Author: ladysentinel2014

On the surface, I have almost nothing in common with Christine ‘Lady Bird’ McPherson. Our home towns, our parents’ vocations, our interests–few of our experiences overlap. But despite our differences, I immediately connect with the struggles and feelings Lady Bird encounters. Greta Gerwig chooses to limit her field of vision in this poignant film, allowing us to discover the intimate details of one situation and to know Christine deeply. By narrowing her focus in this way, Gerwig is able to tap into universal experiences that cross boundaries of place or social class, to explore the longings and dreams that characterize human experience wherever we are.

This shouldn’t be surprising, but I’m realizing as I write that many of my favorite films see the world the way I do: through the lens of emotion. I’m delighted when others manage to capture this on screen, and especially when they can inspire emotion in the audience as well as the characters. Greta Gerwig does this magnificently. It may help that she’s telling the story of a high school senior, a young woman going through big transitions at an always-emotional time of life. But her film does not limit itself to depicting teenage angst. The opening car ride, as Christine and her mom conclude a college visit, captures a wide range of feelings in just a few minutes: melancholy tears provoked by the end of The Grapes of Wrath, frustration from both mother and daughter as they struggle to communicate, and an instant flash of anger that leads Christine to roll out of their moving car. And emotion follows us throughout the rest of the film, always simmering just under the surface, ready to be released at the slightest trigger.

While it overflows with feeling, the events of Lady Bird may seem insignificant; I showed the movie to one of my sisters, who didn’t like it because “nothing happened.” However, Gerwig seems to hold the same philosophy as the nun who asks Christine, “Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?” As she does in Little Women, Gerwig pays attention to the intimate moments that make up her characters’ lives–and in doing so, demonstrates her love for each of them. She notices the boys’ names Christine writes on her bedroom wall, the gifts her mom brings to coworkers, and the way an affirmation makes Julie light up. Her characters are complicated and messy, and through her eyes we learn to see how the “insignificant” moments of their lives add up to define each person. By paying attention to the small details others might overlook, Gerwig elevates their importance and makes them meaningful.

When we first meet her, Lady Bird has not developed this skill: she doesn’t know many people well, unable to see past the facade they present to the world. She doesn’t see her parents’ struggles, fails to recognize Julie’s loneliness, and falls in love with the fantasies she’s constructed about two different boys–only to be disappointed when their reality doesn’t match her expectations. Christine doesn’t even really know herself; she knows what kind of person she wants to be, but not where her strengths and interests might actually flourish. She tries on identities, successively defining herself as a theater kid or a rebel or a girlfriend as she searches for the place where she fits. Through this process, though, she slowly learns about herself and begins to celebrate her family and her hometown as important parts of her identity. She reclaims the name her parents gave her, choosing to introduce herself to a new acquaintance as Christine instead of as Lady Bird.

Christine’s growth is captured in miniature on a Sunday morning early in her freshman year, as she encounters again the religion she left behind. In her Catholic high school, the rituals of the church were something to be tolerated or laughed at. Lady Bird snacked on communion wafers with Julie, made fun of a nun by decorating her car as if she were just married to Jesus, and promptly ignored the instruction to leave “six inches for the Holy Spirit” between her and a dance partner. In her first weeks at college, though, Christine’s perspective starts to change. Walking home hungover, the Sunday morning church bells are suddenly appealing. She climbs the stairs to the balcony of a beautiful church building, finding her way upwards in a physical reflection of the journey of transformation she is undergoing. As she emerges into the sanctuary, her eyes are opened. Rather than a scripture reading grudgingly performed by a sullen high-schooler, she is surrounded by stunning choral music. She glimpses the profound beauty of the rituals on display, able to sense the meaning in the traditions. On this morning, at least, the church becomes a refuge, a haven in the midst of uncertainty. And as Christine continues to explore her identity, she is anchored by the familiar things, like religion, that she once held in contempt. With that foundation established, she finds her footing.

Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life is almost certainly the film that sparked my love of cinema. A friend and I drove an hour to see it in theaters, and (in part because we missed the first ten minutes) didn’t understand it at all. We spent the whole ride home discussing the film, and I’ve continued to ponder it in the years since. A poster from the film adorns the wall of my office cubicle, and I know I’ve met a kindred spirit when someone else mentions the movie.

Though I’ve thought about the film so often, it’s still hard for me to categorize–or even describe–The Tree of Life. Malick’s creation is so unique that it makes more sense to compare his film to the Bible than to another work of cinema, to understand it as a modern psalm or even a retelling of the book of Job. He encourages this connection in the opening frames of the film, which begins with a quotation from Job 38: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth…when the morning stars sang together?” Like the book of Job, The Tree of Life offers more questions than solutions as its author struggles to understand the purpose of the pain that enters our lives. We explore this tension by walking with Jack, a still-grieving older brother, as he reflects on his childhood and tries to make sense of the world that has made him. With him, we search for answers.

