Who is God in Derron Aronofsky's "Noah"?

Noah makes a grand impression, for its visual scope, relentless bleakness and the ideas it puts forth to describe the protagonist’s relationship with God.  Ultimately, it is a profoundly unsettling film, one that will surprise the viewer because it locates the meaning of this relationship outside of the Bible.  It works as a myth of creation, like Peter Jackson’s visual rendering of his Middle Earth mythology, but one twisting the original source in ways that subverts it.

At the core of this fable for the modern times about nature – both human and the physical world – is an inversion of the Jewish/Christian proposition about a God that creates the cosmos out of chaos (in the Greek translation of the Hebrew “at the beginning God created Heaven and Earth”), and man as his image and resemblance. 

 The sparse, yet dramatic and colorful, recounting of the Noah story in Genesis 5-10, provides, quite literately, the backbone of the story as reworked by Aronofsky and his longtime writer/producer Ari Handel.  Dealing with a work of imagination, the director and writer fill in the interstices of the biblical narrative with powerful imagery, well-developed characters, sharp and sometimes ponderous dialogue about good, evil and the value of life, and tragic conflicts played out in an apocalyptic world.  Artistic licenses and creative decisions make this a superb piece of filmmaking as well as special effects ingenuity.  A much discussed example in reviews, and a subject of conversation especially among the youth quadrant, is the rendering of the mysterious creatures the Bible calls the Nephilim (Genesis 6-4): ‘these were the heroes of days gone by, men of renown’.  They are here lava monsters, fallen angels trapped in bodies of stone, who help Noah build the ark.  Giants reminiscent of Tolkien’s Ents as materialized in The Lord of the Rings, they look like Transformers brought over from a science-fiction film.  The handling of the CGI menagerie – how to get the creatures to the ark and keep them quiet on board for the duration of the spectacularly rendered flood – is imaginatively solved.  Sets, costumes and the magnificent vessel – realistically designed to float not to sail – are conceived as part of a nitty-gritty primitive yet post-industrial world; its natural beauty (the austere landscape of Iceland), ravaged by wicked human race, functions as a modern alert of ecological disaster and climate-change.

The geographical universe this Noah inhabits in the fringes, as a family man intent on protecting it from unnecessary damage, is one unhinged as a result of physical and moral depredations.  One senses that the visionary, metaphorical worlds of Hieronymus Bosch must have inspired the production designers.  The debaucherie in the woods did not need to look further than the Flemish painter's scenes of chaos, devils, half-humans, half-creatures, to graft the wickedness of mankind to the film's apocalyptic landscape.

I have spent a few days thinking about the film, and reading reviews, interviews and other materials. And I have come to see that by redefining the terms of the relationship between God and Noah, the film subverts its biblical understanding. I would even argue that, in an extreme feat of interpretation, it throws overboard the canonical Judeo-Christian frame of reference, bringing in a mishmash of esoteric interpretations. I haven’t quite figured out the purpose of such a Copernican turn.

The opening and closing lines point inexorably to that puzzling direction: “At the beginning, there was nothing”, intones the narrator; the command to “be fruitful and multiply” in the final scene are now Noah’s words to his children, not Yahweh’s to Adam and Eve in the Garden (Genesis 1-28).  This arc from an initial nothingness to a man and his family alone in the closing scene has written God out of the human equation: the Almighty is an entity, unnamed (the word “God” is never mentioned), remote and silent, and in his requirement, through a nightmarish dream, that Noah sacrifice his newly born grandchildren, malevolent.   By refusing to do so –the reverse of Abraham’s obedience – Noah breaks with a deity that has driven him to a state of semi-madness by participating in the extermination of the world, and begins his self-given mission of re-populating the earth after the ecological cataclysm. In this final scene, the coup de grâce is given by the serpent: surviving the expulsion from paradise by becoming a sacred relic worn wrapped around the arm by Noah’s descendants, like sacramental tefillin, it becomes the real divinity, tying Noah and lineage into a covenant to last through time. 

