Telling The Stories Of Trump’s America

Charles Dickens wasn’t simply a writer. He was a celebrity. His books were serialised, published in monthly instalments to a public desperate to know what happened next. Newspaper headlines screamed the news of characters’ deaths. When he gave public readings of his work, it was the hottest ticket in town. All this is not simply explained by his brilliant storytelling and the lack of technology to distract people from books as the dominant media of the day. Whilst this clearly contributed to his remarkable success, there’s something more important as all that to take into consideration. He understood what was happening in the England of his day better than anyone else. His work told the story of a society of alarming gaps between rich and poor. The rich lived in cloistered ignorance and the poor  – where they were able to work – were cogs in the industrial machine. The country’s cities were chaotic, frightening places. In this chaotic milieu of a country  – which . many historians will testify was teetering on the brink of violent revolution – Dickens found his voice. Crucially, he found and became the voice of the desperate poor; and presented to the cossetted rich a way of being that invited something better. He spoke of people crushed beneath the wheels of systems designed to grease the palms of the already rich and keep the already poor that way. His stories spoke of facts, but of deeper truths also.

Artists are so often the weather-vanes of a culture, and if we listen well to them then there is much to learn. It’s not new to say that major Westernised countries are experiencing frightening political and social convulsions. This isn’t the space to analyse that in detail, but there are similarities with Dickens’ England. New technologies are putting the old working-classes out of work; gaps between rich and poor are growing; add to the mix the complexities of mass migration and we have a toxic, angry cocktail emboldening extremism at both ends of the political spectrum. It’s said of economics that if America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold. Well, the current infection is more than a cold and America seems much more sick than simply a sneeze.

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So to whom do we go to try to understand how we got here, and what we might do next? There are many contenders, of course; and culture is much more fragmented than the one Dickens spoke in to. There are few – if any  – unifying voices. Of the voices I hear and can manage a level of understanding of, the films of writer-director Taylor Sheridan might provide some insight. His trio of films from 2015 to 2017 SicarioHell Or High Water, Wind River (he wrote all three and directed the middle one) give voice to stories we all need to hear. Each of them are American crime stories of various types; each (like Dickens) manage to tell their stories with economy and excitement, never drowning beneath a weight of self-important worthiness. Like Dickens, these stories also recognise the milieu into which they’re speaking: the cocktail of drugs and immigration on the Mexican border, a disenfranchised and economically disempowered working class, Native American populations uncounted and unprotected (Wind River, which I watched last night, ends with a devastating piece of on-screen text: Native American women are the only American people group for whom missing person statistics aren’t kept; no one knows how many of them are missing). Women in patriarchal contexts are a particular focus of this trio of films

Technically, each film is dazzling and at times brilliant. Roger Deakins – widely seen as the greatest living cinematographer – shoots Sicario with a wide-screen beauty that has seared images into my mind in a still fresh way 3 years later. The snowscapes of Wind River are retina-scorching, brilliantly played against the night-time scenes which seem somehow darkened and sparkling at the same time. In one brilliantly realised moment in Wind River, character knock on a door; we cut behind the door to a character walking to the door to answer – and we realise we’re now reliving the events that took place behind that door from a couple of days ago. Events play out … and we cut back to outside, and the closed-door, in the present day.

In all the technical and storytelling brilliance of these three films, there is no sense of the privileged presenting a solution; that would be to compound the problem. What Taylor Sheridan is doing is allowing stories to be heard to which the cossetted rich have failed to pay attention as they stay in the illusion of secluded security. The stories are compelling and urgent; the gridlock of the Mexican-American border gives startling rise to an unbearable tense traffic jam in Sicario; in each film, when violence erupts (and none of the films are relentlessly violent, but it’s rumbling constantly beneath the surface of each) we know who each person is, the forces that have driven them there and what they think they need. We’re emotionally invested, and the lines between good and bad are blurred, running through each fractured person rather than the simple delineations of black and white hats (though all three films owe something to the traditions of Western movies).

It’s perhaps too simple to say that these films tell us everything; but it’s also true to say that if Jesus could communicate eternal truth in a parable, then we would do well to listen to the story-tellers whose voices are saying things we need to here. Like Dickens, it is Taylor Sheridan’s gift to do so in stories that grip, engage and move; there are other voices, of course. But here is one who is telling stories that help us listen to what the alienated voices of Trump’s America may be saying. He who has ears, let him hear.

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They Shall Not Grow Old: Remembering The Stories That Shape Us

Much of human life can be understood as an attempt to keep something alive in the face of the reality of death. It could be the memories of loved ones, having children, leaving something to our children, achievements that will ensure we are spoken of long after we have died. It could be anything. The older we get the more aware we are of our mortality and we turn attention to what we will leave behind us.

