Dr. Christopher Deacy, Lecturer in Applied Theology
University of Kent, U.K.

Abstract

The aim of this paper is to offer a critical response to Anton Karl Kozlovic’s article, published in the Journal of Religion and Popular Culture in 2004, on “The Structural Characteristics of the Cinematic Christ-figure.” Even though one may be able to discern a parallel between a film character and the person of Christ, I argue that Kozlovic’s tendency to impose Christian motifs on to films rests on the false assumption that all of the facets of Christ’s life and work can be fitted into a particular typology, such that a film either does, or does not, have the necessary definitional properties. I propose adopting a new approach to the theology-film field which entails not the pursuit of redundant thematic parallels but asking whether or not a two-fold dialogical relationship between theology and film and between Christ and Christ-figure can emerge.

[1] At first sight, there is much to support Anton Karl Kozlovic’s contention, in a recent article for the Journal of Religion and Popular Culture, that “the Christ-figure film is a legitimate pop culture phenomenon” whose usage “will be undiminished in the foreseeable future” (Kozlovic 2004 ¶0). The basis for Kozlovic’s claim is that “Christ-figures are built into many popular films,” albeit with the proviso that “they are frequently ignored by critics, unappreciated by film fans” and “resisted” by what he labels “anti-religionists” (Kozlovic 2004 ¶13). That it is a “living genre whose engineering, rediscovery and scholarly criticism grows yearly” (Kozlovic 2004 ¶5) is also a plausible assertion, when one considers not only the quantity of scholarly literature in this field over recent years–from Peter Malone’s Movie Christs and Anti-Christs (1990) to Lloyd Baugh’s benchmark 1997 publication Imaging the Divine: Jesus and Christ-Figures in Film to one of the chapters in my own Faith in Film: Religious Themes in Contemporary Cinema (2005) which looks at theological currents in the films of Jack Nicholson and Paul Newman–but the content of the plethora of university modules now available, especially in Britain and America, on religion and film. Indeed, whenever I invite my second and third year undergraduate students to undertake, as part of their assessment for one of my courses, a theological interpretation of a movie of their choice, it is a rare script that does not endeavour to outline the degree to which an Edward Scissorhands, John Coffey or James Cole bear witness to various facets of Christ’s passion, crucifixion or resurrection. On one level, of course, this is an entirely healthy and profitable enterprise. After all, in an age which, to quote Stark and Bainbridge, since the Enlightenment most Western intellectuals in the fields of sociology, anthropology and psychology “have anticipated the death of religion as eagerly as ancient Israel anticipated the Messiah,” and have subsequently looked forward to “the dawn of a new era in which, to paraphrase Freud, the infantile illusions of religion will be outgrown” (Stark and Bainbridge 1985, 1), there is plenty of evidence to indicate that religion is not so much disappearing with the secularization of society as evolving and mutating to meet new circumstances, even through, moreover, what Conrad Ostwalt identifies as “extra-ecclesiastical institutions” (Ostwalt 1995, 157; see also Deacy 2005, 11-13).

[2] However, there is a crucial and critical disjuncture between establishing that the secularization thesis lacks credence and arguing that, simply because theological motifs can be discerned in unconventional places, the quest for cinematic Christ-figures is an intellectually and theologically legitimate undertaking. It is not just that, in Kozlovic’s words, “cinematic Christ-figures are so common today that a certain degree of viewer fatigue has already set in among the knowing” (Kozlovic 2004 ¶13). Rather, as Kozlovic concedes, “there has been a disturbing tendency to see Christ-figures in films where none credibly existed” (Kozlovic 2004 ¶14), and he cites in this regard some of the more over-enthusiastic attempts to read the Christian story into such films as Braveheart (1996), Blade Runner (1982) and Spider-Man (2002). My premise in this paper is to applaud the serious work that has been generated to date in this area, but to insist that an even greater degree of caution is required than Kozlovic himself allows if the appropriation of cinematic Christ-figure motifs is to contain an academic rigour, rather than be no more than a matter of pastoral or confessional curiosity. Indeed, despite the insightful methodology that Kozlovic uses, whereby “twenty-five structural characteristics of the cinematic Christ-figure” (Kozlovic 2004 ¶18) –essentially a shopping-list of the crucial ingredients that a film needs if one of its characters is to be designated a Christ-figure–are identified and explicated, his approach epitomizes the inadequacy of so much of the work that has been published in this field to date. Kozlovic’s twenty-five characteristics range from the willingness of film characters to perform a sacrifice for the benefit of often unworthy and ungrateful individuals, to their ability to perform miracles or signs, to whether or not they are represented as standing in a cruciform pose (what Kozlovic calls “an unmistakable visual emblem of their Christic nature”- ¶53) to what are, undoubtedly, the most facile of the list–the depiction of the Christ-figure “with blue eyes” (Kozlovic 2004, ¶65) and whether “[s]omeone, either directly or indirectly, on-screen or off-screen, refers to the Christ-figure protagonist as God or Jesus by literally saying: ‘My God!’ or ‘Oh God!’ or ‘Jesus Christ!’ or ‘Jesus!’ or ‘Christ!’ or ‘Gee!’” (Kozlovic 2004, ¶66). While Kozlovic’s concluding words that “There are many ways cinematically to signify a Christ-figure” cannot be denied on the basis of the multiple illustrations proffered, I would be more wary of endorsing his subsequent claims that “the inventiveness already demonstrated is truly astounding” and that it is “quite illuminating to see that a seemingly non-religious film on its first reading can subsequently reveal so many Christic parallels upon deeper inspection” (Kozlovic 2004, ¶69).

