Abstract
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea’s
film The
Last Supper presents multiple characters
as Christ-figures in events on an eighteenth-century
Cuban sugar plantation in order to show the moral
bankruptcy of Christianity’s images of
the “dolorous Christ” and the “celestial
monarch Christ.” Created no more than two
decades after the Cuban revolution, the film
fosters the revolutionary spirit for cultural
decolonization and resistance to imperialist
endeavors. For Christians who evoke Jesus as
a model of discipleship, the film draws attention
not only to the interpretive nature of discipleship,
but also the importance of critically analyzing
any image of Jesus for being life-giving or oppressive
as a model.
[1] The film industry has produced
more than a few portraits of Jesus. W. Barnes Tatum
and Henry Ingram organize these Jesus movies into
two categories, “Jesus-story
films” and “Christ-figure films.”[2] “Jesus-story
films” narrate the life and ministry of Jesus,
usually within a first-century Palestinian setting
(for example, the films The Gospel According to
Matthew, The Last Temptation of Christ,
or more recently, The Passion of the Christ). “Christ-figure
films” tell a more contemporary story in which
characters, events, and details resemble the gospel
story of Jesus, often imitating his great suffering
and sacrificial death (for example, the films Jesus
of Montreal, Cool Hand Luke, or Shawshank Redemption).
[2] According to this classification,
Tomás
Gutiérrez Alea’s The Last Supper is
an example of a “Christ-figure film.”[3] In an act of piety, the Count
of Casa Bayona comes to his sugar plantation right
before Holy Week in order to reenact the Last Supper.
On Maundy Thursday he plays the role of Christ and
twelve field slaves are chosen to play the part of
his disciples. Tension increases between his desire
for piety and his assumption that sugar production
on the plantation will remain high. This tension comes
to a head on the morning of Good Friday when, against
the wishes of the Count as conveyed to the chosen “disciples”/slaves
during the Last Supper, the overseer makes the slaves
work. A rebellion ensues, resulting in the death of
the overseer. Assuming that those who had feasted with
him the night before took advantage of the message
of freedom he had given them and led the rebellion,
the Count orders the capture and death of those slaves.
By Easter morning, his command has been carried out,
with the exception of one slave who escapes to freedom.
[3] Tatum subdivides the “Christ-figure films” into
those that offer an “explicit” Christ figure
and those that offer an “implicit” Christ
figure. An explicit Christ-figure directly identifies
him/herself with Jesus or a dimension of Jesus. Implicit
Christ-figures do not understand themselves to be acting
out the Jesus story; the filmmaker uses certain images
to evoke this identification.[4] Remarkably, both sub-types are found in The
Last Supper. The Count takes on the role of Christ
knowingly and he explicitly commands the slaves to
imitate Jesus in order to manipulate them to accept
their oppression, but over the course of the film other
characters are presented as Christ-figures indirectly,
that is, unbeknownst to themselves. Because it depicts
multiple characters as Christ-figures rather than just
one main character as is typical of “Christ-figure
films,” The Last Supper is distinctive
in its category, and this multiplicity highlights the
interpretive nature of these figures.
[4] For Christians and for
those who evoke Jesus as part of a living tradition
that guides their behaviour today, the film also
brings to the fore the nature of discipleship and
the care that must be taken to identify systems
of power that lurk behind contemporary faces of
Jesus. The canonical gospels depict Jesus issuing
a call for individuals to “follow” him.
Interestingly, rather than assume that the disciples—especially
the chosen twelve—know the full meaning and nature
of discipleship at the time of their call and acceptance,
the canonical gospels instead show how the disciples
are often in need of correction or are teachable in
this task. This model of following Jesus assumes that
discipleship is not innate; it must be learned and
developed. Early Christians had to interpret what “following
Jesus/Christ” meant, and this inevitably resulted
in multiple and competing interpretations. For example,
when Paul writes to the Corinthians, “Imitate
me as I imitate Christ” (1 Cor. 11:1), are we
to assume that Paul was the only follower of Jesus
who knew the Corinthians and made claims of aligning
himself closely with Jesus? This is not likely. Paul
was trying to convince the Corinthians of his version
of Christ as their model for Christian behaviour.
[5] Over the centuries, guides
became more elaborate and intentional in instructing
others to conform their lives to that of Christ’s.
