The classical tale of Oedipus goes a bit like this. The king and queen of Thebes in Greece (Laius and Jocasta, if we’re getting particular) receive a prophecy that, if they have a son, he will kill his father and sleep with his mother. Disturbing. So they have a son. Laius, not wanting to die, leaves the infant exposed on a mountain and thinks he’s dodged his fate. However, as in every good Greek myth, a wandering shepherd stumbles upon the struggling infant and rescues him. The shepherd delivers the baby to King Polybus and Queen Merope of Corinth, who have no children of their own. They name their adopted son Oedipus and never tell him that he’s adopted. One day, though, Oedipus, suspecting something’s amiss, visits the Delphic Oracle and is told the same prophecy: he will kill his father and sleep with his mother. In an effort to avoid this horror, Oedipus vows to never return to Corinth and sets out to seek a different fate. At a crossroads, he runs into a group of cranky, uncooperative men. Both parties demand the other move out of the way, and in the ensuing scuffle Oedipus kills Laius. Yup, his real father.

Oedipus and the Sphinx

Oedipus, feeling rather smug about his small victory on the road, heads towards Thebes, where the populace is being menaced by a Sphinx who kills people when they can’t solve her riddle. Oedipus, though, easily answers the Sphinx’s question and enters Thebes victorious after the Sphinx has killed herself in rage. As reward for saving the city, Oedipus is given the crown of Thebes—and the hand of its widowed queen in marriage. Yup, his real mother, Jocasta. It gets worse. Oedipus and Jocasta experience many wonderful years of marriage and have four children together. But then things in Thebes start to not go so well. As a plague ravages the city, Oedipus appeals to the Oracle for guidance as to how to save his people. After interrogating several individuals who should know who really killed the former king Laius, Oedipus and Jocasta learn the truth about their relationship. Jocasta kills herself, and Oedipus blinds himself. And nobody really feels good about anything at the end of that tale.

Whew. The reason for this summary of the tragedy of Oedipus is that our film this week, Tom Jones, bears an uncanny resemblance to the classical Greek story, one of the few aspects of the film that I found truly compelling. Like Oedipus, Tom is born to someone who doesn’t want him and is cast upon another individual, Squire Allworthy, a prestigious and well-to-do man who resolves to raise Tom as his own son. The reasons for Tom’s seeking his own fortune differ from those of Oedipus, but both heroes set off on their own believing they can never return home or see their families again.

Is Mrs. Waters Tom’s mother?

Here’s where it gets really interesting, I think. In a rather bizarre scene, Tom stumbles upon a woman who is being abused by a disgraceful deserter of the British army. Tom saves the woman, whom the narrator calls “Mrs. Waters.” After the film’s famous (and quite disgusting) scene in which Tom and Mrs. Waters eat an enormous meal in a pretty sensual manner, Tom (of course) sleeps with the woman whose title indicates that she is either married or widowed (or pretending to be one of these). Mrs. Waters then takes up with a perpetually angry man named Mr. Fitzpatrick. We’ll come back to both of them in a bit.

Later as he walks along a road dreaming of his lost love Sophie, Tom is brought up short by a highwayman who attempts to rob him. Younger and craftier, Tom manages to wrest the gun out of the would-be robber’s hand and points it in the prone man’s face, threatening to kill the person he believes would have killed him. Protesting that he is only a poor, desperate man, the stranger tells his life story and reveals his identity to Tom. He is Partridge, Squire Allworthy’s old barber who was named as Tom’s father when Tom was discovered as a baby. Tom joyously embraces the man he has been told is his father. Tom Jones, though, now throws its viewers a curve. Partridge quickly tells Tom that he is not really his father and that no one ever found out who Tom’s dad actually was. Partridge makes no mention of Tom’s mother and begs that Tom take him on as his servant, which Tom happily does.

Is Partridge Tom’s father?

(Spoiler alert!) Tom’s adventure continues in London (where he has an affair with a wealthy courtesan), and he eventually runs into Mr. Fitzpatrick again. The men duel (Mr. F. is always so testy), and Tom wounds Mr. Fitzpatrick. Upon the false testimony of a couple of goons hired by Tom’s evil cousin, Tom is set to hang for “armed robbery.” His loyal now-servant Partridge goes to petition Mr. Fitzpatrick to withdraw his charge against Tom and runs into—who else—Mrs. Waters. Except Partridge calls her “Jenny Jones,” the woman who is supposed to be Tom’s mother! In this scene, Jenny does not deny that she is Tom’s mother, and the viewer is led to believe that Tom has had an affair with his mom! How very Oedipus-like of him! Yet the film soon throws another curve at its audience, for Jenny knows the real truth of Tom’s parentage. “Breaking the fourth wall” (the one between the actor and the audience), Jenny explains to the camera and to the viewers that she is not Tom’s mom, but that she is the one who put Baby Tom in the squire’s bed all those years ago. Tom’s real mother was the squire’s sister, which makes Tom Squire Allworthy’s heir, so he can marry Sophie, and yada yada. Everyone’s supposed to feel good about everything at the end because this film is a comedy.

However, I do not feel good about it. Why does Tom Jones lead us in the first place to think that we are watching something incestuous? Does that make the movie funny? I certainly don’t think so. Furthermore, I don’t find it amusing in the least that Tom continually succumbs to the sexual allures of basically every female who crosses his path (regardless of age, marital status, reputation, etc.), yet still claims to only love Sophie. This disgusts me. Sophie, meanwhile, though a bit atypical for the time period in her bravery and determination to find Tom in his banishment, appears weak to me as she remains loyal to Tom (and notably chaste), loving him despite his “youthful follies.” If he is so apt to cheat on her before their marriage, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for his devotion after their marriage. And that thought pretty much eliminates for me any effort the film makes at comedy in its final scenes.

Sophie and Tom–just how long will their love actually last?

For Me Then…

So, in summary, Oedipus meets his real dad on the road, his dad fails to identify himself, and Oedipus kills him because he doesn’t know his real dad. Tom Jones meets the man he thinks is his real dad on a road and almost kills him before he finds out that the man is not his dad. Oedipus saves his mom, then marries her before discovering she is in fact his mom. Tom also saves the woman whom he knows to be his mom; except because she goes by another name, he has no qualms about sleeping with her. Once the film’s viewers find out who she is, we only have to wait for a couple of revolting minutes before we learn Tom has not involved himself in incest because she is not really his mother. A very twisted Oedipus story, but one with clear parallels.

