Readers Are Unpredictable

To continue my train of thought from the previous two posts—on what the humanities can do, and why we need not worry so much about whether such a claim instrumentalizes them—I want to add the following qualification: it is impossible to say with any confidence, “This is what studying the humanities (or reading good literature or attentively watching good films and the like) will do for you.” There is much that engaging with philosophy, literature, and the arts could do for us, but so much will depend on our disposition: how we approach these things and what we seek to gain from them. So much depends on our hermeneutical framework and whether we have (or at least seek to cultivate) the virtues needed for the kind of reading that has a chance of changing us for the better. 

Regarding our hermeneutic: Are we seeking to learn or be challenged by the text, or only to have our biases confirmed? Are we seeking to understand what the author is intending, or are we projecting our own thoughts and feelings onto the text? 

And regarding the requisite virtues: Are we practicing patient attentiveness? Are we both discerning and charitable? Do we have the humility to be receptive to new or challenging ideas?

Of course, the worth and excellence of the text studied also matters. Some books or films will be much better suited to aiding our moral formation than others; indeed some can only be corrosive. But Karen Swallow Prior is right to say in the introduction to her book On Reading Well that, if reading is to help us become more virtuous, we must practice certain virtues as we read. It will not do to say that if only so-and-so would just read Republic or Pride and Prejudice, it will reshape their vision of the good life. Reading is not a “just add water” solution.

Unfortunately, there are very good readers out there who are terrible people. I think of the scene in the Coen Brothers’ remake of The Ladykillers (2004), in which the lead criminal played by Tom Hanks waxes poetic about the power of literature: “I often find myself more at home in these ancient volumes than I do in the hustle-bustle of the modern world. To me, paradoxically, the literature of the so-called ‘dead tongues’ holds more currency than this morning's newspaper. In these books, in these volumes, there is the accumulated wisdom of mankind, which succors me when the day is hard and the night lonely and long.” He is seen enjoying his reading, but clearly it hasn’t softened his conscience. On the other hand, it’s possible for good people to be poor readers, prone to take passages out of context or just not have the desire to sit down and read at all.

But if anything should give us pause about making grand promises about what the humanities will do for the renovation of a soul or the renewal of a culture, let’s consider the greatest and truest story ever told, which does indeed have the power to change a heart: the gospel. “The Parable of the Sower” in the gospels shows that even the gospel will fall on deaf ears, be rejected, or even just forgotten and abandoned in the course of the cares of life. The Spirit must be at work to make the heart receptive, otherwise mere hearing does nothing.

Lacking God’s omniscience, for us the response of a hearer or a reader is unpredictable. A person could read the Bible and be drawn to faith and repentance, or twist its words to justify selfish ambition or abuse, or think it’s boring, or say, “How inspiring and life-affirming!” and miss the point. And if that can be true of a person’s encounter God’s holy, life-giving Word, how much more uncertain it is whether even the best works of fallible humans in the fields of literature, art, and philosophy will make a positive difference! A person might not have the knowledge of how to read well, or may simply choose not to.

That’s a downer note to end on, I know, but it’s worth sitting with and pondering, and this post is long enough already. 

John, James, and Joe: Film Composer Retrospectives

Three albums I’ve been listening to regularly lately are each career-spanning retrospectives from major composers of film scores: 

  • John Williams and Anne-Sophie Mutter’s Across the Stars (Deutsche Grammophon, 2019)

  • James Newton Howard’s Night After Night: Music from the Movies of M. Night Shyamalan (Sony Classical, 2023)

  • Joe Hisaishi’s A Symphonic Celebration: Music from the Studio Ghibli Films of Hayao Mizazaki (Deutsche Grammophon, 2023)

What I love about all three albums is that they aren’t “greatest hits” compilations that only pull together old recordings from across the artist’s discography. These are all brand-new recordings, and each composer has created new arrangements of his signature works for the occasion. 

For the Williams project, the organizing principle is that each composition has been selected and adapted to foreground violin soloist Mutter. Across the Stars is primarily a collaboration between a composer and a performer. But for the other two albums, the organizing principle is that each composition emerged from the composer’s collaborations with one director. So the Newton Howard retrospective is also a Shyamalan retrospective; the Hisaishi retrospective is also a Miyazaki retrospective. As much as I enjoy the Williams and Mutter album, this gives Night After Night and A Symphonic Celebration a richer subtext: these albums are celebrations of life-long creative partnerships, even friendships. 

This friendship element is particularly striking considering Night After Night. Miyazaki has an extraordinarily consistent track record for making good-to-great films, and it would be unsurprising if this inspired a complementary consistency of excellence from Hisaishi. But Shyamalan’s films fluctuate wildly in quality, and yet Newton Howard seems to have always done his best by them as if they were all destined to be classics. Night After Night doesn’t discriminate between music made for a masterpiece like Unbreakable and music made for a career blunder like The Last Airbender. Including one as well as the other on this album shows that Newton Howard valued then and values now all of his collaborations with Shyamalan. When two people enjoy working together and bring out the best in each other’s work, the critical or financial outcome of the project is irrelevant.

