“This great evil, where does it come from?”

In the stacked year of 1998, we were blessed with two of the best WWII films ever made. In July, Spielberg changed the war film genre with Saving Private Ryan, masterfully displaying the brutality of the infamous Omaha Beach and the European theater. While it would be the third most successful film of 1998, another (and arguably better) WWII film would slip in at the end of the year to offer its own distinct and introspective voice: The Thin Red Line. While Malick’s dramatic reentry into the film industry after 20 years was met with somewhat mixed reception and a modest box-office return, I can confidently say it has aged like fine wine, firmly cementing itself as one of the greatest war films ever made.

The Thin Red Line depicts the long and grueling campaign of Guadalcanal. Guadalcanal was one of the more crucial campaigns in the Pacific theater, resulting in significant losses of territory and positions for the Empire of Japan. The more than 6-month conflict was a hard-earned but decisive American victory, further forcing a Japanese retreat after the turning point of Midway. The film is an adaptation of a novel of the same name by James Jones (From Here to Eternity), which depicts 3 different soldiers’ responses to combat and trauma.

Malick, in an unsurprising manner, takes a rather unconventional approach by having the film less narrative-based and more meditative. The Thin Red Line delves into war, the cost of victory, and the impact we have on the world around us. In this massive star-studded cast, the film seems to primarily focus on the struggles of Sean Penn’s character and Jim Caviezel’s. Gym plays a conscientious objector who flees from combat to live with natives of local Islands, but he’s caught and sent back to the front by Sean Penn. The dynamic between these two sets the tone for most of the film. This main dynamic is the relationship between man and nature. This is not from a merely material stance from the perspective that but a more spiritual understanding of the Earth and the responsibility that man has to keep it, which was given to him in the Garden of Eden. The beauty of the Pacific Islands and the people who inhabit them is consistently juxtaposed with the brutality and carnage of modern warfare. Our characters consistently reflect on this world and the role we play in it, barraging us with an inner monologue that feels distinct to the individual yet applicable to all. Caviezel’s character is perhaps the most sensitive to this, and has a deeply satisfying character arc that shows him discover a more selfless way in expressing his love for humanity.

This is just one of the many characters featured in The Thin Red Line. Part of the joy of watching the film is discovering and watching them interact with each other. The Thin Red Line’s lack of focus on one character is what adds to the grandeur of it. The sheer quantity of A-list actors that practically volunteered for the film upon hearing of Malick’s return was staggering, and left him with the unenviable task of turning down A-listers like Bruce Willis, Brad Pitt, Al Pacino, Gary Oldman, Leonardo DiCaprio, Viggo Mortenson, and Martin Sheen. So many characters are featured in the film; Bill Pullman and Mickey Rourke’s characters didn’t even make the final cut. Despite having to gallop through so many over less than 3 hours, Terrence manages to give each character their own distinct personality and enough time to grow within the world of the Pacific Theater.

I would argue that there is hardly any war film that isn’t “anti-war”. Even the so-called propaganda films of the 1940’s didn’t shy away from the profound sadness of war. As a regular consumer of the genre, I have yet to find one that truly says “Yeah, war is awesome, let’s go!” Thin Red Line takes war to another level, however, and asks its audience to meditate on the true “Why” of war. It elevates the audience to more than just being observers, but instead active participants in the discussion. This creative gesture has always elevated Terrence Malick above most of his contemporaries.

The scale of The Thin Red Line is truly massive. Cinematographer John Toll does a career-defining job with some of the greatest cinematography of the modern Hollywood era. Battles feel grand yet intimate, visceral yet clean, and sweeping yet grounded. I frequently find myself in awe of the spectacle being presented without being distracted from the messaging. There are tracking shots in here that belong in the top 10 of all time, and I am awe-struck to think how they were even pulled off. The beauty of nature is on such display, in perfect sync with one of Hans Zimmer’s more underrated scores, that most of the shots could be used as high-quality wallpapers or paintings.

The Thin Red Line is one of the ultimate cinematic experiences. Through brilliant direction, what could have been a by-the-books soldier memoir is elevated to an extraordinary meditation on man, nature, and God. Beautiful cinematography, excellent acting, impeccable scoring, and high-quality storytelling all come together to make one of the greatest war films ever made.

What’s funny about Days of Heaven is that it is in many ways a remake of Malick’s previous film, Badlands.

Both films follow a young couple who flee after the man (in this case, Richard Gere) commits murder. However, unlike Badlands, this is not based on a true story, and the murder was an accident.

Thus begin the comparisons to the Book of Exodus, and the Steinbeckian influence of The Book of Genesis on the next three decades of Malick’s work.

“Whatever Cathy may have been, she set off the glory in Adam. His spirit rose flying and released him from fear and bitterness and rancid memories. The glory lights up the world and changes it the way a star shell changes a battleground.” (East of Eden by John Steinbeck, Chapter 13, Section 2)

“I went to work in the mill. Couldn't wait to get in there. Begin at 7:00. Got to have a smile on your face. And one day you wake up, you find you're not the smartest guy in the world. Never gonna come up with the big score. When I was growin' up, I thought I really would.” - Bill (Richard Gere), Days of Heaven

On January 17, 1917, Emil Avimalg Malick was born in Elizabeth, New Jersey, not far from New York City.

Baptized a Presbyterian, he grew up a strong, capable boy, who excelled at everything he touched, including becoming an accomplished pianist and organist.

Five years prior, Irene Thompson was born to a large Irish Catholic family that lived on farmland not far from Chicago, where she was destined to meet Emil Malick. They married on June 26, 1942, moving to Alexandria, Virginia during a very tumultuous period for the nation.

Prior to the move, Malick had enlisted in the Navy as an officer, before being moved to the Power Plant Division of the Bureau of Aeronautics in Washington D.C. However, he continued his passion for music, helping support his family with recitals featuring a range of music from “the Londonderry Air to J.S. Bach”.1

These were the parents of Terrence Frederick Malick, born on a Tuesday, November 30, 1943 in Ottawa, Illinois: Irene wanted to be home near her family’s farmland for the birth of their first child.

Terrence would eventually come to live the majority of his adolescent life in the suburbs of Waco, Texas, but at heart his roots were planted in the soil of American Midwest farmland.

Malick was sent to boarding school in the fall of 1955, 110 miles away from his family in Waco at St. Stephen’s Episcopal High School, near Austin.

Here lay the roots of Days of Heaven, as quoted in Malick’s last-ever recorded interview given in 1979:

It was in Austin, Texas that I had the idea for ‘Days of Heaven.’ I found myself alone for a summer in the town I had left when I was a high school student. There were those green, undulating hills, and the very beautiful Colorado river. The place is inspired. It is inspiring, and there the film came to me all together. It would be difficult for me to make a film about contemporary America today. We live in such dark times and we have gradually lost our open spaces. We always had hope, the illusion that there was a place where we could live, where one could emigrate and go even further. Wilderness, this is the place where everything seems possible, where solidarity exists—and justice—where the virtues are somehow linked to this justice. In the region where I grew up, everyone felt it in a very strong way. This sense of space disappearing, we nevertheless can find it in cinema, which will pass it on to us There is so much to do: it’s as if we were on the Mississippi Territory, in the eighteenth century. For an hour, or for two days, or longer, these films can enable small changes of heart, changes that mean the same thing: to live better and to love more. And even an old movie in poor and beaten condition and can give us that. What else is there to ask for?

Malick gives what I would call a pretty atypical answer for that younger period of his life. I think, if asked now about his inspiration for Days of Heaven, he would see that it’s a lot more autobiographical than it lets on.

There is a recurring kind of character in Malick’s films, typified first by Martin Sheen’s stoic murderer Kit in Badlands. We’ll call him the Wild Man. In Badlands, Sissy Spacek’s Holly chooses to be with the Wild Man over the Good Man, her father, who sees the evil in Kit and refuses to let his daughter be with him, before Kit kills him.

The Good Man is less of a risk-taker than the Wild Man, and is only drawn out by the appearance of the Woman.

In The Thin Red Line, a whole mix of these two kinds of men are pitted against each other amongst the American Forces in Japan in World War II, with Jim Caviezel’s Pvt. Witt representing the Good Man and Sean Penn’s 1st Sgt. Welsh the Wild. In The New World, Pocahontas must choose between the Colin Farrell’s ex-mercenary John Smith and Christian Bale’s English farmer John Rolfe.