This is one of the unique aspects of being human. We live with a profound awareness of our own death, and with that comes a seemingly inbuilt desire to outlive it. If the Biblical author is right this is in part explained by the understanding that God has ‘set eternity in the hearts of people.’ Other traditions have different understandings of this; but few seem to deny its reality. Societies wrestle with this on a larger scale; a key question is how to ensure that future generations don’t lose sight of the lessons of the past and so repeat the mistakes of their ancestors. In South Africa, for example, as the ‘born free’ generation (the first generation born after apartheid officially fell) grows into adulthood there is an increasingly urgent discussion about what stories and monuments must be kept and which should fall. These are conversations replete with emotion and fear, a sense of the widening gap between generations. Older generations want their stories preserved and learned from; younger generations want their unique voices heard, freed from the shackles of having to do what they’re told by people still perceived to fighting yesterday’s battles.

Global conflicts are perhaps the biggest example of this. How we remember them and keep the stories alive, without glorifying immense suffering or sentimentalisation is an increasingly fraught debate. This year we have recently marked the 100th anniversary of the end of the First World War, a date that leads to acts of remembrance in many countries involved in that war. As the gap between 11/11/1918 and the present day has widened, so has the diversity of opinions in how to mark these anniversaries. Red poppies? White? None? On football shirts or not? A minute’s silence at sporting events? And so on.

If one’s own family was not – like mine, as far as I know –  directly affected by the conflict, it’s hard to connect with these events. With a Jewish heritage on one side of my family – my Grandmother’s family had a narrow escape from the death camps – I have a more natural connection with the 1939-45 conflict. It seems like part of my story; World War One feels like something more abstract and theoretical.

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Enter film-maker Peter Jackson The New Zealand Director (best know for the Lord Of The Rings films), was approached by London’s Imperial War Museum to create something out of their archive material to mark the anniversary. The result is hallmark Jackson – technologically groundbreaking and in many respects completely overwhelming. Film as old as 100 years often operates at a variety of different speeds – sometimes within the same reel – so first of all the selected material had to be altered to be of a universal speed; in itself no small task. Then the images, obscured and clouded over the years, were cleaned up. Then they were colourised. To cap it all, soundless images were given a soundtrack – be it birdsong, an explosion or an actor bringing words to silently moving lips through the work of forensic lip-readers, with regional accents appropriate to the soldiers on-screen. The finished product – which in other hands could have been tacky, laboured or too worthy – is truly remarkable. It is called They Shall Not Grow Old.

The story of the declaration of war, joining up and training is told in black and white, a small television-sized box in the middle of the screen; as throughout the whole 90 minutes, recordings taken of veterans in the 1960s tell the bulk of the story from their own point of view. Then, as the soldiers arrive in France, colour and contextual sound spread to fill the viewer’s senses; the overlaid storytelling continues, with the background noise occasionally breaking through to the foreground. All of a sudden distant black and white faces seem to be peering in the viewer’s eyes – and soul. As the story of attack after attack is told, we see images relating to what the narrators are describing – maimed bodies, stumbling survivors, soldiers puffing on a cigarette. As the loss resulting from one attack is described, the camera pans slowly over a large group shot of soldiers gathering, smiling in a mystified, excited and oh so alive way right back at you; at one point, one of them says something; “We’re going to be on film!” he says. Everyone on-screen laughs; so do you.

It’s not uncommon for a cinematic experience to be described in pseudo-religious terms. Transcendent, an epiphany. This films offers that, and in doing so it seems almost unfair to describe it like one would any other film; it sits apart, a unique act of artistic remembrance that has the capacity to change minds and hearts. To keep the dead alive.

We all want to do that – keep the dead alive. It’s impossible. The idea that an aged relative who served in a war – or experienced something equally unusual – can tell his stories to younger generations so they can understand may be worthy, but it is by nature dying off as the people do. So how do we do so? How do we remember? They Shall Not Grow Old gives us one way; it allows the voices themselves to speak, allowing us to hear and see them for ourselves. At no point are we lectured; we’re not told this is ‘good for us’ or that this is ‘important’. It is not ‘worthy’, in the worst sense of that word. The story is simply told in the first person, and we simply listen and watch.

Remembering  – more helpfully understood as retelling a story – is part of our human identity. Which is why it lies at the heart of our religious worship. For Christians the retelling of the central narrative of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection  – Communion, Eucharist, Lord’s Supper, Mass – is the central act of thanksgiving. We retell the story, we take some of it tangibly in to us in the form of bread and wine, and our thankfulness is renewed. For some of us that is a weekly part of worship, a natural part of our life so familiar that as we grow old we may find that we no longer need a written text to help us say and hear the words; it has seeped in to the fabric our lives. Other Christian traditions see it as such a special occasion as to only mark it a few times a year. For some it is cloaked in ritual; for other it is clothed in profound but relaxed intimacy. Whatever it looks like, remembering is at the heart of our worship.

It would be too much to describe the remembering Peter Jackson’s film provokes in us in these religious terms. There is none of the elevation of the dead as perfect sacrificial heroes that can occasionally seem to accompany other acts of remembrance. Instead our narrators describe how they were lied to about the war, how they were considered “the refuse of the industrial system’; how they ‘weren’t to think for ourselves’. They signed up to heroically serve their country lest the women in their towns and cities adorn them with the white feather of cowardice; they ended up mercifully shooting dead fatally wounded men drowning a slow death in the mud and understanding themselves as ‘like rabbits, hunted by mankind’. There is no glory or heroism; instead individual tragedy is given a name and a face and a voice.