Particularly influential in developing the Imitatio Christi movement
were the books Imitation of Christ, ascribed
to Thomas à Kempis of the 15th century
and Spiritual Exercises, written by Ignatius
of Loyola in the 16th century. More specifically,
the Imitatio Christi movements of Latin America
under the influence of Spanish Catholicism often projected
images of the “dolorous and defeated Christ” and
the “celestial-monarch Christ.” The body
of the dead or dying “dolorous Christ,” graphically
depicted in torturous agony from the blows of his oppressors,
presents an image “calculated to impel a human
being to search out happiness in suffering.”[5] Concurrently,
Christ as the “celestial-monarch” transferred
his eternal authority over all things to earthly representatives,
in whom he is manifested and revealed—monarchs,
colonial officials, landowners, or landlords.[6] For subjugated peoples, the function of these two faces, combined,
was clear: One should develop a Christ-like attitude
in patiently enduring the brutality by those who have
Christ-like power and authority over you. These are
the very images of Christ that Gutiérrez Alea’s
film criticizes.
[6] Stern, Jefford, and Debona
pointedly remark that “Jesus
films” do not add much to our knowledge of the
historical Jesus, but are cultural responses to a prevalent
image of Jesus likely found in a harmonization of the
Gospels. [7] Given
this observation, they propose three lenses with which
to analyze “Jesus films,” two of which
I use explicitly in this article to analyze Gutiérrez
Alea’s film The Last Supper.[8] First, I inquire into the producer of the film and the time
in which the film was created in order to gain insight
into Cuban society and its film industry by the mid-70s.
This investigation helps readers to understand the
historical context of the film that shaped its critique
of Christianity’s “dolorous” and “celestial
monarch” Christ-figures. Specifically, I highlight
Cuba’s continuing efforts of cultural decolonization
and active resistance to imperialist forays.
[7] Second, numerous details
in the film resemble the Gospel record of Jesus’ life, thereby justifying
an analysis of the film in terms of that Gospel record.
It may seem odd to some to use a Gospel text to analyze
a film that so thoroughly critiques Christianity. However,
it must be remembered that the Gospels have been used
not only to develop but also to critique various christologies
that have emerged in the history of systematic theology.
This does not deny that the Gospels themselves are
interpretations of Jesus’ life; it recognizes
and acknowledges the foundational nature of these documents.
Because the Gospel of Mark emphasizes suffering, I
believe it has a natural affinity for dialogue with
the film’s
critique of the “dolorous Christ” and the “celestial
Christ,” even though Gutiérrez Alea did
not likely have this particular Gospel in mind when
he created the film. I recognize that this step imposes a (not the)
standard against which the Christ-figures of the film
can be measured. However, and as I will demonstrate
in the article, the fact that no one in the film meets
the standard of Mark’s Christ does not mean that
the film is “wrong” in its conceptualization.
In fact, this observation reinforces the film’s
critique of the images of Christ that colonial Christianity
developed to maintain its power and foster its imperialist
endeavors. Nevertheless, the film’s thorough
critique of these images for a 20th century
Cuban audience exposes the tenacity of these oppressive
images and warns generations of viewers to be alert
to various permutations of these images throughout
history.
The Film Industry in Cuba after
the 1959 Revolution
[8] The Cuban film industry worked closely with the
new government under Castro to forge a country under
communist ideals against imperialism and, in time,
against its own growing bureaucratization. In fact,
the Cuban Institute of Cinematographic Arts and Industry
(ICAIC) was created within a few months of the successful
revolution in 1959 in order to continue cultural liberation
and to reinforce revolutionary ideals.[9] Before
the revolution, Hollywood films were a significant
and staple import in Cuba. After the revolution, Cuba
imported films from the Soviet Union instead or produced
its own films through the ICAIC.[10] First
and foremost, the ICAIC produced documentaries that
gave instruction about practical matters in a post-revolution
era, recorded principal mass mobilizations, and informed
the public about the revolutionary process and Cuba’s
social and cultural history.[11] Wanting to acknowledge the
key role black Africans played in the Cuban revolution,
some of ICAIC’s film directors depicted the revolutionary
spirit extending back to 18th-century African
slave resistance to French and Spanish colonization. The
Last Supper provides windows into African mythology
and storytelling that ground the slaves’ ambivalence
toward the Christian messages preached to them and,
eventually, their open rebellion to oppressive conditions
on the plantation.
[9] Within a decade of the successful
revolution, however, Cuba began feeling the pressures
of keeping the revolutionary spirit alive over against
its own increased bureaucratization. The ICAIC tried
to hold the revolutionary edge by resisting the
stereotypical, formulaic standards. Hollywood films—the
old standard—were now seen to be too slick and
smooth, too formulaic for a country trying to consolidate
revolutionary ideals against aggressive economic and
political interference provoked mostly by the United
States.[12] This desire for cultural decolonization perhaps
can be seen best in the Cuban film industry’s
move toward the “imperfect cinema” by the
end of the 1960s and the beginning of the 1970s. Commenting
on García Espinosa’s essay “Por
uncine imperfecto” [‘For an Imperfect
Cinema’], Michael Chanan writes, “If
a film becomes too perfect—beautifully controlled
surface—it lulls the audience into passive consumption.
