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The Passion of the Christ, directed by Mel
Gibson. Icon Production, 2004, 127 minutes.
The Passion of Mel
Gibson by Jo Ann Skousen
Drama has its foundation not in art or entertainment but
in religion. Long before the advent of passion plays recreating the final days of
the life of Christ or nativity pageants portraying his birth, primitive cultures
retold their legends through the chorus, a combination of dancing and chanting
designed to address the gods and teach the people obeisance. During the Golden
Age of Greek theater, the government sponsored a three-day festival each year
dedicated to the worship of Dionysius, the Greek god of wine and fertility, who
became the patron saintÊof Athens during winter, when Apollo oddly vacated to the
lands northward. Seated in huge marble amphitheaters, audiences would watch three
long tragedies, a short farce, and a comedy each day. At the end of the three-day
festival the playwrights were awarded prizes. Audiences returned to their homes
invigorated, with a renewed determination to honor their gods and accept their
fates.
| | Jo Ann
Skousen is a writer and critic living in New York.
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Hundreds of plays were written, although only a handful remain. These early
plays tended to present different versions of the same legends over and over
again. Consequently, audiences could be expected to know the stories inside and
out. They knew, for example, that Oedipus was destined to kill his father and
marry his mother, no matter how desperately he tried to avoid his fate. From year
to year the plays might focus on different aspects of the stories, but ultimately
it would be the same familiar legends each time.
So why did audiences continue to come? What is the point of seeing yet another
play about the same old story? For that matter, why do we attend movies like
"Titanic," "Miracle," "The Alamo," or "The Passion of the Christ"? We already
know that the ship is going to sink, the U.S. team is going to win, the Texans
are going to run out of ammo, and Jesus is going to die on the cross. We return
to these familiar tales of larger-than-life heroes not for the what but for the
why and the how of the story. What motivates a hero to risk his life, his wealth,
his sacred honor in pursuit of a cause? What tragic "if onlys" lead to a hero's
downfall? We imagine ourselves in the situation and wonder: could I have measured
up? Could I have avoided the tragic flaw? The best playwrights in ancient Greece,
and the best screenwriters today, are those who bring a fresh twist to the story,
who cause audiences to see the situations and the characters, and thus
themselves, from a different angle.
For this reason it is often the fictionalized side stories added to a
historical drama that attract our greatest attention. We can relate to the pretty
young socialite or the pacifist farmer drawn reluctantly into the Civil War, for
example, and experience history through their eyes. Factual history, then,
becomes a backdrop for the greater story of how ordinary people are changed by
extraordinary events. From the comfort and safety of a darkened theater, we can
experience those events vicariously through the actors onscreen or onstage.
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| Most brilliant, perhaps,
was Gibson's decision to insert a spooky, androgynous Satan into the story.
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Consequently, the very best of passion plays or movies about Jesus don't just
recreate the story step by agonizing step. Films like "The Robe," "The Silver
Chalice," and "Ben Hur" focus on how an ordinary person is affected by an
experience with Christ. In "Ben Hur", for example, Jesus is seen only from the
back, as he tenderly offers the parched, imprisoned Ben Hur a drink of water. We
know it is the Christ by his symbol, a carpentry shop in the background, but we
see his face only through the stunned look on the face of the Roman soldier who
pushes him away. It was a brilliant move on the part of director William Wyler,
for the face created in our imagination is more personal and more real than any
celluloid image could have been.
These two principles — creating a foil for the audience to identify with
and withholding the most ineffable of images — are the underlying reasons
why Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ" is at once gloriously compelling and
wretchedly unwatchable. When Gibson departs from the stations of the cross to
insert his own imagined characters and events, the film soars. But when he
remains focused on the brutal, relentless, bloody facts of the story, it
staggers. In flashbacks we see tender moments between Mary and the toddler Jesus,
Mary and the carpenter Jesus, Mary Magdalene and the forgiving Jesus. In a moment
of agony Jesus looks up to see a dove, symbol of the Holy Ghost, hovering
overhead, reminding him that he is not alone. A single teardrop falls from heaven
at the moment of Christ's victorious death, simultaneous with Satan's outraged
cry. Gibson beautifully recreates Rembrandt's "Descent from the Cross" as Jesus'
followers reverently retrieve his body, and Michelangelo's "Pieta" as Mary
cradles the bloodied body in her lap. These moments are wonderful.