In The Tree of Life, the Woman melds with the Good Man in the form of the protagonist’s mother, Mrs. O’Brien, played by Jessica Chastain, and the Wild Man is characterized by Mr. O’Brien, played by Brad Pitt. Young Jack (Hunter McCracken) must choose whose moral exemplar he must follow. (The name “O’Brien” was chosen for the family after Malick’s maternal Irish grandmother, Katherine “Kitty” O’Brien, a version of whom is actually portrayed in Tree of Life briefly by Fiona Shaw.)

In Days of Heaven, after fleeing from Chicago into the American heartland of the Texas Panhandle (although the film was primarily shot in Alberta, Canada) Bill (Gere), his girlfriend Abby (Brooke Adams), and his younger sister Linda (Linda Manz) must start a new life working on the land of a wealthy farmer (Sam Shepard, whose character is never named).

Bill and Abby keep their relationship a secret, telling the many other workers they encounter that they are brother and sister to avoid any suspicion. The rich Farmer, who is far more shy than the wild Bill, begins to take a liking to Abby; however, he also finds out that he only has one year to live from his doctor from a terminal illness.

One thing leads to another, and soon the newly motivated Farmer, aroused by his short lease on life, asks for Abby’s hand in marriage. Abby, shocked, asks Bill what to do, and he tells her to accept, knowing full well that the Farmer will die within a year and they can inherit his wealth. Abby, though conflicted, accepts.

Bill, Abby, Linda, and the Farmer all end up living in a twisted Eden, living an isolated but happy life, until the Farmer begins to pick up that Bill and Abby may not exactly be brother and sister.

Throwing another wrench into the situation, Abby begins to fall deeply in love with her husband despite her continued, secret faithfulness to Bill. And from there, everything begins to crumble.

Bill’s murder back in Chicago of a foreman— a tussle that didn’t mean to get that far— still marked him just as Cain’s murder of Abel did, and the entire movie sees him on the run. He gets a way out- living off the land as a simple farmhand— but eschews it for a sick, twisted will-inheriting scheme that eventually sets him on the run yet again.

But beyond simply being a meditation on Genesis, there’s something more here which I didn’t even realize until I sat down to begin this essay.

The young couple flee from their native Chicago to the Texas Panhandle to begin a new life, essentially raising Linda as their child.

Days of Heaven went through a famously tumultuous production that resulted in Terrence Malick disappearing for twenty years, however that story would take up an entire other essay. What’s important to know from it is that Malick ended up making the decision in post-production— when the cut wasn’t working— to add voice-over from Linda to tie the story together. Large swaths of dialogue (which can be found in the original script) were cut and the movie focused more on visuals.

Linda suddenly became the protagonist— all of the events were viewed through her young, but already slightly jaded eyes, with the voice-over giving us her thoughts on her brother, God, and life itself.

What I didn’t realize until my second rewatch is that Linda is Malick, swept up from a life in Chicago he barely knew to Texas, with his Wild Man father and a mother who wanted more than anything to be seen as Good.

Without spoiling what exactly happens to the characters at the end of the film, the last shot of the movie is Linda following her friend along some train tracks, played by Jackie Shultis, after running away from her Texas boarding school, as we hear Linda muse:

“This girl, she didn't know where she was goin' or what she was gonna do. She didn't have no money on her. Maybe she'd meet up with a character. I was hopin' things would work out for her. She was a good friend of mine.”

In 1973, Terrence Malick began his career with one of the greatest directorial debuts of all time: Badlands. Using crowdfunding and his connections, Malick was able to create a dreamlike but somewhat disturbing portrayal of what true youthful impulsiveness looks like.

Badlands is loosely based off of the Starkweather homicides of 1957. It tells the story of Kit (Martin Sheen), a 25-year-old wannabe James Dean who ends up forming a strong bond with a 15 year old Holly (Sissy Spacek). Kit is predatory and relations between him and Holly are implied (extremely tasteful) before he kills Holly’s father and the two decide to run off together. This starts a long murder spree that takes us all the way through the beautiful American West.

Badlands is a remarkably reflective film. It takes its time to explore the consequences of impulsive behavior, and the fact that youth is typically drawn to this more so than others. Easily manipulated and prone to going where the wind takes them, Malick clearly shows the consequences of this in full and ugly detail. Kit can be seen or interpreted as a manifestation of the Devil. If you let him in just a little bit he will come in and take control and you will just be stuck in the passenger seat, as Holly is. She continuously sits by and goes “Eh, whatever” as Kit continues to escalate things and pull her in deeper and deeper. She is intrigued by him and somewhat frightened by him at times, but has no desire to stand up to him. Holley’s go-with-the-flow type behavior something that seems to be present in all young generations, and not per se exclusive to Gen Alpha.

The major enigma of this film is, however, Kit. Expertly played by Martin Sheen, this character is mysterious and acts in ways that sometimes seem illogical. It is very clear from the beginning that despite his charming charisma and perceived easygoing nature, he is the furthest thing from that. The greaser archetype of the 1950s certainly had a reputation for being violent and disruptive, but Kit takes this to a whole new level, probably to its most extreme limit. The film presents the idea of a greaser transitioning from a potentially violent and rebellious youth into a fully formed serial killer. This does track with the real Charles Starkweather, who killed 12 people in about the course of a month.

The biggest and most daunting question around the entire film is simple: Why? Why kill all these people? Why run around? Why end things the way you choose to end them? The truth is that there aren’t easy answers to these questions. People under the effect of sin act illogically and unpredictably. God designed the universe to act in harmony, and that which is logical and moral is of God. When you depart from this, you separate yourself from Him.

Departing from these certainly is a demonstration of our own pride, which is a cornerstone of Kit’s character. Is most likely why he chooses to end things the way he does. His disturbing notion that his reasons for the killings were “just something to do, I guess” is a clear manifestation of the warning St. Paul gave us in Philippians 4:8

The idle mind is the Devil’s playground.

Badlands carries a dream-like feel to it that dulls the violence but nevertheless acts in a hypnotic manner. Right out of the gate, Malick demonstrates his unusual style of heavy voiceovers and beautiful shot composition. Shockingly enough, he went through three different cinematographers over the course of shooting. The first one quit halfway through because he could not stand his unorthodox method of shooting, and the second one filled in until an official replacement could be found in the third. Despite all of these changes, Badlands is seamless and its imagery and style, showing that the true man with the vision was in fact Malick.

There is a distinct benefit to voice over in all of his films. They give us a very intimate view of his characters and an insight into the internal monologue. These internal monologues often give us unique insight into the characters and are super in-depth, meaning that they are not overkill or wasted moments. None of Badlands is wasted, and it is a highly efficient and well paced film with no fat. Sissy Spacek for being as young as she is, absolutely crushes every monologue she’s given, and was perfectly casted to play Holly. Martin Sheen of course steals the show; it feels every much of this character as an actor could possibly hope for.

Badlands is a cautionary tale against bad influences, impulsive behavior, and spiritual lethargy. It bases itself off of real life events to deconstruct the greaser archetype and so the ocean that a man who acts violently is someone to be sought after, but rather someone to be avoided. It’s a strong warning against going with the flow and it’s a call to arms to have a strong base so as not to be swept off by the whims of the devil.

Never has there been someone so mysterious in the world of cinema as Terrance Malick. A man shrouded in mystery who practically never does interviews, does not allow cameras on his sets, or lets people into his creative process, Terrence Malick is the most private man working in the film industry today. Despite all the secrecy, Malick is perhaps the greatest Christian filmmaker working today and should be the gold standard by which others are measured.

While Malick’s Christian faith is undeniable, what denomination he subscribes to is quite elusive. He was born into a split-faith household and seemed to be much closer to his Catholic mother than his Episcopal father ( at least as seen through his films). Malick’s academic career is almost as impressive as his filmography. He would go on to attend an Episcopal School and then Harvard, where he would graduate with a degree in philosophy and receive the Rhodes Scholarship. At Oxford, he was responsible for translating Heidegger’s The Essence of Reason into English. He would come just short of getting his doctorate from Oxford due to a major dispute he had with his advisor over Kierkegaard, Heidegger, and Wittgenstein (all highly dense philosophical reading). Returning to the US, he taught philosophy at MIT and freelance wrote until he decided to become a filmmaker.