[3] The reason for my reservation is that such an approach is much less inventive than is being suggested. How does formulating a check-list of what comprises a Christ-figure in cinema contain any substantial value? While I would subscribe to Marsh and Ortiz’s argument that “The commitment to belief that God can be found in human form … cannot be confined solely to a belief about the first-century figure of Jesus of Nazareth,” in the respect that “Contemporary Christian theology is committed to examining what it means for God to be found in human form today” (Marsh and Ortiz 1997, 251), this does not mean that any or all approaches to examining how, where and to what extent the person of Christ may be discerned in popular culture today are adequate. For a start, what happens when a film does not bear witness to all twenty-five of the structural characteristics that are being cited? If not all of the ingredients are found–such as a protagonist with blue eyes or any overt cross imagery–does that mean the film in question does not qualify as being a potential site of Christological significance? This is an issue that Kozlovic does not address. The assumption is that a film should contain these ingredients to qualify, yet no films are cited which fully fulfil all of the criteria. Mere descriptive identifications of what does (and, by implication, what does not) comprise a filmic Christ-figure say nothing about the quality of the film, which must, surely, have a crucial bearing on whether or not a theological conversation is capable of being initiated. If, for example, a film is deemed to be remote and inaccessible, or aesthetically impoverished, how can a critical and judicious dialogue between theology and film automatically emerge? As Clive Marsh puts it, “We would be unwise to try and conduct a theological conversation, however useful its subject matter may be, with a ‘bad film’: a film which people simply would not want to watch” (Marsh 1997, 32). When one of my students read Robert Capon’s claim that a Christ-figure need not be human or even organic in order to qualify, such that in the Woody Allen film September (1987) “the house, in which a totally dysfunctional family was brought to act functionally was the Christ-figure” (cited in Kozlovic 2004, ¶25), this was cited as a radical and innovative example of a Christ-figure motif. Yet, when I asked the student if he had ever seen the picture, he replied that he had not, and that he had never even watched any Woody Allen films. Besides the somewhat tenuous nature of the claim that an inert object could be categorized as a Christ-figure (presumably, to properly fulfil Kozlovic’s criteria, the house would also need to have blue eyes and perform an act of self-sacrificial love), the fact that a film is purported to bear witness to certain Christ-like components is not in itself a reason to engage in theological dialogue with it. If even a student of theology is not interested in watching such a film, this undermines Kozlovic’s unqualified claim that “religious themes should be pointed out in the secular pulpit of the cinema during traditional film appreciation classes” (Kozlovic 2004, ¶71). Unless the entire raison d’etre of using films is as mere “fodder for a good sermon” (Marsh 1997, 32), then Kozlovic’s position that “feature films should be employed as part of a postmodern religious education” (Kozlovic 2004, ¶71) would appear to be a very tenuous justification indeed.

[4] In short, it is misleading to describe a character in a film as being a Christ-figure, or to make evaluative claims on the basis of the alleged preponderance of Christological motifs in contemporary cinema, for it is not certain what this “legitimate pop culture phenomenon” (Kozlovic 2004, ¶0) is all about. One of the most critical studies to date in this field is from David Jasper’s contribution to Marsh and Ortiz’s Explorations in Theology and Film (1997), in which the claim is adduced that, in the case of Edward Scissorhands (1990), for instance, gospel parallels may be a distraction from what is really a “rather slight modern fairy story that draws on a range of mythic antecedents from Frankenstein and Peter Pan to ‘Beauty and the Beast’” (Jasper 1997, 239). What is not at all clear, Jasper is suggesting, is how attempts to connect a film and scripture do anything other than underline “the universal nature of biblical texts” (Jasper 1997, 239) rather than have anything meaningful to say about how they can be developed in a modern context. A mere illustration of theology is thus a spurious exercise, which prompts the inevitable retort: “So what?” The mere fact that it is possible to discern a parallel between, say, Jack Nicholson’s character, Randle P. McMurphy, in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) and Jesus of Nazareth on the grounds that both were anti-authoritarian figures who defied the status quo and inspired, respectively, disenfranchised first-century Jews and twentieth-century mental patients in an Oregon asylum, is not in itself theologically profound. While I admit to being guilty of this myself in the course of my teaching, in the respect that I have utilised such films as Cool Hand Luke (1967), Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991), E.T. The Extra Terrestrial (1982) and Changing Lanes (2002) to illustrate the extent to which Christian authors–often writing from a confessional or evangelical point of view–have found points of correlation between film and theology, the uncritical appropriation of cinematic Christ-figures must be abandoned. In Robert Johnston’s words, “There is a danger, as anyone teaching in the field of Christianity and the arts knows, in having overenthusiastic viewers find Christ-figures in and behind every crossbar or mysterious origin” (Johnston 2000, 53). John Lyden similarly argues that “If every bloodied hero becomes a Christ figure … it will seem that we can find Christianity in every action film,” the net result of this being that this may “stretch the interpretation of such films to the breaking point and do an injustice both to Christianity and to the films in question” (Lyden 2003, 24).

