Aside from the Founding Fathers, American culture’s two main sources of secular saints are the Civil Rights movement and baseball. One man’s story sits at the intersection of those two pillars of the twentieth century American imagination: Jackie Robinson. The breaking of baseball’s color barrier in 1947 was one of the most pivotal cultural moments that allowed the political movement of the 1960s to succeed. Jackie Robinson proved that skin color was irrelevant in baseball, that talent and character can overcome prejudice, and that faith and courage in adversity can move mountains. Robinson was a man of deep faith and integrity, and he proved that on and off the diamond in a way that normal, Christian Americans couldn’t ignore. In my opinion, Robinson was as integral to the success of the Civil Rights Movement as Martin Luther King, Jr. and deserves all the accolades and celebration he receives and more.1

Given his cultural importance, it was almost a given that Jackie Robinson’s story would get a cinematic portrayal, and in fact it only took three years from his historic rookie year in 1947 for him to make it to the silver screen in The Jackie Robinson Story. This film is of interest to baseball fans because Jackie plays himself in the film, at the height of his career, giving the project a rare authenticity. However, it’s not a very good film overall, with little cinematic flair other than the bizarre choice to undercrank the shots of Jackie running around the bases so he seems to run at a cartoonish speed in the film. Was this really necessary when filming the man who was already the fastest man in baseball?

I digress. The far better adaptation of Robinson’s story came in 2013 with the release of 42, starring Chadwick Boseman (requiescat in pace) as Jackie Robinson and Harrison Ford as Brooklyn Dodgers owner Branch Rickey. 42 gives Robinson the dramatic treatment he deserves, a full cinematic hagiography. Boseman’s performance is especially electric, capturing Jackie’s spirit, integrity, courage, but also his flaws: a quick temper, some arrogance, a tendency to show off at times. This central performance is what makes the movie: bad hagiography portrays a protagonist without flaws, a saint from the beginning whose only struggle is against the evil forces conspiring against him. Good hagiography shows our hero fight and win enemies both internal and external; indeed, his conquest of his flaws is what enables him to vanquish his foes. Boseman perfectly portrays the inner struggle in Robinson’s life, the righteous rage against injustice that Robinson must control in order to overcome. It’s written on his face, in his body language, and into the very soul of the film, elevating what could have been a rote, stale retelling into a cinematic jewel.2

I would be remiss if I did not pair Boseman’s excellent performance with Harrison Ford’s Branch Rickey. The two stories are inseparably entwined, with Rickey functioning almost as a second protagonist instead of a side character. This is perhaps Ford’s strongest late-career performance, filled with subtlety and strength. Rickey is a man of many motivations. As a businessman, he wants to make money; bringing Jackie to the team will earn him the business of African Americans, and dollars, as he points out, are neither black nor white but green. As a baseball man, he wants to win the pennant; black ballplayers are a criminally overlooked talent pool and by bringing Robinson to the team the Dodgers have a chance to win the World Series. Both of these motivations are made explicit and used by Rickey to justify his decision to allies and enemies alike.

However, there is something deeper at play here, and Ford’s performance does a marvelous job at portraying the depth even when shallower explanations are being expressed. Branch Rickey was a deeply Christian man, formed by his faith into a deep opposition to injustice. I had forgotten how explicitly Christian Rickey’s motivations were in this film, but on rewatch I greatly appreciated that 42 did not gloss over or downplay the importance of Christianity in this momentous event. Rickey is looking for someone who has a great depth of character, someone whose faith will help restrain his baser tendencies and prove the worth of his whole swath of humanity to white America. He picks Jackie Robinson to be the man to break the color barrier partly because of their shared Methodist faith.3 Rickey knows that Robinson’s faith will be a crucial part of the success of this mission, appealing to Christ’s teaching to turn the other cheek in a pivotal scene. When Rickey tries to goad him into anger, asking what he’ll do when he is the target of incredible abuse and reviling for daring to play baseball with white men, Jackie asks if Rickey is looking for a coward, for someone without the guts to fight back. Rickey responds: “No….no. I want a player who’s got the guts not to fight back.” This response is deeply rooted in Rickey’s Christian faith, and it’s the heart of the film. Both Boseman and Ford give incredible performances that show the depth of their conviction and hatred of injustice layered under an outer peace and gentleness that together moved a nation one step further away from prejudice. American politics, on both the left and the right, seems to have forgotten the deeply held Christian faith of most of the participants in the Civil Rights movement and how it was that faith that overcame injustice and paved the way for greater peace. This movie retains that, and I applaud it for doing so.

42 is an excellent film, giving us a story with deep integrity, heroism, and good baseball. Jackie Robinson is one of those real life heroes who give us an example of integrity and courage in the face of incredible pressure, countering the doomer mentality so prevalent in our postmodern world. The film allows Robinson’s story to speak through grace, humor, and excellent performances from its central cast, cementing this American myth in the minds of a new generation. Would that all the racial-political movies of the 2010s focused on such integrity instead of grievance! But instead of lamenting the bad, I wish to celebrate the good, and 42 is one of the best. Break this film out every Jackie Robinson day and remember this story of integrity, courage, and faith. Black, white, yellow, or striped like a zebra, Jackie Robinson’s story can be an inspiration to us all.

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“Sing to me, Muse, of the wanderer, the man of twists and turns…” (Homer, The Odyssey)

Perhaps no sport is more malleable in genre than baseball. Sure, yes, every baseball movie squarely falls into the “sports movie genre” category. But baseball is able to cross over into other film genres with perhaps more ease than any other. It can be a straight drama (see Eight Men Out). It can be a comedy (Major League). It can be a mix of both, but with an added dash of Brad Pitt (Moneyball). It can be a coming-of-age dramedy (Everybody Wants Some!!!), it can be a father and son story (Field of Dreams)…I can keep going. The point is, baseball, with its over century of history, has found a way to be told and retold on film again and again.

At its core, though, baseball might be best understood as a myth. It’s at least this way for every young boy who has dreamed of becoming a baseball player, seeing their heroes on the diamond more like the gods of Olympus than as normal, mortal men. The Natural, more than any other baseball film, understands this core tenet of baseball better than any other.

The Robert Redford (may he rest in peace) star vehicle, adapted from the book of the same name, tells the tale — fable, really — of Roy Hobbs, the “best that ever was and ever will be,” a baseball player so naturally talented that he seems destined for greatness…until his own follies snatch that dream away for sixteen years. When he returns to the game as an older man, he gets another shot at his dream, only for his same flaws to threaten to derail everything once again. His only true path forward to fulfilling his baseball destiny? To find his way back home to his true love and the son he never knew he had.

If that at all sounds like The Odyssey, you would be right. If that at all sounds like King Arthur, you would be right once again. The Natural is dripping in Homeric and Arthurian references and influence, weaving its baseball tale like it’s one of the great ancient texts. Roy Hobbs is both Arthur and Odysseus, on an epic quest to ultimately make his way home to his one true love, even as the forces of darkness both outside and within threaten to stop him.

In the book version of The Natural, the story plays out more akin to a Greek tragedy — particularly in regards to the ending (we will get to that). In the film, however, it’s an American legend. Yes, there are “some mistakes you may pay for your whole life,” as Hobbs says at one point. But, as another character later puts it, we “live two lives. The one we learn with, and the life we live with after that.” Hobbs is given the opportunity to learn from his mistakes and become the best version of himself over the course of the film — both for his team, the aptly named New York Knights, and for the family he ultimately has to return to.

Now, about that ending. Forty-three years later, you have likely seen the closing minutes at this point, if not the entire movie. The shot of Redford smashing a home run into the stadium lights, causing an avalanche of sparks to come raining down upon him and his team as he rounds the bases one last time, is as iconic a shot as any other in movie history. The book, however, ended differently — with Hobbs, in the most important moment of his career, striking out, leaving his dream behind in disgrace, ultimately felled by the demons that tormented him his whole life.

For some, this change robs The Natural of its staying power and makes it nothing more than a feel-good, overly sentimental fairy tale. But, isn’t that what baseball is at its very best? A fairy tale, where the hopes and wishes we had as children finally get to come to true. All Roy Hobbs ever wanted to be was a baseball player. Just like any young, American boy. And for one shining, sparkling moment, as the sparks come crashing down, he got to live out that fairy tale and live it to the full — living it out for all of us who still clutch onto that dream. What could be more naturally baseball than that.

If you can indulge me two technical diversions that have to be mentioned as well. First, and obviously, the Randy Newman score. It’s been described as Coplandesque by some. Wagnerian by others. It is all those things, yes, but for generations of baseball fans, it’s been the soundtrack of iconic moment after iconic moment. What was once fantasy on film has become reality — Kirk Gibson’s magical home run for the Dodgers only becomes more mythic when Newman’s score swells underneath it. The Cubs finally winning the World Series after over a hundred years? Even more chill-inducing with Randy Newman scoring the moment.

Now, for the cinematography. The film is awash in nostalgic hues. That’s purposeful. Caleb Deschanel (you may know him from The Passion of the Christ) wanted the film to resemble the color processes of pictures from the early 1900s and obsessed over finding a way to emulate that look. The final, Academy Award-nominated product, is the result of all those efforts, making The Natural both nostalgic and timeless in a way that is still striking to this day.

The Natural is baseball at its myth-making best. It captures the mysticism of the sport in a way that perhaps no other sports picture ever has. As we follow Hobbs’ story to its rousing conclusion, we see a King Arthur for the sport of baseball, a man ready to inspire generation after generation that they, too, can step into the batter’s box and fulfill their wildest fantasies. Like Arthur, Hobbs strives for greatness, wielding a magical weapon to thwart his enemies. Yes, temptations lead to his downfall — as they do any man, in time.

But, in a distinctly American — and, dare I say, Catholic — twist on the Arthurian legend, Hobbs is able to overcome these enemies and ultimately fulfill the very destiny thrust upon him by his father. Sentimental to a fault? Perhaps. Does baseball exist to break your heart? Also, perhaps. But, for fleeting moments, it can also fulfill your wildest dreams.

That’s The Natural.

Esteemed Yankees first baseman Lou Gehrig died of ALS (or Lou Gehrig’s Disease) on June 2, 1941. Hollywood’s Gehrig biopic, The Pride of the Yankees, premiered on July 14, 1942. In our cynical age, this quick turnaround seems like a cash grab capitalizing on the tragedy of a beloved sports hero. After Gehrig’s long and very public battle with his illness, it seems gauche (not to say downright disrespectful) to push out a film merely a year later.

However, America needed heroes in 1942, and no one can say that there is anything cynical at all about The Pride of the Yankees. Everything about this movie exudes genuineness, love of the game of baseball, and respect for one of its greatest players. The movie showcases Gehrig’s determination, hard work, clean living, and love for the game, its players, and its fans. In the wake of Pearl Harbor, America was yearning for an icon, a real person who embodied everything that makes our country great.

Lou Gehrig fit the bill. He rose from poverty to superstardom through talent, virtue, and hard work, earning the nickname “The Iron Horse” for never missing a game or disappointing his fans. His production on the field was legendary, hitting nearly 500 home runs and driving in nearly 2000 RBIs, with a staggering career batting average of .340 across 17 years of play. His fame was often eclipsed by his more famous teammate Babe Ruth, but in my estimation Gehrig was an even better ballplayer than the Great Bambino, both on the field and off. Whereas Ruth had a larger-than-life personality and a taste for the pleasures of rich living, Gehrig was a relatively quiet family man and a true leader in the clubhouse. The Pride of the Yankees would highlight this aspects of Gehrig’s life and bring them to an American public thirsting to see a virtuous, patriotic, hard-working American ascend to mythic heights in America’s favorite pastime. Before 1942, Lou Gehrig was a hero for Yankees fans, but after The Pride of the Yankees, he was an American hero, an icon for a nation which sorely needed one.

I love this movie dearly. Gary Cooper plays Gehrig with a wide-eyed exuberance when he’s excited and a quiet dignity in the more tense parts. His wife, Eleanor (who was a vocal consultant on the film), is played with bubbly perfection by Teresa Wright, and the Gehrig’s love story is vivacious and endearing. The cast is rounded out by Babe Ruth, playing himself, lending some realism both to the story but also the performances. You can see in Babe’s performance the respect and love he felt for Gehrig, a friend he had but recently lost. The story and performances contribute to making Gehrig a larger-than-life American hero, a true everyman and yet a legend, the perfect symbol for an America dragging itself out of the Depression and into a World War.

The film does have its flaws. It is rather poorly paced, meandering through its first hour and a half and spending far too much time on Gehrig in college (played by Gary Cooper in his 40s) and not enough time in baseball. Perhaps this is because Cooper was not great at baseball; perhaps it’s because Samuel Goldwyn thought that too much sports action would bore the female audience (adding a bizarre dance sequence smack dab in the middle to try and compensate for the ladies). Whatever the reason, certain parts of this movie drag and others feel rushed.1

For me and most viewers, however, the movie is still great. For whatever reason, generations of fans have set aside the movie’s flaws and placed it on a pedestal with the best sports movies of all time. Perhaps it is our love of the game of baseball which blinds us to the faults of one of its most famous movies; perhaps it is the excellence of Gary Cooper and the delightful bubbliness of Teresa Wright; perhaps it is our love of great American heroes striving and succeeding through talent, grit, and hard work.

Of course, the utterly brilliant final ten minutes of the film contribute to its reputation as well. I defy any baseball fan (or indeed, any Catholic) to watch the last speech in this movie without crying. A man facing death, Gehrig counts his blessings and concludes “today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth,” reportedly words Gehrig actually spoke to a packed house at Yankee Stadium. And the movie has the decency to just end, right there. No denouement, no needless dragging out, no wallowing in the tragedy of illness and death. Gehrig faces his death with courage and dignity, and the film allows him to walk off the screen on his own terms.

Sometimes America needs a hero, a really good man who was able to do things that no one else could. I think American movies have for the most part lost that idea, regardless of the abundance of superhero movies in the past two decades. Our postmodern films are more concerned with complicating and tearing down heroes than building them up. The Pride of the Yankees stands in sharp contrast to our more cynical age of film. This movie cemented an American myth in the minds of the public, and still has power even 85 years later. The Pride of the Yankees shows the power a good film can pack into even an imperfect package: poignancy, tragedy, tears, awe, inspiration, love, and joy. It’s an unforgettable experience for baseball fans and well worth watching for anyone needing to find a little more faith in the human condition.