Simply put, the film is not an invitation to do something specific; it is an invitation to listen to a story, and let the story do the work it needs to do in you. As powerful an experience as it is, it will keep doing so days and weeks and months and years after you’ve seen it. In doing so, it has added mysterious layers to my awareness of what I am doing as I participate in the retelling of the 2000-year old story that stands as the pivot of history. It questions afresh the myth of redemptive violence and entices thankfulness that I, and my children, do not have to sign up to what these young men signed up to. It leads me to a rededication to retelling the story that shapes my life, that we all locate ourselves in that story.

In Praise Of The Beautifully Inessential

It began with a hushed conversation in a library. I was in my first year of theological study, preparing to enter ordained ministry in the Anglican church. I was talking to one of the more conservative students at our conservative college and said something along the lines of this: ‘My problem is that if theologians really believe that God is the most beautiful and significant being in the world, why is so much of what they write so boring?’. ‘Ah’, said the man listening to me. ‘You need to read some Eugene Peterson’. In my mind, up to then, Eugene Peterson was know only for The Message, a translation of the Bible in the language and idiom of the congregation he pastored in America. I hadn’t really considered that he might have written other things. That started a journey of discovery of theological and devotional writing that is characterised by clarity, deep theological thinking and an intoxicating love for words. It’s also true that unlike many theological writers, Peterson could write with a combination of economy and beauty.

It’s not essential for theology to be beautiful, of course. The Nicene Creed is generally accepted as a binding confessional statement for Christians; it’s full of good theological truth – but one could hardly call it beautiful. For its form, beauty is unnecessary. Beauty is unnecessary for objective truth to thrive, it seems.

All of which leads to me to a 10-year-old documentary film about a Canadian rock band. The film is Anvil: The Story Of Anvil. Back in the mid 1980s, Anvil was one of a series of rock/metal bands that appeared poised on the brink of massive global success. Whilst most of them went on to achieve that, Anvil got stuck. The majority of the film tells the story of Anvil, 30 years on, still writing, recording and performing with the band members in their 50s; only now they have ‘proper’ jobs on the side to pay (some of) the bills. The film bears many of the hallmarks of the rock documentary – backstage footage, gig footage, the writing/recording process, arguments between band members. What’s different here is that the band is not making money in the process; they’re not even in the ‘critically acclaimed, commercially under-appreciated’ sector.

There are many possible reasons for Anvil not becoming Metallica. Bad management and bad production stand out. To be blunt, they will never write a song as threatening and thrilling as Enter Sandman. That, however, is not really the point here. What matters for Anvil, and for us, is they glory in their process and output; although they dream of recognition and adulation, that’s not what they’re in this for. They want to make music and to play music. To them, that’s success.

There’s something here to think on. I often hear parents (and sometimes their children) talk of the need to get a qualification – and hence a job – that will produce something; that will contribute the economy and provide for all their current future needs. What the child must do is do some necessary, important and tangible; she must produce. Clearly we need lawyers and doctors and engineers and builders and the like. Sciences matter. I’m not denying that; but they are not the sum and total of what we need. The moment we think of ourselves as units of economic production we run in to trouble; we’ve allowed an un-critiqued version of capitalism to overwhelm our identity. I studied for a degree in English Literature, not a degree renowned for its job prospects. I jokingly refer it as ‘a degree in reading’. Stop, though, before laughing too hard: when was the last time you (or someone you know) seemed incapable of seeing the real meaning of Facebook post or an email? Why do so many people swallow fake news uncritically? Now do you want to tell me that a ‘degree in reading’, in truly understanding a text, is unimportant simply because it doesn’t lead to a tangible end-product?

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God has given us some clues here. God didn’t have to create; before creation, He was perfect within Himself. In his relationship with the 3 parts of Himself, he needed nothing. Yet create he did, an expression of love that wanted an outlet, a glorious,  indulgent extravagance. Seas, mountains, rivers, plains, plants, insects, animals, fish, plankton, stars, planets, sun, moon, woman, man, snow, rain. All so unnecessary, all pouring out of an abundant self-expression of light and sound.

Or think on music. Almost all religious expressions involve music and singing; it has often been where new musical expressions have taken root. But why? Do we need to sing? For the Christian the words of Be Thou My Vision or My Jesus, My Saviour remain just as true if they’re spoken aloud. The music isn’t necessary in that sense. But can you imagine a world in which congregations just said those words, to the backdrop of silence?

Music, and art in general, may not be objectively necessary but they do something to us. They speak to us in a form that’s more true than mere facts, deep calling to deep (in itself a Biblical metaphor that achieves a truth that is more than factual). Jesus and the prophets don’t just speak in objective statements of truth; also stories, metaphors, poetry, word pictures, dramatic actions.

Why, then, do we settle for less in our or our children’scareers? Only pursuing that which is productive? A nation consisting solely of tangible product may be economically booming, but it would be colourless.