Malick’s offers a first answer to Jack’s pain by pointing us to the beauty of the natural world. Emmanuel Lubezki’s cinematography is achingly stunning, whether he’s capturing the wide expanse of the sky or the drops of water spraying from a hose in the backyard. We get to gaze at the majesty of space and the order of a cell, awestruck by the splendor invading every level of creation. When these stunning images are paired with incredible music, especially in the long creation montage, the power of the beauty on screen is undeniable. As God does in the last chapters of Job, Malick points our attention past the immediate tragedy and the feelings that we might be experiencing. He reframes our pain by showing us the wonder and beauty that surround it. And while this may not answer all our questions, we fall silent before the immense, incredible glory of the world we’ve been given.

Yet we–and Jack–still have questions about how we are to live, questions which arose long before his brother’s death. Reminiscing about childhood summers, Jack returns to a tension between two approaches that defined his family. Strict and stern, holding his children to high standards, and working hard to achieve professional success, his father exemplifies what Malick calls the way of nature. In contrast, Jack’s mother typifies the way of grace: always ready to laugh and play and hug, overflowing with love, protecting her children (even from their father), and helping them to revel in the beauty around them. Both parents are trying to raise their children well, to prepare them for the world waiting for them beyond their Texas home, but their methods set two different examples. And as he grows, Jack must choose which path he will follow, trying to understand which path his creator will be most pleased by. 

As we witness his adult life, it seems like he’s fallen into the same habits as the father he once declared he hated, driven to pursue success through his career. We caught a glimpse of his father working in a factory, confidently commanding the obedience of his subordinates, and now see Jack in the same world. He’s surrounded by the creations of other men, spending his days in skyscrapers of metal and glass and rarely glimpsing the creation that his mother tried to point him to as a child. Indeed, the sight of a tree in the courtyard outside his office is almost shocking in its raw abundance of life, intruding into the industrialized austerity. This hint of nature seems to catch Jack off guard, to prompt his reflection and even cause him to realize (maybe for the first time) how far down his father’s path he’s unwittingly traveled. 

Jack is grown and married, but he is still coming of age in a spiritual sense and has the chance to choose his path again. We don’t get to see the outcome, whether he charges forward on his father’s way of nature or turns aside to his mother’s way of grace, but Malick gives us a hint. Early in the film, we saw Jack’s birth as the struggle of a boy making his way out of an underwater bedroom and towards the light at the surface, a metaphorical journey out of the womb. Now we glimpse the same scene, just for a moment. The repetition hints at a new birth, reminiscent of Jesus’ words to Nicodemus in John 6: “Unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God.”

So where does this rebirth take Jack? Malick leaves us to draw our own conclusions as Jack wanders through the wilderness. We’ve seen his journey through the desert in scenes interspersed throughout the film, his meandering path reminding us of the Old Testament Israelites’ forty-year journey through the desert after they disobeyed the God who saved them. Like the Israelites, Jack is lost. But then his journey brings him face-to-face with his younger self, and he chooses to follow the boy’s lead. Again, he’s unconsciously following Jesus’ words from Matthew 18: “Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Together they come to a beach, and Jack is surrounded by other people until he finally catches sight of his mother–and the brother they’d lost. Their reunion is joyous, full of love and tears and the glorious light of the sun illuminating them all. And when Jack’s father finds them, our joy is complete. Their family is whole again in this beautiful place, and everything broken is made new at the edge of the sea.

This might not be the answer we’ve wanted to the questions of pain and suffering the film has been posing, but it’s the answer we’re given. The voiceover earlier asked, “Where are you?”, and now we realize that He’s been there all along, in every moment of beauty and even in the pain, leading His children home. It reminds me of a quote from C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces: “You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?” Throughout the film, Malick has been showing us the face of God in the world He made, taking our eyes off the pain around us to gaze at His beauty. Though it doesn’t mention Jesus or walk us through the steps to salvation, this is a gloriously Christian film, reminding us again and again of the God who laid the foundations of the earth and helping us to dance for joy like those morning stars did. It’s more a hymn than a film, and it’s singing a song of praise. From the powerful melodies to the beautiful images to the story it tells, every moment is declaring the greatness of God and pointing us to the way of grace He’s made for us.