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“Baseball was, is, and always will be to me the best game in the world.”

Thus spake George Herman “Babe” Ruth, perhaps the best to ever play the game. He captured in words something that legions of baseball fans have thought throughout the storied history of America’s pastime: baseball is as close to a perfect sport as can be found this side of heaven. There’s something about baseball which sets it apart from other sports. It’s a team effort; indeed, in perhaps no other sport is the team more important than in baseball. Nine players must work in concert to win the game; no one superstar can play every position, or get a hit to bring himself in to score from second base. Some of baseball’s greatest legends languished away on teams that never one championships. Whereas one player can drag his team to victory in soccer or basketball or football, baseball requires a whole team working in concert to have success.

On the other hand, baseball is entirely a game of individual effort and achievement. The game comes down to a long series of duels between two players: the pitcher and the hitter. As the pitch comes in, those two players are the only ones who can affect the outcome; will the pitcher’s craftiness or speed overpower the batter, or will the batter’s eye, quick hands, and strength crush the pitch into the next county? The pitcher and batter face off, one on one, to everlasting glory or eternal infamy, locked in a deadly duel only one can win.

This tension between community and individuality makes baseball a metaphysically Christian game. We all must work out our salvation in fear and trembling as individuals, our own personal faith and sins determining our everlasting fate. And yet, we journey together as brothers and sisters in Christ, all members of the church responsible for each other, sharing in each other’s joys and sorrows, carrying each other’s burdens and striving together to reach our heavenly home. Every player in baseball has the potential to become a hero through his actions in just one moment; every Christian has the potential to show heroic virtue in service of his neighbor. Baseball, like the Christian life, is the story of the little man, rising against all odds to immortality by accomplishing the impossible. It is a game of beauty, grace, and intelligence where players with vastly different approaches and styles all make their mark, just like the communion of saints. There’s a deep sense of reverence and tradition built up around the game, an appreciation for its childlike joy and the intense emotions which it can build for players and audience alike. Baseball, in short, is the most human of games, and therefore it is the best game ever conceived of by man.

Baseball is also a uniquely cinematic sport. First captured on film in 1898 by William Heise, baseball movies would become a genre unto themselves. The sport is uniquely suited to film because of its pacing, inherent drama, instantly recognizable action, and larger-than-life characters. From the silent era onward, baseball movies would be among the most commercially successful and beloved films in America. From screwball comedies about wannabe ball players to biopics about America’s sporting heroes (sometimes actually starring those very heroes), baseball movies were extremely popular in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Films such as The Pride of the Yankees, The Babe Ruth Story, and The Pride of St. Louis brought the all-stars to Hollywood, while comedies such as Angels in the Outfield and It Happens Every Spring delighted audiences of all ages. We had baseball musicals like Take Me Out to the Ball Game and Damn Yankees, and even baseball noirs like Death on the Diamond and Girls Can Play. The 1940s and 50s were truly a golden age for baseball films.

The 1960s and 70s, on the other hand, have something of a dearth of baseball cinema, indicating a malaise in American culture. Although some of the best baseball ever played was played in this era, Hollywood pivoted to smaller stories, grittier dramas, more “realistic” films that had no patience for the childlike glee and wide-eyed wonder of baseball. Rules, traditions, rituals—all were being thrown out by Hollywood in this era and baseball was thrown out with it. Perhaps the most emblematic baseball film of this era (and really the only one of note at all) is 1976’s Bad News Bears, a film about a little league team of foul-mouthed misfits coached by a drunk. Baseball had lost its mystique, a relic of a less cynical time fated to ride off into the sunset like the Western.

But then, in the 80s, Americans were feeling more optimistic and waxing nostalgic, and what’s more optimistic and nostalgic than baseball? Baseball came roaring back into cinemas with a vengeance, and some of the best baseball movies of all time are from this era: The Natural, Eight Men Out, and perhaps the most quintessential baseball film of them all, Field of Dreams (#83). As the 80s turned into the 90s, biopics of baseball legends returned, such as The Babe and Cobb, as did the baseball comedies such as Major League, Mr. Baseball, and the always ridiculous Ed. Kids were playing baseball (The Sandlot, Rookie of the Year); girls were playing baseball (A League of the Own); even the angels were playing baseball again (Angels in the Outfield)!

As the millennium turned, the quantity of great baseball movies slowed, but some all-time greats were still being produced. The Rookie was the first baseball film I remember seeing and remains my favorite to this day. Moneyball and 42 proved baseball was still a winner even into the 2010s. Clint Eastwood would bring his signature gruffness to the genre in Trouble with the Curve. Baseball would become a favorite of independent, small-budget filmmakers, with movies such as The Perfect Game or Eephus. Baseball films are still alive and well, and will be as long as this beautiful game continues to captured the hearts and minds of Americans.

There are many classic themes that recur in many great baseball films. The underdog story is perhaps the most common: a scrappy player or team that most folks have written off fights their way to the top through talent, grit, and heart. This could be a rookie out to prove himself, a perennially losing team coming together to make a championship run, or an old-timer coming back for one last shot at glory. People love seeing an underdog win against all odds, beating the favorite and proving themselves winners through fortitude, hard work, and perhaps a little bit of luck. Everyone wants to see themselves in the underdog. No matter how intimidating the opponent or how fixed the circumstances seem against him, the underdog still has the guts to go out and slay Goliath, win the day, and prove himself a hero. These stories provide hope and catharsis to the common man, facing his own struggles and trying to slay his own giants. Baseball as a sport and in the movies provides those vicarious victories, remaining a favorite of the regular Joe.

Another theme baseball movies often explore well is fatherhood. Indeed, some of the best baseball films out there are centered around the relationship between a man and his father. The love of baseball as a sport is often passed down from father to son. Boys go to the ballgame with their dad, listen on the radio while working or resting together, play catch and hit batting practice together with dad, and seek to prove themselves with him in the audience during games. These common experiences of baseball as a child make it a powerful symbol for fatherhood in the movies. Even in non-baseball movies such as Hook baseball is often used as a shorthand to portray how the relationship between a father and son is either healthy or strained. Sometimes baseball is the link that reunites a son who has strayed from his father, or helps to overcome a difficult past in a moment of catharsis. By playing catch, all of the adult disagreements between a man and his father melt away, and they are once more a boy and his dad, enjoying each other’s company and love. This powerful moment of reconciliation and catharsis is the perfect climax to a great film, leaving few dry eyes in the audience.

Baseball, in short, is life. And the best movies are true to life, meaning that baseball movies are uniquely primed to make us cry, make us cheer, and make us look deeply at the truths of humanity and come away knowing something a little more clearly about ourselves. Our joys, our sorrows, our heroic moments, our inevitable failures, our potential to be a part of a team greater than the sum of its parts: baseball, like cinema, is a mirror for humanity, and when the two are joined together truly great art and storytelling combine for an experience which can be transcendent.

Along with Billy Beane, I ask you once again:

“How can you not be romantic about baseball?”

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In 1982, while the world was in the midst of being swept away by Spielberg’s sentimental E.T., Ridley Scott released a far different science fiction film that would shape the genre forever. While Blade Runner was not initially well-received, it grew to be a cult classic and a defining force in the cyberpunk subgenre. Blade Runner’s world is not merely a genre-defining milestone in science fiction, but a deeply introspective and increasingly relevant examination of God’s greatest and most cherished creation: mankind.

Blade Runner is an adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. Taking place in June of 2019, in Los Angeles, the premise is that in the future, we build androids known as replicants that are used for hard and dangerous manual labor. Due to complications and a violent replicant rebellion, they are made illegal on Earth, and if found, will be “retired” (killed) by blade runners. The story follows Blade Runner Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), who is begrudgingly tasked with hunting down a small group of escaped replicants. The escaped replicants (led by Rutger Hauer in a magnificent performance) will do whatever it takes to find the secret to prolonging their lives, often killing to do so. What unfolds is Deckard coming to terms with what it means to be human and the blurring of the line between man and machine.

Much of the entire series hinges on the relationship between Deckard and the replicant named Rachael (Sean Young). Their relationship evolves from professional to questionable to spousal. While in the 21st century the relationship has come under heavy scrutiny, it shows an arc that still remains more relevant than ever. It is about seeing the true value in another, rather than using them for one’s own selfish desire. Deckard goes from cold and disdainful of the world, only seeking what he can get out of others, to someone who dares to venture outside of himself to risk his life for others.

The Blade Runner universe’s central question is glaringly obvious: What does it mean to be human? Modern developments in AI have only further pushed this question to the forefront, although everyone seems to be in general agreement that it is not human. The waters become muddy when what we have created starts to more closely resemble us. While robotics has not reached anywhere close to an android that’s indistinguishable from a human, it doesn’t take a genius to realize we are headed there. The answer to this question directly ties into the dystopian world that Dick envisioned, and Scott brought to life. Rather than humanity trying to recreate man, it should focus on trying to remedy its own brokenness. If man becomes determined to be God, he will destroy everything (including himself) and only further break himself. Blade Runner is filled with spectacular technology and scenery, but in this pursuit, mankind has only made its existence all the more broken. Despite being able to travel the stars and make near-perfect imitations of people, there is massive income inequality and low standards of living for most individuals. The world is dirty and rainy, recovering from a nuclear war that killed an undisclosed number of people. It’s not a “Only people are people” sort of film, but rather “Think of how much we could help people if we weren’t so obsessed with being God”.

There are substantial differences between the theatrical edition from 1982 and the Final Cut released in 2007. Most notably, Deckard’s dream sequences are added into the Final Cut, which is the only cut that Ridley Scott had direct control over. The other substantial change is the lack of monologues that were recorded for the original theatrical cut by Ford when he had pneumonia. Personally, both editions are great, but if you want to see what Scott’s true vision was, watch the Final Cut.

What is consistent, however, is the craftsmanship. The performances are all solid and unnerving for a dystopian film, but Rutger Hauer steals the show in every scene. He brings an intensity and rawness to the world that stands the test of time, and sends it off with perhaps the greatest improv monologue in the history of cinema. The Tears in the Rain speech could have a whole review on its own and perfectly encapsulates the whole film. Vangelis, coming off his historic Chariots of Fire Oscar win, delivers the best score of his career to breathe life into a dreary, neon-filled atmosphere. Despite the coldness of Blade Runner, Vangelis reminds us that there is warmth and humanity. Even if it’s a gentle whisper, it will never be truly extinguished.

The cinematography and set design of the 1982 classic went on to define the cyberpunk genre and inspired anime such as Ghost in the Shell, films such as The Matrix trilogy, games such as Cyberpunk 2077, and even perhaps the film adaptation of Akira. Most modern science fiction borrows ideas or style from Blade Runner in some way, and it is well earned.

The most obvious project inspired came 35 years later in the form of a sequel: Blade Runner 2049. World-renowned director Denis Villeneuve was so in love with the original he pulled every stop he could to create a worthy successor, and boy did he deliver.

2049 takes place 30 years after the events of the first film. Newest replicant models are allowed, since they cannot hurt people. There is still a need for blade runners, as many older models still exist. The film follows K (Ryan Gosling), who is in fact a replicant serving as a blade runner. He stumbles upon some information and findings that lead him on a quest to uncover truths that will shake him to his core and redefine his whole viewpoint. For the sake of avoiding spoilers, I will go no further into detail, as the film is best enjoyed with only the first as prior knowledge.

Blade Runner 2049 is a profoundly pro-life film. It values procreation and newborns in a way that seems alien to the 2010s. The film is obsessed with the human image and how creation is the imitation of God. The Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches both stand by this, and JPII frequently discussed the honor of being a participant in the procreative act with God. 2049 stands by all of this and emphasizes the sanctity of the human form. Violence is not something to be glamorized, but is a tragedy and defilement of what is created. When a life is taken in this film, it means something and has repercussions. To act in mindless violence is to lose one’s humanity and act against what is sacred. To me, this is what makes Jared Leto’s villain unnerving for me. I understand some criticisms of him, but Leto’s Niander Wallace acts as a perverse image of what man becomes when he tries to be God too much. He has forsaken what he truly is so much that he seems abnormal and crazed, which is in fact how all who go beyond imitating God and try to be Him. His attempts to be God are so vain that every person who successfully bears offspring does far more than he ever could.

Villeneuve’s sequel falls even closer to today’s AI struggles, delving into AI relationships and programming. While K and Luv (Ana De Armas) are both pieces of tech, the film does an excellent job at blurring the lines between sentience and programming. It is a difficult question that I still grapple with from the film, and while I’ve made sense of it, I am not able to articulate it well. The film delves into the difference between love and objectification, where a somewhat awkward but technically impressive romance sequence puts the audience on the spot to contemplate the difference between sharing and experience and using someone. Almost 10 years later, this question remains more relevant than ever, and the film’s answer further reinforces the importance of a single shared relationship (monogamy).

A central debate among the fandom is whether Deckard is a replicant or not. Ford and others say he’s human; Scott says he’s not. Blade Runner 2049 keeps up the mystery by giving both sides evidence. While it is a fun debate to have, it does not impact the film’s central themes of the sanctity of the human person and to Importance of focusing on the world we live in.

While 2049 lacks the incredible performance of heavyweight Rutger Hauer, it more than makes up for this in execution. The immersive experience that it offers is something that needs to be seen on the biggest screen possible. This is perhaps one of the best shot films in the history of the art form, and a generation-defining job from the incredible Roger Deakins. Every single frame could be a 4K wallpaper on any laptop and is a true spectacle for the eyes. The score by Hans Zimmer and Benjamin Wallfisch remains a go-to of mine and builds a remarkable atmosphere. The score should also be listened to on the loudest speakers possible. Villeneuve’s slow but methodical pacing gives the film a more epic and grand feeling than Scott’s 1982 classic.

Blade Runner and Blade Runner 2049 are must-see (with viewer discretion) staples of the science fiction genre. Their unique and unapologetic view into a place we are rapidly approaching is nothing short of insightful and brilliant, giving audiences much to chew on. In spite of both films not doing well upon their initial release, theBlade Runner universe will continue to remain relevant and at the forefront of film discussions for decades to come, and I am highly grateful for it.