Why, then, do our churches often seem to only use one form of music (whichever form is the preference of that one subset of the culture)? Is there space for new melodies, rhythms and harmonies alongside the established?  Why is so much Christian ‘art’ of recent years so plainly didactic? Why not take the poet’s eternal advice:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

Emily Dickinson

The truth is that Anvil just aren’t that good a band; having seen this film I won’t be downloading their albums. But I am reminded with fresh energy that meaning matters more than material production; that fruitful labour may look different to that which is deemed apparently successful. I’m concerned that, within the church especially, we are uncritically accepting a fully capitalist worldview where even the pastor’s role must be described with precision and point towards outputs and markers. That church members must serve an ‘end product’ of a church machine geared to keep us busy and numerically growing, forgetting to allow the beauty of relationships and creativity in the image of an endlessly relational and creative God to flourish.

Do we, our life choices and communities, allow meaning and beauty and relationship to define us? Or are we too busy making and producing to simply be in the presence of God and each other, basking in the beauty God showers us with and invites us to co-labour with Him in creating? Do we want to build a society of units of production and end product, or a kingdom in which God-given gifts are allowed to flourish in response to One who delights in the unnecessary and inessential?

 

A State Of Unrest: Neither Triumph Nor Tragedy

When I first met the woman who would become my wife, she didn’t look ill. This was 1996, and I had just moved into staff accommodation for the job I had taken in London. I was in the lounge, a day or two after moving in. Bev was coming back from a weekend visiting her parents, and as she made her way to her room, past the lounge, she carried with her a computer. Like I said, this was 1996, so carrying a computer was no mean feat. My memory tells me that a friend was helping her. She may not have looked ill, but she was. At that stage she didn’t know what the problem was; she was increasingly tired, increasingly drained by the shifts she was working, and subject to a variety of tests to discern what the problem was. She moved job, within the same project, to an office-hours role; but the health problems didn’t go away. Some days she wasn’t able to get out of bed; not in the sense of simply feeling tired. In the sense of being unable to move. As a series of diagnoses were ruled out, eventually one was ruled in: M.E. – also known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, or (more cruelly) Yuppie Flu. No one really knew what that meant; allergies were tested for, but none found. Anti-depressants were prescribed for someone who wasn’t depressed. Some people live with M.E. for life; fortunately for Bev, she recovered.

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is still, in some places, a controversial disease. The film Unrest (which I watched on Netflix South Africa) is a striking and moving self-produced documentary about one young woman’s experience of the disease and her attempts along with other sufferers to build awareness and get better treatment for it. Along the way there’s much that’s disturbing and light-shedding to learn: 85% of sufferers are female. Many medical ‘experts’ refer to it as caused by childhood trauma (known as conversion disorder – what was in times past called hysteria) despite a dearth of hard medical evidence to support this. In Denmark, a young woman suffering from the disease was forcibly removed from the care of her parents and treated for mental illness against her will for three years; at the time the film was released, she was still ill. We meet one young man who has been so afflicted by the disease that he has been unable to speak for a year. We watch the woman at the centre of the film lie motionless on the floor; we watch her and her husband both laugh and suffer through various attempts to change life-style in order to find a cure. We learn that with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome – as with many other chronic diseases – there is strong correlation with depression and suicide.

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One moment in particular bought me up short and caused me to recognise myself. After a period of elevated activity and stress, we watch a sufferer ‘crash’ – shake uncontrollably as she lies on her bed; a response that we’re told happens after periods of emotional or physical exertion. This felt familiar; I have Ankylosing Spondylitis, a chronic, incurable arthritic disease affecting the spine and many other joints, along with a variety of other symptoms. I have been in various levels of pain every day for around 20 years; I can’t remember what being pain-free, and not taking medication, feels like. That also coincides with the length of my engagement and marriage. Occasionally, in the relatively early days before medication was found to manage my pain, I would shake uncontrollably from the pain as I tried to get in to bed or put on socks. One day I found myself shaking uncontrollably in a more or less empty school chapel, a few minutes after presiding at the funeral of a friend murdered by terrorists, a funeral filmed by television cameras, attended by over 1000 people including Desmond Tutu. It was, by any definition, a period of intense physical and emotional stress. I shook for about 30 minutes, and when I got home afterwards I barely moved for 3 days. The shaking was variously ascribed to needing something to eat, the heat in the chapel and plain old tiredness – all of which probably played a role. But from Unrest I see now it was also the crash of the body responding to the stress of keeping my diseased spine and joints functional under immense pressure. With pressure released, a valve was opened and the stress could be let out.

A.S. is not Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but like many chronic diseases it is misunderstood and under-researched; both are more common than, say, M.S., but much less well-known or understood by medical professionals, let alone the general public. They are both invisible, and that is often the hardest part for the sufferer and the ones supporting them. Time and again I, for instance, will have to say ‘no’ to helping push a car or move a stack of chairs because of invisible pain. No one will give a sign of compliant; but you can’t help thinking … do they believe me? Am I really that sore? People will talk of being able to do … whatever it is … with a sore back, so you should do; doing another thing after a short night’s sleep, so the CFS sufferer should. This rarely happens to me these days; though many years ago, in a job reference, my then employer referred to me as ‘lazy’ for sometimes not helping with physical chores when I was in pain. I didn’t get the job.