[5] Indeed, upon a superficial rendering, the fact that in Clint Eastwood’s Oscar-winning film Mystic River (2003) the protagonist, Jimmy Markum (Sean Penn), has tattooed on his skin a large Christian cross might suggest that he qualifies as a Christ-figure. After all, to further the correlation, he is, in Charlene Burns’ words, “a suffering man with a cross on his back, albeit made of ink rather than wood” (Burns 2004, ¶11). However, when one considers that Jimmy is a vengeful murderer and thief who certainly suffers for the death of his daughter but is, by the film’s denouement, far from racked with guilt for having killed his best friend, Dave Boyle (Tim Robbins), who he had wrongly supposed was responsible for her murder, it is very far from obvious that Jimmy comprises a Christ-figure. If, as Burns indicates, “A Christ-figure is an innocent victim for whose suffering we are responsible and through whose suffering we are redeemed” (Burns 2004, ¶11), then it is apparent that none of the characters in this film–or, indeed, so many others that are cited by such scholars as Kozlovic–meet this criterion. If we simply impose Christian symbolism on to such films, then we fail to hear what these motion pictures are saying in their own right. To call a film character a Christ-figure is, above all, dishonest if that identification is made without regard for the context within which the alleged Christ-figure appears, and, at the very least, it “borders on triteness” (Marsh 2004, 51). As Robert Pope asserts with respect to the animated movie Chicken Run (2000), it is not impossible to discern a Christ-figure motif even here in the respect that Rocky the Rooster–voiced by Mel Gibson, just a few years before he directed Jim Caviezel in the role of Christ himself in The Passion of the Christ (2004)–comes from a realm beyond (the chicken farm) and, through him, the chickens hope to fly (or ascend) to freedom. But, Pope wisely counsels, this “pushes the analogy further than it really ought to go if we are to regard an animated chicken as a “Christ-figure”,” and he continues that “to push it thus would serve only to demonstrate either the banality of the category itself or the desperation of theologians to find connections with modern culture” (Pope 2005, 174).

[6] If we are fixated on mere parallels then a further problem arises when a film is found to contain either more than one Christ-figure or where a purported Christ-figure is found to bear a striking resemblance to other gospel (or even extra-scriptural) characters. As John Fitch puts it, “In many cases, on-screen characters take on the traits of Jesus, St. Paul, King David, Odysseus, and Judas all at once” (Fitch 2005, ¶14). He cites the example of Matthew Poncelet (Sean Penn) in Dead Man Walking (1995), who is both portrayed as “a beatific Christ-figure, one who is perhaps wrongly executed for his sins following absolution by a Catholic nun” (Fitch 2005, ¶15) and St. Paul, who, unlike Christ, was not blameless and without sin but a killer redeemed by Christ on the road to Damascus. While this may not be a problem per se, it undermines the position of those who would argue that it is possible to draw up a simple and straightforward check-list–without nuance or ambiguity–of who (or what) constitutes a filmic Christ-figure. As Larry Kreitzer correctly observes with respect to the classic Western High Noon (1952), “At an impressionistic level, there are several ways in which the story-line seems to parallel the biblical story of the life and ministry of Jesus Christ” (Kreitzer 2002, 27). Both the New Testament Jesus and Marshal Kane (Gary Cooper) are at odds with the institutions and structures of their day (in first century Palestine and the nineteenth century frontier town of Hadleyville, respectively) and “find themselves largely abandoned by their erstwhile supporters” (Kreitzer 2002, 127). Kreitzer continues:

Similarly, a parallel could be drawn between Jesus’ doubt-ridden anguish in the garden of Gethsemane and Kane in the marshal’s office writing his last will and testament a few minutes before 12.00 noon, fully expecting that he will not survive what is about to take place. The piercing whistle of the train as it arrives at noon can be likened to the cock-crow within the Gospel narratives, marking the transition to the confrontation itself (Kreitzer 2002, 127).

