Introduction

Kathleen Norris: “It’s a Beautiful Day”

Until I watched The Wizard of Oz, I had little idea of the power of films. I’d seen only movies shot in black and white and gasped when Dorothy opened the door of her Kansas farmhouse and entered a world saturated with color. I spent childhood summers in western South Dakota and often saw rainbows appear after violent storms. I had never considered that there was a world up there populated by witches, a wizard, and a host of other fascinating creatures.

The flying monkeys ordered by an evil witch to seize Dorothy and her companions scared me. But the witch’s hourglass frightened me more as its sand flowed steadily to the bottom, indicating that Dorothy and her friends had little time left to live. My belief that all movies had happy endings was diminishing with that sand.

It was not lost on me that Dorothy saves herself by following her instinct to help a friend in need. And the witch’s lament, that “a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness,” introduced me to a vast literary and cinematic heritage in which everything from the Bible to The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter insists that while evil can do significant damage, the good will find a way to overcome it. When as an adult I encountered the ancient Christian notion of “the gift of tears,” considered a divine gift because tears awaken our compassion, I remembered that witch and was comforted by the thought that even my worst inclinations could be melted and redeemed.

When Dorothy wakes after the tornado has passed and finds herself at home, in her own bed, she is startled to see that her friends from Oz are people she’s known all along, farmhands and a traveling magician/con artist. That’s a lesson for all of us, to better value the people we encounter every day and often take for granted. Maybe the best way to watch The Wizard of Oz, and all other good films, is as a child would see them, allowing a good story to lead you into unimagined worlds.

We yearn for the illumination that helps us make life worth living and leave our world better than we found it. In times when it seems too dark to see, we welcome light from any quarter. This book is in part a celebration of a friendship that came as a flash of light when Gareth Higgins and I met at a conference on art and spirituality and quickly realized that we needed to collaborate on writing about films.

Our working title for this book was “It’s a Beautiful Day,” a line from the Coen brothers’ darkly comic masterpiece Fargo. After audiences have witnessed a violent kidnapping and a host of murders, it can feel jarring to hear our heroine, the indomitable (and pregnant) police officer Marge, say, “It’s a beautiful day.” But it’s the essence of the film. Fargo is a morality tale that rejects nihilism and offers a perfect illustration of St. Paul’s warning that “the wages of sin is death” (Rom. 6:23).

The film features people tempted by greed and the desire for power as they sink deeper into crime, violence, and bad ends. Marge has just seen the man in the back seat murder his accomplice in a brutal way, and his sly, dead-eye expression indicates that he’d kill her if he had the chance. But she’s not afraid of him. As the moral center of the film, she is relentless. After naming the other people she knows he’s killed, she asks, “And for what? A little bit of money? There’s more to life than a little money, you know; don’t you know that?” We realize that the man will never realize that, and as we hear the sirens of backup police officers and an ambulance approaching, Marge sighs and says, “Well, I just don’t understand it.” And we hope she never will.

Fargo, like many films discussed in this book, does not provide easy entertainment. Our intent is that they will invite all of us to a deeper understanding of human nature and spirituality and will inform our desire to live better and more fulfilled lives. As you read this book, we hope the observation that “it’s a beautiful day” will remain with you, an affirmation of the human ability to find redemption in all situations and circumstances.

Gareth Higgins: Thinking about Cinema and Spirituality

You gotta say something with a movie. Otherwise, what’s the point of making it?

—Martin Scorsese

Cinema is nothing if not light. In its most life-giving forms, it illuminates not only the characters, images, and stories on screen but also those of us who are watching. In this book, we reflect cinematic light on the life cycle of a human being, from before birth to after death. While each chapter focuses primarily on one film, others are mentioned along the way, and we recommend further viewing at the end of the book to go deeper with the themes.

One way to use this book is to read one chapter and watch one movie each month over the course of a year—of course, you can do it much quicker than that if you prefer. However long you take, bear in mind that there are two chapters (3 and 7) where we have chosen two films. To stay with the spirit of the “twelve movies” announced in the title of this book, you could watch just one per chapter, but we think the films in those chapters are companion pieces that fit very well together and even help interpret each other.

The book is rooted in the idea that a great film is what results when humane wisdom and grace—and technical and aesthetic craft operating at their highest frequencies—kiss each other, and that great cinema is for everyone.

Whether you are a seasoned movie lover or a dabbler, a long-term contemplative or an entry-level mystic, we hope that you will find something meaningful here for your life’s journey. We are inviting you to a kind of liturgy for experiencing images, sounds, words, and stories in a sacramental way. This takes conscious intent and a bit of ritual, and with that in mind, we’re offering some principles that can help you go deeper into movies.