As Unrest moves to its conclusion another resonant point is made. The narrator reflects that many diseases (I might name, for example, cancer) end with either ‘triumph or tragedy’. In my example, you become either a cancer survivor, or – like my mother – you die after a ‘brave fight’. We’ve all heard those phrases used. For CFS, AS, and diseases like them, neither happens. You just keep on. Just keep going. Some join you on the road for a while; but you learn to spot the moment when they realise that there will be neither triumph or tragedy, and they stop asking you, stop checking in. And God forbid you, the one suffering, say how hard it is. Struggling, finding it hard to bear the pain and the fatigue and the brain fog and everything else for 20 years past and 20 or more to come; none of that fits the convenient matrix of triumph or tragedy. There’s no prize for just getting out of bed; no awareness month for diseases that just keep on going. Carers lose support and friends; people grow weary of hearing how your finances are affected; how your sex life is affected; why you’re looking sad today; why you’ve put on weight. I’m still here, goes the song at the movie ends, in neither triumph nor tragedy. That’s the goal of the chronic sufferer and supporters – just to keep on keeping on; to many observers it’s an awfully boring goal.

Meanwhile, as Unrest highlights, some researchers do keep working to learn more. As money is raised and spent in its billions on the diseases which end in triumph or tragedy, research on chronic conditions like CFS and AS continues relatively unnoticed and massively underfunded and significantly misunderstood. Films like Unrest will make a difference; as will Becoming Incurable (which will focus on AS amongst other conditions), currently in post-production. For now, people like those in the film, like my wife, like me and many others will keep on, keeping on.

Saving And Harming; Is A Star Is Born A Film About Abuse?

There’s a theory often quoted that when it comes to plots of stories there are only seven (some people come up with a different, but similar, number). Every story ever told falls into one of the seven templates, maybe with subtle differences to others versions – but recognisable all the same. Originality has not always been seen as a virtue; much of what Shakespeare wrote was predictable in terms of the template of the stories; what was unique about his plays was the beauty of the language and the way he extracted profound and universal themes from old material.

Even so, it’s rare that unoriginality is so clearly signalled as it is in A Star Is Born, directed by and starring Bradley Cooper and co-starring Lady Gaga. This story has been made into a film four times under this title (including this one); I haven’t seen any of them until now, but it was no less predictable for that. It’s a story that has been told and retold in countless versions with different titles and variation over the years. That’s not to criticise it; simply to say that if you’ve seen a few films, there won’t be many surprises here – although the gasp from the row of young adults behind me at one major development which I saw coming before I’d even seen the film, indicated that something is always new to someone. Bradley Cooper is an ageing rock star whose career has passed its peak; he meets part-time singer Lady Gaga in a club where she’s performing. He takes her under his wing as lover and protegé; the rest … well either you can guess it, or you’re like one of those young adults.

The film has much to recommend it. Bradley Cooper’s direction is deft, telling the story engagingly and compellingly. His own performance is excellent; and he’s clearly a more than able musician, able to convince as a genuine rock star. Wherever you stand on Lady Gaga, you can’t deny the power of her voice – and she shows it off here to its full capacity. Hearing her sing on a big screen with a big sound system is a treat indeed – hers is a voice to truly stop the listener in his tracks. She can act too – her gradual ascent is believable, her nervousness and discomfort palpable. She’s a proper star; one of those people who I suspect, rather annyoingly, can put her mind to most things successfully. To make it even worse she’s probably a nice person to boot.

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There’s a big question hanging over it all, that I can’t find a satisfying answer to. It hinges on this: is the film portraying something and critiquing it, or is it indulging it? The ‘it’ here is the endemically patriarchal music industry, expressed through the abuse, control and manipulation of a young woman by powerful men. There are moments throughout the film where Ally (Lady Gaga) appears to have a choice, but in reality doesn’t; Bradley Cooper’s character – who has had her privately flown backstage to his gig – introduces one of her songs to the crowd and invites her out. She’s free to decline, of course … but who could possibly do that? Quickly she becomes essential to his fading glory; and as her star ascends and her career takes off, his jealousy and incapability of coping without her is writ large. He slips into bouts of substance abuse and depression; she keeps boomeranging  back. In one disturbing moment, he ends an angry, drunk tirade at Ally (vulnerable, naked, in the bath) by calling her ugly (amongst much else). She stands up to him, for a time. All the time, her (male) manager makes choices for her and controls her career; some of which she eschews anyway (and gets an angry response, of course), some of them she submits to. Her music is changed; from piano or guitar led (she reminded me almost of Tori Amos in the beginning) to making the sort of music that (almost all) white, male critics deem insubstantial and empty; dance-pop, appealing to girls and young women.

Of course, it’s all about Bradley Cooper’s character’s redemption; she brings meaning to him; she reawakens his songwriting gift. From the end of the film, it’s clear that her career will for ever be defined by the man who spotted her and married her.