[7] Kreitzer also observes that the film intriguingly echoes the crucifixion narratives in its understanding of time, in that “the crucial moment of confrontation between Marshal Kane and Frank Miller and his gang is set to take place at 12.00 noon, precisely the time, within the Gospel narratives, at which the crucifixion of Jesus reaches a critical juncture and darkness descends upon the land” (Kreitzer 2002, 129). Yet, while there is something persuasive about these analogies, Kreitzer then undermines the force of his illustration by declaring that “Will Kane is the embodiment of Elijah, exhorting the people to face the judgment that is on the horizon” (Kreitzer 2002, 134). Not only does he see the film’s protagonist as “a Christ-figure who calls the others to face judgment by his example” (Kreitzer 2002, 129) but that “At one level we can view Kane as the Elijah figure, the one sent before the terrible time of judgment which is rapidly approaching in the form of the noon train” (Kreitzer 2002, 128). I might be prepared to concede that Kane is both a Christ-figure and an Elijah-figure, but, in order for that to happen, it would have been helpful if there had been some attempt to explain the efficacy (and, indeed, meaning) of these identifications rather than simply leave them to speak for themselves. Might there, for example, be some sort of sliding-scale at work between the two configurations whereby one can tabulate and plot on an ascending and descending scale the relative dynamics of Christ-figures, Adam-figures, Eve-figures, Moses-figures, Elijah-figures and, even, God-figures and reach a mathematically-based conclusion that a certain cinematic character has more affinities with one rather than another. This same technique was used in the Peter Weir film Dead Poets Society (1989) to quantify the objective quality of poetry, and, I would suggest, has about as much utility, here.

[8] What happens, furthermore, when a film would seem to bear witness to the presence of more than one Christ-figure? In Dead Poets Society, a case could be made for seeing either the suffering and tortured Neil Perry (Robert Sean Leonard) or the liberating schoolteacher John Keating (Robin Williams) as Christ-figures. Similar dynamics can be found in Martin Scorsese’s Mean Streets (1973) between Charlie (Harvey Keitel) and Johnny Boy (Robert De Niro) and in Roger Michell’s Changing Lanes (2002) between Gavin Banek (Ben Affleck) and Doyle Gipson (Samuel L. Jackson), where both sets of characters are, to varying degrees, irresponsible, tempestuous and corrupt–even “fallen”–individuals who could be said to undergo spiritual conversion experiences which resemble that of Jesus Christ. In the case of the former, as I have argued elsewhere, “Johnny Boy, in effect, is the cross that Charlie must bear” (Deacy 2001, 109-110), and when both men undergo a bloody and violent car crash at the end of the movie it could be interpreted that this epitomizes for Charlie “his hitherto implicit acknowledgement that without a painful penance or sacrifice one cannot hope to be redeemed, in a manner analogous to the model or exemplar of Christ on the Cross” (Deacy 2001, 110). Regarding the latter film, Good Friday is the setting as two men first set about destroying each other but then endeavour to heal and reform one another of their respective sins and transgressions, to the extent that both are in some way redeemed, and–as the criss-crossing of traffic in the movie’s final scene would suggest–even resurrected. Yet, if taken too far, these analogies simply become repetitive and theologically moribund, reinforcing Marsh’s argument that the quest for cinematic Christ-figures “is a tired (and tiresome) pastime, so that any character who helps another to come to some major realisation about themselves can be seen as salvific, and thus Christ-like” (Marsh 2004, 51).

[9] There is also the consideration that not all of the facets of Christ’s life and work can be easily fitted into a particular typology. If we were to read a film such as Pleasantville (1998) through a Christic lens, as I have attempted to do in the past (Deacy 2003), we might say that there is something very redemptive about the fact that both of the main protagonists, David (Tobey Maguire) and Jennifer (Reese Witherspoon)–who leave the twentieth century world of dysfunctional families, sexually transmitted diseases and ecological catastrophes and are transported to an idyllic, even prelapsarian, universe as delineated in a 1950s American television sitcom–not only effect change but are themselves changed by their experiences. In the words of George Aichele, “The redeemers have themselves been redeemed” (Aichele 2002a, 115). How, though, does this make either character a Christ-figure? It is true that if we take Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) as our template, which presents a weak and even schizophrenic Jesus, torn between his human and divine natures, who is not only a redeeming agent but, crucially, undergoes a redemptive experience himself on the cross, then there is a certain confluence between the way redemption is delineated in both pictures. Yet, if one was to see George Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) as the archetypal Christ-figure, which presents a very confident and even supernatural Jesus who understands his destiny and messianic vocation and whose arc and trajectory is complete from the outset, it is less easy to propose that a film such as Pleasantville bears witness to easily identifiable facets of Jesus Christ’s life, ministry, death, resurrection and ascension. In a similar manner, Mark Roncace points out that the New Testament Jesus is far from homogeneous in nature, since he is both “a figure of love and judgment, peace and violence, humility and power, kindness and vengeance, creativity and destruction” (Roncace 2002, 298). Whereas in the Gospels Jesus is a “socially, economically, politically and militarily powerless figure” who associates with those on the margins of society, in the Book of Revelation “Christ is an exalted, powerful, militant figure who is a conquering warrior-judge and who violently destroys his enemies and inflicts wrathful punishment on them” (Roncace 2002 p282). This does not mean to say that a theological conversation is incapable of being generated with a film such as Pleasantville, but in the absence of an objective and clearly defined Christ-figure characteristic, in light of the manifold and competing Christological positions that exist, it is futile to suggest, as Kozlovic does, that a film either has or does not have the necessary definitional properties.