This svolta theologica has been discussed in terms of gnostic and Kabbalah influences shaping Aronofsky and Handel’s re-imagining of the story, a project in the works for more than ten years.  In his blog, theologian Brian Mattson tracks the use of these sources in a clear, straightforward manner, and it makes for a fascinating read (drbrianmattson.com).

The film suggests to me that while we can explore these other roots – non canonical, esoteric, fringy – what happens in Noah is an instance of bringing a secularizing, post-modern spirit to the Bible: the film reads the story traditionally, as a record of a covenant between the Lord and his chosen people, but simultaneously lays on it a mutually exclusive interpretation.  Through the dialogues, the design of the characters, the mise-en-scène, and in the subversion of the serpent’s meaning in the last scene, the second one has pushed out the first one egregiously.  The God of the Hebrew Scriptures exits through the giftshop, an act that goes beyond the traditional Hollywood epics specifically dealing with Noah and the flood, like Michael Curtiz’ Noah’s Ark (1928), Warner Bros. response to MGM’s Ben-Hur (1924), or John Huston’s The Bible: In the Beginning (1966), now kitschy beyond repair.

Perhaps one could view this film in a more sanguine way, disregard the theological svolta, and compare Noah with the director’s other films: Pi (1998), Requiem for a Dream (2000), The Fountain (2006), The Wrestler (2008) and Black Swan (2010).  They all have protagonists on quests for absolutes, going down paths of madness and self-destruction, looking into the abyss, and finding, somehow, the will to survive, physically or spiritually. 

This Jewish narrative of survival in the face of catastrophes is the thread that connects the films of Darren Aronofsky. A similar impulse animates the powerful and moving five-part documentary series The Story of the Jews, written and directed by British historian Simon Schama, just shown on PBS, in anticipation of Pesah.  This first-person documentary is primarily a historical, rational, enlightened account by a Jewish intellectual bonded to his people, who have survived for their fidelity to a book and a law.  On a complementing note, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’1913 Erasmus Lecture in NYC, “Creative minorities" fleshes out the same narrative survival, locating it firmly in the Jewish faith and the Covenant.  The Documentary series and the lecture are an excellent way to revisit the issues brought up by Noah … but the serpent and its implications will give you the creeps.

"There strength is in our numbers" - César Chávez

 This year’s Berlinale showed César Chávez, the four-year endeavor by Mexican production company Canana, directed by one of its founders, actor Diego Luna.  The screening took place in the Special Gala section, showcasing recent films for which a spot was not found in the competition or in the edgier Panorama or Forum.   However, I caught one of the pre-release screenings of the film at U.C.L.A on March 7, in an event organized by the aptly named César E. Chávez Department of Chicana/o Studies, with the support of other campus institutions and groups.  It was a well-attended event; the 300-seat James Bridges theater, in the Film and Television Department, could not accommodate the multitude of young people waiting outside.

With Diego Luna in attendance, as well producer Pablo Cruz and Arturo Rodríguez, the current president of the United Farm Works, the union César Chávez and other labor leaders founded in 1962.  The event mixed celebrity and labor politics in an interesting way: at the end of the screening and Q&A, the young students, mostly Hispanic, left both informed about a figure they see on a pantheon, from afar, and with a serviceable understanding of labor politics.  Overall, it seemed to me, they took home the notion of a struggle for human dignity – and one, for this first generation Americans of Mexican and Central American parents - not far from their family experience.

I was very moved by this film, that traces eight key years in the life of Chávez and his collaborators, from 1962 to1970, as labor organizers in the California Central Valley (with the northern Mexican state of Sonora standing for the fields of Delano, California; hats to the set and costume designers for the period look). Against all odds, they succeed after years of struggles, including strikes and boycotts, in bringing the growers to the negotiating table; most importantly, they make the plight of migrant workers a topic in the national conversation.