Editor’s Addition - One of the all-time great movie monologues. RIP Rutger Hauer.

In the summer of 2007, I — like many other Americans — watched the lights go down as Pixar Animation’s latest film was about to begin. The concept was…odd…but after over a decade of releasing classic after classic, I, and everyone else, was willing to just trust that the film would be good. Maybe even great.

(Let’s be real. In the summer of 2007, the chances of a Pixar film being anything less than an instant classic were basically nil. The studio was untouchable in terms of quality. But I digress.)

That film was Ratatouille. This review, however, is not about that Pixar classic, but it provides a key piece of important context. Right before the movie, Pixar slotted a teaser trailer, unlike any I had ever seen (and have seen since). Rather than cutting together a snappy highlight reel or presenting a funny gag to drum up interest ala The Incredibles, Pixar opted to do something unique: they had film director Andrew Stanton tell a story, entirely through concept art and a talking head interview.

Bold? For sure. A sign of hubris? Possibly. But Pixar took a huge swing here, playing on audience trust and nostalgia by having Stanton take viewers back to 1994, just a year before the release of Toy Story. At a lunch, Pixar legends John Lasseter, Pete Doctor, Joe Ranft, and Stanton brainstormed ideas for what would come next after Toy Story. It was during that very lunch that the basic ideas for A Bug’s Life, Monster’s Inc., and Finding Nemo all came to life — an act of creativity not unlike watching Paul McCartney come up with Get Back in real time in Peter Jackson’s documentary of the same name.

It was during that lunch that the “core four” came up with one other idea as well: the story about a robot, left behind on Earth after the rest of mankind had fled the planet. That germ of an idea blossomed over the years into Pixar’s 2008 film, Wall-E. Pixar conveyed all this in a 90-second teaser trailer, while also conveying so much more: how when creativity, imagination, and wonder are given room to breathe, magic and art can be created from the unlikeliest of places.

Wall-E represents the creative apex of a studio built off of these core principles, one whose films have already been rightfully highlighted by this blog over and over again. Just three years after the release of Wall-E, the first signs of chinks in Pixar’s storytelling armor would begin to surface (sorry but also not sorry, Cars 2 fans), but the studio’s first 15 years produced an unparalleled run of which Wall-E might be the grandest achievement of them all.

“I don’t want to survive! I want to live!”

Stanton’s basic idea of a robot, left behind to clean up a trash-filled planet, became so much richer in the 14 years between its inception and ultimate completion. What started off closer to a spiritual successor to Planet of the Apes in Stanton’s mind became a sweeping science fiction romance, as the endearingly lovable robot, Wall-E, falls in love with another robot, EVE, and pursues her literally across the stars. Along the way, he encounters what’s left of humanity — a race grossly obese, locked in only on screens, obsessed only with comfort and pleasure (sound familiar?) — and helps introduce a catalyst that will change everything: a plant, found beneath all the trash left behind on Earth.

There is so much to unpack here. The film’s themes are darker and heavier than one would expect for a Pixar film, but it tackles them with a lightness of touch that is nothing short of inspiring. In an apocalyptic landscape where literally nothing else exists besides a cockroach, Wall-E chooses wonder instead of cynicism. He longs for love, watching Hello, Dolly! — which might be the last film left in existence — on repeat, day after day, night after night, wanting to make the same kind of connection. EVE bursting into his life gives him the companionship he’s been longing for literally for centuries — all conveyed across a first act that is nearly devoid of dialogue.

The film’s first act alone makes something evident that wasn’t clear to me on my first viewing, 18 years ago: Wall-E is more than just a sci-fi romance. It’s also a celebration of the history of filmmaking. The film’s first act would not be out of place in a Charlie Chaplin picture, with its lack of dialogue, how it relays exposition through showing rather through telling, and in its joyful, energetic spirit. When the film moves into its second and third acts and dialogue comes more into play, it’s like journeying through the history of movies with these characters, as sound, colors, and special effects come surging into the film. Wall-E is built on the shoulders of everything that’s come before it in the filmmaking industry, while also providing something excitingly bold and new.

A friend of mine recently watched Wall-E with the sound turned off on a flight, and it’s a testament to the artistry and the clarity of the storytelling that it works just as well as any silent movie that it is clearly inspired by. And yet! To remove the sound would be to remove one of the movie’s other artistic masterstrokes: the sound design from Ben Burtt.

Like Stanton bringing in voices like Roger Deakins and Dennis Muren to consult on the film’s look — which helps explain why it looks so distinct, both in its lighting and in its atmosphere — he also turned to legendary sound designer Ben Burtt to come up with how this world would sound. The result is perhaps Burtt’s pinnacle achievement — a bold statement, considering his work on Star Wars. And yet, he created 2,500 unique sounds for the film, twice the average of any average Star Wars movie. Even now, if you just think about Wall-E, it’s hard not to hear the distinctive ways Wall-E and EVE say each other’s names, or simply Wall-E’s adorable “woaaaahhhhhh.”

“Too much garbage in your face? There’s plenty of space out in space!”

Speaking of bold and new, an animated movie tackling themes as heavy as consumerism, industrialism, and environmentalism is as striking today as it was in 2008. Critics of the film at the time dismissed Wall-E as environmentalist propaganda when, in reality, it presents a message far more rooted in Biblical principles than you would ever expect from a Hollywood animated blockbuster. We are all called to be good stewards of the Earth — it’s right there in Genesis. The dangers of industrialism not just to earthly resources but to human relationships as well are tackled in everything from the papal encyclical Rerum Novarum to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Wall-E is not tackling new ground here, but to find these kinds of themes tackled in an animated movie, released by The Walt Disney Company, is groundbreaking. Wall-E may be a beautiful, sweeping love story across the stars, but it’s also a rallying cry against consumerism and the dark side of industrialism that becomes ever more prophetic the further we push into the 21^st century.

The industrial revolution surely spurred on the creation of science fiction, as mankind began to imagine how new technologies could send them flying across the stars. That Wall-E — a science fiction film through and through — directly takes on the very thing that helped create the genre is a blistering move on the part of Stanton, and one that makes the film that much more dramatically compelling.

Finding out that Stanton himself is a Christian helps all of this make sense. It’s through that understanding that the film’s most important theme becomes ever clearer: humanity must turn away from the false gods of laziness and pleasure and instead return to Earth — to a proper stewardship of God’s creation. In an interview given after the film’s release, Stanton summed it all up rather succinctly:

We all fall into our habits, our routines and our ruts, consciously or unconsciously to avoid living. To avoid having to do the messy part. To avoid having relationships with other people or dealing with the person next to us. That’s why we can all get on our cell phones and not have to deal with one another.

Wall-E being a lonely robot before encountering another robot named EVE is obviously not a coincidence either. EVE’s revelation of a plant to convince humanity to return from its voyage? Also directly inspired by the dove and the olive branch from the story of Noah’s Ark.

Wall-E, truly, is a one-of-a-kind achievement across all aspects of its filmmaking. For Stanton, it represents the artistic culmination of a career marked with compelling characters, rich animation, and propulsive narratives. Just look at Stanton’s films in the years prior to Wall-E: he wrote Toy Story, A Bug’s Life, Toy Story 2, Monsters, Inc., and wrote and directed Finding Nemo. Him perfecting his craft over the course of all those films resulted in Wall-E being simultaneously grander, subtler, and more artistically refined than it ever could have been during its genesis in 1994.

Wall-E is a magic trick of a film: a pop science fiction epic romance that accomplishes what all great science fiction hopes to: providing both entertainment and also a morality tale, begging the audience to listen and change before it’s too late. Not bad for a story about a lonely little robot, just wanting to find love in a hopeless place.

(Note: This essay reveals climactic plot points necessary to our analysis of the underlying themes of the film.)

In the course of time Cain brought an offering to the LORD from the fruit of the ground,

while Abel, for his part, brought the fatty portion of the firstlings of his flock. The LORD looked with favor on Abel and his offering,

but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor. So Cain was very angry and dejected.

Then the LORD said to Cain: Why are you angry? Why are you dejected?

If you act rightly, you will be accepted; but if not, sin lies in wait at the door: its urge is for you, yet you can rule over it.

Cain said to his brother Abel, “Let us go out in the field.” When they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.

Genesis 4:3-8

In John Steinbeck’s landmark masterpiece, East of Eden, the great American author sets the story of Cain and Abel in his childhood home of Salinas Valley, California. He does this twice in the book with brothers Adam and Charles Trask, and then, one generation later, with twins Cal and Aron Trask. Those who are only familiar with the movie would remember James Dean’s memorable performance as Cal in the excellent 1955 adaptation by Elia Kazan, but interestingly enough that film only covers the last third or so of the book, detailing Cal and Aron’s adolescence. The first two thirds of the book focus specifically on Adam and his relationship with Cal and Aron’s mother, Cathy, as well as a host of other important characters not featured in the film. One such character left out- and considering this was made in 1955 it is no surprise- is Adam’s Chinese cook, Lee, based partially on Steinbeck’s own family cook from his childhood.

Lee may be one of my favorite literary characters of all time since reading the novel last year, next to Samuel Hamilton, another important character left out of the film who actually is based on Steinbeck’s own grandfather.Initially, Lee presents himself as a stereotypical foreigner who speaks a pidgin English, pronouncing his Ls as Rs and not using basic syntax in his sentences. Until one scene where Samuel Hamilton- one of the few people to treat Lee like a person- confronts him on his broken English, and to Hamilton’s surprise Lee responds in perfect English that he puts on the stereotypical persona as an act so that people do not get suspicious of him.

Lee is extremely well-read and hopes to one day open a bookstore, and Samuel and Lee share many great intellectual conversations which are a delight to read. The most important conversation they share is one about a certain word, a Hebrew word:

Timshel.

Lee and his Chinese relatives had spent a good long while decoding a passage in Genesis that had long troubled Lee, specifically the translation of this phrase, as viewed above from Genesis 4:7 -

but if not, sin lies in wait at the door: its urge is for you, yet you can rule over it.

“You can” is a fair translation of the Hebrew here, yet Steinbeck proposes an alternate translation here, to “thou mayest”. This is not the technically correct translation of the Hebrew, yet the author is making a a larger point here.

As Lee explains:

“Now, there are millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou', and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.”1

Cain had a choice when it came to killing his brother, and he chose the wrong path. Yet even in exile, the Lord says to Him that even though he may yet be free to give into his temptations, so too is he- and we, who descend from Cain- free to choose the good as well.

In the dystopian future of Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report, criminal justice in the Washington D.C. area is now predicated on the idea of thou shalt rather than thou mayest.

Technology has reached the point where crimes can be predicted before they happen: the nascent PreCrime division- which is aiming to expand beyond D.C. nationwide, pending Congress approval- uses the help of drugged-up “precogs”, clairvoyants who can see glimpses of the future to find crimes before they occur.

At the outset of the film, in one of the most intense scenes Spielberg has ever shot, PreCrime chief John Anderton (Tom Cruise) works relentlessly in less than an hour to match the vague glimpses of the future given from the precogs to a name and location. Using this system, almost all pre-meditated murders have been stopped, but sometimes a “crime of passion” will emerge that was not pre-meditated, and the team- after receiving a red ball like the one pictured above with the name of the perpetrator- must work fast to find the potential murderer before the act occurs.

This sort of logic is dizzying when you first watch the film, but as the film progresses Anderton faces an existential and potentially jail-inducing problem when his name appears as a perpetrator of a pre-meditated crime, knowing exactly when he will kill a man he does not know. This leads him to kidnap one of the three precogs, Agatha (each of the precogs are named in the screenplay for famous noir and murder mystery authors) to help him figure out the truth and prove his potential innocence before its too late, and before his own division can find him and lock him up.

However, Agatha warns Anderton that he is playing into the hands of those who set him up, and whispers to him:

You have a choice.

Thou mayest.

In Minority Report, Spielberg rejects the notion of predestination and embraces man’s free will. Because of Christ’s redemption for mankind, we are free to rise above our Original Sin and to choose the good for our lives.

In adding the spiritual component of the psychics who gained their abilities as the offspring of drug-addled parents, Spielberg elevates the original science-fiction story by Phillip K. Dick to a modern fairy tale. This is similar to what he had done prior to this film with A.I. Artificial Intelligence, elevating Kubrick’s atheist parable of a boy searching for a non-existent God and giving it new meaning. The inclusion of Max von Sydow as the director of PreCrime is an homage to the work of Ingmar Bergman of which von Sydow was a regular, which also wrestled with such themes of moral choice in a fallen world.

Like most of Spielberg’s films, Minority Report is a film about hope in an increasingly dysfunctional, technocratic world. Like in E.T., it is the innocent and childlike- like Agatha- who will save the world from the adults who have been consumed by the strictly rational. Anderton follows a long line of Spielberg protagonists who are transformed through wonder, like Sam Neill’s Dr. Grant, Robin Williams’ grown-up Peter Pan, and even “Keys” from E.T.

Men who have forgotten that they have a choice.

Adam looked up with sick weariness. His lips parted and failed and tried again. Then his lungs filled. He expelled the air and his lips combed the rushing sigh. His whispered word seemed to hang in the air:

“Timshel!”

His eyes closed and he slept.2

(Spoilers ahead)

Have you ever had a dream where you became conscious of the fact that you were dreaming and tried to wake yourself up, running around in your head attempting to regain consciousness? Such is the nighttime experience that Dark City recreates in jaw-dropping fashion. A sci-fi retooling of Plato’s allegory of the Cave that seamlessly blends multiple genres and styles, director Alex Proyas’ underseen thrill ride is a precursor to The Matrix, Inception, and other sci-fi classics that play with the fabric of reality and explore what it means to be human. As widely seen as these more popular films are, it is this reviewer’s humble opinion that Dark City’s cinematic vision is flawless, even superior to what has come after it, and stands as one of the most visually audacious and psychologically intriguing science fiction films of the nineties.