I’ve no doubt the music industry is deeply patriarchal and abusive towards women; the question for this film to answer is if it is giving us an honest portrayal to interrogate and critique; or is the film sinking into the same morass it shows us on screen? As #metoo has shown us, the movie industry is no different to any other in the way powerful men abuse, manipulate and control women – especially women at the start of their careers.

Lady Gaga’s Ally wouldn’t have a career without men; and we leave her at the film’s end still in a man’s shadow. She has bought him a measure of redemption – but that’s the point, I think. Her career is about him; it’s for him, heals him, remakes him. She seems to be doing her masters’ bidding all this time.

I left having enjoyed the film, been gripped and moved by it. It left me deeply troubled also. I am only now in the process of identifying and understanding my own abuse twenty-five years ago; I felt reminded of my own past that I can’t yet name fully. Not in a good way, but in a way that seemed to excuse the abuse because of what happened in Ally’s career. I wonder what a woman currently in an abusive relationship might make of this.

I’m sure Bradley Cooper never intended this; therein, though, is the point. We’re so inured to the trope of the (young) woman being ‘saved’ by an older man, who takes advantage of her in such a way as she can never leave, that we expect it to be like this. We’ve forgotten how to tell this story differently, where the young woman has vibrancy and agency that doesn’t depend on a man calling it out of her and keeping her at his beck and call, healing him even as he wounds her. It’s an old story, that for all its pleasures deserves a better, newer telling than this if the wounds of many are to receive some measure of healing.

Anger Is An Energy: Responding To Paul Greengrass’s 22 July

Anger is an energy sang PIL, and so the punk movement took flight. Behind the now cliché of a colourful mohican was a frantic energy to destroy the status-quo of the elites running culture and politics. This was a music that left everything out on stage – except, perhaps, the instruments themselves which were often thrashed past the point of breakage when the gig has reached its climax. A few bands still do this even now; it’s seen to be a signifier of having given so much to the performance that there’s nowhere left to go, a symbol of the destruction of the established order. It’s also quite good fun to watch. Like most musical genres, once punk muscled its way into deeper public consciousness it seemed to have less energy, and to be a bit tired. That’s not entirely fair, but the hardcore punk fans see neo-punk acts who remain commercially successful as bands who have sold out – many true punks look disdainfully on bands like Green Day and their fans as having somehow failed by virtue of their success. The baton of truth is held, it’s said, by bands most of us would never have heard of; in punk, and in other genres that once betokened rebellion but now command widespread attention – RnB, hip-hop, rap. And so on.

Anger isn’t wrong; it just seems to be something that can easily tip us over into wrong. One New Testament letter writer doesn’t say ‘Your anger is a sin’; it says, instead ‘In your anger, do not sin’. Anger is an energy, which left unchecked can lead us to dangerously lose control; which is why the same letter-writer also recommends that if  we find ourselves angry with someone we love, to sort it out before bedtime.

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The truth is that there seems to be an awful lot of anger around at the moment. American conservatives are angry that under Obama their America was lost. American liberals are angry at the Conservatives for spreading hate and intolerance. Progressive Christians are angry at conservative ones for supporting Trump; conservative ones are angry with progressive ones for not doing so and for accusing them of selling out the gospel. Women are angry at men for the patriarchy and the abuse and the harassment; some men are angry at women for finding a voice, other men are angry at the rest of the men for speaking up or not speaking up. Brexit supporters are angry with Remainers for demanding a new vote and with their government for selling out the referendum; Remainers are angry with Brexiteers for being Brexiteers and with their government for an indecisive process. Here in South Africa … well, it feels to me as if everyone is angry with one group or another. Apply to your own country or context several times over.

Social media is often blamed for this; and it’s true that never having to see the person you’re typing at makes it easier to get angry and nasty; or at least not having to see them in that moment … a bit like over-spending on the credit-card because it doesn’t feel like real money. If anger is an energy, it’s often a destructive one, whether it’s musical instruments, people or political unity.

Anger was destructive on 22 July, when right-wing terrorist Anders Behring Breivik murdered 77 young people attending a Labour Party Youth Camp on Utøya Island outside of Oslo after detonating a car bomb in the city. Paul Greengrass’s new film, titled 22 July tells this story. With his background in television journalism, British director Greengrass is attracted to stories like this; most powerfully in United 93 which told the story of the plane hijacked on 9/11/01 that never made it to its intended target. That he managed to tell that story without nationalistic fervour, hatred or voyeurism is one of the great cinematic achievements this century. A similar eye is there in his more action centred films – the Bourne movies (3 of which are his) may be fictional thrillers, but they are ones that seem to live in a nearly-real, believable world. If a film had to be made about Utøya Island (and as someone who knows what it’s like to lose someone to terrorist atrocities, I think that’s an open question) Paul Greengrass is the man to do it. He does so with a cinema release, but primarily on Netflix, to get what he sees as an important story into the medium most likely to reach younger people.