[10] Ultimately, what is customarily overlooked in this dynamic and over-zealous modern day quest is the role played by the interpreter. In fostering the scripture-film relationship, it is almost as though those who are drawing correlations between the New Testament Jesus and cinematic Christ-figures believe that, in Clive Marsh’s words, “theological meaning is in a film simply awaiting the discovery of trained theological interpreters, when in reality theological meaning is brought almost entirely to a film” (Marsh 2004, 110). Marsh is not at all wide of the mark in identifying this as “the most common failing of participants in the theology/religion-film debate” (Marsh 2004, 110) today. Accordingly, there is no such entity as an objective cinematic Christ-figure. As Walsh and Aichele put it, “The “real” (material) justification for any connection between Scripture and film is the scholar whose specific experience and interpretative reading alone supplies the connection” (Walsh and Aichele 2002, xi). So, the attempt to present what is presumably intended to be a definitive and benchmark identification of twenty-five structural characteristics that a film character requires in order to be legitimately designated a Christ-figure is fraught with difficulties. Feasible though it might appear to be to say that, in the case of E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial, “There is a clear use of Christian imagery by Spielberg in the film, as it includes a savior with healing powers who comes from the heavens, dies, and is resurrected to ascend to heaven once more” (Lyden 2003, 199), John Lyden is quite right to exercise caution in “baptizing” this film as Christian in essence. For, surely, while points of correlation may be discerned, it could be construed as condescending–not to mention overly simplistic–to affirm that Steven Spielberg made the film in order to bear witness to the Christian gospels. The fact that Spielberg himself is Jewish, rather than Christian, renders any straightforward convergence between the film and scripture deeply problematic. Similarly, in the case of action movies, John Fitch argues that any Christological motifs that may be discerned in this genre must be approached with caution. This is because in such films as Die Hard (1988), “The idea that the hero had to do ‘what he had to do to get the job done’ is certainly not Christ-like in the traditional sense, yet postures as a righteous stance by virtue of its dedication to a high ideal, coupled with the embrace of self-sacrifice” (Fitch 2005, ¶17). Fitch is wary of such cases where the alleged Christ-figure is very different in nature from Christ’s example of not doing harm to other people (Matt 5:21-26; Rom 12:14-21), since his or her redemption is “marked by the blood of their enemies” (Fitch 2005, ¶16) and where the violence that is perpetrated is no less vicious and barbaric than that carried out by their adversaries. This is not to say that it is illegitimate to find theological motifs in films such as E.T. or Die Hard, but more that, once they are located, the inference should not be drawn that the filmmakers had either an implicit or explicit Christian agenda at work.

[11] A more appropriate approach would be to ask what the ramifications of “doing theology” through these, or any other, films might be. How does a theological interpretation affect our understanding of the film? Does it enable us to apprehend the issues and themes delineated in the picture in a fresh and creative light? Does it make it easier or more difficult for a viewer to engage in dialogue with a movie if there are biblical antecedents to its narrative? As Walsh and Aichele affirm, a film “does not merely transfer the written, biblical text” into the medium of film “without otherwise affecting it,” and that “The screening of Scripture is an act of translation; like every other act of translation, it is profoundly ideological” (Walsh and Aichele 2002, viii). It is thus vital that the theologian does not assume that the hermeneutical task at hand simply entails looking for thematic parallels, and then feeling very excited once those correlations have been discovered. As Walsh and Aichele see it, “As in the translation of any text, the movies transform the biblical materials in question, rewriting and recontextualizing them,” to the point that “Even the “same words” have different meaning in the new medium, just as they do in any new linguistic or cultural context” (Walsh and Aichele 2002, ix). Indeed, if one merely focuses on the simplistic parallels between the biblical Jesus and the cinematic Christ-figure, in the form of Kozlovic’s shopping-list of twenty-five structural characteristics, this is to misunderstand and fail to do justice to the manner in which within the Christian tradition the person of Christ “names a reality, rather than simply provides a language” (Marsh 2004, 51). If, for instance, the New Testament uses the language of sin and salvation, and speaks about how God “was in Christ reconciling the world to himself” (2 Corinthians 5:19; cf. Colossians 1:20), in what sense can a cinematic Christ-figure be said to replicate this process, if at all? Is it not somewhat facile to talk about E.T. or Edward Scissorhands in the same way as Jesus Christ, who, according to the New Testament, came into this world by God’s grace to bring about the salvation of a fallen humanity through his atoning and sacrificial death upon the Cross? Are we to imagine that there is something automatically transferable about the redemptive process, so that a fictional character in a modern-day fable is capable of taking on this same function? Does this not fail to do justice to the unique and–some might say–exclusive dynamic of the Christian understanding of redemption and salvation?