Basing the titular city’s design on German Expressionist silent cinema like the works of Fritz Lang (both M and Metropolis feel visually present in this), and inspired by the WWII-era paintings of Edward Hopper depicting urban nightlife, the film immerses the viewer in a perpetually shadowed cityscape that lives and breathes; a masterpiece of practical design and sparingly-used cgi that feels hyper-specific yet out-of-time, like an eerie dream come to uncanny life. It certainly owes some visual inspiration to Ridley Scott’s original Blade Runner as well as the sci-fi works of Terry Gilliam like Brazil, but production designer Patrick Tatopoulos uses these familiar sci-fi and noir visuals to craft a tone that feels wholly unique, rooted in multiple cinematic traditions but daring to take these visual themes to unexpected places.

The story begins in traditional noir fashion where a man named Murdoch (Rufus Sewell) wakes up in a dark room with no memory, only to learn he is wanted for murder. Receiving a call from the mysterious Doctor Schreber (Kiefer Sutherland) who gives him instructions on what to do next, Murdoch begins stumbling around the city and tries to regain his memories as he is pursued by the police. But the police are not the only ones after Murdoch, and he soon finds himself face-to-face with mysterious pale beings dressed all in black who have a secret agenda of their own. Trying to prove his innocence to the police inspector (William Hurt) and evading the frightening pale men, he contacts the woman who may be his wife (Jennifer Connelly) to get a clearer impression of who he was before he lost his memories. But as it turns out, no one in the city seems to remember much of anything, leading Murdoch to realize that his own foggy memories may be untrustworthy, imprinted on him by someone else.

Comparisons to Neo from The Matrix are inevitable, especially when Murdoch realizes he is living in a type of artificial world and can influence reality with only his will (called “tuning” here), and must fight an alien enemy who seeks to keep humanity oppressed for their own agenda. But while The Matrix is an action film with philosophical themes, Dark City is much more philosophy-focused with a few action scenes interspersed, and doesn’t provide the tidy hero’s journey of Neo, though heroism is still given a chance. Instead, Dark City lets Murdoch, along with the viewer, slowly discover the full nature of this dream world, a truth that only Murdoch can seek out with limited help from anyone around him.

What Alex Proyas brilliantly achieves is a sci-fi extension of a traditional noir plot, where the quest for truth leads the protagonist to confront harsh realities about his existence, and the existence of those around him. The classic mystery setup gives Proyas room to explore the implications of Plato’s Cave and the people who live in perpetual darkness, with only shadows on the wall to provide explanations for reality. The expressionist cityscape is one massive shadow, unquestioned by its citizens, giving people a life that makes enough sense to get by. Enter the noir protagonist who wakes up and realizes something is amiss, discovers that something exists beyond the shadows, and dares to investigate what is happening outside the cave. This theme of manipulated reality has been explored countless times in cinema, from The Truman Show to The Village, but in Dark City, the eye-popping production design and cinematography also lend themselves to this theme and let the viewer experience artificial reality as suffocatingly sinister, a world of night where the ability to wake up has been eliminated, or so they think.

Murdoch becomes a messenger figure similar to the one Plato described in his cave allegory; one who discovers the higher reality and has a desire to share that truth with others still in the cave, though Dark City doesn’t immediately become a triumphant story where characters embrace higher truth. Plato acknowledged that some citizens comfortable with the shadows would reject the truth or even become violent if their understanding of reality was shattered, and while the movie doesn’t completely reach that point, it subtly hints that the exposure to truth will have to be gradual. Even Murdoch himself has limited ability to pursue the fullness of truth, as his life in the shadows is the only life that he knows, though the movie gives hope that he is beginning a newfound journey towards true enlightenment. Dark City’s villains have kept the city’s citizens in stagnation, experimenting on their minds and memories like lab rats, imprinting thoughts and memories instead of letting the citizens have freedom. In the villains’ attempt to understand humanity through manipulating the material world, they failed to understand the higher spiritual reality of man’s soul. This is the higher reality that Murdoch sees, present in his desire for a real relationship with the woman he loves, present in his desire for true understanding about existence, and present in his wish for others to escape the shadows and experience the light.

Though it follows a grim plotline with frightening villain sequences, Proyas ultimately crafts a hopeful story where manipulated darkness cannot extinguish the light of humanity. Like the best science fiction stories, Dark City depicts a powerful human resiliency, and hope of real freedom found in the pursuit of truth.

(Note: The Director’s Cut has small but distinct differences that make it the better version.)

In a short four-year period, two films pushed the envelope of what was possible for philosophical science fiction. Tackling head-on mankind’s encounters with the unknown, his evolutionary trajectory, and ultimately his anthropology, they remain searingly relevant to this day, though through entirely different approaches. Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey exploded onto the scene in 1968 as the wave of enthusiasm around the moon landings began to swell, dazzling audiences with its groundbreaking visuals while leaving them confused by its enigmatic conclusion. Epic in every sense, it is among the very few films that scholars have argued truly satisfy the classical conception of the epic.

In 1972, a far quieter film emerged from across the Iron Curtain: Soviet auteur Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris, an adaptation of Stanisław Lem’s introspective novel of the same name. Many have seen it as a humanist response to Kubrick’s technologically centered fare, often painting a reductionist picture of Cold War dynamics. And certainly, while each film draws differing conclusions through completely different approaches, they ultimately grapple with many of the same questions, making for fascinating counterparts in study.

With a reputation that dwarfs most others, Kubrick’s 2001 has been the subject of obsessive hyperanalysis ranging from frame-by-frame dissections to the farthest-flung fan theories. It resists easy interpretation, lending to its appeal to casual filmgoers and scholars alike. This post won’t attempt to tread any new ground or rehash many of the popular theories floating around the internet. It will seek to touch on some of the main questions the film poses and examine them in contrast to Solaris’s differing approach.

2001 begins at the dawn of time, with the appearance of a mysterious ancient monolith that seems to prompt a gathering of ape-like humanoids to turn to violence. In one of the most iconic transitions in cinema history, the timeline jettisons into the far future, as the image of a blood-stained bone flying through the air switches to that of a weaponized megaship reaching the moon’s orbit. Humanity has evolved drastically, but how? Events are set in motion once more by the appearance of another mysterious monolith upon the lunar surface. Emanating a strange signal, the Discovery One mission is dispatched toward Jupiter in search of the signal’s target. En route, the ship’s AI supercomputer, HAL 9000, malfunctions, murdering most of the crew to protect the mission’s objective. Astronaut Dave Bowman is able to deactivate it before encountering another strange monolith. He is then jettisoned through a psychedelic stargate, awakening in a room that feels ornate in its neoclassical architecture, yet unsettling.

Much of 2001 is imbued with a machine-like sterility. Human characters are generally viewed from a distance, reacting to the larger forces of technology and the unseen influences of the monoliths. The few close-ups Kubrick offers are often of faces with little expression or emotion. A sense of cold logic pervades, where reason is supreme and the human experience is largely consigned to the intellect. The action takes place primarily within the clean confines of the spaceship or against the stark backdrop of outer space. There is hardly an image of organic matter. In Kubrick’s view, the future lies in transcending material limitation through the primacy of reason.

Tarkovsky’s Solaris begins with an image of water, slowly panning through seaweed and mist to rest upon the face of a man sitting upon the bank. He slowly turns and, with an air of melancholy, walks back to his family’s house. He is introduced as psychologist Kris Kelvin, who reluctantly accepts a mission to be sent to a troubled space station orbiting a mysterious ocean planet, Solaris. The space station’s purpose had been to investigate an unexplained supernatural phenomenon by which the planet had been plaguing the crew with mysterious apparitions, figures taking on the likeness of members of their past, often causing feelings of grief and guilt. Kelvin begins to be haunted by the appearance of his dead wife, Hari, who committed suicide. Kelvin and the crew attempt desperate scientific measures to stop Solaris’s visitations. Along the way, he is plunged into psychological turmoil as he tries to dissociate Hari’s apparition from his actual memory of her. Like 2001’s monolith, Solaris’s apparitions operate as mysterious unseen forces that seem to drive the human characters toward something beyond themselves. It is this struggle with the unknowable that leads to the ultimate transformation of both Kelvin and Bowman.

Solaris and 2001 present an image of humanity’s longing for transcendence. Each offers a different glimpse of characteristics of the divine through their mysterious entities. The alien monoliths of 2001 embody the cosmic “other,” impersonal and beyond the human. In Christian theological language, this evokes the incomprehensibility of God. With Kubrick’s known inclination toward a scientific or pantheistic worldview (with a rejection of monotheistic belief), 2001 does not present a Christian view of God in the proper sense, yet it cannot escape the yearning deep within the heart of whether there is something beyond comprehension guiding the universe. It is the sense of awe one has when looking at the stars or observing the smallest microscopic organisms operating in perfect harmony. The monoliths operate with a mysterious agency, something the film invites to be approached with an air of mystery rather than logical explanation.

While 2001’s encounter with the “divine” remains impersonal, drawing man beyond himself through a detached transcendence, Solaris provides the opposite, with a presence that forces its way into man’s soul through his emotions, bringing about transformation through the exploration and ultimate healing of a painful past. Solaris’s apparitions are highly personal, as the entity clearly seeks to understand each human onboard. The ambiguity hangs over whether it is seeking to understand humans or transform them. But it forces an encounter, something that echoes the truth of the Gospels. An encounter with the divine is what ultimately lends itself to a better understanding of oneself. As the psalmist praises, “O Lord, you have searched me and known me” (Psalm 139:1). Solaris suggests that genuine transformation and progress depend not upon outward discovery, but upon a look within. “We don’t need other worlds. We need a mirror.”

One of the central questions of the modern age, especially with the rapid adoption of AI, revolves around mankind’s trajectory, particularly in relation to technology. Will fully embracing technological advancements bring about a drastic positive change, or is part of humanity being lost in the process? 2001 offers an optimistic view. Evolution will happen because of technology. Ape-like humanoids are launched into the future, to the point of transcending the limitations of human nature. While 2001 offers a warning of mechanization gone awry through the HAL 9000 supercomputer, the final frame presents a startlingly clear image of man transformed into a god-like specimen thanks to the marvels of a mysterious technology. Solaris’s view is far more pessimistic. The scientific study of the planet’s anomalies is presented as a failure from the outset. Tarkovsky’s imagery paints a stark contrast between the lush world of Earth and its familial structures, and that of the cold, dilapidated spaceship. While 2001 is full of breathtaking shots showcasing the wondrous innovations of space exploration and computer circuitry, Solaris’s cinematography focuses primarily on human faces, limiting sequences (such as the rocket launch) to the abstract. In short, Solaris asks again and again to consider the human cost of such technology. Has anything been gained through such exploration? What is being lost? Tarkovsky uses imagery from the past, juxtaposed against the coldness of the space station, to draw the mind backward. One such example involves the remarkable zero-gravity sequence, where candelabras and statues float amidst the ship’s wood-paneled library.

Tarkovsky, of course, isn’t interested in science. He’s focused on what makes one human, from art to emotion. While Kubrick studied the latest technology to paint a masterful picture of what could be, Tarkovsky asks what could be lost if we abandon our roots.

When studied together, Solaris and 2001 make for a fascinating dialogue. Rather than embracing an entirely reductionist view in which one film simply refutes the other, seeing them as a mutually enriching conversation can give a fuller appreciation not only of the genre, but also of the existential questions they ask. There is more than one way to approach the unknowable. 2001 and Solaris are masterpieces in their own right and essential milestones in the study of the science fiction genre.

Once at a game night at a friend’s house, we had music playing in the background as we played Splendor, Catan, and various other tabletop board games, card games, and such. Someone in the group had suggested we turn on a movie in the background, but nothing that would interfere with the music, and since the host had bought a copy of the most recent restoration of Metropolis, I didn’t hesitate to opt for the film which I love so much. I figured it would be best, especially since it was a silent film and we would be listening to modern new wave music rather than listening to the movie. No one else seemed to care, until the film began to play. This bizarre circumstance acted as a perfect demonstration of Metropolis’s quality.

It is a movie that not only has stood the test of time but is, in every way, absolutely timeless. From the moment the movie began, it was impossible to pay any more attention to the game. Somehow, the contemporary modern rock music seemed to perfectly match Lang’s movie of over 100 years old. Perhaps it is the science fiction genre, but I would opt to say that there’s more to those circumstances than just a familiar genre. The story is enthralling, and the way that story unfolds enveloped peoples’ attentions and forced them to watch the film without being prompted. Every 10 minutes we would look at each other and ask, “Whose turn is it, anyways?” Nobody cared who won, since on the screen just behind everyone a massive journey unfolded, in which, even though this story is nearing 100 years old, it is still just as impactful, if not more so in today’s society.

Metropolis so closely predicted many technological advances, warns of the pitfalls of technology in a class system, and also features technology yet to come, that we likely feel more connected to this version of the future than those must have felt at its original release. The special effects are one of the most spectacular elements of the film, constantly having viewers question what they are seeing and what was possible to be filmed at the time Metropolis was created in the 1920s. While it is obvious the film was created prior to the invention of computers, we therefore approached the film knowing that nothing within it is computer-generated. In our modern filmmaking, audiences have come to know and expect films to be computer-generated when the images seen are too spectacular to believe. It is assumed, therefore, in most modern day films, that the spectacular is computer-generated. So seeing a film having been made before the existence of computers with these spectacular images, ones that we would assume would be computer-generated, almost twists the mind and perspective into something which we could never perceive. That is what makes the existence of these effects so impactful, natural, and raw. Special effects are primarily interesting when an audience cannot comprehend how they are done. Since these filming techniques have largely disappeared in modern cinema, they have regained the magic that they once had when they were initially created.

The film is so clearly so foreign and antiquated in comparison to what we are familiar with today. Between the extreme overacting of the silent era and the overdone makeup, the antiquated style immediately calls attention to the fact that this film is a product of a very specific style and era, and is therefore extremely intriguing to watch. It is how one would imagine being able to see a traditional vaudeville performance; it would most likely be extremely jarring to what we are familiar within the modern day, as though it were a sort of culture shock. But even though our generation is not the target audience, it is still just as captivating, only now in a different context.

Metropolis is, of course, the gateway gateway into silent film. Anyone can sit down and watch Metropolis with total passion and intrigue.

