No-Holds Martyrdom

In The Passion of the Christ, we encounter a film with more ambition than contemporary art could ever fulfill, for it tries to reanimate religious experience in our autumnal age of skepticism and doubt. Over a century ago, Nietzsche proclaimed his thesis that "God is dead," that "belief in the Christian God has become unbelievable." Yet here, in 2004, is a film that treats the story of Christ's betrayal, torture, and crucifixion with near defiant respect.

From its opening scenes in the Garden of Gethsemane to its closing shots on top of Golgotha, The Passion is directed by Mel Gibson with a single-mindedness that borders on despair. In so doing, he has succeeded in creating the most harrowing film about martyrdom I have ever seen. By making suffering and death his dramatic arc, Gibson strips martyrization of its comforting epilogue of resurrection and redemption, instead showing us the horror in which its true nature lies. In this context, it is irrelevant to criticize the film for its failure to uplift because each scene functions as a progressive elucidation of Christ's agonizing final cry: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

Many have found the film obscene. David Denby of The New Yorker dismisses it as "a sickening death trip ... made from [Gibson's] personal obsessions." More damagingly, A.O. Scott of The New York Times speculates that through his grisly visualization of Christ's death, Gibson "has exploited the popular appetite for terror and gore for what he and his allies see as a higher end." But, which is more offensive to our tastes: a personal message movie filled with conviction and faith, or a studio epic in which a great religious narrative serves the values of commercial entertainment?

While paying lip service to the sincerity of Gibson's intentions, his numerous detractors have reacted to the strength and seriousness of his faith with an intriguing sense of unease. Perhaps as good liberal pluralists, we've grown too accustomed to a certain intellectual dishonesty--that of taking our values seriously, but only so far. True conviction scares us--unless, of course, it is directed against other true convictions. I suspect this may explain why some have read anti-Semitism into The Passion's depiction of the Jews.

In a double-edged decision, Gibson represents Christ (James Caviezel) as more prevailed upon than prevailing. Once he accepts the necessity of God's Will, Christ submits to his fate with complete equanimity and understanding. Though he hungers and thirsts and bleeds, he never suffers from the more carnal pangs that were evoked in Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ. By removing such conflicts from Christ's demeanor, correct theology triumphs over effective drama with questionable effects; the purer Christ's humanation is, the more distant it becomes.

Another decision intrudes: Gibson and cinematographer Caleb Deschanel frequently aestheticize Christ's torture and crucifixion, creating strange moments of visual dissonance. Scenes of repulsive violence are shot with strong compositional beauty, and the viewer is trapped between immediate empathy with Christ's pain and a reflective appreciation of formal details. Even when its content is visceral torture, the film can be viewed as a magnificent study of faces. Indeed, during the pietá, Gibson makes this explicitly clear as Mary (Maia Morgenstern) stares into the camera, forcing us to contemplate the message of her features.

These questions aside, the film confronts an aspect of Christian doctrine that is often glossed over in representations of Christ's life: the horror of his martyrdom. Like The Rapture, Michael Tolkin's riveting film about the Apocalypse, The Passion confronts the depths of a story that we otherwise accept with nonchalance.