[12] There is also the consideration that Christianity and film are necessarily advancing and involved in radically different–even incompatible–agendas. According to Robert Pope, in marked contrast to the radical Christian scheme of salvation, films merely “support a general morality, they affirm the vitality of the human spirit and they appeal to vague notions of a civic religion but they do not specifically promote Christianity or, for that matter, any organized religion” (Pope 2005, 179). Pope also attests that films do not straightforwardly “offer the kind of information traditionally offered by religion such as the why or wherefore of the universe, the meaning and purpose of life, forgiveness of sin and salvation” (Pope 2005, 179). Although I do not entirely share Pope’s scepticism, in the respect that it is all too easy to make generalizations about what films do and do not achieve–and the work I have done to date in drawing a distinction between escapism and film noir has, I hope, gone some way towards establishing that some categories of film are particularly amenable to a fertile theological reading (Deacy 2005, 23-40)–there is a kernel of truth underlying his argument: namely, that films are very rarely conceived with a theological agenda in mind. While there may be films which can be seen to actively promote or propagate a distinctively Christian agenda, along the lines of George Stevens’ overly reverential and pietistic biopic of Jesus Christ, The Greatest Story Ever Told or Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ whose explicit aim was to delineate what Gibson sees as the inspirational and efficacious nature of Christ’s supreme sacrifice for the sins of humanity, these are the exceptions rather than the rule. I am more than happy to concede that films can wrestle with theological themes–as in the intelligent sci-fi drama Contact (1997) where Jodie Foster and Matthew McConaughey engage in theologically sophisticated questions pertaining to the relationship between science and faith, rationality and superstition, and, ultimately, whether a personal and beneficent creative force can be thought to sustain the universe in the absence of empirical verification–but this is not the same as arguing that films should be subjected to a test which examines the extent to which the characters within those pictures bear witness to the person of Christ. It is, quite simply, nonsensical to even attempt to argue that, because of the vibrant presence of so-called Christ-figures in film, Christianity is alive and well in the twenty-first century, with the medium of film performing a theological function per se. Thus, when Matthew McEver writes that “Jesus still remains on the silver screen,” though “not as a prophet and teacher from Nazareth” but instead as “an unlikely redeemer in a prison” (Cool Hand Luke), “a mental hospital” (One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest), “a class room” (Dead Poets Society) or “inside the home of an abused child” (Sling Blade) (McEver 1998, ¶29), it is difficult to ascertain how this can be achieved without sacrificing theological–and intellectual–depth and rigour. So, where are we to go from here?

[13] My suggestion would be that we need to set aside the quest for correlations and to enter into a conversation about the wider usefulness of juxtaposing theology and film. Instead of searching for redundant and increasingly tenuous parallels between film characters and Christ-figures, Robert Johnston proposes a more sensible approach whereby “It is better to describe the film as “religion-like” or simply to say that the film invites dialogue from (or even appropriation into) a Christian viewpoint, given … its informing vision of life” (Johnston 2000, 55). In other words, this is a legitimate area for scholarly enquiry, but only on the proviso that a two-fold dialogue is allowed to emerge between theology and film–a factor which has been missing from the debate hitherto. The key consideration here is that if reference is ever made to cinematic Christ-figures, the only legitimate context for doing so is when that figure is no longer seen simply as a cipher who illuminates Jesus for the sole purpose of, say, making him accessible to a modern generation, but inspires or incites the viewer to engender a critical and productive theological conversation. If one finds in the likes of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest or E.T. what Johnston calls “an informing vision, or worldview, embedded in the shape of their stories,” and which convey to us “a hint of the shape of the authentically human” (Johnston 2000, 120), then this might be one way in which such a dialogue can take place. This is because both Christ and the alleged Christ-figure shed light on each other and comprise “a natural point of connection for any person wanting to explore the relationship between theology and film” (Johnston 2000, 120). It may be a little over-ambitious to suggest that films can or should facilitate a systematic theology, but I do not think it is inconceivable or wide of the mark to see films as being suitable–and equal–dialogue partners with theology, which can give rise to very weighty and prodigious theological questions. As Lyden indicates, E.T. utilizes the images of Christian salvation and applies them “to the situation of a family suffering from an absent father” (Lyden 2003, 199). One could also look at The Green Mile (1999) for the way this picture explores racial hatred, persecution, the sanctity of human life, justice and the efficacy of capital punishment, while One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest might be used to explore issues relating to freedom, the dangers of institutionalization (a particularly germane issue in the early years of the Christian church as represented by the Montanist movement of the second century), captivity, betrayal, solidarity and human dignity. In these cases, and in countless others, what matters is not what qualifying ingredients a film character, such as John Coffey (Michael Clarke Duncan) in the case of The Green Mile, requires if he or she is to be identified as a Christ-figure, but how the purported presence of a Christ-figure facilitates and pre-empts theological responses to these and other theological issues. Quite simply, if this cannot be achieved, then those who continue to be involved in this pursuit are wasting their time.