The film provides a thesis: the mediator between the head and the hands is the heart. This thesis initially has a rather negative context, but by the end, has subverted that premise into a very positive outcome, maintaining true throughout. Fritz Lang, one of my all-time favorite directors, was at the top of his craft for this film. Having just made Spies, another film with terrific action, Metropolis seemed to enhance that action and provide a little bit more context, meaning purpose in these action scenes than in Spies.

One of the greatest aspects of silent filming is the visual poetry, a visual literacy, the physical embodiment of the narrative. One of the best examples of this within the film is a very famous sequence in which the previous shift of workers are leaving for the day as the new shift is arriving. The previous shift walks slumped over, half speed, marching together still perfectly uniform, with the new group standing up a little straighter and marching faster as they shift change. This visual is, of course, unnatural in the context of a modern film, which is what makes these scenes feel almost as though they are on the same note of visual poetry and literacy as comic books or music videos. This style of filmmaking doesn’t exist in the same way that it did in that era, especially in a movie that isn’t a musical. These physical manifestations of emotions are expressed throughout every moment of the film. Metropolis shows us that movies can be so much more than just a vessel for a narrative, but rather movies can be otherworldly. They can be fanciful, fantastic, and unbelievable, and yet perfect. They can express an entirely unique and different way of existence.

Science fiction is a modern term with origins in antiquity. From the dawn of time, mankind has sought to understand his place in the universe. Looking to the heavens, the ancients charted the stars, grasping at a sense of the infinite from the finite confines of their earthly realm. Cultures across the globe developed their own cosmologies to help answer the fundamental questions: Who were we? Where did we come from? Is there more than what is perceivable to the senses alone? While the biblical foundations of our faith provide the ultimate answers to these deep yearnings, as finite creatures grasping at the infinite, a sense of mystery remains.

Throughout history, man has turned time and again to storytelling in an attempt to grapple with these infinite unknowns, pushing the bounds of his known material world to see what may lie beyond, while also seeking to understand his identity. For nonbelievers, the perennial questions focused on whether man could become godlike. Early examples include The Epic of Gilgamesh and One Thousand and One Nights, both involving mankind seeking to unlock the mysteries of immortality. The story of Icarus and later, John Gower’s Confessio Amantis, offer glimpses of seeking to transcend the bounds of human limitations through flight. Thomas More would later explore questions of whether man could create a perfect society through a faith-based lens in his Utopia.

With the onset of the Industrial Revolution, the rapid advancement of technology spurred the proliferation of stories imagining what mankind could do in the future, from flying across galaxies to even creating life itself. It was in this fertile period that what is today known as science fiction took shape. The nascent genre represented the intersection of science and technology with human nature, and more importantly, sought answers in new ways to the questions mankind had been asking for thousands of years. Plausible, if speculative, explanations replaced what had previously belonged to the realm of magic and mystery. Science fiction’s fresh and imaginative perspective opened new avenues for exploring the same existential questions.

Technological advances not only catalyzed storytelling, but also helped create a new medium through which these stories could be imagined. While literary in origin, science fiction soon found an ideal partner in the burgeoning art form of film. As soon as light hit the celluloid and static images became motion pictures, filmmakers began imagining the world of the possible. It is no coincidence that one of the first substantive films ever made, Georges Méliès’ 1902 A Trip to the Moon, set its focus on such subject matter, capturing humanity’s enduring fascination with exploration beyond the known world. Filmmakers soon realized the genre’s potential for exploring metaphors related to philosophical questions about the human condition. The speculative nature of the storytelling framework allowed these inquiries to be explored within a narrative context grounded in a certain level of plausibility.

Science fiction films quickly established their place as one of the staples of the silent era. A notable early example included Denmark’s A Trip to Mars (1918), which utilized the civilization on Mars as a metaphor for what the ideal human society could be. Coming after four bitter years of a world at war, it asked: is a peaceful social order even possible? To this day, it remains perhaps the most tranquil encounter with an extraterrestrial civilization ever put to screen. The Soviet Union, in turn, looked to Mars to explore its own philosophical framework, imagining a socialist utopia under the guise of a Martian city in 1924’s Aelita.

However, the undisputed crown jewel of the silent era emerged from Germany with Fritz Lang’s 1927 epic saga, Metropolis. With sprawling sets, thousands of extras, and a budget that far exceeded most films, it quickly proved what was possible within the genre and set the standard from which later films would draw direct inspiration. As with many early science fiction films, it sought to explore the question of utopia: can man build a perfectly functioning society through technological advances? In the harrowing creation of the “machine man,” Lang’s epic asked a further existential question: can mankind become godlike and create new life? With continued advances in technology, this question would continue to inspire directors as the century progressed.

With the coming of the Second World War, cinema’s attention turned toward promoting the war effort and contending with its consequences, yielding few notable entries into the science fiction canon. The early Cold War years proved to be a watershed moment for the genre. Atomic weapons brought with them the stark threat of global annihilation. Science fiction allowed directors to contend with these existential fears in a palpable yet indirect way. In Japan, 1954’s Gojira (Godzilla) saw the monster serve as the embodiment of the nation’s trauma and fear following the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. As the atomic age progressed, monsters appeared again and again in film, wreaking havoc upon civilizations and asking audiences how they would contend with an extinction-level danger. In the United States, Them! (1954) and The Fly (1958) continued to explore fears of unchecked scientific experimentation and advancement, catalyzed by that one fateful evening at Los Alamos.

While scientific and technological advancements have brought (and continue to bring) unbridled optimism about how far humanity can push the envelope and transcend the limitations of reality, science fiction films articulated the fundamental misgivings many held in the face of such reckless attempts. Can man really alter and overcome his nature? A Christian metaphysics provides a framework for understanding these questions, yet for humanity at large, the fears these films articulated pointed to something deeper: something evident to those with eyes of faith, yet something humanity was forced to confront anew in the scientific age.

In this atomic age, as the paranoia of the Cold War set in, films once again turned heavenward, grappling with the age-old question of whether life existed beyond the bounds of our planet. Alien invasion quickly became a well-trodden topic in the 1950s and 1960s, with early examples, 1951’s The Day the Earth Stood Still and 1956’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers, serving as thinly veiled allegories for Cold War tensions and the threat of nuclear annihilation, exploring the effects of this fear on human nature.

However, it was not all doom and gloom. With the dawn of space exploration, the awe and mystery of the universe beckoned filmmakers to consider the vastness and beauty of the cosmos with a renewed sense of wonder, awe, and curiosity. 1956’s Technicolor marvel, Forbidden Planet, became the first film to depict the exploration of another planet, showcasing one of the most beautiful palettes of its era, including stunning matte-painted backdrops that imagined a vivid, kaleidoscopic landscape on the distant planet Altair IV. As mankind probed farther into the depths of space and learned more about the nature of the universe, the age-old questions of whether there was a larger transcendent purpose or guiding force came to the fore. This notion found its culmination in perhaps the greatest science fiction film ever put to celluloid, Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey. A sprawling epic that begins at the dawn of humanity, it concludes with more questions than answers, seeking to understand man’s ultimate destiny. Does technology extend our humanity or ultimately replace it? What does it mean to be human? And most fundamentally, is human consciousness accidental, or is it guided by something transcendent? 2001: A Space Odyssey’s release was a seminal moment for the genre, with nearly every subsequent film drawing some measure of inspiration from it.

As Kubrick looked to technology and the vast emptiness of the cosmos for answers, the Soviet Union’s Andrei Tarkovsky looked inward with 1972’s Solaris, a film many have read as a response to Kubrick’s. Through the framework of his Orthodox faith, Tarkovsky presented a different approach, beckoning viewers to probe the depths of their own consciousness and ultimately recognize their inherent dignity. Despite its outer space setting, Solaris was less interested in technology and progress, focusing instead on the flame of man’s intellect and, ultimately, his heart.

While exploring fundamental questions often invites a meditative approach, the genre in the 1970s and 1980s began to embrace a larger, more bombastic, and ultimately more populist sensibility. The release of 1977’s Star Wars sought to incorporate the archetypal hero’s journey into the science fiction framework, exploring notions of morality, destiny, and the human heart against a futuristic galactic backdrop. The Back to the Future trilogy continued in Star Wars’ footsteps, offering an entertaining look at another reality bending concept: time travel, through relatable characters, a rousing score, and an abiding sense of wonder.

With advances in visual effects, worlds that were once confined to the realm of imagination became cinematic reality. Directors found themselves with a larger canvas upon which to bring their ideas to wider audiences. Such developments allowed Ridley Scott to create an immersive dystopian mega-city in 1982’s Blade Runner, in which he wrestled with notions of being, created or artificial, and what constitutes the dignity of the human person. It marked a pivotal moment in the development of the genre and, at the dawn of the computer age, ushered in a renewed focus on consciousness, the creation of artificial life, and humanity’s pursuit of transcendence through technology. Yet, as with Blade Runner, films often remained haunted by a nagging sense that there is something inherently dignified in man’s nature, and that nothing warped through technology can ultimately erase it.

Creating life through computer technology remained at the forefront of the imagination as the world hurtled toward the new millennium. James Cameron’s Terminator films explored the implications of unleashing warlike artificial life upon humanity and its devastating consequences. Yet it was through these machines that Cameron probed the nature of humanity itself, asking whether we are inherently good. Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park examined the creation of life through genetic manipulation, challenging audiences to consider what happens when mankind attempts to play God.

As computers became more sophisticated, the fundamental nature of reality itself came into question. Was it possible to create a simulation indiscernible from the real world? The Wachowskis’ landmark 1999 entry, The Matrix, brought this consideration to the forefront, forcing a confrontation with the possibility that everything we know might be artificial. Without a firm metaphysical grounding, the more technology progressed, the more reality itself seemed to unravel.

With the growing adoption of artificial intelligence, these questions reach their culmination in the modern age. The notion of creating artificial life is an age-old quandary, yet it has never felt more attainable. The new millennium has seen a proliferation of films wrestling with its very real implications, from Her (2013)’s more optimistic exploration of AI’s intersection with human relationships to Ex Machina (2014)’s searing indictment. As humanity continues to grapple with these paradigm-shifting developments, it will continue to turn to storytelling through the age’s most powerful medium. Film has a unique ability to bring these questions to the forefront in a way that is universally articulated.

And while technology continues to advance at a dizzying pace, often with alarming implications, the Christian worldview offers a sure foundation. Mankind continues to gaze with wonder at the cosmos and seek to understand his place within it. As Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar and James Gray’s Ad Astra probe the depths of space, they ultimately conclude that the most powerful driving force is self-sacrificial love. Technology may change, but the reality of what makes us human will not. As Christians, we know our universe is governed by a loving Creator, and our purpose is ultimately found in Him. Science fiction provides an avenue to wrestle with and explore these questions in a fresh light, even as we remain grounded in belief. It is a genre well worth exploring, and it is our hope that this series will provide an introduction to some of the greatest films, examined through the lens of our faith.

(French Title: La Passion de Dodin Bouffant (The Passion of Dodin Bouffant))

I have to give credit to the readers of this blog, I would not have found out about this movie if it weren’t for you all!

This movie scored #100 on our poll results for the “Top 100 Best Movies of the 21st Century”, and I remember making a mental note to check it out sometime in the near future. So when I had the idea of doing a series on “food movies” I put it on the list- without having yet seen it, mind you! What can I say? I put my faith in the taste of our readers and when I finally watched this a few weeks ago it paid off in dividends.

The Taste of Things follows Benoît Magimel as a gourmet chef- Dodin Bouffant- in rural France in 1889; he has been ably assisted for decades by Eugénie (Juliette Binoche). The entire opening sequence that introduces us to the both of them is an incredible piece of filmmaking: almost no dialogue takes place as we witness- in all of its intricacy and sensory delight- the preparation of an elaborate meal for Dodin’s friends. Introduced in this scene is young Bonnie Chagneau-Ravoire as Pauline, who is sent by her farmer parents to learn and potentially apprentice under Eugénie. Together they work in almost total silence (and more impressively, with no electricity) to create the most beautiful meals. One in particular stood out to me was one which seemed to be a stingray covered with a carefully prepared and reduced lemon and cream sauce.

The heart of the story, though, is the relationship between Dodin and Eugénie: they have worked together for so long they don’t need many words to communicate while prepping food. But their relationship goes much farther beyond professionalism, and we learn that for years Dodin has been trying to marry her. Now, in what Dodin calls “the autumn of their lives”, the question only grows in both of their minds. This is made all the more poignant by the fact that Binoche and Magimel were an on-again, off-again couple in real-life: therefore the chemistry on screen is truly palpable.

As Dodin contemplates this he is also thinking of returning to form with a simple beef stew done perfectly to impress the extravagant tastes of a visiting prince, who himself is trying to impress Dodin with his chef’s cooking. To do this he needs Eugénie, but he soon finds out that there is something she has been keeping from him about her health.

Overall the film was a sensory delight, and the cinematography by Jonathan Ricquebourg was incredible, not only of the food but also of the surrounding French countryside. Director Trần Anh Hùng is not afraid to feature long takes and, much like the food in the film, no shot feels wasted. Its a story about not only romantic love but of a much deeper shared of love of making art, particularly with food. And when that art is directed for the delight and enjoyment of another it is amplified all the more.

So, this is all to say, keep recommending stuff on here! I was so happy to find this film and look forward to seeing what other hidden gems are out there.

Just don’t watch this on an empty stomach.

Catholics know that food can be sacramental. Not only in a Eucharistic sense, but small-s sacramental: physical vehicles of grace that enter our daily lives and point us towards heaven. We use special food to celebrate feast days; we give up food as a gesture of penance for sin; we pray over our meals to offer them back to the One who provided them for us; we gather our families together to share meals, strengthening our bonds with each other and creating lasting memories. A good meal can be the opportunity for revelation and reconciliation, as in Babette’s Feast, or for showing reverence and dedication to one’s simple craft, as in Jiro Dreams of Sushi or Ratatouille, or simply for radiating and receiving love from those with whom you share the table. Food can also be a vehicle for memory: the pie that your great aunt used to make, the staple meals your mom and dad put on the table day after day in your childhood, the holiday traditions shared with your family, the meals cooked with your spouse or the great dates you shared together. Food is far more than fuel for us biological meat-machines; it truly can be a sacramental instrument of love and grace.