Terrence Malick would start strong using his newfound connections at the AFI Conservatory with Badlands and Days of Heaven. From the very beginning, he demonstrated a unique and dreamlike style that would only become more pronounced as his career continued. His stunning sense of imagery was quite pronounced, especially with Days of Heaven, as well as his rather unorthodox style of filmmaking. He would end up suddenly taking a 20-year hiatus from filmmaking before his triumphant return in The Thin Red Line. From then on, Malick would continue to make profound films until the present, with his upcoming Jesus film, The Way of the Wind, still in editing 6 years after filming wrapped with no end in sight.

Profound and contemplative are the best ways to describe the art of Terrence Malick. Every question under the sun is asked over the course of every film he has made, and not always provide answers. At the core of all of it is Christianity. Christianity is the cornerstone of all his films, even if it is sometimes discreet. His films feel more Catholic than Evangelical because they offer a holistic view of the universe through faith and science, rather than being more issue-based. Not to mention his most recent film (A Hidden Life) being the story of a not particularly well-known blessed in the Catholic Church (Franz Jägerstätter). His approach to Christian filmmaking is far more impactful than stereotypical Christian films like God’s Not Dead (I apologize to fans of the film). Belief in Christ isn’t just placed on the surface and preached to the audience like a loud sermon, but baked into the very material of his films.

Malick is obsessed with people, places, and the interior monologue. All of his films are heavily voiced over and feature extensive photography of humans and settings. Rather than telling a straightforward story, he elects to convey complex thoughts, reflections, and ideas in a dreamlike style that is unmistakable. Nature is a constant and is captured in all of its stunning glory, with Days of Heaven in particular being maybe the most beautiful film ever shot. The beauty of God’s creation is on full display in every film and meditated on extensively. Mankind is something that is held sacred and revered in almost all of his films, and no life is ever lost without great contemplation. Life is something natural and sacred, the way things ought to be. Death is unnatural and a sign of our fallen nature and the broken world we live in. This fundamental understanding of how things were meant to be is one of the many things that separate a Malick film from others. In The Thin Red Line, when Jim Caviezel’s character is meditating on the destruction that mankind causes to the world, it avoids the toxic environmentalism of the modern era (that people are a poison that should be reduced), but instead offers a more grounded and Christian insight into how we were called to be tillers of the Earth yet subject to it, trying to establish a healthy balance.

Terrence Malick’s shooting style is considered highly unconventional, to the point where he is the only one who does it in this fashion. Rather than having a strict schedule of what to shoot and when based on a screenplay, he will just go out with the cast and crew and begin shooting all sorts of scenes that come to him. He may start with a highly detailed screenplay, but then start to heavily improvise shots and neglect the script. This typically leads to strain on the crew, as well as what may seem like excessive amounts of footage (The New World had over 1 million feet of 35mm film shot by the end). This style also accounts for the extended periods he spends editing his films, which usually take years.

There is something to be gained from seeing all of Terrence Malick’s films. Every single one of his films offers a profound and moving experience where something of value can be discerned or learned. All of his films are shot with a beauty and elegance that is often imitated but never quite perfected (Train Dreams is the closest and could be considered a spiritual addition to his filmography). The cinematography in a Malick film is something that you will remember and may even put as your wallpaper at some point. These gorgeous shots are always paired with some of the finest soundtracks and scores ever compiled. His most underrated trait as a filmmaker has always been his taste and choice of music. From James Newton Howard’s deeply moving score for A Hidden Life to the soundtrack of The Tree of Life that fits so well it could be a score, Malick’s taste in music, in my book, is impeccable. Casting is never an area of need as well, which is not surprising since most actors and actresses practically line up to be in his films whenever they enter production (see the casting section for The Thin Red Line).

Regardless if Terrence Malick ever ends up finishing The Way of the Wind, he has already made his impact on the world of cinema. No other filmmaker quite captures the interior monologue and reaches such profound levels as Malick. Every icon he creates using the art form stands as a challenging yet deeply rewarding jewel in the crown of Christian cinema.

Perhaps best described as the “American Tarkovsky”, the cinema of Terrence Malick is perhaps some of the most edifying visual media that a Catholic can take in, and something worth letting become a part of your soul.

If you look across the history of film, alien encounter films usually wrestle mostly with the titular aliens: how they look, how they act, what they want to do on Earth. Steven Spielberg always gives careful consideration to these same questions in his own alien movies — Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E.T., War of the Worlds, and Disclosure Day — but they always take a backseat to the human concerns raised by the aforementioned aliens. Each and every time, his films have less to do with his stunning, otherworldly creations, and much more to do with how these creations emphasize just how alone or apart human beings really are.

In Close Encounters and E.T., the aliens helped to provide purpose and to unite people who otherwise felt lonely, disconnected, or afraid in their lives before the aliens arrived. That message — of love and empathy — echoed loud and clear across Spielberg’s filmography as cinema’s favorite optimist and sentimentalist continued to rule movie theaters and the box office over the course of the 70s, 80s, and 90s. But, at the turn of the 21^st century, everything changed.

September 11, 2001, affected everyone in profound ways — Spielberg included. In the wake of that devastating day, he tried to reckon with the horrors he witnessed in the only way he knew how: through the medium of movies. That desire led him back to the alien encounter genre for the first time in over 20 years, but this time with a far different message than he articulated in his first two alien pictures. Where Close Encounters and E.T. showed how aliens could save humanity from loneliness, his newest creation would instead show how aliens would only drive a further wedge in humanity, forcing people to turn to their basest instincts in the wake of unspeakable terror.

That intention turns 2005’s War of the Worlds into a full-blown panic attack of a movie, where cinema’s foremost master of the summer blockbuster returned to his old stomping grounds with something far darker, far bleaker, and more sinister than audiences ever could have anticipated.

I remember seeing War of the Worlds for the first time not in 2005 — my mom got wind of how dark it was and forbid it under any and all circumstances — but around 2009. What I expected to be a Tom Cruise-starring sci-fi action extravaganza, like most audiences at the time, ended up being one of the most terrifying moviegoing experiences of my life. The Spielberg I knew and loved had taken all of his filmmaking prowess and poured it into relentless set piece after set piece, ratcheting up the tension while simultaneously painting horrific image after horrific image with his filmmaking brush.

At the time of its release, War of the Worlds received a positive, if slightly more muted response. Less than four years separated from 9/11, critics and audiences were perhaps ill at ease with a story so clearly wrestling with everything America had just gone through. But as time has gone on, War of the Worlds has grown in estimation. It’s Spielberg at his most visceral — his first true “evil twin” movie since Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and it’s all the better for it.

His War of the Worlds, taking inspiration from the H.G. Wells book of the same name, follows Tom Cruise’s Ray, a blue collar, downbeat divorced dad, who has to protect his estranged kids when aliens invade Earth and seek to destroy all of humanity. The aliens here, unlike the friendly extraterrestrials of E.T., are literally called “terrorists” by the characters in this film, as they quickly devastate cities across the globe.

During their first attack, they vaporize the residents of Beyonne, New Jersey, leaving them as clouds of dust that cover Tom Cruise’s Ray during his escape. When he arrives back home and sees himself in the mirror, covered in dust, the intention is never more clear: this is Spielberg’s 9/11. What comes after shatters any hopeful notions of rah-rah nationalism in the wake of tragedy. Those horrific images I mentioned earlier? They come quickly and often. Bodies floating in a river. Crowds desperately trying to pack onto a ferry. Clothes raining down in a forest. A valley of blood. Even an incredible homage and reversal of The Wizard of Oz, where he swaps the wonder of that film revealing technicolor for the first time to an image of utmost horror.

Spielberg’s anger and fear in the wake of 9/11 is channeled with verve and propulsion throughout every set piece in War of the Worlds — ones that are both unspeakably huge in scale but also devastatingly intimate, making each subsequent situation only feel more hopeless for all the characters involved.

The craftsmanship on display is some of the best of Spielberg’s career, with all his usual heavy hitters – Janusz Kaminski on cinematography, Michael Kahn on editing, John Williams on score, Kathleen Kennedy on producing, and David Koepp on script — bringing their best to the table. The same is true of the performances. Cruise’s helplessness, fear, and relentless desire to protect his kids commands every frame (also, unfortunately, the worst baseball throwing you will ever see), while Dakota Fanning’s innocence and terror as Rachel, his daughter, is heartbreaking.

