenic time. Every time I would write it felt like I wasn't doing enough, like I was ignoring a bigger calling. But I wasn't prepared to walk away from film criticism, because watching movies, and processing those experiences through writing, was the primary way that I had to connect with God at the time. I didn't want to lose that, particularly because we had just moved and were having trouble for a long time with finding a permanent church home. I frankly didn't know what, other than art, would lead me humbly before God in the same way. It got to the point where I wondered if I even worshipped God at all, or only worshipped art itself.

When sat down and I actually wrote out that sentiment, and saw it on the screen in front of me, by the time I reached the end of that article I knew that it was time to walk away. I had pretty much dared myself to see if I could pursue God through means other than art: "I have to be able to say I'm willing to explore other forums for getting to know God, to humble myself and put myself at square one in an arena I'm unfamiliar with."

MEETING GOD IN THE MUNDANE
One of the main lessons I tried to stress when I wrote about movies is that you do not have to look far to learn something about God. God has not restricted his presence in this world only within church walls. He gave us this created world. He gave us imagination, reason, and inspiration. He gave us art. He gave us bodies, and food, and sleep, and breath, and laughter. He gave us one another. My message had always been: pay attention to your life, take time to notice where God is present, including at the movie you see with your friends on a Friday night. God is speaking; listen.

I had to return to this train of thought as I began a new quest. In what other ways was God caring for us and nourishing us in ways we easily overlook? For two years I penned a monthly column for a friend's online magazine in which I explored the ways in which God speaks to us through, say, waiting in line, or idle chatter, through our hobbies, or our work, through our choices of clothing, or taking out the garbage, or cooking, to name just a few. This was good practice -- I had many new arrows in my quiver to rely on in connecting deeply with God -- but I was still just writing. The words went out into the world, where maybe they did some good and maybe they didn't.

It was still some time before I learned to sit down with a person, to ask them about an average day, and what excites them about their everyday life, and explore together how it is that God can be present and speaking in those moments.

LIVING OUT OUR FAITH
Concurrent with writing my monthly column, I also started to lead at our new church a small group Bible study for my first time. This had been part of my plan to move on from film and engage the church more fully without the intermediary of art. But it wasn't an ordinary Bible study. Because I knew where I was struggling spiritually, I asked them to join me in my struggle to find ways of living out my faith in tangible and challenging ways. As we read the Bible together, each week I would ask them to pick one verse or phrase that convicted or inspired them, then make a goal to respond to that in a concrete way.

We had scattershot success at first, but I was excited to be actively working toward changes in my life, to be learning to express God's love rather than simply make interesting observations about it. The breakthrough came when I realized that people had the best success with their goals when the chapter of the day dealt with an issue they were already trying to deal with in their everyday life, rather than when they had to shoehorn a verse to fit their concerns. So I decided to let our inspiration for change come from the strong and present voice of God in our everyday moments, and the group transformed from one with a lot of homework and tasks to one of an authentic journey of God-led transformation. I reconnected to that excitement I had in college of being able to help people take a step forward in their spiritual lives.

Finally I felt like I was doing what I had been meant to do; at long last I had combined all three things that were important to me: helping people to find an awareness of God in their ordinary moments, investing in people rather than making proclamations, and being confronted with incarnating my faith in tangible ways. Or as a friend of mine recently put it: "You love to draw out the part of people that draws them to God."

This past summer, after two years of cultivating this group at my church, I spun off this ministry from the church to be open to anyone here in the Seattle area. My intention and prayer is that I will spend the better part of the rest of my life leading and growing these Christlikeness Groups: a small-group experience focused on hearing God in the mundane and following through on what he convicts and inspires you to do. Our website is at www.cgroups.net if you're curious to know more.

RETURNING TO FILM
This leaves us with only one question unanswered: Why am I back reviewing movies?

The answer, I suppose, is a little anti-climatic given that I have found my calling and purpose elsewhere. I'm not back with any sense of gusto, or on a crusade for any particular idea. It's just that art still is one of the key ways that I connect to and hear from God in my life, and my skills are getting a little rusty. Writing is just the way I best process a encounter with a film, clarifying my thoughts, bringing me deeper into it, and cementing it in my mind. I still watch a lot of movies, and I often have thoughts and ideas that I want to ruminate on, but over time they evaporate. I'm writing again more or less for myself, to strengthen those muscles that I let atrophy a bit when I set aside reviewing.

Secondarily, I had been thinking what a shame it was that I never got around to writing about a lot of my favorite films. My years as a critic were spent largely focusing on the current releases, since that's where the readership and the active conversations were grounded. Many films I grew to love after years of re-watching, and my initial review only scratched its surface; other favorite films I've never written about at all. I spent all those years writing hundreds of articles, and I have little to show for it in terms of a final statement on the films I value and cherish. My plan is to fill in those cracks and only rarely to comment on the current film scene.