My question then is what’s the big deal that Tom Jones resembles Oedipus? What might this movie be offering us depth-wise in its use and modification of such a famous motif? The one conclusion I came to is that, in a movie in which Tom is blamed for much mischief and mayhem (most of it involving escapades of a sexual nature), it would seem that the Oedipus connection perhaps is intended to remove some of the responsibility he would otherwise carry for what happens in the plot. In other words, fate plays a huge role in both Tom’s indiscretions and in his restoration to Squire Allworthy’s good graces and fortune. It’s not completely Tom’s fault that he can’t commit to Sophie and stay out of other women’s beds. What is he really to do? Boys will be boys. And I think the film’s premise that this idiotic statement is true is meant to be the basis for all the film’s supposedly comic situations. But, personally, I don’t think it’s funny at all.

Bawdy. I think every source I read for this film called it “bawdy.” And it is. Tom Jones (1963, Woodfall Production; United Artists-Lopert Pictures) is by far the raunchiest Best Picture winner we’ve looked at yet. Forget the innuendo of Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, and The Apartment—not to mention, the seaside make-out scene in From Here to Eternity doesn’t seem quite so scandalous now. Even despite the, um, gratuitous displays of bosoms and the sex-obsessed male characters, I still found Tom Jones to be pretty much the worst BP winner so far. It was just quite stupid, to put it bluntly.

In 1964, though, the Academy disagreed big time, handing Tom Jones ten nominations, of which it won four: Music (Music Score—substantially original), Writing (Screenplay—based on material from another medium), Directing for Tony Richardson, and Best Picture. The film was denied the Oscar for Art Direction (Color) and failed to win any acting awards, though it had captured five acting nominations: Actor in a Supporting Role for Hugh Griffith as Squire Western; Actress in a Supporting Role for Dame Edith Evans as Miss Western, Diane Cilento as Molly Seagrim, and Joyce Redman as Jenny Jones/Mrs. Waters; and Actor for Albert Finney as the title character. I discovered randomly yesterday that Albert Finney played Daddy Warbucks in my favorite film version of Annie (1982)—all the times I’ve watched that movie, I never realized I was watching “Tom Jones” sing and dance!

Albert Finney as a charming Daddy Warbucks in 1982’s Annie.

One last issue I have with the Academy in regard to Tom Jones. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how this dumb film beat out Cleopatra—yes, the one with Elizabeth Taylor—for the Academy’s highest honor. I had the privilege of viewing Cleopatra in the theater a few years back when it was briefly re-released in tribute to Elizabeth Taylor after her recent death. It was overwhelmingly gaudy and really long (and not a little bawdy too); but I think as a whole, it certainly (and very easily) dwarfs Tom Jones.

Elizabeth Taylor in one of her most iconic roles–as Cleopatra.

Maybe the novel Tom Jones is better? As an English person, I should really read it, I guess. Then again, the Penguin Classics edition is over 1,000 pages long, and this person still has a few more months of thesis writing before summer break…Well, in case you’re considering going for the read, here’s a bit of info on Henry Fielding and his classic novel, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. Fielding was born into the British aristocracy at the beginning of the eighteenth century. His social life seems to have mirrored that of his Tom Jones character. He didn’t know how to exercise tact in his satirical writing; so during his early (and prolific) career as a playwright, he got himself out of favor a bit with the powers that be—in fact, the Theatrical Licensing Act of 1737 can mostly be blamed on him, and the censorship it enacted ran him out of the theater and into a career as a journalist and novelist. After publishing the novel Joseph Andrews to a lukewarm reception in 1742, Fielding dropped Tom Jones on the world in 1749. It quickly became a best-seller. It is supposed to wrestle with issues such as: “class, marriage for love vs. marriage for money, greed, jealousy, revenge, forgiveness, reconciliation, and the search for wisdom.” While some of these elements are present in the film version, they are not dealt with very deeply; nor can they rise above the morass of promiscuity enough to be taken seriously, in my opinion.

The utterly ridiculous (but famous) eating scene from Tom Jones.

One reviewer of Tom Jones, the film, proposed that the movie was so successful because 1963 was the same year that the Beatles released their first album in America. The so-called British Invasion was certainly underway when the 1964 Academy Awards ceremony was held on April 13 (the Beatles had been on The Ed Sullivan Show a couple months earlier on February 9), though Tom Jones was probably in post-production in July when Introducing the Beatles hit American record shelves (the film premiered in the U.S. in October 1963). It is an interesting theory, however, that Anglophilia led to the popularity and achievements of Tom Jones. One random (but interesting to me!) fact about the film in connection to bands of the 1960s is the comparison that can be made between the odd scene in the inn (during which the characters run up and down stairs and through different doors while the film moves in fast forward) and the typical “Monkee romps” that were featured in pretty much every episode of The Monkees only a few years later in the decade. I’m a HUGE Monkees fan, and it so delights me to include them in a BP post (especially as I slog my way through a film I detest!).

1963 was a year that saw more than the advent of the Fab Four. There was a new pope, nationwide U.S. zip codes, and a shiny new Pro Football Hall of Fame. More importantly, Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his incomparable “I Have a Dream” speech while standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Sidney Poitier became the first African American to win Best Actor (for Lilies of the Field). Lee Harvey Oswald ascended six flights of stairs in the Texas School Book Depository to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. And film-wise, all we have to show for a year like that is Tom Jones. Pathetic.

For more thoughts on Tom Jones and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

I’m addicted to history. I can’t get enough of it. In my studies of the past, one thing that I find endlessly fascinating is the effect individuals have on the course of history. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King. What would our world (and even our individual lives) be like today had these men not lived and/or had not done what they did?

I’m not sure that I can put T. E. Lawrence on the same scale as a Caesar or Lincoln, but nevertheless his life is one of those that just erupts into history and achieves what would seem to be the impossible, leaving an earthquake of an impact on the past, the aftershocks of which still reverberate in the present. The film Lawrence Of Arabia emphasizes this power of the individual; but while extolling Lawrence’s amazing achievements, the movie also stresses the vulnerability and pain that an individual faces—especially an individual whose talents and successes have elevated him to the realm of mythology where his slightest mistakes and weaknesses are magnified ten-fold.

As soon as the film starts, it is clear that Lawrence is unique. He rides his motorcycle with surety and abandon (to his unfortunate demise). He possesses skills that others in the British Army lack, namely an understanding of Middle Eastern culture and military strategy. He is a misfit—not truly at home with his British comrades, but clearly not Middle Eastern with his fair skin and piercing blue eyes. Yet Lawrence himself seems aware of his calling in life. He knows where he needs to be: in the desert, inspiring the Arab tribes to unite to defeat their Turkish oppressors. Nothing can hinder him from achieving his dream for the Arabs.

Much of the first half of the film lauds Lawrence’s success in the desert. He earns the trust of Prince Feisal and elevates himself in the eyes of the Arab warriors whose company he keeps through learning to dress like them, ride camels like they do, and endure the trials of the scorching desert with them. He even risks his life to return to the most merciless part of the desert, the “Sun’s Anvil,” to rescue Gasim who is left behind when he succumbs to the heat. Lawrence also masterfully persuades the fickle and violent Auda and his forces to join him and Sherif Ali in their surprise attack on the Turkish-held port of Aqaba. The film shows how this Englishman has pretty much singlehandedly inspired and organized a seemingly unstoppable Arab army.