Pig is an unassuming little film which illuminates the ways in which food can be vehicles of grace. It was atrociously marketed; when I first saw the film in theaters in 2021, I was expecting John Wick with a pig instead of a dog. When I instead got a slow burn drama, I would have left early if it weren’t for my overwhelming love for Nicolas Cage (the only other person in my theater fell asleep and was snoring. Loudly.). A few years on now, I can appreciate the film for what it is: a contemplative meditation on grief, family, and healing and the way that food can facilitate revelation, forgiveness, and the processing of emotions that seem at times too great for the human spirit to comprehend.

(spoilers ahead)

The film follows Robin Feld (Nicolas Cage), a famous chef-turned-recluse in the Oregon mountains following the death of his wife, Lori. His only companion is his truffle-hunting pig, whom he shows great love and affection and shares everything with. When the pig is kidnapped, Robin goes on a journey back to his former life in Portland in an attempt to get back the only creature he loves. His companion on this journey is the buyer for his truffles, Amir (Alex Wolff), a young restaurant supplier trying to make a name for himself in Portland’s cutthroat fine dining world while competing with his stern and successful father (Adam Arkin). Together, this unlikely pair make their way through kitchens, back alleys, and meat-packing facilities on a search for the person who took Robin’s beloved pig. It’s a journey deep into Robin’s past as he encounters former employees, friends, and even journeys back to the house he shared with Lori, now owned by a new family with children. Robin must confront his past and his grief on this search, as well as rediscovering the way that food can heal relationships and rebuild broken communities.

A few moments in the film stand out as particularly grace-full. Robin’s journey begins with him alone, in the woods, cooking with only the simplest ingredients and what he can forage from his surroundings. He uses that to create what looks like a delightful meal (if you like mushrooms), but he eats it alone, sharing this good food with his pig. The talents of this great chef are literally cast before swine, showing his utter disconnect from human community. By the end of the film, however, he is teaching Amir how to cook and sharing a meal with Amir and his father, pouring his love into his craft and reattaining joy in preparing and eating food with others. Robin was miserable when he was alone, but at peace when in community; cooking and eating this meal together was the vehicle for healing Robin’s misanthropy and heartache.

Another moment is when Robin calls out another chef’s cooking as a lie. Food can be an authentic and generous gift of one’s self, or it can be false, a mere chasing of trends and job rather than a calling. As he eats at a Michelin-starred restaurant, he asks to see the chef and remembers him as an old employee at his restaurant. The chef is very successful, overseeing one of the trendiest restaurants in Portland, but you can see in his face the stress, the fake smile, the lie of it all and Robin calls him out for it. Robin remembers that this man wanted nothing more than to run an old-fashioned English pub, not a fancy, trendy haute cuisine restaurant. The other chef slowly breaks under Robin’s interrogation, realizing how much of his life was a lie and how he had perverted his calling and made it into a mere job by not authentically pursuing his craft with love. I like to think that that man got his pub, responding to the grace of this revelation and returning to a more authentic craft.

Finally, the climax of the film. It is slowly revealed that it is Amir’s father who had Robin’s pig kidnapped, as a way of choking his son out of the restaurant business in which the father thinks he will not succeed anyway. Through the film we’ve seen the difficult relationship Amir has had with his father and the heartache he feels at the loss of his terminally ill mother. He remembers one particular date that his parents came back from, a meal which set them both at ease and gave them a joy and peace he rarely remembered in his troubled childhood. That meal had been cooked by Robin Feld. In a (perhaps implausible) moment of grace, Robin remembers the very meal and recreates it, bringing father and son back together and reviving deeply repressed memories that the man, in his grief and regret, was unprepared to deal with. We are left uncertain as to how this will change the father, but Amir grows in his sympathy with his father and his determination to show him filial love regardless of his actions. All three of our main characters are forced to deal with their grief rather than repress it, but because of the meal this is brought about by love rather than trauma, by sharing in a sacramental moment which brings revelation. There is deep sorrow here, yes, but also a clearer reckoning with the truth and a determination to move on, to process the grief rather than repress it.

Robin returns to his cabin in the woods, without his pig but with a new friend in Amir and a clearer perspective of himself, his wife, and his grief. He is finally able to listen to a cassette tape his wife had made for his birthday, remembering her rather than repressing her. Through this journey of loss, Robin had remembered how to love. By renewing his craft in fellowship with others, he had experienced grace and found a peace unobtainable in the solitude of the wilderness. By journeying into the past, haunted by the ghost of his wife, he was finally able to let her be at peace and once again find joy in her memory.

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Growing up, I would always look forward to visiting my grandparent’s house on the weekends. Not only was it a great opportunity to catch up with a giant family of tíos, tías, and primos, but it also meant getting to enjoy some of my abuelo’s cooking. He didn’t cook often, but when he did it was a sure fire treat. Some of his staples included sancocho, empanadas, and my absolute favorite, cazuela de frijoles. I suppose it was these visits that stirred a love for food and cooking in me. Once I was in college and graduated, it took a lot of trial and error to learn how to cook. But after some years of experimentation and tons of successes and failures, I still have a lot to learn and experience.

One of the first recipes I attempted on my own a few years ago was the pasta aglio e oglio from Chef. The thought of taking simple ingredients (pasta, garlic, chili flake, olive oil, parsley, salt) and getting a result greater than the sum of its parts was intriguing. Definitely wasn’t my best work, but it was the entrance to a rabbit hole that I’ve been going down in for years. Here’s the thing about cooking though: even though there’s plenty of creative satisfaction in knowing how ingredients work and putting a spin on recipes, my fire for the process and art is not about the food itself, it’s about the people I get to share it with. This is why Chef is a film that’s resonated with me for years.

We’re introduced to our protagonist, Carl Casper, who has a passion for cooking and works as an executive chef in one of the top restaurants of Los Angeles. Fully immersed in his work, Carl clearly puts all he has in making masterpieces in the kitchen, even at the expense of having a broken marriage and family dynamic. He dares to go the extra mile and be bold in his recipes, but faces pushback. This inner conflict reaches a breaking point when a critic absolutely scorches his work, and this exchange explodes on Twitter. Furthermore, this results in an eruption on Carl’s end as he vents about how chocolate lava cake is meant to be molten and not undercooked. As a result of this, Carl is then forced to restart from the ground up, but not just with his culinary career. He encounters an even more necessary rebuild: the relationship with his son, Percy.

This film excels with showing the importance of relationship building and quality time, especially through the lens of a child wanting to spend time with his father. Percy isn’t interested in going to theme parks or playing the latest video games with his dad. Doing mundane tasks like setting up an online account, going to the store to grab supplies, or even scrubbing down an old food truck is what he desires. All these tasks require Carl to slow down his pace and really forge a relationship with his son. In the process of cooking as well, with and for loved ones, it requires anyone to slow down and communicate. Whenever I invite people over, or share in the joy of cooking with friends or family, it’s always an opportunity to build even deeper bonds.

This idea of slowing down is also highlighted through the shots of food and cooking all throughout. Chopping, mixing, spreading, toasting, searing, and sauteeing brings the vibrant colors and flavors to the screen. Seriously, it’s not a good idea to see this film on an empty stomach. In this, Jon Favreau excels and emphasizes the idea of slowing down and taking in the joys and wonders of everyday life. Even in his own career, he sandwiched this film in between the blockbuster Iron Man films, and the reimagining of Disney’s Jungle Book and The Lion King. All those films have incredible amounts of CGI and special effects, yet a simple two-minute montage of a grilled cheese being made is what shines here, and it’s special. Often we take the little moments for granted, whether it’s in or outside the kitchen.

Another aspect of Chef I appreciate is the showcasing of different cuisines across the United States (and it really just scratches the surface with this). It starts off in Los Angeles which is no stranger to impressive restaurants, as well as being a melting pot of a variety of cultures. Then, Carl takes his talents to South Beach and spends a significant portion of this film reinventing himself in the 305. This hits close to home, as I grew up and live in Miami. The humble Cuban sandwich may not seem like anything crazy, but if you ever have the experience of trying one, you realize it’s truly magificent. (The film uses another adjective in Spanish to describe it, but I won’t repeat it since it’s a bit crude). The vibrant culture of Miami’s scene is on full display here, form the salsa clubs to the palm trees along the beach.

But it doesn’t stop there. Carl, along with Percy and sous chef (John Leguizamo) make their way to the Big Easy and enjoy their beignets and serve hungry customers there. Even though I’ve yet to visit New Orleans, I’m no stranger to a good crab boil, or some shrimp gumbo. America’s variety of cuisines are just briefly shown here, but when given the opportunity to travel, there really is a ton of richness and culture all throughout the 50 states. Our food truck crew also makes a stop deep in the Heart of Texas to delight in the ecstasy of having smoked brisket and good ol’ barbecue. Austin is a city that’s grown close to me over the last few years, having visited several times. It’s music scene and southern hospitality really is one of a kind. And seriously, please do yourself a favor and try some brisket if you ever go down there - you’ll thank me later.

What seems like a fun cross country road trip becomes a bond for a father and son to share in. Carl has his moments where he shares in his passion for cooking with Percy, and explains to him how important it is to work with care and passion. For anyone who’s had the chance to take a trip like this, it’s not just about the calories you put on in trying these different dishes and cuisines, it’s about the people you get to share it with. It’s in breaking bread with family and friends where memories are made that last a lifetime.

Anyone who knows me, knows I take a lot of pride in sharing “good vibes” through food and coffee. It’s always been a joy of mine to host and cook for people, no matter how much work it takes. Jon Favreau really crafted a 2 hour film that places a focus this idea. There’s no crazy plot twists or big dramatic moments in the majority of this film. It is, however, a masterclass in demonstrating the importance of slowing down, showing perseverance, fostering relationships, and enjoying the passage of time through good food. Any big Hollywood director can always look for the next billion dollar blockbuster to put out, but Chef shines as Jon Favreau’s most earnest and sincere work.

There’s constant pressure from the outside world to be completely immersed in the hustle and bustle. Even though it’s good to work hard and chase success, what good is it for if we neglect our loved ones, or lose sight of the small moments that shine each day? The small moments matter most here, which is a great lesson for anyone to take. I believe most people can recall fond memories shared around a table with great food and good company. It’s those moments that shine the most, where I cherish the people I care about, and keeps their memories and stories alive.

Reverence. Of all virtues, reverence is what Ratatouille preaches. Love of life and an appreciation for the small things oozes from every frame of this lovingly crafted animated classic, while offering us as Catholics a feast that is more than a simple flick for the kids. Ratatouille preaches a deep respect for creation and criticism, cooking, and above all, food, which needs to be emulated more by the collective (myself included).

A belief held by iconographers and legendary filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky is that to create is to imitate God in a complementary fashion. This imitation in making windows into the divine tells us that there is just as much spirituality within creation as there is in consuming or ingesting. While I won’t necessarily address the film’s stance on criticism (seeing as it already perfectly addressed it within Anton Ego’s brilliant monologue at the end), the parallel spirituality of consumption and creation is something that is evident when viewing Ratatouille. Amid numerous high-quality quotes from Remy, his “If you are what you eat, then I only want the good stuff” line stands out as an outlier in modern culture. This view is not only most likely held by both the film’s protagonist and one of its antagonists, but by the Catholic Church as well. In fact, perhaps most would agree with this statement in some capacity with whatever their preferred artform is (If you are what you watch, then I only want the good stuff). We are, however, conditioned to settle for easy and for less in the 21st century. His father’s follow-up line of “Food is fuel…shut up and eat your garbage” seems to be more in line with the mainstream secular mindset. If what you consume has no care taken with its creation, the latter tends to apply.

As the art of making icons and the icons themselves can be observed with reverence, so can cooking and food. Food is a cornerstone of our society and of our Catholic faith. Food and its consumption are such an intimate experience that Christ himself instituted the Holy Eucharist before His Passion. The Holy Sacrament of the Altar is physical and spiritual food by design and is the summit of our Faith. Christ loves us so much that He permits us to consume Him, the most precious and sacred item on Earth, every Sunday and even every day. Christ made Himself known in the breaking of the bread, fed 5000, and made wine for others to drink for His first meal. Christ understands how important food is, and with such strong emphasis on its importance, shouldn’t we approach it as Remy does?

Food in Ratatouille is not merely something to be thrown together or scarfed down (I am admittedly guilty of being a fast eater), but an intimate experience to be savored and carefully put together. There is a distinct sacramentality with cooking and food. While a little bit of McDonald’s may be something you need to get in an emergency or a guilty pleasure every now and then, this fuel cannot compare to the sharing and healing power of a home-cooked meal from a loved one. Ego’s famous flashback after eating ratatouille effectively demonstrates this and effectively convinces even children of this idea. Cooking is an artform, and participating in the creation of food allows us to imitate Christ as He did with his disciples and as He does every Sunday. Nourishing others with the fruits of our labors in cooking brings us closer together. The character Colette even addresses this aspect of “putting oneself into a dish” as a crucial part of the cooking experience.

Remy’s passion for food does not just demonstrate itself in how well he can cook or his philosophical understanding of cooking and food, but in how he does it. Remy’s affection and deep love for food and cooking is demonstrated by his reverence towards it. He acts in a way that recognizes the goodness in what he believes in. Food and its making are the most important in his life, or at least on par with his family. He does his best to deter others from porking food down as fast as possible, but to cherish and savor it. His clear external expression of love further moves him closer to what he already loves, and even inspires others to care for it as he does. Thinking in this manner, couldn’t we apply this to the most important meal that we can consume in the Holy Eucharist? It’s one thing for us to understand that it is the True Presence of Christ, but shouldn’t we show it and savor the gift of Manna from Heaven? The reception of the Holy Sacrament should probably not be akin to receiving a Costco sample, but rather in a manner where we express our reverence for the most important thing we will ever eat. A simple but deeply moving way of demonstrating this is to receive Communion on the tongue, rather than in the hand. I invite anyone who does not to perhaps try it if you are comfortable with it, for it will change your outlook and how you approach the Eucharist.