An authentically modern cinema makes a film that remains
incomplete unless the actively responsive audience
takes it up.”[13] Cuban film producers of this
era wanted audiences to stay alert, never resting comfortably
on formulaic expectations. Standardized by a rich diet
of Hollywood films before the revolution, even the
idea of the hero as a universal and infallible example,
was set on edge and brought under scrutiny.[14] The Last Supper, in
presenting multiple characters as Jesus figures, reveals
film trends of the day to encourage alert, critical
viewing and a commitment to active resistance against
oppression. Viewers must figure out for themselves
who—if anyone—is really Christ-like or
reject the depicted representations altogether. The
interesting parallel here is that the question of Jesus’ identity
is at the root of Mark’s gospel as well.
Jesus’ Identity
and Discipleship in Mark’s Gospel
[10] Time and again in Mark’s gospel the very
people who one would expect to know Jesus best—his
family, people from his hometown, even his twelve disciples—are
depicted as being those who most misunderstand him.[15] The
question of Jesus’ identity intensifies in 8:27-38
when Jesus explicitly asks his disciples, “Who
do people say that I am?” The various responses
reveal the profuse confusion about his identity—“John
the Baptist”, “Elijah”, “one
of the prophets.” Jesus next presses his disciples, “but
who do you say that I am?” Peter provides the
right answer—“you are the Messiah.” Here,
and then repeating the point in at least two subsequent
exchanges with his disciples, Jesus connects his mission
and his disciples’ mission with suffering; their
ministry will surely carry them to be scourged and
killed as outcasts and criminals. Each time, though,
the disciples are portrayed as forgetting about or
countering the images of humiliation that Jesus presents
to them: Peter rebukes Jesus for making such a connection
(8:33), the twelve argue with one another about who
is the greatest (9:34) and James and John ask Jesus
to grant them to sit on his right and left hands in
the assumed Messianic glory (10:35). Theirs is the
conventional perception that the Messiah is one who
will establish God’s rule by military or priestly
honor, power, might, and glory.[16]
[11] Yet Mark shows Jesus attempting
to change that image. In 8:35 Jesus states, “those who lose
their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel
will save it.” In 9:35 he says, “whoever
wants to be first must be last of all and servant of
all.” Finally, in 10:42-45, Jesus declares, “You
know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize
as their rulers lord it over them, and their great
ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among
you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must
be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among
you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not
to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom
for many.” These verses stand as correctives
to the disciples’ notions of glory, power, and
prestige associated with the Messiah and with discipleship.
The mission entrusted to Jesus and to the disciples
is one of humility that works for the liberation of
others, and it will likely, if not necessarily bring
them into life-threatening conflict with conventional
society. So prominent is this suffering theme that
Mark is commonly known to scholars of the Christian
bible as being a long passion narrative with a little
introduction. Just halfway through the gospel, Jesus
already begins “the way” to Jerusalem.
Suffering is not, however, a goal in and of itself;[17] nor
is it to be welcomed as edifying; it is not God’s
way of morally shaping a person.
[12] The significance of Jesus
giving his life as a “ransom
for many” is in its connection not to sin sacrifice
but to slavery. A ransom was the price required to
redeem captives or to purchase freedom for indentured
servants. At the root of Jesus’ ministry, Mark
claims, is a dedication above all else to confront,
without thought of one’s own benefit or regardless
of risk to oneself, all those powers and conventions
in the world that oppress or keep people from freedom
or from being whole. Religion is not without impunity,
for Mark indicates that certain human traditions that
had become oppressive were cloaked deceptively as God
ordained (Mark 7:7-8; 13:22-23).[18] We
must be alert to oppressive underpinnings of how people
evoke Christ’s name and imitate him.
The
Count as “Christ”
[13] Of all the characters in
Gutiérrez Alea’s The
Last Supper, the Count reflects Christ in the
most conscious or obvious way, dramatizing Christ
in a reenactment of the Last Supper. For the Count
and those of his class, to imitate Christ is an
act of humility as a form of piety encouraged by
the Church during Holy Week. Upon the Count’s
arrival at the plantation, the local priest complains
to him that the overseer, Don Manuel, did not allow
the slaves to attend Palm Sunday church services.[19] The Count is troubled by this news, saying, “Holy Week
must be respected. God must be obeyed.” Yet
just as temporary as the festival week is itself,
the Count puts on and takes off this humility as
easily as his topcoat.