The defeat of Aqaba is perhaps Lawrence’s greatest triumph, having survived the desert and begun to unify the bickering Arab tribes. However, just before this great victory, Lawrence executes Gasim, the very man he had risked his life to save, after Gasim murders one of Auda’s men as part of a blood feud. Lawrence’s inserting himself into Arab issues isn’t new, but his propping himself up as executor of justice and executioner is. Additionally, Lawrence shoots Gasim multiple times, certainly more than is necessary to achieve his death. Later in Cairo, Lawrence confesses that a part of him enjoyed the killing. At this point in the film, the emphasis on the power of the individual is disturbing, to say the least. Lawrence takes life as easily as he saves it, and both enemies and friends fall under his command.

Lawrence executes his own justice.

Though it can be argued that Gasim, a murderer, deserved to die, several other deaths in the film are just as or even more disturbing since Lawrence is either responsible for them or is their initiator. (Spoiler alert!) When one of his young servants, Daud, falls into a sinkhole while crossing the Sinai Peninsula with Lawrence and the other servant boy, Ferraj, Lawrence’s effort to save Daud seems weak and halfhearted. Likewise, when Ferraj is wounded in a botched detonation to destroy a Turkish train, Lawrence shoots him in the head supposedly to prevent his being captured and tortured by the Turks, a fate which the Arabs say is worse than death.

However, Lawrence himself is captured and tortured by the Turks later in the film, and he survives. Although he is changed by the horrifying ordeal, I wonder if he would have preferred for someone to have shot him in the head to prevent his pain. In other words, is Lawrence inconsistent in his administration of justice and mercy? He definitely allows his personal pain to influence his decision-making. When he and his Arab fighters come across bedraggled and fleeing Turkish troops, Lawrence deliberates briefly but then orders their annihilation in a bloodbath in which he gleefully (and somewhat insanely) participates.

Lawrence leading his troops into battle.

In each of these instances, we see the influence of the individual in history—the power of one man to change minds, inspire action, and accomplish the seemingly impossible. At the same time, the film shows how the inner conflict of one person can also affect history. Lawrence, unsure how to deal with the discomfort of being an outsider and scarred by his treatment at the hands of his enemies, lashes out against both those for whom he cares and those whom he despises, leaving a trail of death and destruction behind him even as he tramples the enemies who block his path to Damascus and a united Arab Middle East.

What happens when Lawrence and his Arab cohorts occupy Damascus really sums up what we often see with great individuals whose actions help shape the course of history. Although his achievements draw the world’s awe and admiration, Lawrence ultimately fails in what he wants to do. Unable to set aside their petty differences and age-old rivalries, the leaders of the Arab tribes nearly come to arms in the very venue in which Lawrence intends for them to declare their freedom and begin their new world. Lawrence might be a great leader of men, but he is flawed—just as are his Arab friends. His own personal conflict is magnified due to his Cyclopean image. Small errors become large ones, and Lawrence finds himself alone in the hall and without his dream.

For Me Then…

“The trick…is not minding that it hurts.”

At the beginning of the film, Lawrence shows off to some fellow British soldiers as he puts out a burning match with his fingers. In response to one of his fellow’s protests that such an action is painful, Lawrence replies, “The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.” To the contrary, though, the film clearly shows that Lawrence is frequently hurt and does “mind it.” While performing his nearly immortal tasks, Lawrence suffers physical pain and discomfort, along with the mental anguish of regret, the memories of trauma, and the unending search for who he is. In large part, this quest for identity inspires Lawrence’s actions and, thus, also his greatness; but in the end it leaves him lonely and reckless. Those at his grand funeral sing his praises, but obviously know nothing about the man behind the legend. History places Lawrence of Arabia on a pedestal; but as the film shows us, sometimes an individual who seems the least affected by the world’s madness could actually be simply trying to escape his/her own world of hurt.

If you would like to wear (or even simply possess) a pair of sandals that the real Lawrence of Arabia wore during his legendary quest to defeat the Turks and form a united Arab state in the Middle East, you can do so if you are the highest bidder at the December 19 auction in Derbyshire, UK. You could literally walk in the shoes of the man who inspired this week’s BP, Lawrence Of Arabia (1962; Horizon Pictures, Ltd., Columbia). Pretty neato.

Lawrence and Sherif Ali

It’s difficult to determine which has made a greater impact on modern society, the real T.E. Lawrence or the film version of his life. Here we have another motion picture whose title gets tossed around in conversations that start with “Name the greatest movie of all time.” Personally, I found Lawrence of Arabia to be a compilation of stunning shots of desert vistas set to a glorious score amid the exaltation of the often questionable exploits of a psychologically damaged human being—not to say that Lawrence didn’t have more guts than the average person. Numerous times in the film Lawrence himself insists that he is above ordinary, and perhaps that was true.

Just a taste of this epic film’s stunning visuals!

The striking motion picture made about his extraordinary life captured seven Oscars out of ten nominations: Film Editing, Art Direction (Color), Cinematography (Color), Music (Music Score—substantially original), Sound, Directing for David Lean (he had previously won for The Bridge on the River Kwai), and Best Picture. The film failed to take home trophies for Writing (Screenplay—based on material from another medium), Actor in a Supporting Role for Omar Sharif as Sherif Ali, and (perhaps most surprising) Best Actor for Peter O’Toole as T.E. Lawrence. Lawrence of Arabia’s biggest competition at the 1963 Academy Awards came from the lovely black-and-white classic adaptation of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird—thus the reason for Lawrence of Arabia’s lack of success in the Writing category. Plus, my heart rests a little easier in knowing that O’Toole’s denial of Oscar glory was due to Gregory Peck’s fabulous portrayal of Atticus Finch—what could be one of the most memorable performances by a lead male actor in the history of film. But as an English person, I’m a little biased toward literary masterpieces…

The real Lawrence of Arabia

Lawrence’s real life, while indeed outrageous, was also beset with pain and difficulties. His legend paints him as both warrior and cultural phenomenon—able to insinuate himself into the Arab world like he was born there, masterminding ingenious attacks on Turkish bases of power, and even trying his hand at the diplomacy and political maneuvering it would take to establish a unified Arab Middle East. He wasn’t always successful in his endeavors during World War I. He was once taken captive by the Turks and subjected to torture that left him struggling from PTSD and which moved him to commit what could be termed war atrocities against his enemies.