Most brilliant, perhaps, was Gibson's decision to insert a spooky, androgynous
Satan into the story, played unexpectedly by an actress, Rosalinda Celentano.
Satan is not mentioned by the four gospels as having been present at the
scourging and crucifixion, but of course it makes perfect sense: the crucifixion
was, after all, the culminating battle for humanity. If Jesus prevails, he
becomes the Christ and Messiah, savior of the world. If he gives up, Satan wins,
and all of humankind becomes his. Surely Satan would have been there, observing,
hoping, taunting. At the foot of the cross, two mothers stand watching: Mary,
symbol of true motherhood, and Satan, cradling a hideous man/baby as if to taunt:
"Give up. You can't do it. In a matter of moments, they will all become mine."
This eerie image makes clear just what is at stake for us, more powerfully than
the image of the bruised and bloody body.
| One of the traits I
admire most in Jesus is his majestic power as he stands up to his accusers in the
face of their torment. But Gibson's Jesus can barely stand at all.
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These moments in the movie are inspired and inspiring. But they are far too
few and too brief. Most of the film is devoted to recreating the brutal
scourging. This was, indeed, Gibson's purpose for making the film. Gibson focuses
on the carnal aspects of the crucifixion, rather than on the glorious aspects of
the Atonement, or reconciliation with God. Glenn Whipp of the LA Daily News
reported, "It's as if Gibson is measuring God's love by the amount of blood he
shows on the screen." But Whipp got it backward, I think.
Gibson seems to be using the blood instead as a measure of his own devotion to
God. Gibson's focus on the brutal final twelve hours of Jesus' life reminded me
of the passion parades I have seen in Latin America during Easter week. Bloody,
bare-backed men walk penitently through the streets, scourging themselves with
leather whips tipped with metal hooks that tear at their flesh. Like Gibson,
their intentions are good; they want to take upon themselves a small part of what
their savior experienced for them. But in so doing, they miss the point. Because
of the crucifixion of Christ, and more importantly because of his resurrection,
we don't have to spill our own blood at all. Jesus already experienced it
completely, infinitely, on behalf of all mankind. In a way, self-flagellation is
an additional slap in Jesus' face, as if to say: I know your Atonement was
infinite, but here, let me do it to myself, just in case yours wasn't enough.
Mel Gibson's film, though well-intentioned, is a similar slap in the face: it
virtually ignores the life-changing teachings of Jesus Christ, gives a 20-second
nod to the Resurrection, and focuses instead on the most humiliating moments of
his life. It barely tells us why he endures this torture. We don't see the love
in Christ's eyes for those whom he saves (indeed, we can barely see his eyes at
all, they are so swollen) nor do we see love for him from others, aside from a
small handful of followers. Christians can bring this knowledge to the movie with
them, experiencing the ineffability of the Atonement in their own way, and that's
why the movie has been so popular.
But I don't need to look at Jesus' bleeding body to appreciate his teachings
and his sacrifice. Enthusiasts have lauded James Caviezel's portrayal as the
first Jesus strong enough to withstand the brutality of the scourging, but the
Christ I saw in this film was a man so badly beaten and exhausted that he could
barely stand, much less support the weight of the world on his shoulders. One of
the traits I admire most in Jesus as I read the New Testament is his majestic
power as he stands up to his accusers in the face of their torment, and the
tenderness with which he speaks to others as he suffers. But Gibson's Jesus can
barely stand at all.
Ultimately, Gibson directed Jesus as he would play the role himself — not
the movie role, but as though he could be the actual Messiah. If he spills enough
blood on screen, perhaps he can atone for his own sins, and ours too. He becomes
"Braveheart," "The Patriot," and "Lethal Weapon" all rolled into one. One needs
only to review Sophocles to know that such hubris is just itching for a fall.
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