[14] Perhaps echoing the increased
tension and anxiety that Jesus is presumed to have
felt in the Garden of Gethsemane as the Passover
festival drew near (Mark 14:32-41), the Count confides
to the priest, “I
can find no peace. I live in constant uneasiness. Even
by day I walk lost in a maze of darkness. Where can
I find a way out?” At this precise moment, the
Count holds out his arms to the sides, mirroring the
crucifix on the wall in front of him. The priest responds, “In
Christ, only in Christ.” The camera pans back,
however, to show the mundane meaning of the Count’s
gesture: it is a cue for his personal house slave to
finish dressing him by helping him into his vest. From
the film’s beginning, then, the Count’s
sincerity is questioned, for in “putting on Christ,” the
Count has kept the master’s clothes on, in stark
contrast to the bloodied, barely-clad Jesus of the
crucifix on the wall.
[15] The process by which the
Count selects slaves to play the role of the disciples
in his reenactment also reveals the feigned humility
of his piety. On Maundy Thursday, when the Count
orders his personal slave to give the overseer the
message to assemble all the slaves in the courtyard,
his slave asks, “Me
too? Do you want me to assemble, too?” The Count
says, “No, you are my slave, my servant,” conveying
that the slave’s higher status exempts him from
having to assemble with the lowly field slaves. This
response gives the impression that the task to be announced
is degrading. However, viewers learn that the slaves
are assembled for the purpose of selecting from among
them those who will play the part of the disciples.
Later, during the reenactment, the Count’s humbling
action of eating with his field slaves is poignantly
juxtaposed by the camera’s view of his personal
slave in the shadowy background, ever ready to attend
to the Count’s wishes and needs. The Count’s
humility does not extend to his personal slave; this
slave is too necessary to maintain the master’s
true power and domination during his apparent humiliation.
[16] After being cleaned up,
or “purified,” the “disciples”/slaves
are brought to the plantation’s chapel for a
religious service. During the service, the Count humbles
himself by washing his “disciples”/slaves
feet.[20] However,
this action is performed only half-heartedly, with
minimal contact. To complete the action each time,
he barely touches his lips to their feet and quickly
wipes his mouth with a cloth, nauseated by the poor
condition of the feet from work in the sugar cane fields
or from attempted escapes. Thus, though the Count displays
some semblance of humility, his approach betrays his
true intention of maintaining firm boundaries between
master and slave.
[17] The reenacted Last Supper
in the evening of Maundy Thursday is a feast overflowing
with culinary delights and wine, the perfect ambiance,
the Count believes, to teach the slaves certain
Christian messages. He sets the context before the
dinner begins: “All
this is for you. This isn’t a day like any other.
It is a special day because in God’s book on
a day like this Christ called in his friends, his disciples
who were his slaves to take leave of them. Christ was
going to die.” Genuinely confused about the nature
of the reenactment, one slave interrupts, “is
Master going to die?” Although visibly pleased
and amused with the slave’s confusion, the Count
clarifies: “No. I’m talking about Christ.
Christ was going to heaven.” Even though the
Count does not claim to be Christ, he sees himself
as attempting to imitate him, at least for the duration
of Holy Week.
[18] To explain the reason for
Jesus’ death,
the Count continues, “someone had to be sacrificed
for all suffering mankind; a lamb was needed, someone
to take God’s punishment without protest, in
silence. Somebody had to pay for all the evil done
by men.” The Count believes that he suffers in
ways similar to Christ. When the Count demands during
the supper that the recently captured escapee, Sebastian,
answer, “Who am I?”—a clear echo
of Jesus’ question put to the disciples in Mark’s
gospel, “Who do you say that I am?” (Mark
8:29)—Sebastian refuses to answer and, in fact,
spits in the Count’s face. This act ordinarily
would have meant certain death for the slave, and for
a visibly tense moment, the Count prevents himself
from retaliating. Yet in dramatizing Christ in the
reenacted Last Supper, the Count considers this derision
the kind of evil Christ experienced and accepted at
the hands of his enemies and even one of his own, Judas;
thus, he accepted it too. However, later, after he
believes he has fulfilled the obligations of Holy Week,
the Count mercilessly retaliates against a confrontation
that he perceives as threatening to the workings of
the plantation.