Lawrence, his composition somehow lending itself to greatness, nonetheless seemed to struggle with his own identity and purpose. After his goal of a self-governed Arab state failed to be realized, he attempted to escape from his larger-than-life self, living under an alias; serving in menial roles in the British Army; and residing in a small, isolated cottage in England. Though Winston Churchill (as British Colonial Secretary) would persuade Lawrence to briefly help him try to resolve the crisis that occurred in the Middle East after World War I, Lawrence’s death in a motorcycle accident in 1935 eliminated any possibility of his return to aid his country in what would become an even more dire situation in World War II. Churchill mourned him, saying, “I deem him one of the greatest beings alive in our time. I do not see his like elsewhere. I fear whatever our need we shall never see his like again.”

Newspaper announcement of Lawrence’s death

Somehow, though, Lawrence transcends time. Even in the Middle East today, his legend survives, though his motives are perhaps less trusted than they were during the Great War. The film’s reputation likewise continues to thrive, consistently holding its ranking on top film lists and continuing to wow its viewers with its scale and beauty. I think the story of a relatively ordinary person thrust into extraordinary times and presented with rare opportunities appeals to all of us who want to leave an imprint on the world, to achieve something that really matters and will last.

The release of the film version of Lawrence’s story–regardless of the extent of its historical accuracy–came at a time when the United States and other parts of the world were again facing the dilemma of a prolonged war against an unfamiliar foe: Vietnam. But while the Vietnam War devoured young Americans abroad, the homefront was the stage of massive demonstrations–both of the anti-war type and the civil rights variety. In the waves of history, conflict just never dies. Like Lawrence earlier in the century, individuals were emerging in the 1960s to lead the way through the conflicts–men whose media-created images overshadowed lives filled with difficult choices and private tragedy. I think the epic sweep of Lawrence of Arabia is just as much about that inner struggle as it is about the more public adventures of one unique man.

If anyone is interested in some further reading on Lawrence of Arabia, here are a couple of sources I found interesting. The Smithsonian’s more comprehensive article about Lawrence’s life and lingering Arab reputation can be found here: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/true-story-lawrence-arabia-180951857/?spMailingID=21097645&spJobID=360468626&page=1&spReportId=MzYwNDY4NjI2S0&spUserID=NzQwNDYxMjA0NDkS1. An article explaining how Lawrence’s death eventually helped to decrease the number of motorcycle fatalities in Britain can be found here: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-32622465. And if you are interested in bidding for those sandals, go here first: http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-derbyshire-42236618.

For more thoughts on Lawrence of Arabia and its significance, please check out the full post (also this weekend)!

Hello, Everyone!

As you may have noticed, I took a short “sabbatical” last week for Thanksgiving, and I will be extending my break through this week as well.

Looking forward to discussing the inimitable Lawrence of Arabia with you all next week!

Best regards, Sarah

Those familiar with Shakespeare’s plays know that the tragedies usually end with bodies strewn across the stage and shocked surviving characters trying to determine how they will live out the rest of their lives in the aftermath of the bloodbath. (Spoiler alert!) West Side Story, true to its source material Romeo and Juliet, doesn’t disappoint our morbid anticipation–yet the film does diverge pretty significantly from the finale of the tale of the famous doomed lovers.

As noted in West Side Story’s Weekday Warm-up, the film (and all its death) really addresses issues that have not ceased to be relevant to society: the sense and actuality of belonging to a country, teenage delinquency and feelings of inadequacy, and the never-ending war between love and hatred. All of these issues fuel the conflict and killing that occur in the story. The vicious rivalry between the Jets (led by Riff) and the Sharks (led by Bernardo) is fed by their racial differences—at least, on the surface. But both groups completely understand what it feels like to struggle to be accepted by society.

Riff (fourth from left) and the Jets

The Jets, racially white, are only second-generation Americans, sons of immigrants. They don’t have foreign-sounding accents, but there are hints that they have only recently come into what they see as their possession of the west side of town. At the beginning of the film, Riff reminds the Jets how they’ve defended their territory from other gangs: “Now we fought hard for this turf and we ain’t just gonna give it up…The Emeralds claimed it. We shut ’em out. The Hawks, remember, they tried to take it away, and we knocked ’em down to the cellar.” The Jets view the Puerto Rican Sharks in the same way as the Emeralds and the Hawks, but it is also possible to see the Sharks as the Jets—newly arrived young men who want to make a place for themselves in America. In the song “When You’re a Jet,” Riff and the Jets explain how being in the gang gives them a feeling of home: “When you’re a Jet, let ’em do what they can / You’ve got brothers around, you’re a family man! / You’re never alone, you’re never disconnected, you’re home with your own.” While these sons of immigrants find belonging in their gang, it seems like the song implies that they struggle with loneliness and disconnectedness in the world outside (or before) the Jets.

This feeling of having to claw one’s way into an American circle of acceptance is mirrored in the Sharks’ attitude toward America and the reception they are receiving in their new land. Anita, Bernardo’s girlfriend, grumbles, “Once an immigrant, always an immigrant.” But in the super catchy song “America,” Anita and her female Puerto Rican friends exult the positive facets of coming to America, while Bernardo and his male friends negate them with observations of how living conditions in America for Puerto Ricans are less than satisfactory—especially when they are constantly mistreated just for being new to the country and less white than many of those around them. “We had nothing [in Puerto Rico],” Anita insists, so life in America for the Sharks should be an improvement—in theory, their children would be like the boys who make up the Jets, somewhat established in the country, no longer complete foreigners.

What I find so ironic, then, is that if Riff and Bernardo would step back from their testosterone-fueled bickering over whose “turf” the west side is, they might realize that they are almost mirror images of each other—the only real difference is their race. The thing is, Riff only acknowledges that difference between himself and Bernardo and vice versa. Riff and the Jets experience a growing panic that the Puerto Ricans will invade and overtake everything that the Jets’ immigrant parents have fought to win for themselves and their children: “[The Puerto Ricans are] eatin’ our food. They’re breathin’ all the air…We gotta let ’em move in right under our noses and take it all away from us, or else.”

Bernardo and Riff, more alike than they realize, resort to a knife fight to settle their differences.

In one sense then, at the rumble, Bernardo and Riff’s knife fight is really a display of self-defense on both sides (a very offensive self-defense). Bernardo kills Riff because he wants to belong and is sick of being excluded, extorted, accused, misjudged, etc. Riff represents those who have mistreated the Puerto Ricans and stands in the way of Bernardo and his family’s welfare and success in their new world. On the other hand, Riff wants to kill Bernardo out of fear that the acceptance that he has received as a second-generation immigrant is in danger from new immigrants—people who could potentially steal his jobs, women, property, etc. It is tragic that there is no one to intervene between these two misguided and paranoid young men. What a waste their premature deaths are!

