| |
|||
 |
|||
|
|||
|
|
Luther
There is a dichotomy in Eric Till’s Luther that you’ll have to catch to fully appreciate what it’s trying to accomplish. The film dances on the line between the typical, glossy Hollywood biopic and gritty, often unattractive realism in a way that is probably jarring but certainly effective cinema. An example: As Martin Luther (Joseph Fiennes) approaches Vatican City, the sun shines down on his freshly-scrubbed face and he smiles as the sun’s rays hover angelically over the city. Heavenly music plays, and we realize that this is not the stuff of history, but the tinkering of Hollywood. But the film understands this too: Before the surreal choir music even has time to fade away, we are thrust sharply into the realism that is the Vatican—poor beggars screaming for money, corrupt priests soliciting prostitutes, venders selling indulgences that allow dead family members to exit Hell and ascend to Heaven, etc. Gone is the Hollywood thrill; it has been replaced with the sweat, the blood, the mud, and the disease of corruption. We instantly understand that Vatican City in Luther’s day didn’t have heavenly choirs as a soundtrack as we would have expected as we watched it in the distance; requiems or “Night on Bald Mountain” suddenly seem much more appropriate. Another important example: Joseph Fiennes’ own interpretation Martin Luther, who is seen freshly scrubbed and ruggedly handsome in one scene as he preaches passionately to a smiling congregation, only to be shown shouting manically at the Devil in another—wrestling with self-doubt, apocalyptic visions, and nearly epileptic fits. Luther, we learn, was a man who indeed suffered sometimes violent battles with depression. I’m not sure if I found this as surprising as others viewers have; after all, to be a man who wrote the words and took the risks that Luther did, it would have to have stemmed from some great, uncontrollable rage within him that literally forced him into action. I’m not suggesting that rage and depression are the same thing, but one often follows the other. Just take a look at other great reformers, like Moses, Christ, and Gandhi to see some of the most psychologically conflicted persons in history. This troubled, half-crazed Luther catches us off guard, but it also enables us to take him more seriously than if he was played as the sinless, pious icon that he has so often been described as. It is in the contrast from Hollywood to reality where Luther finds its strength, and this is appropriate: It was in Martin Luther’s own disillusionment with the Holy Roman Church that jumpstarted his Reformation. He had to come to the point when he realized that God was not on the Church’s side before he could embrace the need for change, and it began with an intense disappointment that it didn’t have all the answers; indeed, that it wasn’t the answer for a troubled and heavy-laden soul at all. He had to hear the choir bells in his head before he could apprehend that they were indeed only in his head and not hovering over the Pope. The film creates a clear sense of purpose in Luther’s vision by showing us the clichéd, Hestonian Biblical motifs and then, when we have let our guard down, dosing us with the often ugly reality of Luther’s life and times. This not only helps us transition from the way we usually approach movies like this from the way that Luther wants us to approach it, but it also provides a very enlightening look at how corrupt the system really was in the dawn of the Renaissance, and how our own perceptions of such a time, provided with fun but fluffy pictures like Shakespeare in Love and The Agony and the Ecstasy, are in much need of revision. Luther begins where we are comfortable, and slowly, carefully guides us into the history’s reality. This approach to Martin Luther also factors into the film’s next great accomplishment: It includes painstaking details and historical tidbits about the early 16th century and manages to make them interesting to both the informed and the layman. In a recent review of The Nomi Song, I lamented that while the film was generally interesting for anyone familiar with Nomi or New York’s New Wave movement of the late 1970s/mid 1980s, any outsiders looking in will be unable to connect or respond to what they are seeing. The film begins and ends with Nomi, and it never considers the farther implications of his legacy and his art. Luther, on the other hand, is a film that will bridge the gap between those historically familiar with Martin Luther and those who aren’t informed about his role in Christianity and the world at large. It maintains interest for both parties because it understands that Luther’s legacy reaches farther than his own work and times, and it makes history come to life by showing us how it matters. This is no small thanks to the talented cast, which includes Fiennes as a convincing, conflicted Luther, and the late, great Sir Peter Ustinov in his final role as the university president who quietly protects Luther from the fatal hand of the Holy Roman Church. Both men manage to make their characters seem both historically important and startlingly modern. The film also cleverly translates 16th century ideas and images so that we find them eerily familiar: The most inspired casting is probably Alfred Molina, a priest who sells Indulgences to his congregation in a way that channels TBN televangelists. As he melodramatically urges his flock, “This might be your last chance to rescue your family members from hell! Don’t wait!” we almost expect the old Call to Invitation hymn “Just as I Am” to play over his appeals. Noticeably absent from the proceedings is any mention of Sir Thomas More, whose fervent devotion to the Catholic Church and opposition to Luther’s movement sent the two men into a letter-writing frenzy in which they evidently called each other some of the most shocking names ever invented by Christian reformers (the most famous film concerning More, A Man for All Seasons, would make for good additional viewing after Luther). In fact, More’s own desire to see reform in the Catholic Church was documented in his most famous work, Utopia, in which he fictionalized his vision of the world’s most ideal society. Of the official state of the Catholic Church, More notes, Ironically, what Luther was really implementing with the Reformation could be considered as nothing more than his own vision of a Utopian society: People devoted to loving each other and loving God without any priestly mediator in between to speak as God’s authorized voice. More defined his Utopia thusly: History records that Luther got away with his ideals, and as Henry VIII was swayed to agree with him (for his own political agendas), More only got away with beheading. Luther gets the battle between the churches absolutely right and sides with the Reformation, to the point that More would have declared the film heresy. It’s a pity we don’t get the chance to see him do so. But you can’t win them all; the film might have benefited from a little More, but this is an observation, not a criticism. In light of Luther’s goals, it is fortunate that the film is an authentic, almost completely accurate account of Martin Luther’s life; otherwise, it would be cheating with its clever use of dichotomy between Hollywood fiction and historical reality. I viewed Luther around the same time that I also revisited Richard Attenborough’s epic Gandhi, and I could not help but compare the two pieces for their use of unremitting historical accuracy, intimate attention to the details of their said periods, and the time they take to carefully and thoroughly tell the stories of their protagonists. Neither film is in the least bit worried about whether or not what we see on screen is constantly interesting or entertaining. Films like Luther and Gandhi are really about the sum of their parts: Like their subjects, some segments will be utterly exhilarating and unbelievable, and other moments will be slower and difficult to slog through but nevertheless essential to understand the workings of these men. In the end, the slower moments have allowed the more grandiose moments to resonate, and we are utterly shocked at two realizations: 1) Such men existed who took the bold stands that these men did, and 2) They are not gods among men, but seem so much like us. This is both a comforting and a terrifying thought. Cast: Work cited: More, Sir Thomas. Utopia: A Norton Critical Edition. Norton & Company: New York and London, 1992. Questions? Comments? E-mail me: danel_the_tinman@hotmail.com |
||