[19] During the reenacted Last
Supper, the Count also portrays himself as imitating
Christ’s love and
compassion. As the evening progresses, and with the
influence of abundant food, wine, and story-telling,
the Count increasingly feels emotionally and spiritually
close to his ‘disciples’/slaves. At one
point the Count sides with them against the cruelty
of the overseer. Later, he compassionately frees one
of the chosen—an elderly slave who has only one
year of indentured service left. Yet, as we shall see
in the remaining sections of this paper, these Christ-like
actions are as temporary as the feast on the table.
[20] This superficial, or temporary,
sincerity is illustrated in the events that follow
the reenactment. While the Count is willing, during
the reenactment, to see his “disciples”/slaves
as reasoning human beings, he believes the slaves’ revolt
betrays their true, bestial identities, beyond human
consideration and compassion. The uprising leaves in
its wake the deaths of the overseer, his wife, and
several slaves. But when the priest lays out all the
bodies of the dead in the chapel for services, the
Count is enraged and demands an explanation. The priest
states, “In death we are all one.” Yet
the Count will have none of it. He states, “they’ve
spent their life devouring one another and now that
they’ve found our flesh is better, they want
to devour us.” He demands the capture of the
twelve slaves who had dined with him the previous evening,
believing them to have instigated the rebellion. “Show
them no mercy. I want them dead, as examples. I just
want their heads.” To the Count, the slaves are
mere cannibals, not deserving of Christian burial.[21] He
literally wishes to dismember them from the human race.
[21] All but one of the chosen “disciples”/slaves
are captured and killed by Easter morning. To the remaining
slaves, who he gathers on the plantation’s hilltop,
the Count sermonizes about the events of the past days. “Believing
I was obeying God’s commandments, I saw them
[the twelve chosen slaves] and took pity on them. I
humbled myself, and seated them at the Lord’s
table, but they were never satisfied and kept asking
for more.” Insatiable for what? The Count’s
sermon implies an association of the Lord’s table
with power. Indeed, during the reenactment, the Count
had asked the slave seated next to him, “Do you
like sitting at the Master’s right?” echoing
James and John’s association of that position
with power (Mark 10:37). The slave unselfconsciously
shrugged and replied simply, “there was no other
place left.” A quest for power is not what drove
the seating at the supper or the rebellion, yet the
Count is unable to imagine what else it could be. Interpreting
the events of the rebellion, the Count states, “Then
God, chastising me with all His strength, made me understand
that my heart was ensnared in the dark thickets.” According
to the Count, the rebellion was God’s punishment
for believing that humility is required and that slaves
are human beings capable of understanding and accepting
the Christian message. He now feels led to believe
that in actuality, the slaves are ravenous animals,
in need of domination for the plantation to be successful.[22] “I shall have no peace until my abode
is raised anew and the temple cleansed of those who
traded with my heart and the whole mill arises from
its ashes into plenty.” The church that the Count
will build on the plantation will be a symbol of “Christian
triumph over bestiality and savagery.”
[22] The Count may piously “put on” a recognizable
image of Christ, but the film exposes its roots in
power and oppression, clearly challenging the “celestial-monarch
Christ.” Put along side of characters in Mark’s
gospel, the Count betrays his alignment more with the
disciples’ expectations of a militaristic, kingly
Messiah (and therefore their own honor and glory) than
with Jesus’ suffering to end oppression and bring
wholeness. The film exposes the Count’s interest
above all in the success of his plantation and therefore
in the oppressive structures of slavery. Though he
portrays himself as “suffering” and humiliates
himself in washing the feet of and eating with those
less powerful than he, as soon as the Count feels he
has completed his obligation of piety, he is back to
the business of the plantation, wanting blissfully
not to know the details of its cruelties. Ultimately,
he perpetuates and escalates cycles of violence rather
than interrupting them, refusing to pay them back.[23] The
Count’s piety is superficial, not life-transformative.
The Priest as “Christ”
[23] Institutionally, priests
have long been understood to have a privileged relationship
with the resurrected Christ. In complex ways, church
doctrine understands the priesthood to continue
Christ’s presence
here on earth, so it is worth investigating how the
priest of Alea’s film fulfills this role.[24] The film portrays the priest
as having the potential and capability to confront
the system of slavery on the plantation; however, this
issue pales in comparison to his concern with the church’s
holy days and with promoting slave obedience. On the
one hand, he alone seems to have the power to bend
the ear of the Count in order to report the abuse of
slaves on the plantation with the hopes of changing
their situation. Twice during the film the priest approaches
the Count and asks for compassion in the case of the
slaves. Before one of these occasions, he even attempts—albeit
unsuccessfully—to intervene directly to stop
the ringing bell calling the slaves to work on a day
that was to have been their day off. In this way, he
appears to be the voice of the slaves under the weight
of an oppressive system, even if it means putting himself
at risk to a certain extent. At some level, then, the
priest’s actions recall the portrait of Jesus
in Mark’s gospel in that he understands that
following Christ may bring one into conflict with social
conventions and authorities of the period.