[14] On all occasions, the process must work both ways. Rather than see Jesus Christ as pre-eminent, with the so-called Christ-figure merely a pale and subordinate imitation of the biblical Jesus, there is not much point in drawing correlations unless the figure of Jesus of Nazareth is itself allowed to be approached in a fresh, creative and challenging light. There should, in short, be a reciprocal relationship between Christ and Christ-figure. As Lloyd Baugh indicates, “On the one hand, the reference to Christ clarifies the situation of the Christ-figure and adds depth to the significance of his actions,” while, on the other, “Jesus himself is revealed anew in the Christ-figure” (Baugh 1997, 112). Baugh does not, however, go far enough in my view towards ensuring that a full and equal dialogical relationship is capable of being initiated, as betokened by his assertion that “The Christ-figure is neither Jesus nor the Christ, but rather a shadow, a faint glimmer or reflection of him” (Baugh 1997, 112). Unless both sides are treated with parity, we will never be able to move beyond the superficial classification of religious themes and imagery and engage in serious theological reflection–a process which Lynch correctly identifies as entailing “a more substantial dialogue between cultural texts and practices and wider theological questions and resources” (Lynch 2005, 38). To paraphrase the sub-title of Larry Kreitzer’s Gospel Images in Fiction and Film, we must reverse the hermeneutical flow (Kreitzer 2002)! Rather than unilaterally use the New Testament story to interpret the likes of E.T. and Edward Scissorhands, these film stories, with their alleged Christological components, must also be employed to interpret the New Testament Jesus. Such Christ-figures should be allowed to, as it were, “flesh out” the person of Christ, “filling narrative gaps in the Gospel accounts,” albeit in ways which, as Aichele concedes, “will be new and perhaps unsettling to many” (Aichele 2002b, 8). Few would disagree that the meaning of a text–and this would include Scripture–must be continually negotiated and re-negotiated between that text and its readers (see Aichele 2002b, 9) for there is no objective, monolithic or definitive reading of any text. Our understanding of the first-century Jesus is necessarily determined by our own twenty-first century predilections and dispositions, including, it must be said, the way in which we see Jesus portrayed on film. As Cecil B. De Mille once wryly observed, it is probable that more people have learned the Jesus story through his 1927 Jesus biopic The King of Kings than through any other single work apart from the bible itself (see Deacy 2005, 106-107). Accordingly, since no meaning is ever intractably fixed, but lies between texts and “in intertextual configurations of texts that intersect one another in a wide variety of ways” (Aichele 2002b, 9), it would be palpably absurd to argue that the Christian story should be treated with a degree of reverence and seriousness that no other text (or, indeed, film) could possibly emulate.

[15] Of course, many people will continue to accord Scriptural texts the upper hand over their modern celluloid counterparts. For example, Pauline scholar Robert Jewett has argued that St. Paul’s epistles stand as “the first among equals because the inspired text of scripture has stood the test of time by revealing ultimate truth that has gripped past and current generations with compelling power” (Jewett 1993, 11). However, if the meaning of a text is deemed to be transitive and fluid rather than inherent and static, there is no reason why contemporary Christian theology cannot adapt to, and even profit from, this new critical and dynamic negotiation of texts (including films). Since actual film audiences are constructing and re-constructing, appropriating and re-appropriating, what they find in a film text, the priority for the scholar working in this area must be to pay critical attention to the insights that are generated. Lloyd Baugh is thus right to ask the following question in the conclusion of Imaging the Divine with respect to films which contain so-called Christ-figures: “What dynamic takes place in the viewing audience as they experience the protagonist of one of these films, a dynamic which allows them to make both identifications and distinctions between the metaphor, the concrete and specific Christ-figure, and the transcendent reality it points to, the Christ-figured?” (Baugh 1997, 235) It is unfortunate, however, that Baugh does not seek in the main body of the book to explore these pertinent and crucial questions, choosing instead to concentrate solely on film narrative–including a textually-based discussion of the relations between characters–and formulating correlations between the biblical Jesus and cinematic Christ-figures. In his study of George Stevens” Shane (1953), for example, Baugh is interested only in the protagonist’s influence on other characters in the story, and he indicates at one point that “because no one else comes down from, or goes up into the mountains, Stevens is alluding to the Incarnation-descent of Christ from on high and his return to the Father in the Ascension” (Baugh 1997, 170). Without disputing that this may very well be the case–after all, Stevens also directed The Greatest Story Ever Told just over a decade later and was undeniably fixated by religious questions–it is hard to see how any of this is terribly important.

[16] In a nutshell, the onus on the theologian is to transcend the text. Just as, within the Christian tradition, the person of Christ is believed to transcend the pages of the New Testament, in the respect that, for the believer at any rate, Jesus of Nazareth possesses more than mere historical interest but continues to inspire, create and affirm belief and worship in the present day, so film characters–including so-called Christ-figures–must transcend the cinematic text if they are to carry and contain any significance for a film audience. If both Christ and Christ-figure are equal dialogical partners, it is an inevitable consequence of the discovery of Christ-figures in film that such figures do more than simply bear witness to the biblical Jesus, and that some form of religious activity is taking, or at least has the potential to take, place outside the film text. After all, the significance of Christ’s redemptive work is that, as a consequence of his atoning death on the cross, redemption may be imparted and accomplished in turn by those who hear and have responded to the Christian message of salvation. In an analogous manner, we should not rule out the possibility that Christ-figures, if they are to be so designated, not only suffer (and even undergo redemption) themselves but are themselves potential agents and bearers of redemption, the benefits and the impact of which may be felt and experienced in the lives of others. Quite what actual audiences do with films lies outside the specific remit of this paper (although I address this issue elsewhere[1]), but even the framing of the question highlights the overall inadequacy–even dishonesty–in using a film for no other purpose than to illustrate a particular religious theme. While I would concede that for pedagogical purposes, in the classroom, it can be instructive to give students visual aids to enable them to understand theological issues–such as showing a character standing in a cruciform pose, as in the case of Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins) in The Shawshank Redemption (1994), to help explain the meaning of crucifixion and resurrection in Christianity–this has no function per se in serious teaching and research. If I was to ask my students whether they thought the above example from The Shawshank Redemption is a fitting or legitimate visual motif, which successfully bears witness to one of the central tenets of Christian doctrine, that of course would be a different matter entirely as it raises deeper questions about the adequacy or ability of a film to engage in theological questions. If a parallel or correlation can be seen to enlighten, challenge or even disturb both our understanding of the original text and the film in question then this is a highly beneficial endeavour which fully, and necessarily, respects the autonomy of the art form itself rather than attempt to baptize it as implicitly Christian. Instead of concluding that a film is, or is not, theologically significant because of the perceived presence, or absence, of a Christ-figure motif, the theologian should be much more open to the possibility that a film does not require explicit or overt religious ideas or imagery in order to be amenable to a religious or theological interpretation.