Before the screening, what most intrigued me were the negotiations – historical, cultural, linguistic, religious – that the Mexican producing team must have had with itself, the U.S. screenwriters who shaped the project as a classical Hollywood narrative, and the realities of the box-office.  Among the various issues on the table, the fact that César Chávez is an American, not a Mexican figure, and yet the film had no studio financial backing; the language spoken in the film is 90% English; the target market, international; and the fact that it had a relatively modest budget of $10 million, provided by various Mexican and foreign investors.

After the screening was over, three things came into sharper focus:  how warmly Mexican this film is in its portrayal of family and community; how American (as in Hollywood American) in making a father/son relationship its dramatic linchpin; and what a beautiful case of the Catholic imagination informing a work of popular culture.   Ideas intrinsic to the Catholic worldview, like mediation, sacramentality and communion are embedded in the narrative and visual fabric of this César Chávez.  Understandably so, given the subject matter and the historical record, but not to be taken for granted. The recent Philomena about the actions of Irish nuns could be an interesting study in contrast, since Stephen Frears has acknowledged his anti-Catholic stance in dealing with a Catholic story.

The dangers of hagiography are quite skillfully skirted, in large part by the terrific performances of Michael Peña, who has the physique du role as Chávez, father of 8 young children, yet pulled away by the demands of his job; America Ferrrera as his no nonsense wife; Rosario Dawson as her legendary strong-willed collaborator Dolores Huerta.  The story moves back and forth between the public and private personas of Chávez, making him a flesh-and-blood hero, and also a Christ-like mediator with the unflinching mission, like Tom Joad in The Grapes of Wrath, of fighting for the little people. 

The encounter in 1966 between Chávez and Robert Kennedy (Jack Holmes), then senator in a fact-finding agricultural mission in California, is one of the emotional peaks of the film, and one made to carry explicitly its overarching theme: the value of each person, and the dignity of manual work.  In this vein, the 1960 Edward Morrow’s heart-breaking television documentary, Harvest of Shame, that makes an appearance in my documentary class each semester, and the recent Ethel, Rory Kennedy’s valentine to her parents, make moving companions to César Chávez.

John Malkovich, as the self-made grape grower Bogdanovitch (speaking decent Spanish on screen) makes a strong presence as Chávez’ antagonist.  (He is listed as one of the picture’s producers.)  His nuanced character is a notable contrast to the other cartoonish meanies in the film – courtesy of crosscutting editing and the use of television news, Nixon manages to become an archenemy of the people.

For Hispanics, and those sensitive to the Mexican religious traditions of the simple folks, the warm treatment of Catholic iconography is a delight: the Virgen de Guadalupe, first and foremost, the quiet presence of priests, the celebrations of the mass, the pilgrimages. In other words, the fervor with which the teachings of the Gospel translate into action. 

If someone could get Pope Francis to see the film, I have no doubt that he would note that it is a knockout tool for spreading the good news that we are all children of God.  What an endorsement that would be!

Archeological dig: Susan Oliver … Susan who?

I didn’t grow up in the U.S., but we did watch a lot of American TV shows in Buenos Aires:  our favorites in the 60s were El hombre del rifle, Randall el justiciero, Bonanza, Los Beverly ricos,  La ley del revolver, Bat Masterson, Annie Oakley, Rin Tin Tin, Father Knows Best, El Zorro, Aventuras en el paraiso, all of them shown in the afternoon.  We were too young to watch the evening series: Los defensores, El fugitivo, Perry Mason, Ben Casey, Dr. Kildaire, Los intocables, La dimension desconocida, Ruta 66, 77 Sunset Strip, La caldera del Diablo.  We only knew their titles in Spanish, and since they were dubbed in Spanish too, we could not practice the English learned in school every morning.  My sisters and I have fond recollections of these shows; we can still hum their catchy tunes: “Tombstone territory …” was a favorite, as was the music imitating galloping horses in .