[24] On the other hand, the
film exposes that this compassion and confrontation
is motivated not by some Christian principle of
justice or freedom, but by the concern about what
is appropriate for the holy days of the Church.
Accordingly, the impression Alea gives is that the
cruelties are “too much for [the
slaves] to bear” in some strange way on these
days and not on all the other days of the crop season,
let alone the rest of the year. [25] Like the Count, the priest conveys that compassion
and humility are to be reserved for “special,” purifying
times of the year, not everyday behaviours of those
in power. The normal, everyday behaviours are linked
to prescribed roles, believed to be set forth by God:
slaves must respect and obey the commands of the master
and overseer, and those in command must punish those
who do not obey. Here, again, the “celestial-monarch
Christ” rears its ugly head: human authorities
represent Christ and are to be obeyed as one would
obey him. The priest assures the slaves that their
obedience will lead, after death, to sitting at God’s
table in heaven where there are no social divisions
but harmony and plentitude. Clearly for Alea, religion
has become the handmaiden of oppressive structures,
just as Jesus claims in Mark’s gospel (7:6-8).[26] In
contrast, Mark’s Jesus announces, “The
Kingdom has come near” (1:15) and does not delay
in bringing release or freedom to those who need it
in this world, this life.
Don
Manuel, the Overseer, as “Christ”
[25] The head overseer of the
slaves, Don Manuel, is depicted in the film as increasingly
at odds with the Christian message preached on the
Count’s sugar
plantation. Hence, how Don Manuel’s life comes
to be seen as Christ-like is more complex and is not
something that the overseer, himself, consciously assumes.
The priest of the plantation complains that the overseer
has spent too much time drinking, gambling, and having
sex with the slave women when he should be in the chapel.
As a result, according to the priest, Don Manuel has
become overly abusive towards the slaves and has not
respected the holy days of the church. The Count agrees
in principle with the priest, but brushes off any sense
of obligation to intervene in the business of the overseer,
which is to make sure the plantation meets its sugar
production goals.[27] Don
Manuel, himself, feels the tension increase and it
causes him anxiety. He knows all too well his precarious
position at the plantation, especially at the height
of crop season, with the high demand for product. He
admits to another, “When the sugar production
is slowed, I will be first to be blamed for not working
the slaves hard enough.”
[26] The drunken Count directly
undermines the overseer’s
position and authority later in the film during the
emotional intensity of the reenacted Last Supper. When
one of the slaves relays that the priest has told the
slaves that the overseer is Christ—no doubt to
be understood as the celestial-monarch to be obeyed—the
Count responds, “Don Manuel can never be Christ. … He
is a great sinner because he flogs you and steals from
me.” The Count finds the overseer’s behaviour
so reprehensible that he even tells the “disciples”/slaves
that Don Manuel will be excluded from paradise since
that is meant only for Christ and his followers.
[27] Yet, as we saw in the previous
section, the piety that allows the Count temporarily
to side with the slaves against Don Manuel passes
after he feels he has performed his obligation to
the church by humbling himself in the reenacted
Last Supper. When the priest reports that the overseer
has made the slaves get up and work on Good Friday
against the Count’s wishes,
the Count reverts back to his earlier position of noninterference.
The overseer’s sins, to the Count, become “necessary
sins,” better not to be known. More telling,
only when the Count finds out that the slaves have
rebelled and taken the overseer hostage until they
get justice, does the Count race back to try to retake
the plantation and defend the overseer. “Justice?!
We’ll show them justice!” En route and
from a distance, they shoot the slaves coming to meet
with the Count, unaware that these slaves themselves
have staved off the uprising because they convinced
the others to see the Count as a kind, reasonable man
who will listen to their grievances and negotiate with
them. Instantaneously, this sparks a full-blown rebellion
at the plantation that the Count and his armed battalion,
arriving too late, cannot prevent. The plantation is
on fire and Don Manuel has been killed. What the Count
sees in the manner of his overseer’s death, with
arms spread out in the stocks like a crucifix, is a
Christ-like figure. The Count makes the allusion explicit
by asking the priest, “At what hour did Christ
die?” The priest replies, “At this very
hour.” At the film’s end, the Count announces
that he will erect a Church in the overseer’s
name, implying that Don Manuel’s sacrifice of
his life is the epitome of what the church stands for.