And finally, I thought it would be fun. The dynamic has finally changed, after a long, long sabbatical, from something that I have to do to something that I get to do. Exploring movies seems like an adventure again, rather than a second job. Writing again feels like a refreshing and joyful break in routine -- one that I hope invigorates me as I step outside of my busy life for a moment and give thanks to God for the insights, beauty, joy, and inspiration that the movies have been able to impart to me.

photo courtesy of Cancia via stock.xchng

My favorite films of 2007: "Once," "Lars and the Real Girl"

NOW THAT I HAVE a baby and don't get out to the movies much, I'm a year behind the rest of the world. So as Golden Globes and Oscars are being handed out for 2008, I'll revisit 2007 and share my two favorite films, two films that are at opposite ends of the spectrum in tone but united in theme.

"Once" is a musical that is not a musical. It's a movie filled with song, but with no soaring production numbers -- just two musicians whose lives intertwine as they work on their art. It's the story of a brokenhearted Irish busker who meets a kind immigrant pianist, and they talk about life, love, art, passion, creativity, sadness, desire, purpose, and striving as they tinker with songs together and form a friendship. It's wholly naturalistic, almost documentarian, and throughout he film you have no idea what the next scene will be. It feels like life: uncertain, tenuous, something that could break apart at any moment but is somehow held together with grace and hope. It's a film that shows that even in bad times, life goes on -- not in the sense that life merely continues but that you still have a shot at life. It's billed as a story of love, but it's more than that; it's a forgiveness story, self-forgiveness and otherwise. It's an anti-inertia movie. It's an anti-timidity movie. And the music is really good, too -- the soundtrack has been my companion ever since I saw the film.

"Lars and the Real Girl," on the other hand, does not feel realistic at all. It's an intensely choreographed, fable-esque take on an ideal world, one where people are patient and kind, thoughtful and respectful, giving space to a young man who is coping poorly with life and inventing an alternate reality for himself. As a viewer you can't help but think in terms of our reality: this guy needs therapy, this guy needs meds, this guy needs to be locked up. He's insane. And while I wouldn't recommend treating all mental health problems with simple love and understanding, the longer the story continues, the more that Lars is able to work through his fears and anxieties safe in the arms of a family and town that accept and embrace him without judgment, the more I long to live in that kind of world -- the more I want to create that kind of world. Wouldn't it be amazing to live in a world free of quick judgment and derisive scorn, that makes people afraid to show their real selves? Doesn't that start with me, with radical acceptance?

The theme and tone of "Lars and the Real Girl" is anchored in the town church, where the reverend delivers the simple gospel message at the opening of the film: "In all the world, there are books and books and books of laws. But in all this world, there really is only one law. We need never ask, Lord, what should I do? Because the Lord has told us what to do: Love one another. That, my friends, is the one true law. Love is God in action." Without these small reminders of the church as center of community, the film could seem like a mere Twilight-Zone exercise in studying an alien culture. But with these words, and with these intentions, the film is saying: Here's what love in action might look like. Here's how far off base our culture is from a culture of love, in that this place seems foreign and imbalanced. Why haven't we embraced the message of Jesus as we ought? If "Once" pushes you to discover grace and forgiveness in life as it is, "Lars and the Real Girl" pushes you to consider what life might be.

"My Name is Earl" and Three Stories of Grace

TO EXPLAIN the difference between “mercy” and “grace,” the most common example I’ve heard preached from the pulpit is this: You appear in court before a judge, having committed a crime that should land you in jail. If the judge sentences you as he is supposed to, that would be called justice. If, for some reason, the judge decides to suspend your sentence and lets you go free, that would be mercy. But if the judge decided that the punishment needed to be paid, but still wanted to save you from it, so he ordered that he himself should be put in jail for your crimes, that would be grace.

I’m not fond of this particular example. For starters, it’s ludicrous. In this history of the world, has this ever happened (aside from the overt metaphor of Jesus taking our punishment for sin)? It just doesn’t hit me where I live. I’ve never been in the situation, nor do I hope to be. Second, the difference between receiving mercy and receiving justice in this case is exactly the same on my end: I go free. The only difference is what happens to the judge. In fact I am left thinking that I’d rather have mercy than grace, because grace would make me feel terrible.