As the film barrels towards its conclusion, it wraps up perhaps too neatly given the devastation that preceded it. If you’ve read the book or seen previous adaptations, Spielberg chooses not to deviate from the original story, despite his previous changes in the lead-up to the final stretches. It can feel a bit deflating, but how it wraps up is also integral to the Spielberg philosophy: despite his anger, his horror, his fear, he refuses to leave audiences without a sense of hope that things can get better in the end. To conclude one of his films any other way would be a betrayal to himself and his core principles. Maybe not as satisfying as a wrap-up to a terror campaign of a film but still fascinating within the entire breadth of his filmography.

If Close Encounters was Spielberg wrestling with his purpose in life, and if E.T. was him discovering his love of children, War of the Worlds is him at his angriest and his most scared. Coming in the wake of 9/11, Spielberg channeled all of his feelings about the horror of that day into a sci-fi terror unlike anything in his filmography.

Humans are lonely. They’re broken. And in War of the Worlds, they have never been more ill at ease with how alone they truly are in the universe.

This is Spielberg at his absolute darkest. It terrified me the first time I saw it. It always will.

When the Vatican released its list of 45 great films celebrating the first 100 years of the cinematic art form in 1995, they included one film that was not even two years old at the time: 1993’s Schindler’s List. From its very release, Schindler’s List was recognized as one of the most impactful historical epics ever made. It tackles the Holocaust, a subject that has by now been significantly over-represented in Hollywood, but makes perhaps the most definitive cinematic statements about this historical atrocity, often imitated but never surpassed. It is a monumental film, one which is not an easy watch but is still accessible for the average viewer. Steven Spielberg’s genius was in making incredibly popular, endlessly watchable films; Schindler’s List transcends the rest of his filmography but retains the hallmarks of Spielberg’s filmmaking that make this 3 hour epic approachable for a popular audience. It is a sobering depiction of the Holocaust, it is a fascinating character study of a bad man called to redemption, and it is an excellently crafted and beautifully shot film. Its high reputation and place on the Vatican film list is well-earned.

Through the first part of the film, the theme that interested me the most was man’s inhumanity to man. Schindler’s List does a great job of showing how easy it can be to dehumanize, mistreat, and ultimately exterminate fellow human beings in the name of grievance or ideology. There isn’t a question or a struggle in the minds of the Nazi soldiers about what they are doing; the Jews are subhuman, explicitly compared to rats or beetles at a couple points through the film. Even the camera itself seems to dehumanize the violence we experience, with Spielberg using an impartial, documentary style of filmmaking to capture the impersonal, detached, dehumanized vision of Jews held by the Nazis. We see Jews playing along with the Nazis to get special treatment, turning on their fellow countrymen in a futile attempt to escape their ultimate fate. As I watched so much horrendous cruelty, I was even tempted to dissociate these characters from reality, to remind myself that these were fictional characters I was watching. But no, Spielberg will not let us use that out to downplay or cope with the evil he portrays. His unblinking camera is as unforgiving to its viewers as its subjects, forcing me to wrestle with the harsh reality he was revealing. At the end of the film, we see the actors process to Oskar Schindler’s grave accompanying the real-life people whom they portrayed. At every turn Spielberg makes us grapple with the realization that human beings can and will do such awful things to each other, and the even more awful truth that we ourselves are not too different either from victim or monster.

It is by drawing us from the universal to the particular that Spielberg works his movie magic. There is so much death, so much cruelty, so much inhumanity in this film, and yet it is the individuals that struggle, work, hope, despair, live, and die that give the film its power. The various inmates of the Krakow ghetto, labor camp, and factory are presented with gentleness and pathos. From a wealthy family forced from their luxury flat into a room with a dozen other Jews, to a mother and daughter clinging desperately to each other through thick and thin, to a young couple getting secretly married in the concentration camp barracks, Spielberg excels in getting us invested in the many small stories that make up this larger epic film. Our investment in these stories make the cruelties and tragedies so much sadder, the hope and salvation so much more triumphant. In the first act, I found the many characters Spielberg was setting up to be overindulgent; by the end, I realized this choice was masterful. The emotional impact of the film is greatly strengthened by building sympathy for so many of the victims and potential victims of the inhumanity oppressing them.

What really makes the movie masterful, however, is the central character of Oskar Schindler. Schindler (played masterfully by Liam Neeson) starts the film as a war profiteer, fully willing to exploit the cheap Jewish labor offered to him by the Nazi work camp system. He is a vain, prodigal, womanizing conman, living it up in the Krakow nightlife while making money off the backs of unpaid Jewish prisoners. Things change, however, when the Nazis clear out the Krakow ghetto and move the Jews into a concentration camp, killing indiscriminately as they go. Schindler observes this from a distance, removed from the violence but repulsed by it, seeing a level of inhumanity he did not believe possible. He does not change overnight, but he begins to provide better and more humane treatment for his workers, convincing himself at first that it was better for business but eventually being completely overcome by compassion. He works to keep as many of his workers as he can from being sent to Auschwitz as the war turns against the Nazis, creating the titular List of over 1000 people that he buys from the camp before it is completely shut down. Schindler’s transformation is slow, believable, and complete. Spielberg portrays the redemption of a wicked man, showing how a moral transformation can be effected through exposure to great evil. It is a call to heroism under fire, a celebration of the good of human nature even while exposing the evil.

And ultimately, the story has a happy ending, as Schindler’s factory is liberated and the men and women he saved are set free. As dark as it can be, Schindler’s List never loses hope: hope in each other, hope in divine assistance, hope in humanity. I came into the film expecting to see man’s inhumanity to man exposed, meditated upon, and condemned. What I did not expect was the theme of man’s goodness, compassion, and heroism that can emerge under fire. The film is, indeed, dark at times, but it moves beyond the darkness into the light of hope. Man has the capacity for great evil but also great good, in the small moments of compassion and love shown to each other in day to day life as well as in the grand heroic gestures of a man like Schindler, begrudgingly moved from apathetic profiteering to altruistic patronage. Schindler’s List is about good and evil, darkness and light, the angelic part of man as well as the demonic. It is as good a popular exploration of these themes as has ever been produced, and will go down as Steven Spielberg’s most enduring serious work. It is an epic, in every sense of the word, and fully deserves the acclaim it has received over the years.

"Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire."

“I could have got more.”

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(There’s a nice little preface to my thoughts on this film in my introductory post for this series, found here.)

Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should. - Dr. Ian Malcolm

When the main cast of Jurassic Park finally enters Jurassic Park- Dr. Grant, Dr. Sattler, Dr. Malcolm, Tim and Lex, and the hapless lawyer Gennaro- they are disappointed that for almost the entirety of their trip they see no dinosaurs. The one dinosaur they see- a Triceratops- is sick and barely moving.

So it is for the audience as well: you don’t get a full look at a dinosaur for 32 minutes, and the T-Rex doesn’t appear for exactly 61 minutes!

And yet why is the first act of the movie so entertaining?

Screenwriter David Koepp- who would go on to collaborate numerous times with Spielberg- takes the characters from Michael Crichton’s 1990 hit novel1 and breathes new life into them, introducing all the major players in about 45 minutes.

The real magic of Jurassic Park isn’t getting you to believe dinosaurs were brought back to life, it’s getting you to fall in love with all the characters who you must later care for if the movie is going to have any meaningful thrills and suspense. In this day and age of the “mega-cast” Avengers blockbusters, this is a hard feat, especially when your characters are not superpowered metahumans.

The central protagonist of Jurassic Park is paleontologist Dr. Alan Grant, played by Sam Neill, and like all of the characters in this film, he gets a pretty memorable introduction that tells us everything we need to know about him.

Dr. Grant’s confrontation with the annoying kid is not just meant for laughs, it sets up the core theme of this film: the fear of becoming a parent.

It’s made clear after this scene that Dr. Sattler (Laura Dern)- Grant’s partner- loves kids and its implied that she wants to have kids with him someday, but Grant is not interested. It isn’t until he must take care of children later in dangerous circumstances that he learns that he might not be a

Recently on The Big Picture Podcast (one of my favorite podcasts, check it out), host Sean Fennessey interviewed Steven Spielberg and asked him what movie he enjoyed making the most, and he answered very quickly that it was E.T., explaining:

‘E.T.’ was a joyful time making a film because I discovered my love for parenting, not just directing. 'E.T.’ made me want to have kids. I was such an opportunist…I didn’t have much of a personal life. And I remember after making ‘E.T.’…I think I discovered how great it must be to be a parent.