Bonanza

All this to say that we did not know the names, lives and gossip associated with these American television stars.  So it’s not a surprise that I have no recollection of the name and beautiful features of one interesting lady, Susan Oliver.  Her IMDb credits run several pages –127 entries listing guest roles in these and many other series, from the 1960s to the 80s.   You can quickly sketch a familiar story: one of those young actresses coming from New York to Los Angeles; a contract with Warner Bros; a few roles in features (she’s the cohort of Yvette Mimieux, Angie Dickinson and Eva-Marie Saint), a passage through the directing workshop a the AFI, some TV directing and death of cancer at 58.  The jump into stardom – at the tail end of the studio system in the fifties - never materialized.  One is reminded of her story watching the recent and ultimately heart-breaking Academy-award documentary 20 Feet from Stardom, a beautiful portrait of back-up singers whose solo careers never pan out.

Susan Oliver, the stage name of Charlotte Gercke (1932-1990), is the subject of a fascinating documentary by George A. Pappy Jr., one of my students in the MA in Screenwriting at Cal State Northridge a few years ago.  This is George’s third feature-length film, and his first documentary.  It deserves the best of luck, including a theatrical release and a solid cable life, besides DVD and VOD releases.  It makes you laugh and cry, and ponder the price life exacts on your dreams and aspirations, and how a good or bad choice (its nature becoming obvious in hindsight) can change one’s course. 

A triumph of research, clip choices and editing, the documentary combines two threads, the biographic and the historic, involving thirty years of film and television, from the 50s to the 80s.     Utilizing archival materials, including family photos and memorabilia found on E-Bay, and well chosen talking heads, ranging from family, friends and experts, the director – who also wrote and produced the documentary – structures the story in  Kane narrative around a mystery: who was Susan Oliver? (I asked some friends, very knowledgeable about American popular culture, and they couldn’t quite place her.  They did recall the sexy Green Girl of the title, the character Vina in a two-part episode of the first season of Star Trek (1966-69).  

The audience builds an image of this classy blue-eyed blonde, with a raspy voice, by combining multiple perspectives, all of them with something interesting to comment.   Each case is nicely – and sometimes very cleverly – illustrated by a myriad film and TV clips – from Butterfield 8 (1960) and The Disorderly Orderly (1964) to series everybody my age watched in American television growing up.  

The ‘Rosebud’ of this film is a poignant line from a friend: “She was a square that did not fit into the circle”. The wisely placed emotional climax of the film is the actress’ last phone message, a tacit and elegant farewell to life, acknowledging its joys and sorrows.  (I may not have been the only one wiping off  a tear …)

The Green Girl is also a case study on how to handle a film biography, sifting through massive materials – in this case 80 hours of television series, some better preserved than others – and looking for thematic tie-ins. Even though there is no narrator, the way the film has been edited allows for a clear understanding of Oliver’s life and times, with the best lines from the interviewees pushing the story forward.  Editor Amy Glickman Brown, a graduate from the Tisch School of the Arts, should take all the credit, the director noted in the Q&A after the film, shown in the Royal Laemmle, West Los Angeles, on Saturday March 15.  She handled vast materials, with various sound and visual quality issues, creatively and in a mere ten-week period.  The music is by Lyle Workman, an accomplished musician and a relative of Susan Oliver; it showcases the dramatic essence of the story, that of an actress born ten years too late – she arrives in Hollywood when the studio system is collapsing – or ten years too early – before women started to be more visible behind the camera.

George Pappy, who financed The Green Girl with Kickstarter and Indigogo campaigns, joins the ranks of directors/producers who become their own distributors in the digital age. He plans to attend the market at the Canadian International Documentary Festival next month in Toronto, and is working on a VOD release by the summer. 

In the cyber world, the way to know more about this film is by clicking on the following links:        http://www.thegreengirlmovie.com/

http://www.facebook.com/GreenGirlMovie

Someone in HBO documentaries should be paying attention to a work that could smartly complement their recent showing of Love, Marilyn, a well-known story unconventionally told by Liz Garbus.