It’s a film with clear segments. The first 30 minutes or so portray the massacre itself – the families of victims asked him to neither sanitise nor exploit it, and he achieves that. It’s a devastating half-hour, shot in the eerie half-light of Scandinavian summer; deaths and injuries are real, but not lingered on. Its cinematography is a mixture of his trademark shaken, handheld cameras which deliberately jar with some powerful longer shots; one, of a group of teenagers huddled fearfully halfway down a cliff face, is especially memorable and moving. From there the film follows two paths – the recovery of one teenager badly injured, and the arrest and eventual trial of Brevik. Throughout nothing is soft-soaped, but neither is it milked; the teenager’s recovery is hard to watch (beyond a couple of scenes which feel a little contrived or clichéd; though I’m aware we can’t know the details of his recovery process). Brevik (brilliantly portrayed) is neither mad nor cartoonishly evil; he’s coldly rational, angry and aware. The moment we all know is coming – when he walks in to court and gives a long Nazi salute – is no less upsetting for it being predictable. That’s all in the brilliance of the direction and the performance.

None of these people are the central character, though. That’s Norway itself; the country Brevik insists is on trial. Greengrass said in his brilliant and eloquent interview with the BBC’s Simon Mayo (Simon Mayo interviews Paul Greengrass) that he wanted to tell the story of how Norway wrestled with the issue of whether to let Brevik tell the court his reasons; should we listen to his anger, or should they deny him the oxygen of publicity? Is it ever right to listen to the people who do these things? Norway decided it was; and the result, Greengrass claims, is that anger is is dissipated. In that interview Greengrass cites the ongoing divisions over Brexit, the rise of the far-right in diverse countries and the political cauldron of the USA as contexts where a similar exercise in listening might be fruitful or even healing.

It sounds true and wise, and probably is. I’ve tried hard to listen over recent years, as best as I am able to practically, given my circumstances. But the thing is, I’m getting sick of it. I’m getting sick of being shouted at – metaphorically in text or in reality through someone’s voice. I’m sick of being told or thinking I might be intolerant on the one hand or racist on the other; of being theologically liberal or conservative or progressive; of being a toxic male or a weak one; of being a parent who’s too strict or too permissive. And so it goes on. If listening really does dissipate anger’s energy, or allow the wrongness of the ideas that drive it to be seen for all it is, then I’ve yet to really experience it. Maybe dealing with it once in Norway just caused it move and take root more deeply elsewhere, like some sick version of Whack-A-Mole.

What do we do with our anger, mine and yours? Unexpressed anger is a breeding ground for all sorts of darkness, of which others or the angry one themselves may both bear the brunt. There are plenty of places in the Bible, for example, where anger and lament is given a voice; but this is rare in our public worship. Saying or singing the psalms doesn’t seem to be something that works in many settings now – so maybe we need new expressions of these texts, or songs and hymns that give voice to very contemporary laments. Still, though, many Christians seems to feel that anger is inherently sinful, and that its very expression or acknowledgement will let the genie out of the bottle. What about the rest of us, though; the increasing majority who are ‘spiritual, but not religious’; atheist or agnostic? What are their options? How do we listen well, and express anger well without the cancer spreading or worsening? How do we find the strength to keep listening when we’re sick of it?

I don’t know.

Glenn Close In The Wife: Thoughts On Being Clergy And Having A Wife

As is so often the case, the real drama is in the silences. In The Wife, Glenn Close plays Joan – a woman who had been a promising potential novelist but whose career became subsumed when she married her teacher Joe. Early in the film we come to the two of them, now relatively aged, awaking to a phone call with the news that Joe has been awarded the Nobel Prize For Literature. As the news is broken to Joe – with Joan listening in on another phone – the camera shifts to Joan. She barely moves – but her face speaks volumes, hinting at layers and depths of varied emotions that imply a kind of darkness that can’t be named, but longs to be. It’s an astonishing piece of silent acting from Glenn Close, which is echoed throughout the film by similar moments. She is attentive to Joe’s every need (both as they travel to the Nobel Ceremony, and in flashback to the early days of their relationship); but something is trying to emerge, but also stay hidden. Christian Slater plays Joe’s would-be biographer, who thinks he can see there’s a secret to come out; and we uncover it with him.

To say more would be to spoil the film; it’s often comic, but really it’s a drama about ambition and frustration, about marriage and the challenges facing the wife of a lauded man. The film’s present day is 1992; it would be tempting to say that things have changed, but I’m sure many of us can understand that in much of life they haven’t.

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At least, it often seems, they haven’t changed in the church – which is where I have worked for all my married life (save the first two years of our marriage, which was spent at seminary). When I was training for ministry (in the late 90’s/early 00’s), women had been welcomed to priestly ministry in the Church Of England for some years – though it’s only relatively recently that the glass ceiling to women becoming Bishops has been broken. Nevertheless, at the seminary I attended (chosen as much for geographical location as any theological conviction of mine), the support group for the spouses of students was very much a wives’ group. I can’t now remember the official name of the group; but there were a grand total of 0 female students training there for ordained ministry; many (though not all) of the staff and students at this conservative college did not agree with the ordination of women, and often said so – loudly and publicly. So it’s little surprise no women trained alongside me. My loss; though I suspect not theirs.