This transition from making art as a “son” to making art as a “father” could not be clearer in the films that were to follow. Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade introduced Indiana Jones’ father, and Hook delved into what it means to be a father who must regain the ability to connect with his children.

For those who don’t know, Spielberg was a child of divorce, and did not learn until decades later- shortly before they both passed away- that it was his mother who cheated on his father and not the other way around. For decades, he had resented his father and his films displayed an implicit distrust of authority figures: the main two characters of Sugarland Express are on the lam, the mayor in Jaws is an idiot, and in E.T. the government is the primary antagonist. At the time of the making of Jurassic Park, Spielberg did not yet know this revelation about his parents, but he had married Kate Capshaw after Temple of Doom and they had their first child together in 1985: so by that point he had been a father for almost a decade.

Contrast Grant with Ian Malcolm, who is introduced en route to the island:

Another common theme of Spielberg’s films revolves around the protagonist as outsider: Elliott is unpopular amongst his peers in E.T., Frank Abagnale in Catch Me If You Can must bend the system to get what he wants, and even Brody in Jaws finds himself the sole voice of reason against the forces that be at Martha’s Vineyard.

The outsider protagonist is often contrasted with an older, “cooler” character who is more seasoned in the world, much akin to George Lucas using Luke and Han Solo to represent his friendship with his mentor, Francis Ford Coppola.

Brody has Quint, Elliott has his older brother, and even Indiana Jones bases his entire persona on some treasure hunter he met who gave him his hat. For Spielberg, this was embodied by fellow filmmaker Brian de Palma, who was part of the “New Hollywood” movement that included Spielberg, Lucas, Martin Scorsese, and Coppola.

In Jurassic Park, this is embodied by Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), who is a steadfast proponent of “chaos theory”. Grant believes in facts and empirical data whereas Malcolm embraces a more cavalier, impulsive attitude. During their tour of the park, Grant has to suffer Malcolm making moves on Ellie, who is charmed momentarily by the chaos mathematician. It is no wonder that in the sequel, when it is Malcolm’s turn to be the protagonist, Spielberg makes him more like Grant, even going so far as to give him a teenage black daughter to reflect Spielberg’s own adopted black daughter.

When Malcolm and Grant both face the T-Rex when it escapes its paddock, Malcolm embraces chaos and acts impulsively, leading the dinosaur on with a flare to momentarily distract the creature, causing him to almost get killed and doing nothing to help those still remaining in the cars.

It is now up to Grant to save Tim and Lex (the “blood-sucking” lawyer Gennaro does not make it), the grandchildren of park founder John Hammond (Richard Attenborough), who remain trapped in their stalled tour vehicle. Grant is able to calmly use his knowledge of T-Rex behavior to avoid being eaten and escort the children to (relative) safety.

While Malcolm does eventually make it back in one piece (being rescued by Ellie, no less), he is pretty much out of commission for the rest of the movie. Dr. Grant proves to have the skills it takes to be a father and to protect his family, moreso than Malcolm, and not only proves this to Ellie but to himself.

Jurassic Park could have easily been a “monster movie of the week”, and while it could have been very entertaining, it’s long-lasting status as a beloved film is due to the attention both Spielberg and Koepp pay to the characters of this film. I could write an entire essay on the technical aspects- on the work Stan Winston’s team did on the animatronic dinosaurs in this film and how the revolutionary CGI would not work without them- but the “Spielberg touch” is the heart and soul he adds to the characters of his films.

Spielberg actually shot this movie back-to-back with another film which was tonally completely different but is just as much a classic nonetheless…stay tuned for next week’s post!

How a simple monster movie with a clunky animatronic shark captivated the world’s imagination and shifted the paradigm of filmmaking forever is one of cinema’s most fascinating chapters. It was a perfect storm of talent and happenstance that produced what has become an enduring classic, and perhaps the quintessential American film. In this 250th year of this nation’s founding and over 50 years after its release, there is no better time to examine Steven Spielberg’s classic, a film that proved to be a watershed moment in his career and has earned a place in the pantheon of all-time greats.

The release of Jaws saw the birth of what is now known as the summer blockbuster. With the collapse of the studio system in the 60s, and the bold experimentation of a maverick group of young, boundary-pushing filmmakers, the 1970s proved to be a crossroads for the cinematic art form. Jaws arrived at the perfect time, garnering instant and near-universal acclaim and shaping the future of how popular films were made. Yet despite its mass appeal, Jaws packs a surprising layer of sophistication, from its nuanced thematic exploration of human nature to a masterful score, which continues to inspire study and appreciation to this day. Despite its many layers, the film feels effortless and simple in its execution, the mark of a quality piece of art.

The term blockbuster conjures images of explosions and spectacle, often at the expense of quality storytelling and well-developed characters. Had Jaws arrived a few years later, perhaps it would not have resisted this temptation. Yet, as the film’s famously difficult production would have it, the technological limitations of the era proved to be greatly beneficial in forcing Spielberg and his team to use their ingenuity to craft a narrative that built a sense of dread through what was not onscreen rather than what was. The animatronic shark was beset with technical problems from the outset, so much so that it was only shown onscreen for brief moments, 4 minutes of the film’s 124-minute runtime, to be exact. The unseen is often far more terrifying than the seen, a psychological fact that informs almost every facet of reality. From the unnerving opening sequences, which featured John Williams’s ominous two-note motif against point-of-view underwater imagery slowly drawing closer to the swimmer at the surface, the film plays into this primal fear. It is a fear that drives each character in their own way, from the island’s mayor, who refuses to acknowledge the danger lurking beyond his shores, to Police Chief Martin Brody, whose phobia of water (and anything dangerous in general) initially causes passivity and inaction. With emphasis not on the monster or spectacle, Jaws is, at its heart, a story of ordinary humans and how they react to a seemingly unknown danger, something that is out of their control yet threatens those most dear.

Chief Brody represents the everyman, who, in the classical hero’s journey arc, is called from his mundane life to perform heroic deeds. Unlike many subsequent monster flicks which feature a macho, machete-wielding superman fighting sharks on jet skis (think The Meg’s Jason Statham character), Brody does not exhibit the physical characteristics of a hero who could single-handedly save a town from a monstrous incursion. He is introduced as a somewhat neurotic New York cop who has relocated his family to Amity Island to take a new post as police chief. He is unfamiliar with the island’s ways and struggles to fit in while trying to do his best to care for his wife and children. Spielberg is often known for his depictions of family dysfunction. Yet in Jaws, the emotional core of the film revolves around a very positive depiction of family life, with onscreen interactions between Brody and his wife and children showing a strong sense of familial bonds. However, like everyone on this earth, Brody is hampered by a flaw, in this case his fear of water, which proves to be an unfortunate characteristic for one charged with protecting those living on an island.

The shark attack is the pivotal moment by which each of the film’s colorful characters are forced to contend with their innermost fears. It is the memorable ensemble of imperfect yet relatable characters, from Chief Brody and Mayor Larry Vaughn to the grizzled local shark hunter Quint and the eccentrically brilliant oceanographer Matt Hooper, that ground the film and draw the audience to invest in the stakes at hand. Perhaps the film’s most fascinating exploration of human nature comes with the decision of whether to close Amity’s beaches ahead of the island’s most lucrative Independence Day tourist weekend in light of the recent shark attack which killed a young teen. Mayor Vaughn, fearing for his island’s economy, attempts to dispel the growing fear, pressuring the coroner to declare the young teen’s death the result of a boating accident despite clear evidence from Brody and Hooper pointing to a shark attack. He then attempts to assuage those fears further by framing a small tiger shark found dead on the beach as the killer, despite Brody and Hooper’s compelling evidence to the contrary. Time and again throughout history, this reaction has characterized those in power in an effort to preserve the status quo at all costs for the sake of economic or political gain. Greed and fear in the face of inconvenient danger lead to a disregard for the truth and, ultimately, human lives. Human history presents this episode time and again, examples including the explosion of the nuclear reactor at Chernobyl, during which Soviet officials forced the residents of Pripyat to participate in the May Day parade under an unseen shower of radiation, all for the sake of party optics and prestige.