References

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______. 2002b. “Foreword” to Larry Kreitzer, Gospel Images in Fiction and Film: On Reversing the Hermeneutical Flow, 7-10. London: Sheffield Academic Press.

Baugh, Lloyd. 1997. Imaging the Divine: Jesus and Christ-Figures in Film. Franklin, Wisconsin: Sheed and Ward.

Burns, Charlene P.E. April 2004. “Mystic River: A Parable of Christianity’s Dark Side.” Journal of Religion and Film 8/1. http://avalon.unomaha.edu/jrf/Vol8No1/MysticBody.htm.

Deacy, Christopher. 2001. Screen Christologies: Redemption and the Medium of Film. Cardiff: University of Wales Press.

______. 2003. “Paradise Lost or Paradise Learned?: Sin and Salvation in Pleasantville.” In Jolyon Mitchell and Sophia Marriage, eds., 201-12. Mediating Religion: Conversations in Media, Religion and Culture. London: Continuum.

______. 2005. Faith in Film: Religious Themes in Contemporary Cinema. Aldershot, Hants.: Ashgate.

Fitch III, John. April 2005. “Archetypes on Screen: Odysseus, St. Paul, Christ and the American Cinematic Hero and Anti-Hero.” Journal of Religion and Film 9,1. www.unomaha.edu/jrf/Vol9No1/FitchArchetypes.htm

Jasper, David. 1997. “On Systematizing the Unsystematic: A Response.” In Clive Marsh and Gaye Ortiz, eds., 235-44. Explorations in Theology and Film: Movies and Meaning. Oxford: Blackwell.

Jewett, Robert. 1993. Saint Paul at the Movies: The Apostle's Dialogue with American Culture. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press.

Johnston, Robert. 2000. Reel Spirituality: Theology and Film in Dialogue. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker.

Kozlovic, Anton Karl. Fall 2004. “The Structural Characteristics of the Cinematic Christ-figure.” In Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 8. www.usask.ca/relst/jrpc/art8-cinematicchrist.html

Kreitzer, Larry. 2002. Gospel Images in Fiction and Film: On Reversing the Hermeneutical Flow. London: Sheffield Academic Press.

Lyden, John C. 2003. Film as Religion: Myths, Morals and Rituals. New York: New York University Press.

Lynch, Gordon. 2005. Understanding Theology and Popular Culture. Oxford: Blackwell.

Malone, Peter. 1990. Movie Christs and Anti-Christs. New York: Crossroad.

Marsh, Clive. 1997. “Film and Theologies of Culture.” In Clive Marsh and Gaye Ortiz (eds.), Explorations in Theology and Film: Movies and Meaning. Oxford: Blackwell: 21-34.

______. 2004. Cinema and Sentiment: Film’s Challenge to Theology. Carlisle: Paternoster Press.

Marsh, Clive and Ortiz, Gaye. 1997. “Theology Beyond the Modern and the Postmodern: A Future Agenda for Theology and Film.” In Clive Marsh and Gaye Ortiz, eds., Explorations in Theology and Film: Movies and Meaning, 245-55. Oxford: Blackwell.

McEver, Matthew. October 1998. “The Messianic Figure in Film: Christology Beyond the Biblical Epic.” Journal of Religion and Film. 2,2. http://avalon.unomaha.edu/jrf/McEverMessiah.htm

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Notes

[1] For example, in Screen Christologies, (90-103), I examine whether or not salvation and redemption can be understood to operate through the cinematic Christ-figure; e.g.,: “it is possible to read [film] noir protagonists as possible exemplars of redemptive activity, which, in a manner akin to religious faith, entails an often introspective, wholly personal and, at times, painful and protracted experience, facilitated by a complex interaction and exchange between the film ‘text’ and its audience” (92) My premise is that a film character may be a functional equivalent of Christ who enables the film’s audience, analogous to Christ’s effect upon the Christian community, to confront their human inadequacies and weaknesses and so undergo a redemptive experience. If such a figure is to be construed as a Christ-figure, this is due to the effect that such a figure has upon the audience, and is not simply down to the fact that elementary thematic parallels or correlations may be discerned between Christ and Christ-figure.