[28] The Count’s explicit association of the
overseer with Christ is one of the more jarring scenes
of the film since earlier the Count had emphatically
asserted to the slaves during the Last Supper reenactment
that Don Manuel “could never be Christ” and
would never gain heaven because of his horrific abusing
and thieving ways. Don Manuel is indeed caught, “scourged,” and
killed, as was Jesus in Mark’s gospel, but not
by the dominating powers of society and not because
he stood up to the plantation’s oppressive ways.
Don Manuel was the plantation’s instrument of
oppression and he was killed by the powerless of society.
Neither his life nor his death freed anyone from slavery;
a new overseer was simply installed. Whereas at one
time the Count apparently saw his own pious self-humiliation
as imitating Christ’s self-sacrifice, he now
believes Don Manuel to be that lamb “needed … to
take God’s punishment without protest”—the “dolorous
Christ.” The Count sees the overseer as the necessary
scapegoat in the spiritual war between Christianity
and the evils of African bestiality; that is why the
Count names the Church after him. However, the film
drives home the point that the Count refuses to confront
seriously, that is, that the evil resides in the system
of slavery and that Don Manuel is a “dolorous
Christ” sacrificed for the sins of the Count,
for it is the Count’s greed that fuels the sugar
production, the plantation, and its slavery.[28]
Gaspar Duclé as “Christ”
[29] Gaspar Dulcé is the master sugar maker
on the plantation and how he imitates Christ is perhaps
the least explicit of all representations. Viewers
see that Monsieur Dulcé helps one slave, Sebastian,
escape perhaps by hiding him out in his building after
the slave revolt begins, but at least by not informing
the headhunters of Sebastian’s presence in the
building when they come to question Monsieur Duclé.[29] Perhaps
unsure if his life is in danger, Monsieur Duclé is
momentarily surprised by Sebastian’s presence
in one of his back rooms. Yet, when the headhunters
knock on his front door, Monsieur Duclé motions
for Sebastian to step back into the darkness so that
he could shut that door and feign worry about the efforts
to quell the revolt. In fact, when questioned why his
building was not set fire, Monsieur Duclé deflects
the question by remarking that the church was not touched
either. By preventing Sebastian from being caught,
Monsieur Dulcé could be seen as resembling the
Jesus of Mark’s gospel, for in taking risks to
his own career and life, he helps Sebastian escape
the oppressive plantation.
[30] However, Monsieur Dulcé’s motivation
is not the principle of freedom or a direct confrontation
of an oppressive system as portrayed in Mark’s
gospel. He simply wants to save his own skin. When
the Count announces that he wants to buy the newest
sugar press on the market, Monsieur Dulcé sees
the beginning of an imbalance of power as more slaves
will be needed to cut the cane necessary to keep up
with the new press. “I don’t want to see
my head used by the blacks as a football,” he
states, recalling what had happened in the slave revolt
at Santo Domingo when the number of blacks eventually
outnumbered the whites and mulattos: “in the
end, there were only blacks.” Hence, he secretly
helps the strongest, most powerful slave, and in return,
neither Monsieur Dulcé nor his building is harmed
in the revolt. If anything, his actions resemble more
the actions of the disciples in Mark rather than of
Christ, for after Jesus is arrested the disciples scatter,
if they do not actually deny any association with him
to avoid their own arrest (14:50, 66-72).
The
Slaves as “Christ”
[31] While he plays the part
of Christ in the reenactment of the Last Supper,
the Count demands that the chosen “disciples”/slaves
become Christ-like themselves. After feasting and drinking,
the general level of joviality peaks and one of them,
an elderly slave, asks for his freedom with only one
year of service left of being indentured. The Count,
feeling magnanimous, grants his wish. Initially elated,
as are the others, the slave shuffles off to leave,
but stops in the threshold of the door and begins to
cry when he realizes he has nowhere to go. The Count
uses the slave’s unhappiness as an opportunity
to tell a story that links happiness not with freedom,
but with suffering. He preaches the “dolorous
Christ,” asserting that perfect happiness lies
with conquering oneself, submitting to one’s
destiny, and suffering cruelty patiently and with joy,
thinking of Christ’s sufferings.[30] Just as the Count’s portrayal
of Christ justified colonial and imperial power, the
Christ he demands his slaves to emulate encourages
passive acceptance of imperialist exploitation.
[32] The slave who most needs to learn this lesson,
the Count believes, is Sebastian. Sebastian is the
slave who most desires freedom, who most resists attempts
to constrain him. When the film begins, a search party
has been initiated to trail yet another of his escapes
and again, he is tracked down by the dogs. The overseer
remarks that there is something special about Sebastian
because his spirit has not been broken by the typical
punishments meted out after each attempted escape.