Brody acquiesces to the mayor in keeping the beaches open despite knowledge of the grave danger, something that subsequently weighs heavily on his conscience when a child is killed in the heavily packed shallow waters. He is then forced to confront his own fears of the water, yet it is the desire to protect his own children swimming in the same dangerous waters that finally galvanizes him to act. He finally forces the mayor to acknowledge and act upon the reality of the danger, joining forces with Quint and Hooper and setting sail to end the ocean menace once and for all. This change in Brody is accentuated by the quieter moments Spielberg allows throughout the film, from a quiet hug with his son at the dinner table following the attack to moments of small conversation on the boat. The restraint from spectacle, and focus on the humanity of characters such as Brody, make the brief moments of action all the more exciting. And ultimately, Brody’s arc becomes all the more edifying, as he strives to put aside his fears and risk stepping into the very place he is most afraid of to save his family and all of those living on the island. It’s a simple story at heart, but when executed at the level Spielberg and his team were operating, it becomes incredibly effective.

While the masterful exploration of human nature deserves its adulation, one would be remiss not to briefly mention the technical achievement behind the camera. The screenplay by Peter Benchley and Carl Gottlieb provides a masterclass in scriptwriting, with its simplicity and focus, buildup of suspense, and overall structure. Within the first 10 minutes, the world, stakes, and characters are clearly established. Every scene feels purposeful, and not a moment is wasted. Bill Butler’s cinematography, paired with the production design, makes for a world that feels grounded and lived in. However, it is John Williams’s score that ties it all together, elevating the entire affair to an almost mythic status.

There is perhaps no more iconic or effective two-note pairing in history than John Williams’s shark theme. Two notes—F and F♯—played over and over by the growling tones of the double bass were all that was needed to elevate the suspense and burn the fear of sharks into the nation’s subconscious. It is this utter simplicity which encapsulates the entire ethos of the Jaws production. Nothing was wasted, everything was intentional, and everything hit home. There is a lesser-known moment in the score that is worth pointing out, especially for the musically inclined. This is the Shark Cage Fugue, which deftly mixes many of the film’s key leitmotifs into a thrilling contrapuntal exposition in the tradition of Bach. Few film scores have utilized classical music’s most complex compositional technique, the fugue, yet here John Williams lets one rip as the boat cruises out of the harbor in search of the shark.

Jaws is rightfully lauded and studied as a masterclass in filmmaking, deftly balancing populist appeal with artistic excellence and thematic depth. It’s an exploration of human nature, and ultimately a film that depicts the everyman’s hero’s journey, a man who realizes his full potential by facing his fears and putting his life on the line to defend his family. In a production where everything went wrong, Spielberg managed to turn every setback to his advantage, bringing about a timeless masterpiece. As the summer season sets in, there is no more perfect time to revisit this all-American classic.

The cultural impact of Raiders of the Lost Ark cannot be overstated.

Releasing in 1981 to near universal acclaim (except from Pauline Kael, of course), Steven Spielberg’s pulp classic forever changed the landscape of pop culture for the better. Indiana Jones inspired countless others to be interested in archaeology and/or history. Every boy since 1981 has wanted to be Indiana Jones or looked up to him in some capacity. It has been parodied, referenced, and used for inspiration across most genres in the art form and continues to age like a fine wine. But why?

Oddly enough, the original idea of Indiana Jones came from George Lucas. He came up with the idea after he wrapped shooting on his 1973 classic American Graffiti. He had always enjoyed serial adventure movies such as Buck Rogers, and had envisioned making a B movie inspired by it. He began brainstorming with director Philip Kaufman (The Right Stuff) in 1975, but put down the project so he could work on a sci-fi film known as Star Wars (perhaps you’ve heard of it). While waiting for news of Star Wars’ reception in 1977, Lucas asked Spielberg if he would be open to directing it as they discussed upcoming projects. Spielberg thankfully agreed and chose Lawrence Kasdan to write the screenplay.

Originally titled The Adventures of Indiana Smith, the three of them (Kasdan, Lucas, and Spielberg) successfully outlined the script and even offered additional ideas for future installments over the course of 5 days. Eventually, Indiana Smith was changed to Indiana Jones out of fear of the character being confused with Steve McQueen’s Nevada Smith. Kasdan did struggle with writing the script and piecing all their ideas together, taking almost two years to complete it. The end product, however, was well worth the effort.

The Indiana Jones series is a spiritual epic. It is the story of one man’s faith and how it grows and changes over the course of his life. Raiders of the Lost Ark is a perfect microcosm for the whole series, inviting the audience to find faith with Indy. Faith. George Michael says you gotta have it. Jesus says you need it. It’s something that is needed more than ever in today’s society. An endearing part of humanity that separates us from all other creatures. Throughout the course of the film, Indiana Jones goes from the cynical skeptic who’s seen doubting while he prepares to just go find another “means to an end” to a fearful believer who ends up saving himself and others through his faith in the highest power.

Raiders of the Lost Ark shows its protagonist grow in respect and honor for God. While the Ark of the Covenant itself in the film is a classic example of a MacGuffin, the honor that this MacGuffin warrants transforms it from a cool museum piece to an awesome symbol of God’s power. Although if the real Ark of the Covenant were found and opened, it would probably not have the severe side effects that it does in the film (considering Christ fulfilled the Old Covenant and Mary is the Ark of the New Covenant), the film is so impactful that any modern archaeologist would at least hesitate before even attempting it.

Raiders pairs excellently with The Last Crusade (#14). Their relationship seems to be similar to that of the Old and New Testaments. This sentiment is also further pushed forward by the fact that both are heavily reliant on their respective sections of the Bible. Raiders is definitely a Jewish film, and The Last Crusade is a Catholic one that ties up Indy’s story of faith nicely.

During the production of Raiders, there were so many opportunities where things could have gone wrong. Countless twists and turns, difficult casting decisions, editing choices, and constant second guesses as to whether any of it would be good lay throughout this saga. It was ultimately under Spielberg’s continuity and ambition that one won out in the end. Spielberg committed to the bit so much that he defined the action-adventure genre. Everything in the film feels like it was done out of love and care. Raiders is truly an example of all of the pieces coming together to fit just perfectly.

Despite a hectic production and the never-ending wheelhouse of potential actors to play the lead, Harrison Ford thankfully won out. While all of the acting rules are expertly cast and have their own charm, Harrison Ford is the face of the series. His role as Indiana Jones is arguably more famous than his Han Solo performance. There is simply no one else who could be this character the way he was. He has the perfect amount of charm, sarcasm, wit, and ruggedness that is needed for this role. I would strongly advise that studios not attempt to reboot this series with anyone.

What Raiders also gets right is the fundamentals of filmmaking. Its shot composition and editing are regularly studied in film classes around the world. Every shot is hyper-intentional and does more than just show a character, but accentuates the drama and what is happening on a deeper level. The blocking (physical placement of characters within a scene) is the true standout in this film because everything feels so intentional. Long-time Spielberg collaborator Michael Kahn delivers a standout editing job that won Raiders one of its five well-deserved Academy Awards. The editing is fresh and never stale, effectively keeping audiences on the edge of their seats for the entire run time. The introduction of Indiana Jones at the very beginning of the film is a perfect microcosm for everything right with the movie from a technical perspective.

All of this to finally be tied up neatly In one of the most iconic film scores in the history of the art form. There is no Raiders of the Lost Ark without John Williams. I cannot possibly count how many times I have listened to this score. There is not a bad track in the entire film, and every song complements every scene with perfection that is often imitated but never matched. When I first saw Raiders in about the 5th grade, it changed what I thought music could do for a film. I finally saw it as an essential aspect to filmmaking, so much so that when in my music class to play part from a movie where we liked the music, I brought in my copy of Raiders of the Lost Ark and played the scene where Indy is pursuing the Ark on horseback. Instances where the music is noticeably heightening the cinematic experience through no shortcoming of the filmmaker, but through pure mastery of craft by the composer, occur throughout the entire runtime of the film. This is a feat that hardly any other film can claim to come even close to.

Altogether, the themes, characters, craftsmanship, and music make Raiders of the Lost Ark one of the most rewatchable films of all time. Indiana Jones’s spiritual journey from skepticism to belief distinctly separates this masterpiece from being pure entertainment for the masses and puts it firmly in the category of true art. It is a defining piece of cinema that I confidently recommend to any and all people. If you somehow have not seen it, put down your mobile device and find time TODAY to watch this must-see adventure as soon as possible.

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I’m 11 years old. I tell my older sister to come downstairs and that I have something important to show her.

I take her into the laundry room and stealthily pull out two VHS tapes, Raiders of the Lost Ark and Jurassic Park. I tell her that these movies were directed by the same person, Steven Spielberg, and that I’ve found his address (technically the address to his company, Amblin Entertainment) online.