There are three ways to read this book. You can watch the movie before reading our essays, read the essays before watching the movie, or just read the essays and not watch the movie at all. Viewing options change regularly, but if you can’t find a movie on a streaming service or at your local library, DVDs and Blu-rays are widely available online.

Movies are best experienced without too much analysis, but keep in mind that a film is not only about what it’s about but how it’s about what it’s about. A story may matter less than image, sound, and the invitation to let the film change you. That said, for narrative films with “something to say,” consider the following questions as you watch.

Perspective

Whose point of view is being presented: who gets to speak, and who doesn’t?

Context and Consequences

How are motivations, actions, and consequences depicted? The portrayal of violence, close relationships, and societal change are three good examples of where this question can be useful. Does the movie move us to value life or to diminish it?

Learning

What did you not know before seeing this movie?

Inspiration

What do you want more of or less of after watching it?

Seeing

Cinema should be approached differently than literature or music. See movies with the best screen and sound and let your eyes wander. Who or what dominates the frame? Who is looking at whom? What colors and contrasts emerge? How does the light dance? What do you see?

Embodiment

Reflect on how a movie can embody its theme—Paterson (about a poet, discussed in chapter 5) has the rhythm of a poem; Requiem for a Dream (about desperation) feels like a nightmare; Into Great Silence (about a monastery, discussed in chapter 12) is like a meditation.

Origin

Knowing something about where the movie comes from can enhance or confuse. For instance, Godfrey Reggio has often said that he isn’t sure what his masterpiece, Koyaanisqatsi, is about, and Paul Schrader takes a more pessimistic view of his First Reformed than I do; but knowing that Juliette Binoche and Benoît Magimel were lovers before they were costars in The Pot-au-Feu deepened my engagement with that film’s sketch of love and loss. And Kathleen says that knowing director Hirokazu Kore-eda included both nonactors and professionals in After Life enhanced her enjoyment of the film.

“Facts”

A movie does not have to be “realistic” to be truthful.

You

Different people will respond in different ways to the same movie because no one carries the same story and perspective. There is no one correct response to a film. Just bring your open heart and curious mind, respecting how the movie began as someone else’s dream. Let it connect with your memories, hopes, pain, and possibilities.

And remember: Sometimes a movie is just a movie. It doesn’t have to have a “story” to be transcendent, and trying to make sense of it all can dilute the experience of watching. A movie is sometimes best enjoyed by allowing it to unfold, mingle with our subconscious, and take us out into the world of wonder and shadow with something new.

It’s worth noting that this book is, of course, not about everything that happens in a life but rather some of the stages and themes that usually occur as we age. It’s also not a comprehensive overview of cinema. We omit many films and themes that could easily be included, but we hope that our selection is a meaningful starting point. We are inviting you into a conversation about how to be and how to become. As the Indian American director Mira Nair says, it is vital that we try to “transcend our boundaries with the other”—to imagine the world through the eyes of people who have different experiences of life.1 Seeing ourselves mirrored by others enables us to grow and to feel less alone. With that in mind, we have consciously attempted to offer a range of movies from different parts of the world and perspectives.

Filmmaking is a collaborative art that emerged with the assumption that watching would be a shared experience. Even though how we watch movies has changed, there’s something inherently communal in engaging a film that has been viewed by people around the world. Kathleen and I are both spiritual seekers, and we assume that if you’re reading this, you’re one too. And while she and I each come from a religious tradition, this book is intended for anyone open to how cinema can illuminate the spiritual path.

As spirituality is such a vague and ill-defined term, we want to make a brief statement about how we understand the word. One favorite definition comes from the Jesuit theologian Stephen Sundborg: “lived relationship with mystery,”2 to which we’d add, leading us to grow in the experience of union with love. A love worthy of the name is not at all vague but consists of concrete actions taken for the sake of the good. We believe that the films we’ve chosen reflect spirituality in this sense, answering our basic need for art that’s steeped in the mystery of life, offering hope without denying real human suffering.

The chapters here imagine the arc of a life’s journey, from waiting to be born until after death, allowing us to explore how cinematic artists have pondered the meaning of existence. By including questions at the end of each chapter we hope to engage you in a conversation about how to take life seriously without taking ourselves too seriously. There’s no obligation to respond to all the questions; just choose the ones you consider most life-giving. But we suggest that with every movie you begin with the same three questions:

What do you remember most about the movie—what stands out for you?

What was a highlight for you, and a lowlight?

What questions does the film raise for your own life or for the world as you see it?

A Place to Begin

To get started, we recommend two short films. The Dam Keeper (USA, 2014, directed by Robert Kondo and Daisuke Tsutsumi, cowritten with John Henry Hinkel) and The Red Balloon (France, 1956, directed and written by Albert Lamorisse) are eighteen and thirty-four minutes long, respectively, but contain centuries of wisdom about life, innocence, suffering, and healing. Take a look at them, and afterward consider the principles above. See where they take you.