Yet Bernardo’s death does not come as a result of someone else’s twisted self-defense. Instead, Tony kills Bernardo out of mindless revenge for killing his closest friend Riff. Chino likewise kills Tony out of revenge as well (either for Bernardo’s death or for stealing Maria from him)—and Shakespeare’s readers know that revenge never works out how the killer intends. There are always consequences and very little fulfillment. Plus, all this carnage usually stems from an issue that could simply be talked over and resolved peacefully.

For Me Then…

At the end of the film, after all the killing, the burden of revenge (and literally the means to do it) falls then to Maria who has several choices: kill herself (which would follow Shakespeare’s story line), kill Chino and continue the cycle of killing (she would then become next in line to die in retribution), or forgive. There are a few tense moments when it would seem that Maria will choose the first two options, taking out as many of the members of both gangs as she can before killing herself: “How many bullets are left, Chino? Enough for you, and you? All of you. You all killed him! And my brother, and Riff. Not with bullets and guns – with hate. Well, I can kill too because now I have hate! How many can I kill, Chino? How many and still have one bullet left for me?” But as she views the regretful, shattered faces gathered around Tony’s dead body, she makes a choice to end the violence, discarding the weapon of revenge. Members of both gangs help to remove Tony’s body, and Maria follows them out as the film closes.

Maria contemplates continuing the cycle of revenge.

But as usual, I suppose, I still have a few lingering questions. After Anita’s lie deceives Tony into believing Maria is dead and making himself vulnerable to Chino’s attack, what does the sisterly relationship between Anita and Maria look like after the film’s close? Does Maria ever find out that Anita carries quite a decent bit of the blame for Tony’s death? If she does, can she forgive what her closest friend has done? Does the peace between the two gangs really last? What does their non-aggressive relationship look like when the new day finally dawns? Throughout the film, the teenagers are referred to as “no good,” “disturbed,” etc.; what is the practical solution to what is basically their kill-or-be-killed life on the streets? Can society save them? Is it even society’s duty to remedy this problem? And here’s my final big question: considering how Romeo and Juliet so famously finishes with the deaths of both protagonists, why does West Side Story not kill off Maria too?

I think that the film uses Maria’s survival to show its viewers that there is a better solution to conflict than violence against oneself or against others. Maria deliberately chooses to approach the deaths of Riff and her brother Bernardo in a different way than Anita does. Anita, while viciously and unacceptably treated at Doc’s, still must know that her lie about Maria’s death will lead to more heartbreak. She either does not care that Tony, the love of her best friend, will be killed; or she doubts Tony is capable of truly loving Maria and figures he’ll just move on. Either way, Anita’s choice to continue the destruction marks her last appearance in the film and is directly contrary to Maria’s final stance on violence.

Violence only begets more violence as the film clearly demonstrates, and the senselessness and tragedy must end somewhere. And, sometimes it just takes one person to put down the weapon and walk away. Maria could have given Chino what he had demanded from Tony as payment for his murder of Bernardo: death. She also could have ended her own pain by shooting herself. But neither of these actions offers a solution to the pain of not being accepted or to the dilemma of teenage angst or to the strife of racism. Only forgiveness can make a fresh start both for the former immigrants and for the new ones.

The iconic “balcony scene” with Tony and Maria–before tragedy strikes.

The first of four musicals to win Best Picture in the 1960s, West Side Story (1961, Mirisch Pictures, Inc. and B and P Enterprises, Inc.; United Artists) nearly catapulted itself into the elite realm of films to have won 11 Oscars, the current record (in 1961, only one film to date had done so: 1959’s Ben-Hur). Instead, the film fell one Oscar short, winning all but one of its 11 nominations: Art Direction (Color), Cinematography (Color), Costume Design (Color), Music (Scoring of a Musical Picture), Film Editing, Sound, Directing for Robert Wise and Jerome Robbins (Robbins also received an honorary award for his choreography), Actor in a Supporting Role for George Chakiris as Bernardo, Actress in a Supporting Role for Rita Moreno as Anita, and Best Motion Picture (the film failed to take home the Academy Award in its nominated category of Writing [Screenplay based on material from another medium]). Rita Moreno would go on to become one of a very elite group of entertainers to win the “grand slam” of American show business: capturing a Grammy, a Tony, and an Emmy (well, two Emmys actually) in addition to her Oscar. West Side Story remains the winningest musical in Oscar history (although I would probably argue that The Sound of Music is the greatest musical to ever win BP, but that is just me…).

Maria (Natalie Wood), Anita (Rita Moreno), and Bernardo (George Chakiris) at the dance at the gym.

None of the film’s memorable songs was eligible for an Oscar since the Academy requires that a song be specifically written for a film in order to qualify for the competition (hence, Original Song). Fun fact: prior to 1941, the only requirement for a Best Song nominee was that the tune had to appear in a film that was released during the award year; but as you can imagine, that lack of specificity led to a few controversies. For 1961, the award for Music (Song) went to Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer for the lovely “Moon River” from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a legitimate winner, in my opinion, even if West Side Story’s “Tonight,” “America,” or “Somewhere” had qualified (but, man, do I get goosebumps every time I listen to the Ensemble version of “Tonight”—reminds me of “One Day More” from Les Misérables).

West Side Story’s songs are not original to the film because the film is based on the smash Broadway play of the same name. In the late 1940s, Jerome Robbins, who would become the choreographer and co-director of West Side Story, proposed an idea to Leonard Bernstein (the composer) and Arthur Laurents (the writer) for a new musical based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Robbins’ original idea was for the musical to focus on anti-Semitism, presenting a conflict between a Jewish family and an Irish Catholic family set in New York’s Lower East Side. The play’s original title was East Side Story, which doesn’t quite have the same ring as the final product’s name does! Laurents wrote the story, but the three men felt that the topic had already been addressed in other plays and abandoned their project. Nearly five years later, Laurents and Berstein met up in Hollywood. As fate would have it, their conversation turned to juvenile street gangs, a relatively new element of society that was fast making headlines in the 1950s. The men decided to return to their earlier project, East Side Story, and alter it to focus on Puerto Rican immigrants in Harlem and the gang environment there. The creators of the newly titled West Side Story now brought in a young Stephen Sondheim (the lyricist), who at the urging of Oscar Hammerstein agreed to assist with the musical’s songs. The result was a show that led one critic from the New York Daily News to exclaim, “This is a bold new kind of musical theatre – a juke-box Manhattan opera. It is, to me, extraordinarily exciting.” West Side Story ran on Broadway for 732 consecutive performances before going on tour. It nearly won the Tony Award for Best Musical of 1957, losing to The Music Man.