The healing and unifying power of food is undeniable within the identity of the Church, and applies to the food outside of the Holy Mass. Aside from maybe Babette’s Feast, Ratatouille understands this better than any other film made within the past 40 years. Ian Holm’s hilarious antagonist Skinner is dedicated to impersonal and mass production, and made all the more miserable by it. He finds no satisfaction in his work, lives in constant paranoia, and wishes nothing but the worst for all others. Where even the character of Gusteau may have been obsessed too much with rating rather than the love of food (showing a creator losing himself in his work), Remy maintains his authentic love of food and cooking throughout. He is all the more happy with his work, and through his love for creation and food, heals the wounds of others damaged by a world focused on ratings and money. One could say that cooking is to Remy what iconography is to Andrei Rublev, or composing was to Brukner or Haydn. Their end products were how they helped heal and engage others, and entered more deeply into a relationship with others, consequently. To create and provide for others in this manner is to imitate Christ, and is of great need in a time when the world needs it more than ever.

Ratatouille is a simple, approachable film that reveals its riches when the layers are peeled back, teaching us profound statements on love, expression, respect, and cuisine. Reverence is an expression of our love and can underscore how we conduct ourselves in all things, and develop the sacramentality that lies within every human experience. Remy’s reverent example is one we can all follow in more areas of our lives than just food, even if he is a rat.

It just goes to show, as the film says, “Anyone can cook.”

Cinema is best at appealing to two of our five senses: sight and hearing.

Despite what your local 4DX theater will have you believe, our eyes and our ears are our primary vehicles for receiving stories, ever since there were stories to begin with. I’m sure that deep in Silicon Valley Mark Zuckerberg is currently working on adding smell, taste, and touch to his Metaverse, but until then those senses are really pretty absent when it comes to art in general.

The depiction of food in film can be charted all the way back to the 19th century (a decade that gets little representation on our list for cinema, we promise we’ll get at least one film from that era on our list someday), featuring in a series by the inventors of cinema themselves, the Lumière Brothers. The series was titled Actualités (actuality films) and featured simple clips of people doing ordinary things: one such short being titled “Jumping Onto a Blanket”. As my research tells me, the short “Repase de Bébé” (Baby’s Breakfast) may very well be the first recorded instance of food being depicted in film. Check it out right here!

For the first half of film’s history, food could only be displayed in film in black-and-white, and that meant a lot of the food you see in scenes could easily be portrayed cheaply in plastic or wax (when it’s not visibly being eaten onscreen).

This is not to say that there aren’t memorable dinner scenes from these decades, but the limitations on the technology at the time could only go so far to truly portray a scrumptious meal. Digital cinematography would eventually allow for more intimate shots of the process and a realism that simply couldn’t be achieved through old-school means. With the advent of television and shows like The French Chef leading to the debut of The Food Network decades later, technology evolved- even in animation- to portray food in an intimate, granular nature.

Our culture around food has also changed significantly: with the Internet, every fool with a stove could be Wolfgang Petersen or Julia Child, and there became increased demand for, quite simply, better food than what was being offered by most fast-food chains or fast casual restaurants.

There also are the robust parallels between being a chef and being a filmmaker: both are reliant on a singular auteur to provide vision yet always involve collaboration when working at the highest level. These parallels are almost stupidly obvious in Jon Favreau’s best film, Chef, which will be one of the films on our list.

All this being said, the films we have chosen range from 2007 all the way to as recently as 2023. Almost every one of these films can be viewed equally as both odes to cooking as well as metaphors for either filmmaking or the creative process. They utilize digital cinematography to focus on the intricacies of the process (including 3D animation) and the one crucial component each of these film has is that it will absolutely leave you feeling hungry afterwards. There is a striving for realism within each film that is so acute that many of the recipes for the dishes within the film can be found online.

Another common component amongst these films is the ability of food to unite people together- a great example of such a film is one that’s already been on our list (and therefore will not be on this one), Babette’s Feast. Just like a great film playing in theaters, a great meal is best enjoyed shared with others, and are loaded with memories that often take us back to an idyllic or memorable time in our lives.

So this December, kick back and enjoy these five hand-picked films dedicated to the love of food, cooking, and the creative process.

And remember, anyone can cook.

(Also, how ironic is it that our last ‘100 More Movies’ post before introducing this series was Silence of the Lambs?)

Warning: This film contains intense and graphic subject matter.

We now come to what is the most terrifying of all the films to be included in our recommendations: The Silence of the Lambs. Jonathan Demme’s magnum opus is the only horror movie to win Best Picture, and one of only three films (It Happened One Night and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) to win the Big 5 Academy Awards (Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Director, Screenplay). It continues to dominate pop culture, “Greatest Films of All Time” lists, and the horror film ecosystem as if it came out last year. After a few rewatches, I will confidently declare that it absolutely lives up to all of these accolades, and even has substantial thematic value lying at its heart.

The Silence of the Lambs is based on the Thomas Harris novel of the same name, and takes place within what has become known as the Red Dragon universe. The premise is that a young up-and-coming FBI agent, Clarice Starling, has been tasked with interviewing renowned psychiatrist and serial cannibal Hannibal Lecter. Lector’s intellectual prowess is needed to help catch serial killer and transvestite Buffalo Bill before more victims are claimed. What ensues is a thrilling and truly terrifying descent into the depths of the human mind and trauma that can tell us just as much about ourselves as it does its characters.

With how extreme and graphic some of the content within this chilling tale may be, it has a shockingly Catholic focus on trauma. Through all the terror, The Silence of the Lambs is about how we approach and handle trauma, and how it can help us either overcome great evil or become that great evil. All of the characters within this film have some sort of grief or traumatic experiences that they are struggling with, with Clarice’s even being the title of the film. Through her willingness to help others and her commitment to what is right, she can confront these hardships and become stronger to contend with those who choose to exact their revenge and perpetuate darkness in the world. Our protagonist is not some pompous, moral elitist who sees herself as the master of the universe (as is the case with most modern female protagonists), but someone flawed and willing to adjust to mistakes they or others have made. Clarice emulates what we are all called to do as Catholics: to persevere through difficult times and stay true to morality and justice. We may stare in the face of unspeakable evil and be mocked by it, but trusting in Christ and staying true to Him is our only hope.

The Academy Award-winning screenplay by Ted Tally is done with such care and mastery that it’s difficult to think he has not had more success since this project. With the two primary villains on real individuals (Ted Bundy and Ed Gein, for Buffalo Bill and Alfredo Ballí Treviño for Hannibal Lector), this adaptation of Harris’s chilling universe feels all the more rooted and disturbing. Characters will tear each other down in intellectual cat-and-mouse games, reducing each other to archetypes while maintaining their aura and integrity. SOTL manages to take a mature look at female objectification and the difficulty that can be faced by women in some lines of work. While this topic generally gains an eye roll and feels disingenuous in modern film, this struggle helps subtly move the plot forward in an intelligent manner.

Demme’s trip into the heart of darkness is a masterclass of craft. Much of SOTL’s power lies in its cinematography, editing and score. Cinematographer Takashi Fujimoto (Signs, The Sixth Sense, Badlands) and Jonathan Demme chose to focus on the human face for a large portion of the shot composition. This unique style of shooting subjects head-on heightens the drama and tension to new heights. We are not only stuck in a room with evil, but we must stare it straight in the face. We are hypnotized, trapped, and above all, fearful. While it is popular now to romanticize serial killers and sometimes even make them sympathetic, SOTL forces us to reckon directly with the matter at hand without any of the glamour. Evil is evil, and at the end of the day, there is no getting around it. No moral relativism, no misunderstood antagonists, no “both sides are wrong”. Editing and framing merely add to this, with every cut feeling as intentional as would be seen in a Tarkovsky film. When parallel scenes occur, they seem together in a flawless rhythm that many only dream of imitating. The tense build-up to the discovery of Buffalo Bill is perhaps one of the greatest examples of parallel storytelling in the history of the medium, and has never been replicated with quite as much skill.

While many may know Howard Shore for what is perhaps the greatest and most ambitious score of all time in The Lord of the Rings, The Silence of the Lambs demonstrates that he had the talent long before he collaborated with Peter Jackson. Shore at times takes over this film as Bernard Hermann took over Psycho, with pounding and ambient melodies drawing the most out of what already is a technical marvel. Ideas and styles can be heard throughout that later show up in LOTR, but The Silence of the Lambs is able to differentiate itself with a sort of Danny Elfman flair, with a character of its own.

Perhaps the most famous and notable draw for this film is its acting. Every cast member, down to the most minute extra, is at the peak of their craft. All of the stars aligned and were dependent on the actors, and boy, did they show up. Originally, Michelle Pfieffer was supposed to play Clarice Starling, and Sean Connery as Hannibal Lecter. Thankfully (no disrespect meant), this did not pan out. Jodie Foster, fresh off her Oscar win for The Accused, landed the role of Clarice, and honestly is the only person who could have played the part. When Anthony Hopkins was informed by his agent that he was getting a script for a film called “The Silence of the Lambs”, Hopkins asked, “Is it a children’s story?”. After 10 pages, he declared it was the best role he’d ever read, and then took on the task of playing one of the greatest villains in all fiction. Despite only being on screen for 24 minutes and 52 seconds, Hopkins becomes the face of this film and was able to win a Best Actor Oscar on one of the shortest performances in the history of the award. This award was well deserved, as everything about this performance is awe-inspiring.

Supposedly, both Foster and Hopkins were intimidated by each other, and only became friends after filming had wrapped. This tension is palpable throughout and is sort of the cherry on top that solidifies it as perhaps the greatest modern horror film. Ted Levine gives an incredibly disturbing and whimsical performance as Buffalo Bill, and went as far as to improv the infamous “Goodbye Horses” dance scene. Levine is almost absurd, but then again, someone who would do such horrible things would, in fact, be absurd. He is able to bring intensity and nuance to an incredibly demanding role that does not have a lot of room to express this range. Scott Glenn plays the supporting character of Jack Crawford with elegance to serve as a companion that would be found in a Tom Clancy story, without any of the camp. Crawford feels like a real person who can be found on a Wikipedia page and has an illustrious career with the FBI. The same can be said for all other characters, with such amazing attention to detail given to everyone.

Ultimately, The Silence of the Lambs requires a lot of spiritual maturity to discern if it is the right film to watch. Thematically, it has wonderful messaging, and from a craft perspective, it is a master class. Its content and some of its scenes can be quite graphic and disturbing, similar to how some parts of Dante’s Inferno or art portraying it could be considered. For seasoned viewers, Catholics, and horror fans, it is a journey worth embarking on, as the fight against evil is worth fighting for. It may be ugly, but it ultimately is edifying.

*content warning: it’s The Exorcist. If you choose to watch, you know what you’re getting into.*

Frankly, I’ve had some trouble writing this review. I think it’s mostly because I did not think The Exorcist was very scary.

Now don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty in this film that is disturbing, shocking, and gross. Much of the film relies on the shock element of having a little girl, who is supposed to be innocent, saying and doing some horrendous things under the influence of the demon. There’s also a significant amount of bodily fluids slung about and the slow decay of a living body into a demonic corpse. Those with weak stomachs should certainly avoid it. But I, personally, did not find it to be particularly scary or horrifying.

And I think that is the whole point of the film.

All of the demonic possession, the killing, the shock and horror, is all incidental to the real story at play here: a crisis of faith. Director William Friedkin said “Neither [Friedkin nor screenwriter William Peter Blatty] view it as a horror film. We view it as a film about the mysteries of faith. It’s easier for people to call it a horror film.”1 The protagonist of the film is Fr. Damien Karras (Jason Miller), a Jesuit and a psychiatrist who thinks the Church has moved past its need for exorcism. What in the past was thought to be demonic possession modern science now understands as mental illness. However, when the case of Regan MacNeil (Linda Blair) comes before him, a case that doctors and psychiatrists are not able to explain, Fr. Karras must wrestle with the possibility that the demonic is real and that a choice must be made between good and evil.

Fr. Karras does not have an explicit crisis of faith in God; however, his scientistic epistemology does seem to have deeply affected his faith in crucial ways. He explicitly disavows the preternatural power of demons, thereby seemingly disavowing the miraculous entirely. He wrestles with the problem of evil and with his own vocation at several points in the film, especially because his duties as a priest force him to live in a different city than his elderly mother. When she dies halfway through the film, Fr. Karras is clearly burdened by a great deal of guilt, guilt which is exploited by the demon possessing Regan MacNeil. Fr. Karras represents what screenwriter Blatty saw as the state of modern Christians (and especially Catholics) in the early 1970s: he may not have abandoned faith in God, but he lives his life without letting God affect it much.

This begins to change when he encounters Regan, a demoniac whose condition is inexplicable. After his meeting with her, we see Fr. Karras consecrating the Eucharist at Mass, and the camera lingers on the Host and Chalice. If the Devil is real and actively moving through the world, why cannot Christ be doing the same? He recommends that Regan be given an exorcism and is partnered with his dramatic foil, Fr. Merrin (Max Von Sydow), an older, more experienced priest who will lead the exorcism.

During the exorcism it is clear that Fr. Karras is petrified by what he is seeing and Fr. Merrin, though cognizant of the evil in front of him, is calm and authoritative when dealing with the demon. It might be wrong to say Fr. Merrin has no fear, but his confidence in the power of Christ causes him to be unshakable in his fight against evil. Fr. Karras slowly regains his faith in this power, becoming more and more active in the exorcism even though still struggling with aspects of this strange new world he has wandered into.

Early in the film shock treatment is discussed as a possible cure for Regan, and Blatty used the phrase again in his underrated 1980 film The Ninth Configuration. In that film, Col. Hudson Kane sees shock as a possible cure for Capt. Billy Cutshaw’s unbelief in God. I think that Blatty, a belligerently sincere Catholic, envisioned The Exorcist as a “shock treatment” of sorts for the complacent American, a film so utterly horrifying (and based on a true story, no less) that film-goers would, like Fr. Karras, be forced to confront the reality of evil and from there be spurred on to the reality of Christ.