Even before I wandered towards cinephilia, I always had a place in my heart for musicals. I grew up with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and The Sound of Music, and will tolerate any level of cheesiness if a dance number is involved (I’ll happily watch the entire High School Musical trilogy with anyone who asks). So, though I don’t remember how I found Whiplash the first time, it wouldn’t have taken much convincing for me to see a movie about musicians.

However, it’s clear from the opening drumroll that Whiplash has more in common with a psychological thriller than with a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. An uneasy atmosphere infects every scene and growing tension undercuts the beauty of the central ensemble’s music. We quickly realize that Fletcher, the ensemble’s director, expects perfection from the players lucky enough to sit in front of him–and that he will employ any method to produce the excellence he demands. Every piece of music that is played, then, becomes an opportunity for a mistake. As soon as the band members start to tune their instruments, we hold our breath and wait for the inevitable error, the explosion of anger, the chair being thrown across the room.

Andrew doesn’t know what he’s walking into when he joins Fletcher’s ensemble, simply thrilled to have the chance to prove his skill after countless hours of practice. When he falls down the stairs in an effort to reach his first rehearsal on time, though, we get a glimpse of the toll his new position will exact. Fletcher begins to push Andrew almost immediately, constantly dissatisfied with his efforts. He manages to overcome one challenge, so Fletcher devises a new one, forcing Andrew and two other drummers to compete for the right to play an incredibly demanding piece. Fletcher wants to test their technical skill, but he’s more interested in their commitment, wanting to see if they’re willing to match his demand for perfection with a drive of their own. Bleeding, sweaty, and exhausted, Andrew puts everything he has into this test and claims a momentary victory.

Then Fletcher seems to go too far. The frantic need to meet his demands leads Andrew to a dangerous car accident and then to attempt a competition performance while his hands are still too slick with blood to control his drumsticks. Andrew leaves the ensemble and we are certain that Fletcher’s abusive methods are at fault. But just as we’re sure whose side we’re on, Andrew runs into Fletcher in a jazz club–and he seems different. Playing piano, he seems more free, genuinely enjoying the beauty of the music that’s filling the room. A question begins to form in the back of our minds: have we misunderstood Fletcher this whole time? Even if his methods are wrong, are they motivated by something beautiful?

Fletcher is unwavering in his defense of the way he led the ensemble, sure that the way he pushed and shouted was the key to helping his students find greatness. He tells Andrew, “I was there to push people beyond what is expected of them,” he says. “Otherwise we’re depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong.” If he accepted their mediocre performances, they’d never work to become better. While his methods may be extreme, a great musician would be fueled by them, would take even the harshest criticism and grow because of it. But Andrew gave up–does this mean Fletcher is wrong about his tactics, or that Andrew was never truly great?

As the tension continues to build, I can’t help pausing to admire the film Damien Chazelle has created. As it must be in a movie centered on jazz musicians, the soundtrack is phenomenal, moving and full of life. More importantly, he punctuates the noise with silence, forcing us to sink into the quiet between the moments of crashing cymbals and chairs. In this most recent viewing, the editing also captured my attention. It’s alive, moving with the phrases of the music we’re hearing, cutting on the beats and arcing through longer phrases. When Andrew is utterly focused on a single drumbeat, the camera holds us there, our attention completely riveted. Damien Chazelle is in control of every aspect of the film, while managing to imbue a sense of jazz’s freedom inside the tight structure. 

Chazelle’s control extends even beyond the screen to influence our understanding of the characters he’s created. After Andrew’s encounter with Fletcher, we’re considering giving the director a second chance. And then Chazelle pulls the rug out from under our feet as it becomes clear that Fletcher is only letting Andrew play in his ensemble so he can destroy him. He’s been putting on an act this whole time, pulling Andrew–and the audience–into his trap. Forgetting every other time when his kindness gave way to abuse, we had started to believe that Fletcher had really learned his lesson, really changed, so his cold betrayal is utterly shocking. 

But Andrew refuses to be cowed. He takes control, forcing the rest of the ensemble to follow his lead and earning Fletcher’s grudging support (even if it’s only in an effort to avoid looking foolish on stage). After being sworn at, abused, and manipulated, Andrew has found the strength to fight back. And then, again, we suddenly wonder–was Fletcher right all along? Andrew has ruined relationships, dropped out of school, and crashed a car as a result of Fletcher’s relentless pressure, but he’s also pushed himself harder than he ever would have on his own, developing new grit and new skill as a result. Should we credit Fletcher with helping Andrew discover his true genius, or condemn him for his abusive methods? Chazelle doesn’t answer this question for us, forcing us to continue pondering it long after the screen fades to black.