As we discussed a few months back with 1948’s BP winner Hamlet, Shakespeare’s genius is endlessly drawn upon for film inspiration. What is interesting about West Side Story’s take on Romeo and Juliet is how the film replaces the Montague-Capulet family feud with ethnic gang warfare, a concept that was anything but foreign at the beginning of the 1960s during which sit-ins were occurring across the South, as were the Freedom Rides and the integration of public schools. The conflict between love and hate in West Side Story plays out against the backdrop of racial inequality, a sick feature of society that still thrives today. West Side Story, though memorable for its classic songs, its stars like Natalie Wood, and its tragic teenage melodrama, really poses several extremely applicable questions: What makes an American? What is the solution to teenage lawlessness and delinquency? How does love persevere in a world full of hatred?

For more thoughts on West Side Story and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

I don’t often like to be obvious. Okay, sometimes I still end up being obvious, but I don’t necessarily like to be so. With regards to The Apartment, the obvious focus of this post would consist of discussing how all the married men in this film constantly have affairs. So I started thinking how I could draw something more out of that unsavory aspect of the movie in order to create a thought-provoking post that people would actually want to read. So I thought and I thought and I thought…about men committing adultery. Highly unpleasant food for meditation. But, it led me to realize that all of the women in the film’s affairs are not technically committing adultery—because they’re not married. They’re accomplices in the married men’s committing adultery, I guess we could say.

We do get the married and outlandish Mrs. Margie MacDougall, whose husband is a jockey imprisoned in Cuba for drugging a horse (hello, Cold War—and how random!). It seems quite clear that Baxter, who meets Margie at a bar, is not actually going to go through with the proposed fling, even though he takes Margie home and tells her he’s a “sexpot.” In fact, I’m not sure that Margie would have gone through with the affair either since all she does is talk about her husband and bewail her loneliness—furthermore, how many women looking to cheat on their spouses would actually introduce themselves to prospective lovers as “Mrs.”?

Back to the women who do participate in affairs. The film clearly informs its viewers that it is improbable (and unconscionable) that a married woman would enter into an extramarital relationship—even though her husband most likely will. Frankly, when would she have the time to do so? Her every waking moment is spent in pleasing her frequently absent husband—keeping house, raising children, cooking meals, making the social rounds. In short, married women are to be June Cleaver. Single women fall into two groups: “good girls” and “fair game.” And in The Apartment, I don’t think we actually ever see any woman from the former group—although, like Baxter, we are at first led to believe that Fran is one of the girls who does not let herself be romanced by the predatory, older, married men in the office building.

It is interesting that the film shows us that seemingly wholesome Fran can still fall in love and allow herself to participate in an affair with, excuse me, a self-centered jerk of a married man like Jeff Sheldrake. Perhaps the movie is saying that any woman can make such a mistake and find herself feeling as broken and desperate as Fran does when she realizes that Mr. Sheldrake has a long history of stringing along impressionable women from the office. Her suicide attempt becomes even more sympathetic if we are to think along the lines of “But for the grace of God, there go I.”

Fran’s rendezvous with Mr. Sheldrake in the same corner booth that he shared with all his former mistresses.

Another factor to consider in the relationship between men and women in The Apartment has to do with money. In this particular office complex, men work as accountants, clerks, and executives. Women mostly perform secretarial duties, man the telephone switchboard, and operate elevators. But it is obvious that the company executives neither view women as qualified for the higher-up positions nor worthy of the same pay as their male employees. Sounds a bit familiar. To go a step further yet, Fran confides in Baxter that when she applied for a secretarial position at the company, she failed the typing test because she cannot spell. The company’s solution was to “[give Fran] a pair of white gloves and [stick her] in an elevator.” How many more of the nameless female employees have stories similar to Fran’s? Not only are the women in the office complex exploited by their married male co-workers, but they are also under-educated and underpaid.

Baxter on his way to be promoted, fomenting adultery in exchange for his own office.

One could argue that the office women are compensated in different ways (dinners, alcohol, jewelry, etc.) for their services—at least those who allow themselves to get involved with the wealthier and more powerful men in the company. In a way, this exchange of goods for sex amounts to prostitution; however, women are not the only ones who play this game of giving something of themselves in order to receive some benefit. In fact, we could look at Baxter as a “call girl” of sorts too—he’s at the whim of the higher-ups at his office; he’s compensated (financially and job-wise) for the use of his property (the apartment); and he’s discarded when no longer wanted. Both men and women, therefore, are taken advantage of by those in positions of authority in The Apartment—sexual pressure is put on women (and also in a way on Baxter as enabler/accomplice to the trysts) and employment/advancement pressure is put on men (and women too). Men’s economic vulnerabilities (having to support families and themselves) are exploited, as are women’s emotional ones. Capitalism doesn’t always have to do with money. People can just as well be used as currency.

For Me Then…

In a film about an office and the goings on that occur among its employees, the film’s title directs us to look closely at the significance of Baxter’s apartment. To be obvious again, the apartment is the locale in which the men physically cheat on their wives, but the men’s infidelity of thought and emotion and intent is not contained within the walls of Baxter’s abode. It’s a problem that begins in their minds and hearts.

In The Apartment, the corporate world is a mess, much as it is now. Yet even more troubling than the ethical morass of the business world is the swamp of the human heart. It neglects the feelings of others. It undervalues fellow human beings regardless of gender. It uses and abuses people for a few moments’ pleasure–or for a brief hiatus from the pain of a lonely and unfulfilling life. I think that oftentimes those who inflict hurt are just as broken as those who end up maimed like Fran.

In Fran’s compact mirror, Baxter sees he is just as broken as Fran.

At the end of the film (spoiler alert!), Fran has realized her affections for Baxter and runs up the stairs to his apartment when she hears what she believes is a gunshot, the sound of Baxter ending his life in despair because of his unrequited love for her. For a few seconds, the film’s viewers observe how Fran identifies Baxter with her formerly desperate self. Both characters have been taken for granted and abused by people dangling promises of love and wealth, and Fran understands the emptiness that comes from giving oneself to someone whose cares are physical and whose concerns are minimal. Fran is relieved to discover that Baxter has only popped the cork on a wine bottle, and the film closes with a charming scene of Fran and Baxter playing cards, an activity they undertook earlier in the film during Fran’s recovery in the apartment. I would like to think that the simplicity and healing that occur at the film’s close indicate a message that broken people don’t have to continue to yield to the pain inflicted by others, nor do they have to resort to suicide as an escape from abuse. Broken people can start over. The world might not change its lustful, promotion-hungry ways, but we don’t have to let our lives be dictated by those norms.

Baxter and Fran, finally satisfied enough with each other, finish their card game in the apartment.

Welcome to the groovy 1960s! And just as we catapult ourselves into a fresh, new decade, we get a film about capitalism, sexism, and infidelity. Wonderful.