Unfortunately, it was far easier for the American public to treat The Exorcist as a fantasy, the progenitor of a new brand of demonic horror films that serve to sanitize Satan rather than present him as all too real. Thus the narrative arose that The Exorcist was “the scariest film of all time!” and our culture was more than happy to treat it as a horror classic rather than a meditation on the mystery of faith and the searing reality of Good and Evil. It would seem that Blatty and Friedkin failed in their mission to shock Americans back into serious consideration of God and His role in their lives.

Which brings me back to the beginning: I did not find this film to be “the scariest film of all time!” And I think that our wider culture’s acceptance of this title is a symptom of the very crisis of faith portrayed in the film. I, like Fr. Merrin, have faith in Christ, and so the ultimate triumph of Good over Evil resonates more with me than the terror of a floating girl or projectile vomit. My faith in Christ inoculates me (and, I suspect, many other Catholic viewers) against the horror of the demonic and left me confident in the ultimate triumph of Good. The spiritual battle was won, even if there were some physical casualties along the way. The wider culture, by contrast, is closer in its view of faith to Fr. Karras, and so is terrified by the power of the demon because they know no higher power. Even some of our fellow Catholics have fallen into the trap of focusing on and being overly frightened by demonic power without remembering that the Lamb has overcome. Our faith is in Christ resurrected, and with Him on our side we need not fear anything.

We don’t even have to be scared when watching The Exorcist.

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In a recent deep dive interview (an albeit silly interview, at that), Christoph Waltz was asked about his thoughts on Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”. Having never read the book prior to his taking up a role in Del Toro’s newest adaptation, Waltz admitted to having read the book over and taking great admiration in Shelley’s incredible insight of the human experience given her extremely young age. Saying little more for the story, he mentions but only one line which exalts Shelley’s young brilliance, a comparison which he paraphrases as thus: “What he [the creature/monster] expected from being alive, and the discrepancy to his experience.”

This line, perfectly embodied by the story, is also tragically reflected in James Whale’s 1931 adaptation of Frankenstein. The themes and questions throughout this film are rich, asking what it means to have been created and more so what it means to have been given life. As disturbing as it may be to watch this creature struggle in a way so cruel, we still feel connected to this creature simply because we too have been given life. Dr. Frankenstein screams out (in a remarkably fervent performance by Colin Clive), “Now I know what it is like to be God,” and yet we watch him fail to take up the role of being God. He had manipulated the elements provided by God to create an imitation of life, and even still after having created what he calls a monster, he has no power or control over it. The film makes the audience consider how God perceives his own creations. Man holds so much disdain for its own creations, and yet God is said to be loving and devoted to guiding all of his creations back to him.

Even though the events of Shelley’s story, as well as its publication, predate the full force of the industrial revolution, there is something to be said from this film on how man treats its own creations. Frankenstein’s monster represents the embodied monstrosities of man’s curiosity, and our sudden disinterest once something has been created, a goal has been met, or even our inability to contain a creation once we have conjured it into being; like Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit, with only thoughts of the present, and no concern for the aftermath of their decisions. Frankenstein coincides with man’s searches for the impossible, and yet this story allows man to have his wishes. It grants man his goals and through this story reveals to him that he is incapable of having the privilege of being a creator of impossibilities. In the years to follow Shelley’s publishing of “Frankenstein”, the world would be met with all kinds of newer goals; faster speeds, taller buildings, better medicines, transportation via the sky, and always more powerful weapons. Yet, with each innovation, arose countless new problems, many of which never existed before. Whale’s adaptation of “Frankenstein” even predates the nuclear bomb: man’s creation with possibly the most foreboding correlation to Frankenstein’s relationship with the monster. And that is exactly the tale of Frankenstein: man’s fear of his own accomplishments. All of man’s accomplishments become wildly uncontrollable after their fruition, and yet we continue to invent newer goals with greater consequences.

Through all of this talk about man made horrors, Whale and Karloff portray the monster as an innocent victim, confused as to why it has been created only to be hated, betrayed, and destroyed. Once the creation of life had been achieved, Frankenstein then tries to destroy what he once sought, as if the creation is evil and not the creator. The film does more than live up to its opening words of warning; it crafts one of cinema’s most tragic characters. Boris Karloff had been cast in a nearly impossible role for which he needed to create intense sympathy for a character that not only has no voice for himself, but has a cast of characters shunning him for his villainous existence, while also needing to convince an audience to overcome his terrifying appearance. Karloff’s portrayal of this misfortunate monster carries so much passion and heart, and convinces an audience that this man is the truest victim of a world that wants to harness life as a tool.

The visual style of this film is exceptional, with awesomely terrifying sets and sound stage designs that perfectly encapsulate the characters and mood. It is possibly the closest a major Hollywood production would come to meeting with German Expressionism for many decades. Whale’s camera feels fluid considering how rigid some of the sets could be, using craning shots throughout many scenes. He utilizes close ups, which one could only imagine the horror of an audience seeing a character of this type for the first time spanning the height of an entire wall.

Most of the classic James Whale era Universal Studio monster movies have a relatively similar construction. Very often the monster of the film is a tragic victim of circumstances brought on by their own actions or misfortunes. The Invisible Man, The Wolf Man, Dr. Jekyll were all good men turned aggressors lost to their obsessions. There is greatest sympathy crafted for these villains. King Kong was mistreated by man, and so was Frankenstein. Even Dracula and The Mummy, the least sympathetic of the pre-code Monsters, are cursed to act the way they do and carry out their evils almost against their wills. This sympathy is something that was lost toward the monster movies of later decades, of course with exceptions like Creature of the Black Lagoon. Otherwise, films like The Blob, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and most other 1950s monster horrors were dealing with absolute evils. This difference marks a stark difference between the two eras, not just film-wise, but also in terms of society and how this entertainment changed from reflecting on the evil within ourselves to exterminating the evil in others. Frankenstein rather portrays a selfish self-preservation at the heart of the film, calling out mankind for pointing blame at the byproducts of its actions rather than owning blame for its own hubris.

Typically, the classic horror films all have one flaw: character introductions. These horror classics open with incredible scenes, but when it comes time to set up characters, the tone changes to a flat, light, witty romantic comedy, which feels more like It Happened One Night rather than a monster movie. Frankly, it is a trope that the horror genre to this day has not truly overcome, but the violent switch in tone from spooky horror to stinted flirtatious wit brings a tonal whiplash that often disconnects interest in the film. Regardless of some awkward conversation, the characters in Frankenstein are largely pleasant and enjoyable to watch. Boris Karloff delivers an incredibly nuanced performance that should be studied far more, as he fully embodies his role through so much more than just facially and vocally, but physically through his hands and his stride. Karloff stares so intensely, unable to speak his tortured mind, and it shows through every close up. Another personal favorite of mine is the ending, with dramatic angles and imagery, flames at the base of the windmill as the creator runs from the created. There is a match cut between their faces as they stare at each other through the spinning gears of the mill, emphasizing the connection between these two as their relationship has deteriorated to such a horrible state. The moment is intimate and makes the closing of the scene carry such a weight that never leaves.

There is no better place to begin our exploration of the horror genre than with F. W. Murnau’s seminal adaptation of Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel, Dracula. Lauded as the first true horror film, Nosferatu’s influence on the subsequent development of the genre is undisputed. With this series, we have set out to examine how this rather challenging genre can intersect with our Catholic worldview and how, when horror is done well, it can enrich the tenets of our faith. Horror, properly directed, can elicit an emotional response that drives us to consider spiritual realities, our own mortality, and instill a true fear of sin.

Nosferatu’s source material is well known for its Catholic imagery, as Irish Protestant Bram Stoker was well versed in his nation’s Catholic heritage. The novel emphasizes the use of Catholic sacramentals in repelling the unholy vampire. Dracula himself is shown as a dark spiritual entity—a sacrilegious inversion of Eucharistic theology—who draws blood selfishly to perpetuate his hellish existence. Rather than Christ shedding His blood selflessly so that we may have eternal life, Dracula greedily sucks the blood of his victims, consumed in selfishness and draining their life away in the process.

When F. W. Murnau set out to adapt the novel in 1922, he made a number of significant deviations from the text. Proceeding infamously without acquiring the rights from Stoker’s estate, locations, names, and certain plot elements were altered to avoid copyright infringement accusations. Much of the novel’s religious iconography was also stripped away, including the vampire’s aversion to sacramentals and the character of Van Helsing, who is introduced as a Catholic and highly educated, yet well aware that certain forces cannot be defeated by science alone.

A possible explanation for the removal of such overt religious references can be found in the occult origins of Murnau’s fledgling studio, Prana Films, which took inspiration from the Hindu notion of the “force of life,” a venture he founded with Albin Grau, who was a well-known occultist. Besides Nosferatu, the pair had their sights set on developing other films focusing on occult elements, including Höllenträume (Dreams of Hell) and Der Sumpfteufel (The Devil of the Swamp). The subsequent fallout with the Stoker estate regarding the copyright infringement left us with only Nosferatu, while the studio was rendered bankrupt.

The legal storm over copyright claims is a fascinating footnote, as we almost certainly would have lost this film entirely had not a few advance copies made their way to the United States for screening. The Stoker estate ordered every reel rounded up and destroyed, but thanks to an obscure loophole in U.S. copyright law, the infringement penalty was never enforced in the States. Thus, this landmark film avoided the unfortunate fate of so many other films of the era, lost to the annals of history after all their fragile reels were lost or destroyed.

Turning back to Murnau’s adaptation of Dracula, in removing overt religious symbolism, he stripped the work of Catholicism’s visible presence and much of its symbolic depth. However, there persisted an acute spiritual sense through which some fascinating connections can be made. Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror is most certainly a spiritual film, in the sense that it deals with immaterial realities and the nature of evil. The most notable involves Murnau’s reimagining of the Count himself. Stoker renders Dracula in a materialistic manner—a sophisticated nobleman draped in all the trappings of Old World aristocracy—who hides his appetites behind the veils of the civilized world as he seduces his prey. The presentation is grounded in Gothic realism, where his evil comes from his human nature rather than something cosmic.

Murnau shifts this image to something outright demonic—a pure embodiment of spiritual evil. The Count is introduced in one of the film’s intertitles as the creation of Belial, a demon traditionally summoned by Goetic magicians who practiced dark sorcery. Gone is Dracula’s worldly charm, and in its place, a grotesque and repulsive being who emanates a sense of spiritual sickness, bent on satisfying his lust for blood. If ever there was a cinematic embodiment of the corruptive nature of evil and sin, then Murnau’s Nosferatu would certainly fit the bill. The name itself, coined by Murnau, draws from Romanian origin, possibly a derivative of nesuferitu, Romanian for “unclean” or “the Devil.”

From the outset, the Count’s appearance is unsettling. German actor Max Schreck delivers one of cinema’s most iconic performances, transforming into a sickly, corpse-like figure marked by rigid, inhuman movements. There is nothing appealing in this depiction, unlike many subsequent adaptations that eroticize Dracula’s obsession while turning him into a tragically misunderstood antihero.

Emanating from Murnau’s Count is an acute sense of disease, personified by the hordes of plague rats that accompany his infamous sea voyage and pour out into the city of Wisburg as the Count’s schooner docks. The vampire can be seen as sin personified, who attempts to spread its deadly disease to the unwitting souls of the city. The film’s images of rats scurrying forth, all done with primitive practical effects, along with the somber procession of coffins through the city, establish a foreboding sense of dread. This evil comes from something far more sinister than flesh and blood. Science alone does not seem able to provide deliverance from this scourge.

It is in the vampire’s ultimate demise, however, where Murnau employs his most striking alteration, inviting—though probably unintentionally—a rich Catholic interpretation. In Stoker’s novel, Dracula meets his end through the strength of two men who utilize the facets of science and faith to bring about the Count’s physical destruction. With the utmost precision and planned efficiency, his throat is slit, and a stake is driven through his heart.

The film presents a drastically different scenario that lends itself to both a Christological and Marian interpretation. It centers around an ultimate act of pure faith and self-giving sacrifice by Thomas Hutter’s (Jonathan Harker in Stoker’s novel) wife, Ellen. As the Count’s plague spreads throughout the city, she stumbles upon a book on vampirology through which we learn, from one of the ornately Gothic intertitles, that “Only a woman can break his frightful spell—a woman pure in heart—who will offer her blood freely to Nosferatu and will keep the vampire by her side until after the cock has crowed.” One can’t help but draw a parallel to Genesis 3:15, which speaks to Satan’s ultimate destruction through the effects of a woman, who we know will be Mary. In more recent years, this same Marian sentiment is echoed in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, where a prophecy speaks that the Witch-King of Angmar will meet his end not by the strength of a man’s arm, but of a woman: “Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.”

In the film’s powerful finale, Ellen Hutter lures the Count into her room near daybreak, distracting him from his fatal weakness to sunlight (another significant Murnau embellishment worthy of an entirely separate exploration), offering herself as a sacrifice to bring about his demise. Her ultimate self-giving act, which cost her life, destroyed the demonic entity that had plunged the city into plague. With clear parallels to Christ’s sacrifice at Calvary to redeem humanity from sin and death, this moment offers perhaps the film’s most powerful spiritual allegory.

While Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror appears at first glance to be stripped of the novel’s more overt Catholic symbolism, some of Murnau’s changes, though likely not purposely done to promote a Christian message, given his occult background, lend themselves to a nuanced interpretation. As we examined at the outset, a worthwhile horror film can bring to mind the spiritual realities of evil and the perversion of sin. Nosferatu, then, is an essential starting point in our exploration of this genre.

From a historical point of view, Nosferatu represents a pivotal milestone in the development of the art form. Universally recognized, the film appears on many best-film lists, from Sight and Sound’s “Greatest Films of All Time” to the Vatican’s own 45 Significant Films to mark the centenary of cinema. Today’s audiences may find it a bit challenging to adjust to, given the nature of silent film 100 years ago. However, with a bit of persistence, one can find themselves swept along in the atmospheric Gothic world it presents. Like the shadowy gate of Count Orlok’s castle, the question remains: will we dare to enter?

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Further reading on Dracula adaptions, F. W. Murnau, and German Expressionism:

Werner Herzog’s 1979 remake, Nosferatu the Vampyre.

Carl Theodor Dreyer’s chilling 1932 film Vampyr.

A German Expressionism staple, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920).