But it gets better, I tell her: my plan is now to send a letter to Amblin and tell him of my great plan for a Jurassic Park 4. Spielberg will see my vague treatment and decide, “Yeah, it’s time for Jurassic Park 4, and this is how we’re gonna do it.”

I unfortunately don’t think I ever sent that letter, maybe reality set in, or I got distracted with other ambitious ideas. I don’t remember much from whatever pitch I had, except that I’m pretty sure it involved a grown up Tim from the original Jurassic Park and involved a pterodactyl chasing a school bus (this also may have been a dream I had). Either way, clearly he already had plans for continuing the franchise.

How did I even know who Spielberg was at that age? Sure, my parents had shown me E.T., and Kingdom of the Crystal Skull had just come out and I had gotten a Lego set based on the movie for my birthday the previous year.

I was also super, SUPER into dinosaurs1 but my dad waited a while to show me Jurassic Park because he was afraid it would scare me away from dinosaurs forever. This didn’t stop me from reading about it in books on movies I found at the library, but when it finally came time to watch it at my aunt’s house I was mesmerized…until the T-Rex attacked and I ran to turn the TV off.

For a long time, most of what I learned about Spielberg came from books. Every time I went to the library I would pick up at least three books on movies and three books on dinosaurs (eventually the ratio favored books on movies). A lot of the movie books I would pick up in the kids section had to do with Star Wars, but there were a handful of books on special effects, most of which mentioned Spielberg.

That hyper-obsession was only fueled when I discovered Wikipedia, which provided me a magic portal into all the information I could ever want on any movie, even movies that hadn’t come out yet. This eventually led me to discover trade sites like ComingSoon.Net and /Film.com, and this led to obsessively reading film news sites, something that absolutely influenced my desire to start a website of my own to write on movies.

But reading about movies, especially Spielberg’s, did not only give me a desire to write on movies.

It gave me a desire to make them.

For many, Steven Spielberg was the first filmmaker to become a household name outside of Alfred Hitchcock.

But unlike Hitch, Spielberg has never cameoed in one of his own films (he has cameoed in at least one film to my knowledge and its one that’s on our original list), or hosted his own television anthology series.

People knew Spielberg because he simply made the most popular movies of all time.

Only one filmmaker has more than one film on the above list, and it’s Spielberg.

His films command not only an innate understanding of more than half a century of film language, but he also makes movies specifically with the audience in mind, every time.

The reason I make these pictures is that they give me a chance to be, not myself, but a lot of people sitting in the dark watching a movie. It's a chance to put on two hats: the directing hat and the audience hat. I get the opportunity to jump back and forth from the director's chair wondering, 'Gee, if I were the audience how would I like this scene to turn out?' And then I jump back onto the floor of the soundstage and say, 'Now that I'm the director, I can give audiences what I think they would like to see in a movie like this.'2

Spielberg, having grown up during peak Americana in the 1950s, often drapes his films in the nostalgia of a forgotten time. Yet this is why I find it interesting that in recent years the less successful his films have become, at least at the box office. To quote critic Armond White, from his book Make Spielberg Great Again:

Spielberg’s exceptionalism parallells American exceptionalism. His trajectory from the most popular filmmaker in the world to his current marginal status that no longer guarantees a box-office hit—nor popularity—parallels the trajectory of the nation that produced him. Spielberg once excited the imaginations of America’s young cultural consumers, but consumers of the current generation ignore his recent entreaties.

In the 1980s, Spielberg’s films, along with his friend George Lucas’, dominated the box office in the Reagan era- American optimism had been renewed in a post-Watergate world and audiences were ready to have fun at the movies again. In the 1990s, the box office continued to surge, but Spielberg was able to leverage his massive success to be able to start making less commercial, more dramatic fare like Schindler’s List and Amistad. The 2000s brought us the darkest Spielberg films at the turn of the century, including the science-fiction parables A.I. Artificial Intelligence, Minority Report and War of the Worlds.

It is still the case that audiences have a certain expectation when Spielberg is attached to a project, even when he is producing. The word “Spielbergian” refers typically to a film about a family jeopardized by a fantastical, destructive outside force: sometimes aliens, sometimes dinosaurs, and in the case of many of his films, divorce.

Many have been hailed as the “new Spielberg”: M. Night Shyamalan, J.J. Abrams, to name a few, but none can equal his prowess (don’t get me wrong, I love Shyamalan). His upcoming Disclosure Day will be a test of whether or not the Spielberg name still means something to filmgoers, particularly Gen Z. Being of that generation myself (although I prefer the specific classification of “zillenial”) I am certainly excited for the film, as it looks to be a return to form to “audience-mode Spielberg”.

But to return to my story, all this has been to say that simply knowing who Spielberg was at a young age gave me a better idea of what it meant to make a movie. That someone could make movies that were wildly different but still retain a style throughout all of them that was easily identifiable. I could put on Last Crusade and Jurassic Park and identify some of the same zoom close-ups, bloom effects, and whip pans that comprise a Spielberg movie.

Having some sense of what it meant to be a director allowed me to shape and refine my own dreams for the future, and learning about the way Spielberg approached his films gave me the specific desire to make movies for audiences rather than simply for myself. To approach art that way gives the act of making a film, book, or painting a dimension of service and self-giving that I think is important for every artist to have.

I won’t post everything I’ve ever made here- it’s really not all worth seeing although I will link my YouTube channel below for the curious- but following the path to be a filmmaker has led my life to a lot of interesting and unexpected places that I am grateful for and constantly surprised by: co-founding this blog was certainly one of them.

I’m excited for you to read the essays that are forthcoming in this long overdue series, but I’ll leave you with this: in 2020 I fulfilled (partially) a long-held dream to remake the opening sequence of Raiders of the Lost Ark, one of the greatest cinematic openings of all time. It was at the height of the pandemic, thus being the perfect opportunity to make something fun with my siblings while we were at home. It’s unfinished, but I’ll leave it as my humble, extremely low-budget tribute to the master.

The first one through the wall always gets bloody.

The notion that we live in a post-Christendom society is not new. Echoed since the 18th century and exacerbated by war and institutions, one would be naïve to deny the decline of Christian values across the world. Despite the world and it’s current state, we are continuously called to evangelize and spread the gospel. Despite not having explicit references to Christianity, Moneyball oddly enough can serve as a secular example of perseverance through persecution and what real “trusting the process” can look like.

Moneyball is based on the 2003 novel of the same name about the 2002 Oakland Athletics season. For those unfamiliar, the Oakland A’s are/were the most notorious cheapskates in all the MLB (yes even more than the Pirates if you can believe it). With a quick google search one will see that the A’s did not win the World Series or make it particularly far in the post season, which begs the question, “What was so special about this particular season and team?”

The film follows Billy Beane, the manager of the A’s, and his quest to change the game of baseball. Initially, he is merely looking for a way to survive the next season after losing his star players (a struggle us smaller market teams have become accustomed to). While trying to impossibly piece together a presentable team, he stumbles across Peter Brand (Jonah Hill) and forms an unlikely bond with the socially awkward and underappreciated deputy to defy the odds with a new approach to baseball.

The concept of “Moneyball” originated in the 1970’s but was never fully attempted until the 2002 Oakland season. Moneyball is a method of selecting and placing players based on their statistics and pricing. A team may need to replace a player that gets on base on average twice a game. If they can’t afford the top candidate, they may go and find someone who statistically matches that good player, but has some oddity that makes them an “undesirable” player (injury prone, age, attitude etc). It’s a team’s way of getting the best statistical “bang for their buck” so to speak.

While the concept does have some flaws (using 3 players to replace 1 tends to create a thinner roster), the Boston Red Sox would go on to adopt the philosophy with a larger purse and finally break the curse of the Bambino. Many teams since this incident have also adopted this modified Moneyball with great success.

Moneyball has so much to do with finding success in failure. Billy’s vision to change baseball for the better was in the end realized, but just not quite in the way he envisioned it or thought it would happen. He, like us all too often, thought he understood the path and the steps that needed to be taken. We too often in our spiritual lives think we know all the steps we need to take and how exactly God is going to plan out our lives. But what we need to do is what Billy does throughout the film: trust the process. Beane throughout the film is mocked, scorned, and seen as flat out crazy for this new approach. This harkens back to Saints such as St Francis of Assisi or the founders of other religious orders who were first seen as odd in their desire to reshape how some approach the faith. Through divine inspiration and perseverance, they were able to radically transform the spiritual life of the Catholic Church forever.