Not all the films from the 60s will be like The Apartment (1960, The Mirisch Company, Inc.; United Artists). We’ll get a monster epic drama in Lawrence of Arabia, as well as the period drama A Man for All Seasons and the racially charged drama In the Heat of the Night. We’ll also throw in a comedy of sorts with Tom Jones and the only rated-X movie (later downgraded to R-rated) to win Best Picture, Midnight Cowboy (looking forward to that one, sarcasm intended). For me, though, film in the 60s is more defined by blockbuster musicals (BP winners West Side Story, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, and Oliver!, to name a few). My parents, who spent the 1960s as pre-teens/young teens, flooded our childhood with the music and melodies of these films. To sum up the decade that lies before us, then, I’m looking forward to the nostalgia of some of the best-loved films of all time, while dreading a couple of the decade’s other winners—but hey, these films are definitely indicative of the somewhat wholesome/somewhat rowdy/oftentimes chaotic 1960s.

Fran and Baxter chat on the way up to the 19th floor.

The Apartment took home Oscar’s biggest prize in one of those years that was pretty intense for film as 1960 saw the release of all of the following “classics”: Spartacus (the big epic), Inherit the Wind (the Scopes Trial, Hollywood-style), The Alamo (directed by and starring John Wayne), Pollyanna (a childhood favorite), and Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (gives me the heebie-jeebies just mentioning it)—not to mention a pretty successful remake of 1931’s BP winner Cimarron. Altogether, The Apartment received 10 Academy Award nominations, including: Cinematography (Black-and-White), Sound, Actor for Jack Lemmon as C. C. Baxter, Actor in a Supporting Role for Jack Kruschen as Dr. Dreyfuss (I loved him!), and Actress for Shirley MacLaine as Fran Kubelik. The film won five Oscars: Art Direction (Black-and-White), Writing (Story and Screenplay—written directly for the screen), Film Editing, Directing for Billy Wilder, and Best Motion Picture. Wilder personally took home three Oscars for The Apartment as he wrote, directed, and produced the film (he added these Oscars to the two he won for writing and directing 1945’s BP The Lost Weekend). Perhaps The Apartment was destined to win Best Picture since it makes reference to at least two other BPs: Baxter tries to watch Grand Hotel on TV while eating dinner (but he only sees ads), and someone refers to Baxter and Fran’s time together in his apartment as their “lost weekend.” A third BP allusion is possible with Baxter’s neighbor, Dr. Dreyfuss—his name brings to mind The Life of Emile Zola and Zola’s defense of the innocent Alfred Dreyfus.

I totally don’t remember this pose of Baxter’s from watching the film, but I couldn’t resist including it!

I find it a bit funny when the change from one decade to the next, in effect just a new number, is so in sync with the actual transformation of the times; but 1960 seems to usher in a whole new world, in a sense (pardon my Aladdin pun). That year featured the first televised presidential debates between John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon—the funny thing about that being the people who watched the debates on TV believed Kennedy had “won” and those listening on the radio said Nixon was victorious! Kennedy, of course, was elected President in November 1960. Just a few months before Kennedy’s win, President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed the Civil Rights Act of 1960, and Harper Lee published the wonderful To Kill a Mockingbird, both of these incidents flowing into the history-altering Civil Rights Movement that would rock the U.S. in the 1960s. This start of a new decade brought us the American flag as we now know it—with 50 stars since Alaska and Hawaii had joined the Union the previous year–launched the decade that would see an American man walk on the moon, and witnessed the U.S. fall prey to the Beatles’ invasion.

The Apartment is the child of these changing times. While presenting a more liberated feminine sexuality, it still shows women as objects. As it demonstrates the personal benefits of capitalism, it also emphasizes the negativity of a rat race that dehumanizes us toward our fellow human beings. And, while advocating romantic relationships based on love, it also expects (but not necessarily encourages) men especially to seek only their own well-being and to relegate their familial responsibilities to the sidelines. I think this film is an indication of murkier waters to come. Just more food for thought and fuel for discussion!

For more thoughts on The Apartment and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

Let’s start with a bit of a name game, a couple of thoughts about the character Judah Ben-Hur. “Ben-Hur” is mentioned in I Kings 4:7 as the name of the district governor of “the hill country of Ephraim” whose responsibility it was to provide provisions for Solomon and his court for one month of the year. That’s interesting, but “Judah” is even more profound in its associations. First, Judah was the name of one of the 12 sons of the Israelite patriarch Jacob; hence, it is also the name of one of the 12 Tribes of Israel. The original Judah was the ancestor of the great King David—who himself was the ancestor of Jesus Christ. When Solomon’s vast kingdom split in two during the reign of his son Rehoboam, the southern kingdom was named Judah. In Roman times, the setting of Ben Hur, land from both post-Solomonic kingdoms became the Roman province of Judea, the Jews who lived there subservient to the efficiently brutal Romans. Judah Ben-Hur, the character, he who shares a name with the tribe of David and Christ as well as with the land in which Christ was born, could represent the Judean province as a whole—in other words, he could be a metaphor for the Jewish people and their relationship with Rome.

Judah’s (the character) relationship with Rome is therefore fittingly complicated in the film. Judah himself is one of the elite and wealthy—possessing a social status that often indicated that one dealt well (politically, financially, etc.) with the foreign occupiers of the land. This is partly true, for Judah’s best childhood friend, Messala, is Roman. The two young men are as close as brothers, even when Messala, now a tribune, returns to Judea after a long absence fighting in Rome’s other foreign possessions. What divides Judah and Messala shortly after Messala takes command of the legion in Judea is their devotion to their people—or rather, Judah’s belief that God will one day free His people, and Messala’s dedication to the violence inherent in Rome’s trampling its enemies. Messala works for promotion and worldly glory. Judah yearns for freedom and for peace. Willing to sacrifice even his most treasured friendship in order to squash rumored Jewish rebellion, Messala makes use of a fateful accident to send Judah to the Roman galleys as a slave and to imprison Judah’s mother Miriam and sister Tirzah. That’s when Judah’s love of peace transforms into a life-long quest for vengeance.

Messala and Judah Ben-Hur, fast friends before Messala’s betrayal.

Judah’s longing and seeking for revenge mirrors the hatred his people hold for Rome. While earlier Judah was content to relegate himself to the sidelines and leave the fate of his people in the hands of their God, now he actively works to survive in order to kill Messala, believing that the murder of his former friend will bring him the peace he longs for. Ironically, in a deeply moving scene, while Judah is part of a forced march to the galleys, he experiences the first of two encounters that will change his life forever. Exhausted and almost dying with thirst, the slaves are driven (chained together) into the town of Nazareth so the Romans and their horses can have a drink break. The prisoners are only permitted to drink once the animals have had their fill; and the Romans are particularly brutal in their treatment of Judah, refusing him water altogether. A local villager, though, quietly defies the Romans and brings Judah water. When Judah looks into the man’s eyes, he is transfixed by what he sees there—apparently gentleness and endless compassion.