Indeed, after getting caught this time, one of his
ears is cut off, but instead of bowing into subjugation,
Sebastian looks for the next way to attempt an escape.
Most of the slaves see through the message the Count
gives at the Last Supper, but Sebastian actively resists
it, drawing on African storytelling and ritual, willing
even to die in the pursuit of freedom.
[33] In order to quell the revolt,
the Count orders the capture and beheading of all
the “disciples”/slaves
who dined with him the previous night. They are to
be used as examples of what will happen to those who,
he assumes, take advantage of his Christian message
of power and freedom. By Easter Sunday morning, all
the chosen “disciples”/slaves have been
caught and killed, except for one. In the last few
minutes of the film, when the Count announces that
he will build a church in the name of Don Manuel, the
camera pans out to reveal a hilltop scene likened to
Golgotha. Twelve tall stakes are positioned like crucifixes,
with the heads of the captured slaves impaled on the
tops. The film never portrays Sebastian as a Christian,
yet paradoxically, it is Sebastian’s “cross” that
remains empty, and his escape alone carries the hope
of success, of new life.
[34] In general, the African
slaves resemble Mark’s
Christ not when they passively endure but when they
actively resist their oppression and perform acts that
may help to free others even if it might bring their
own deaths. [31] Sebastian seems to embody most
clearly the freedom that Mark’s Christ lives
and dies for. As one of two slaves who spring an attack
on Don Manuel and place him in the stockades, we can
view Sebastian as participant in an act that places
his own life at risk to help liberate others. But ultimately,
it is Sebastian’s desire for his own freedom,
not that of others, that drives him. Even this drive
is mixed with a desire for revenge, for before he escapes,
he kills Don Manuel in the stockades with a machete.
Violence is paid back with violence. Viewers are not
given a chance to see what might have been had not
Don Manuel been killed. What we witness is Don Manuel’s
murder, which prompts the Count’s escalation
of violence in revenge under a new overseer, ending
finally in the cruel and horrendous deaths of Sebastian’s
fellow slaves.
Conclusion
[35] Mark’s Christ, who confounds his followers’ assumptions
about his identity and purpose, is only one interpretation
applied in this article to Tomás Gutiérrez
Alea’s film, The Last Supper. An interesting
discussion could evolve if the film were analyzed using
the gospel of John’s portrait of Jesus instead
of that of Mark. Musa W. Dube has argued that the gospel
of John portrays Jesus with such a high Christology
that it easily supports colonial ideology of domination. [32] Alternatively, one could examine the Christ-figures
of the film through the lens of the Christ of black
theology. At the very least, through these resources
one could explore more fully the possibilities for
a shift from the suffering Christ as a model that keeps
the system of oppression intact (as the Count expounds
upon in the film) to the suffering Christ as a model
for resistance to systems of oppression. Such analysis
would offer a historical view of how Africans who converted
to Christianity have adopted and changed the very models
that once oppressed them.
[36] A cultural studies approach
to texts “looks
upon all interpretive models, retrievals of meaning
from texts, and reconstructions of history as constructs—formulated
and advanced by positioned readers, flesh-and-blood
persons reading and interpreting from different and
highly complex social locations.”[33] This is true of the “text” of
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea’s film, The
Last Supper, as much as it is of the text of Mark’s
gospel. The dialogue between the film and the gospel
may be said to represent interwoven moebius strips,
each retrieving pieces of the past while recording
the present and pressing audiences to participate actively
in creating the future, all in a continuous process
of critique and interpretation. In 1970s Cuba, working
to keep alive the revolutionary spirit over and against
foreign political pressures especially by the United
States, the film reaches back into Cuban history to
recuperate the power of African culture and religion
to resist systems of colonial domination. In doing
so, this film also reaches further back to recall the
events of Jesus’ life as portrayed in the Gospels
in order to critique models of discipleship—the “dolorous
Christ” and the “celestial-monarch Christ”—that
perpetuated imperialist oppressions. The complex interactions
of history and of the question of Jesus’ identity
that arise when The Last Supper and the Gospel
of Mark are placed side by side echo what David Jasper
states about narratives that “comprise a living
tradition”: from them “we learn the conditions
of truth, and as narratives are tested against our
ongoing, historical experience, so they are challenged
and renewed within the context of each new generation
of readers.” [34] Jesus’ question of “Who
do you say that I am?” must be answered anew
by those individuals and groups searching for better
ways to live the gospel into the present, attentive
to challenges leveled by the past.
Notes