Brad Pitt gives a career-defining performance as Billy Beane. This character feels so real and authentic it can be hard to see him something else and his later films. Beane is the kind of father that is needed in the 21st century. He holds firmly to what he believes and will see it through until it is done, through thick and thin. This hearkens back to older, more traditional heroes and reminds us of a Time when men constantly weren’t put down. There are even moments where rather than be emasculated, Pitt’s character decides to ignore grievances and push on. He constantly is willing to give those who often don’t even believe in themselves a chance to become something more than they could possibly imagine.

The other stand-up performance in this is Jonah Hill, who perfectly plays the highly intelligent but socially awkward nerd type that he was initially famous for. He is usually awkward, but never to the point where it breaks the audience’s immersion. In fact he can feel quite relatable and is a fun variable throughout the film. The excellent and subtle score by Mychael Danna helps accentuate the bitter sweet yet optimistic tone of the film that carries all the way to the credits.

The true tragedy of this film is that Bennett Miller only went on to do one more feature film after this. Miller has been quiet since Foxcatcher in 20141. Miller perfectly translated Sorkin’s fantastic adaptation to the screen with exceptionally clean shot composition and incredible pacing that really helps Moneyball’s rewatchability. It’s never too flashy, but never too bland.

Moneyball is a remarkably rewatchable and feel good film that on paper doesn’t seem like it would be. In spite of it’s bitter sweet ending, it gives audiences a lot to ponder about dedication to a higher purpose and seeing things through all the way to the end.

What is the greatest theme for a baseball movie? Some baseball movies, like 42 and the Natural, have highlighted an exceptional player that accomplishes something great or makes the major leagues. Another possible theme revolves around an underdog team that transforms from a dreadful team into a successful winning team, maybe one that wins a championship. Examples of this are Moneyball and Bad News Bears. Lastly, a baseball movie could highlight the importance of baseball in the relationship of a father and a son. Probably the most famous example of this is Field of Dreams, where the importance of having a catch with dad is highlighted. This is also an important theme because of the importance of fathers for children in baseball whether it be simply having a catch or having your father in attendance watching your game. All of these movies have great themes and all of them go about unfolding them in their own way, but what if one movie could tell all three? If a movie could achieve depicting all three in a successful way, wouldn’t that place it among the best baseball movies? One might think that that is an impossible task to combine all three of those aspects and still produce a coherent and enjoyable movie, but Disney’s The Rookie does it perfectly. The exceptional player? Jim Morris, who overcomes adversity to fulfill his dream and make the major leagues. The scrappy underdog team that flips from worst to first? The Big Lake Owls, who with the help of Morris and the purpose of playing for a greater cause turns the team around into a successful team. Finally, the father and son relationship that highlights the importance of baseball between a father and a son? The relationship between Jim and his father, Jim Sr. that is complicated throughout the movie but with the hope of sorting things out by the end. Disney’s The Rookie has all of these themes and combines them in a unique way to give us a truly distinct baseball movie.

Jimmy Morris...another masterful pitching performance...well on his way...to another World Series title.

At the beginning of the movie, we see a young Jim Morris dreaming of pitching in the major leagues. During this portion of the movie, Jim pretends he is pitching in the major leagues and throwing a no-hitter. Later in the movie, an older Jim Morris is talking about how he dreamed of pitching in a big league ballpark and in the final inning of the last game of the World Series. Although an older Jim realizes that he might not ever get that opportunity, it is clear that that dream to pitch in the major leagues has remained with him for his entire life. After a good performance in a minor league game, one step away from making it to the major leagues, Jim is called into his manager’s office. When the manager tells Jim that they are promoting him to play in the major leagues, Jim is speechless. His dream is finally fulfilled. The next part of the movie feels like a dream as Jim arrives at the major league ballpark and starts to warm up, it begins to sink in that he really is in the major leagues. Near the end of the game it is time for his team, the Devil Rays, to switch pitchers. One of the coaches on his team simply says, “Morris, you’re in,” and it is time for Morris to enter the game. As Morris walks out of the bullpen and onto the field, it feels like a fantasy as the excitement of the crowd and the major league ballpark hits him. What follows is a thrilling at bat and Jim wins the battle and strikes out the hitter. At last, Jim’s dream of playing in the major leagues and being successful there has come true.

Three years ago...this program ended the season with only one win. Two years ago...one win. Last year...same story. This year...we have won sixteen games. And gentlemen, we need seventeen.

Before Jim tries out for the Devil Rays and makes it all the way to the major leagues to fulfill his dream, he coaches a high school team, the Big Lake Owls, who over the previous three seasons have only won one game each year. Although the team is not winning, there are a couple of likable players on the team. Joel catches Jim after practice when Jim begins to throw hard again. Jaquin Campos, who is just referred to in the movie as “Wack”, gives Jim a hard time and challenges Jim on things, but doesn’t want Jim to leave and coach at another school when the opportunity comes. Rudy is a pitcher who is having a rough year, but perseveres through hard times and becomes a reliable pitcher. Finally, Joel is the firstbaseman who provides the comedic aspect to the group. After a particularly tough game, Jim needs something to motivate his team. When the team mentions that Jim throws hard and they all think that Jim should try out for a major league team, Jim makes a deal with them that if they win their district championship and go to the state playoffs, that he will find a tryout for a major league team. This motivation works and with the help of seeing Jim’s faster pitching in batting practice the team begins to win games. The Owls make it all the way to the district championship and win a showdown with a rival team to win the championship and advance to the state tournament. The players are excited that they win the championship, but were excited for their coach and after the win, every player tells Jim that it is his turn to chase his dream and find a major league tryout which Jim does and begins his journey to fulfill his dream of pitching in the major leagues. The underdog team with some likeable players finds a higher purpose and is motivated to turn their season around which leads to a championship win, a classic characteristic of a baseball movie.

I wasn’t missing this one.

Although Jim has always had a dream to play baseball, his father, Jim Sr., never seems to understand his love for baseball. In the early stages of the movie when Jimmy is a child, he visits his dad after one of his games. While Jimmy is describing how good of a game he had, his father seems distracted and simply asks him if his team won, to which Jim nods yes. We never see Jim Sr. at any of Jimmy’s games or encouraging him in his love for baseball. As Jim grows older and is pitching in the minor leagues, he gets an offer to teach and coach at a big high school in Fort Worth Texas which is a stable job and will comfortably provide for his family, but Jim would have to give up his opportunity to pursue his dream of pitching in the major leagues. When Jim asks his father for advice on what to do, Jim Sr. tells Jim that it is okay to think about what he wants to do until it is time to start doing what he was meant to do, implying that what he is meant to do is take the coaching job and provide for his family. This is consistent with Jim Sr.’s demeanor throughout the movie. He doesn’t seem to understand Jim’s love for the game and how much it means to him. Eventually though, Jim does make it out of the minor leagues and into the major league game. As reporters crowd around Jim to ask him about his game, something changes and Jim sees his father who has come to watch his game. Jim asks for a second to get away from the reporters and goes over to talk to his dad. Jim Sr. tells him that not many fathers get a chance to watch their kids in a game, and that he let too many of those opportunities get away. Although Jim Sr. might not know why baseball is important to him, he realizes that baseball is important to him and to two people that might not fully understand each other have an understanding in that moment and baseball was the connection that provided it.

Disney’s The Rookie has not one, not two, but three elements that make a great baseball movie. Jim’s unlikely journey from high school baseball coach with an injured arm to major league baseball player is just one story that makes the Rookie special. Not only that, but the Rookie also has a story about an underdog team that finds itself and becomes a winning team and earns a championship win. Finally, the complicated relationship between Jim and his father and the differences in opinion that they have about baseball is finally understood by both of them. Many baseball movies try to tackle one of these topics and make a movie based on just one of these aspects, but the Rookie takes on all three and succeeds at delivering on all of them. Since the Rookie takes on three central storylines of baseball movies and succeeds at delivering on all of them, it makes it a truly unique baseball movie and puts it amongst the best baseball movies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s The Natural.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Along with Billy Beane, I ask you once again:

“How can you not be romantic about baseball?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Genesis 4:3-8

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

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

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

Timshel.

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

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

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

As Lee explains:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have a choice.

Thou mayest.

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

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

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

Men who have forgotten that they have a choice.

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

“Timshel!”

His eyes closed and he slept.2

(Spoilers ahead)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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