Judah’s first glimpse of Jesus.

Yet despite his meeting Jesus at Nazareth, Judah lives off his hatred and hope for revenge while a slave in the galleys. The powerful Roman officer Quintus Arrius, upon encountering Judah at his oar, tells him that his “eyes are full of hate” which is “good…[because] hate keeps a man alive. It gives him strength.” But it seems to me that there is something more than hate at work in Judah’s survival. For just as Judah himself insists to Messala at the film’s beginning that God has not given up on his people, so also has God not forsaken Judah—even in his rebellion, hatred, and diabolical plans to kill his former friend. God has a larger purpose at work for both Judah and the Jewish people under Roman domination.

(Spoiler alert!) After some quite ironic twists and turns of the plot (it’s a long story…), Judah is provided with the means and opportunity to take his revenge on Messala—as chariot driver for Sheik Ilderim. Balthazar, one of the three wise men and a guest of the sheik, warns Judah against taking vengeance, assuring him that God will punish Messala for the evil he has done. Judah disregards Balthazar’s shared wisdom and instead offers up an ironic prayer before the race: “God forgive me for seeking vengeance. But my path is set and into your hands I commit my life. Do with me as you will.” God will indeed do what he wants with Judah—even if Judah asks for pardon before he commits the offense!

The chariot race is thrilling but violent. Messala, having rigged his chariot wheels with blades to sabotage the others’ vehicles, eliminates many competitors before he and Judah finally clash head-to-head, physically assaulting each other while the horses sprint on. When his wheel shatters, Messala is dragged by his own black horses and trampled by those of the other racers whom he had tried to harm. Fatally wounded, he waits for Judah to come to speak to him under the arena, knowing Judah must come in order to satisfy his quest for vengeance. But Messala has one more wicked card to play. When Judah (seemingly feeling pity for his broken friend) approaches, Messala stokes his hatred: “Is enough of a man still left here for you to hate? Let me help you…You think they’re dead. Your mother and sister. Dead. And the race over. It isn’t over, Judah. They’re not dead…Look for them in the Valley of the Lepers, if you can recognize them. It goes on. It goes on, Judah. The race, the race is not over.” After ensuring that Judah’s hatred and suffering will continue, Messala dies. But I find it so important to the film’s emphasis on forgiveness that Judah achieves his goal of vengeance and discovers that it does nothing for him. He is just as empty and just as hateful of Rome and Messala (and what Rome did to Messala) as he was before the race. Using the race as a metaphor for Judah’s quest for revenge is quite brilliant—the arena being circular (revenge is endless) and the event bathed in blood and death. So many others were trampled in order for Judah to pay Messala back for what he did to Judah and his family—but those others were innocent. Furthermore, Messala pays with his life. Judah and his family still possess their lives. What Judah requires payment-wise of Messala and Rome is not exactly what he himself has received, even though his agony is significant.

Judah at the death of Messala after the chariot race.

It is at this point in the film when Jesus begins to invade the plot. His presence has overshadowed every moment to this point, but now He becomes more personally real to the characters. Esther, Judah’s love interest (another interesting name choice as it connotes a God-fearing Jew under the control of a foreign power), places her faith in Jesus and cannot help sharing his message of love and peace. Present at the Sermon on the Mount, she encourages Judah with the words she heard Jesus speak there: “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.” Judah has been neither merciful nor a peacemaker, and his lingering thirst for Roman blood has taken over his mind and heart so much so that he only cares for the downfall of Rome. He is blind to what is in front of him—the truth about God and His plan to save those who trust in Him.

What changes for Judah is his second encounter with the man who gave him water several years before—the nameless Nazareth carpenter. Desperate to save his dying sister and his weak mother, Judah and Esther attempt to take them to see Jesus. They are horrified to discover that Jesus has just been sentenced to death, and they are present as Jesus struggles to carry his cross through the streets of Jerusalem to the place of execution. Shocked, Judah recognizes Jesus and is determined to return the kind deed which Jesus did for him. When Jesus stumbles and falls, Judah runs to bring him water; and again the two lock eyes. That is when Judah truly begins to see. Drawn to Jesus, Judah witnesses the crucifixion, later telling Esther what he heard there: “Almost at the moment he died, I heard him say it, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’…Even then. And I felt His voice take the sword out of my hand.” Judah is transformed spiritually just as his mother and sister are changed physically, healed of their leprosy as the blood of Jesus flows down the cross and mingles with the waters of rain washing the land into a newness of hope.

In this second encounter with Jesus, Judah provides the water; but Christ gives Judah more than he had ever imagined.

For Me Then…

This story is all about forgiveness. At the beginning, Judah has nothing to forgive and so is willing to live at peace with Rome. After he and his family are so grievously wronged, he refuses to consider forgiveness. He becomes what his Jewish people are as a group—tired of waiting for God to free them from their Roman oppressors. Rather than being still and remembering the battle is the Lord’s, many of the Jews take matters into their own hands and plot violent revolt against their overlords, resorting to bloodshed just like the Romans do. The Jews also look for a savior, the Messiah—but they misunderstand who/what it is that they are waiting for. They want a physical salvation—the annihilation of those who acted out such atrocities against them. They think that this is the highest salvation that can be given to them. But they are wrong.

To the people of His day, Jesus’ commands probably seemed shockingly absurd to many: “Love your enemy. Do good to those who despitefully use you.” Love the Romans? Do good to those who imprison your family until they must live in disgrace as lepers? To Judah, these words are ridiculous—until he witnesses Jesus living them out first-hand—loving his persecutors, forgiving his executioners. How can Judah hate any longer when he has witnessed such a love?

For me, this film could not have come at a better point in my life. Like those first-century residents of Judea, I also frequently find it difficult to internalize and then live out the instructions that God has written in the Bible. It is far, far easier to cherish and act on hatred than it is to dwell on and extend love to those who have mistreated you. I find that, like Judah, I demand reparation for the wrongs that have been done to me. I want selfish people to have to relinquish what they’ve hoarded. I want cruel people to feel what it is like to be abused. I want and I want, endlessly desiring that God give people what they deserve in full and then some.

But He didn’t give me what I deserve, just like how in the film Jesus doesn’t give Judah what he deserves either. Jesus gives Judah grace and the peace (through love!) that Judah thought he could only have once he had put Messala in the ground. Yet not only does literally looking to Christ free Judah of the pain of his past, it also “take[s] the sword out of [his] hand,” removing the need for vengeance and filling Judah’s life with peace. That might be as profound a lesson as any we’ll see in these BPs. So what more can I say in conclusion but that I too need to look into the merciful and loving eyes of Jesus and learn from him how to love those who do wrong to me.