Never mind, though. Other parts of the Anglican church were better. Right? The network I was most committed to at that time contained few, if any, high-profile female church leaders. Platform speaking engagements were largely for male church leaders; women from para-church groups; or were wives of male leaders of (large) churches. These large churches were spoken of as being led by ‘X and Y Surname’ (husband and wife) where the husband was the ordained leader. The wife would often be on the large paid staff team; though sometimes not. She would sometimes be still be spoken of as leading the church with her husband, despite not being paid by the church, not having a formal input in the decision-making and only being involved in church life, like any other member of the church would be. Now it is fair to say that in this network things have got much better in these regards; I’m sure some would say there is still a way to go – but it seems much that is good has happened.

It’s true, however, that the role of clergy wife and clergy husband remain very different. My wife has been invited to chair Women’s Fellowships, sing in the choir (until someone overheard her singing), do the flower arranging. She’s not done most of it; whilst she was unable to work for Visa-reasons when we came to Cape Town, she did volunteer much time to the church; but things have long since changed. The same expectations or offers are rarely made of clergy husbands. Married women who are clergy speak often of a church’s inability to see that she must be ‘a wife, a mother and a clergywoman’; a similar expectation of a married clergyman does not exist.

The problem seems to be that inherited models of church leadership and gender roles within church and family have not kept up with a changing society. There’s also another, subtler pressure. In many churches – especially larger, suburban ones – excellence is a spoken or unspoken value. Professionals who are members of these churches work in businesses where excellence is prized; so churches have to imitate that. That’s expressed in many ways; but not least in the role of women. Either a clergy wife must be fully involved in ministry – paid, or not – to ensure it all happens; or she must sacrifice much of her time and career in order for her husband to meet church expectations. One theory goes that excellence in anything requires around 10,000 hours of committed practice; for that to be a reality someone must take care of the rest of life for the one who aims to excel. That’s almost always a woman, like Glenn Close appears to be in The Wife; doing everything behind the scenes whilst her husband is lauded across the world thanks to his 10,000 hours of labour. It never seems to be mentioned that by definition, as the man achieves his greatness thanks to the 10,000 hours given to his craft, the woman has invested the same amount of time in un-lauded areas. Behind every great man … the expression goes (the tag line of the movie is a clever play on this, especially in light of the film’s ending).

It’s patriarchy writ into the fabric of family and career, of course. The church is slowly learning to let go of it, but whilst it slowly learns the ministry of women in church, business (or wherever) suffers and stagnates as the woman’s call is seen to be to follow and enable the husband’s call. Doesn’t Ephesians say a woman should submit to her husband?

Well, it does – but that was written 2,000 years ago; and it seems to ignore that at the start of that section of Ephesians the invitation to all of us, of whatever gender, is to ‘submit to one another’. So this assumes a husband also submits to his wife in some way; in fact, so submissive is he that he is expected to be willing to do for her what Christ did for the church (to die). More of that passage is about the responsibilities of the husband to sacrifice (and to submit) and of Christ’s love for the church than is ever said of the wife’s responsibility to submit – which in any case is never defined; presumably the better to be re-interpreted within each time and place. But the Bible has usually, over 2,000 years, been written, translated, taught by and written about by men – so it’s no surprise, really, that these attitudes and interpretations continue as the norm in many places.

As a married male church leader I speak to people like me. Are we willing to submit to the calling of our wives? Are we willing to say ‘no’ to posts, opportunities or potential avenues of church life in order for our wives to fulfil their calling – as we have so often expected them to sacrifice to us. I’m not talking here about motherhood and the ‘traditional’ housewife – though not to dismiss and denigrate that if that’s what both feel is best for their marriage. For most of my ordained life, my wife has had paid employment too. She has a calling too (of course she does; every disciple does). We also need a second salary – especially now with children. So my wife follows her calling and gifts in the world; social enterprise, academic research, photography  – and other things; one of those other things is motherhood, but it’s by no means the only one. So, as sometimes she has had to say no to opportunities to enable my ministry, so I must also, equally, say no to some things in order to enable her ministry. If I were looking to move to a large, busy church (which I’m not), maybe I would have to rethink my plans because of my wife’s career and calling. Maybe a church shouldn’t be busy (or maybe even large? that’s to discuss another time, I think)? Too often I, and men like me, can be entitled in our expectation of our wives to sacrifice, to give up, to say no, for our sake. Of course, we say and think to ourselves that it’s ‘for the Gospel’; failing to notice that our wife’s calling is as much ‘for the Gospel’ (whatever that means) as mine – maybe even more so if she’s not spending all day in the church office.

This needs saying to us: male, married church leaders must say no (sometimes to the church, sometimes to ourselves), that our wives may yes to God’s invitation to them. If something we say no to must still be done, then God is big enough to cope with our no; and if the church complains … well experience seems to suggest that if the no is repeated often enough and for long enough, the point is taken.

God can cope without us; God can also cope without our wives. He can cope without all of us; but too often we have just assumed He can cope without our wives, or can only cope with them within very specific parameters. To misquote The West Wing, let’s let God be God; let’s be strong enough to say no, that our wives may say yes.