A better story I’ve heard about mercy and grace in a sermon goes like this: A child is throwing a baseball around in the living room, even though he has been told not to, because there are many things around to break. Sure enough, he gets careless and breaks a vase with the ball. If the parent disciplined him, that would be justice. If the parent decided for whatever reason to simply let the situation go — kids will be kids — that would be merciful. But if the parent stopped what he or she was doing, and took the child out for ice cream, that would be grace. Grace is getting what we don’t deserve.

I like this story better because it’s much more relatable, and it more clearly defines mercy as withholding punishment, as opposed to the undeserved kindness of grace. Still, this example is meant to make us understand what it feels like to receive grace from God through Jesus. It does not necessarily instruct us on how to be imitators of Christ and to live lives full of grace. The big flaw in this story is that breaking a vase is rarely a willful act, and was more likely a case of carelessness or just being a kid. You could even make the case, since the parent took the child out for ice cream, that the parent should have been doing a better job supervising, or providing an alternate activity, or actively playing with the boy. Ice cream might just be penance for what the parent should have done to begin with: give ample attention.

A better example might be one that involves a stranger, someone with whom I have no long-term relationship and whose well-being and well-adjustment does not necessarily benefit me as well. Fortunately, I was saved from having to think of such a story for myself, as I just saw an episode of the NBC show “My Name Is Earl” depicted exactly such a story. I would recommend watching the show first if you’re able, as my retelling does not do the story full justice (season 4, episode 12, “Orphan Earl”, available for free on Hulu.com as of this writing). However, if you’re averse to crass humor, as the show uses, you might want to just read my spoiler-filled summary:

The premise of “My Name is Earl” is that a ne’er-do-well discovers this simplified version of karma: If you do bad things, bad things will happen to you, but if you do good things, good things will happen. So he makes a list of all the bad things he’s ever done, and sets off to make amends to each person. Even though the show talks about karma a lot, the essence of the show is about the power and beauty of forgiveness and reconciliation (balancing the potential for schmaltz with ribald, outrageous humor). Week in and week out, Earl risks himself by confessing his sin to another, and asking what he can do to help make amends.

In this episode, Earl remembers a time he and his then-wife conned a $100 check out of an elderly man by pretending to work for an African relief fund. He looks up Mr. Hill three years later to return the money, only to discover that his ex-wife Joy has continued the scam by having him adopt an “orphan” and sending monthly checks. Her neighbors at the trailer park joined in, creating fake charities for wildfire victims and flood victims. Earl decides to balance the scales by conning Joy and her friends out of the $5,000 they’d taken from Mr. Hill and returning it to its rightful owner.

Now, I’ve been in Mr. Hill’s shoes before, played for a fool. It was only $20, and I was only 19 years old or so, waiting for a train at Chicago’s Union Station. I was anything but street smart, so when a woman said that she and her daughter had run out of money to catch the last train home before they closed for the night, I believed her. Being a college student at the time with a tight budget, I’d often come downtown with just about exactly the money I’d need for the trip, including food, admissions, etc. and I always worried about accidentally spending the train fare home by mistake. So I was all prepared to give her the $5 or so she’d need, but I found that I didn’t have $5 left myself, only the emergency $20 that my mom had given me that I tucked away separately.

In retrospect, really should have gone upstairs to the ticket booth and offered the by the tickets for her directly, but as I said, I was trusting, and just asked her to bring me back the change after she’d bought the tickets. I sat and waited, and waited, and waited, until I realized she wasn’t coming back, that I’d been ripped off. I’d been lied to. I’d been left with only about $3 in my pocket in downtown Chicago. I felt vulnerable, used, stupid, angry, frustrated, injured. If the cops had come into the station holding that $20 bill I would have been so happy to have it back. If they’d brought the woman along with them, I would probably have felt a sense of satisfaction that she didn’t walk away clean, even if I wouldn’t want retribution.

So when Mr. Hill not only gets his money back, but is given an opportunity to confront the three women who ripped him off, most of us would have to feel pretty happy about the situation, if not a little smug. Justice had been served. But when Mr. Hill sees the situation that these women live in, especially after losing their appliances to a loan shark who secured them the money and — in karmic fashion, suffer a food shortage, a kitchen fire, and a broken-pipe flood — Mr. Hill gives his money freely to the three women to help them fix their homes and their lives. The women are speechless. They stole from this man, made him feel a fool, and he still sees them as human beings worthy of being helped and cared for.

“When you’ve been a jerk, and someone’s still nice to you, it’s a powerful thing,” Earl says later in a voiceover. That’s a plainly put sentiment that I think we can all take into our daily lives and learn to better show grace, as well as touching on what it feels like to have received grace through Christ. Do unto others as you would never expect things to be done unto you. Repay deceit with generosity, petulance with calm, harm with forgiveness, and hardness with humanity. Grace is as simple — and immensely complicated — as that.