Films and Shows I’m Thankful For in 2023

In 2020, I started a Thanksgiving tradition of posting on Letterboxd a list of twelve films or shows I was most thankful to have discovered, rediscovered, reappraised, or otherwise gained a greater appreciation for in the past year. (Click here to see the previous lists.) Here are my picks for 2023. I’m thankful for …

Ahsoka (a discovery): As a fan of Dave Filoni’s Clone Wars and Rebels shows and of George Lucas’s Star Wars prequels, I was glad to see this live-action continuation of Ahsoka, Sabine, and Ezra’s stories, staged in a very prequel-esque way. (P.S.: I reflected on the surprising prominence of the theme of homecoming in a recent Notebook post.)

The Apartment (a discovery): In the latter half of the year I made a point of watching more Old Hollywood films as a way of counterbalancing the usual recency bias in my film-viewing. This included finally seeing three classic, iconic films by Billy Wilder, a major director who, inexplicably, was never on my radar. I can’t say I loved any of them. Double Indemnity, Sunset Boulevard, and The Apartment are each shockingly dark compared to the usual studio productions of the time, and each unsettled me with their unflinching exposés of human depravity. But The Apartment has stuck with me thanks to its redemptive ending.

Avatar: The Way of Water (a discovery—but also a reappraisal): I was biased against the first Avatar long before seeing it and derided it when I finally did in 2012. It turns out I like that film now, and its sequel even more so. If we must have films consisting of 99.99% hyper-realistic CG, then let more of them be like this: films that explore new worlds to help us appreciate the beauty in this one, just as James Cameron’s lavish attention to Pandora’s marine ecosystem is an expression of his love for Earth’s. (P.S.: Between watching this and reading Arctic Dreams and Moby-Dick, the past twelve months were the Year of the Whale for me.)

From Up on Poppy Hill (a discovery): Another pleasant Studio Ghibli film that, like Only Yesterday, My Neighbor Totoro, and Kiki’s Delivery Service, is driven more by atmosphere than by plot. The evocation of a highly specific place and time is very effective here.  

Killers of the Flower Moon (a discovery): This is a good film worthy of this list in its own right—I’m thankful this dark chapter in our nation’s history is getting needed attention—but I include it here primarily because I got to see it with my dad last week. We hadn’t been to see a movie together in a long time, and in the days following we were both sobered by reminders that our lives are fragile. More than anything else on Thanksgiving Day, I was thankful for him.

The Lost City of Z (a discovery): Apparently, I’ve selected two films based on nonfiction books by David Grann. It’s a shame this cross between Lawrence of Arabia and 2001: A Space Odyssey set in the jungle has been lost to public awareness in the recesses of the Amazon streaming catalogue (how ironic).

Marcel the Shell with Shoes On (a discovery): A cute, quirky, and thoughtful stop-motion and live-action hybrid about a googly-eyed shell, his grandmother, and the human neighbor who makes a documentary about them.

Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning, Part I (a discovery): I love how this franchise has matured and evolved in its Christopher McQuarrie era, and although I’m still not reconciled to what happened to [REDACTED], I’m convinced this is the most thematically rich chapter in the franchise. Seeing this in theaters with two friends who had never seen an M:I film before was a highlight of my movie-going this year.

October Sky (a rediscovery): I’ve always been a fan of Joe Johnston, a director who excels at old-fashioned blockbuster filmmaking in works like Jumanji, The Rocketeer, and the first Captain America. But this film, about rocket-building high schoolers in a dead-end coal-mining town, might be his best. At least, it’s the most emotionally satisfying. The way it ultimately honors the small town and the protagonist’s difficult father, instead of reducing them to easy caricatures, surprised me.

Porco Rosso (a greater appreciation): Porco Rosso was almost on my Thanksgiving 2022 list. It has risen from 5th to 3rd place in my ranking of Miyazaki films, but the film is also included on this list to represent the multiple times I got to see Miyazaki’s work on the big screen in 2023: Kiki’s Delivery Service, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Porco Rosso, and The Wind Rises this summer; and, Lord willing, The Boy and the Heron in a few weeks.  

Raising Arizona (a discovery): I didn’t know a Coen Brothers film could be this silly and this sentimental. It makes me smile just to think about it.

The Rings of Power (a discovery): The first season of Amazon’s Lord of the Rings prequel show is not what I had feared it would be and far better than its negative reception suggests. It is also—whatever liberties are taken with the lore—surprisingly congruous with Tolkien’s moral vision. I really hope we’ll get to see the other seasons. (P.S.: This year I also got to see the extended edition of The Fellowship of the Ring on the big screen—another movie-going highlight.)

In Memoriam: Michael Gambon

One of my favorite actors passed away on September 27. Of the fifty films currently on my list of “Film Friends,” Michael Gambon played a significant role in five of them. He was Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004)—his first time in the role—and in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)—the one in which he was given the most room to shine. He played Lord Charles Fox in Amazing Grace (2006). He was the voice of Farmer Bean in Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009) and the narrator of Hail, Caesar! (2016). (Technically, he’s in six of my Film Friends—but Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 [2010] doesn’t really count.) I don’t know anything about who he was or what he was like off-camera, but his work on the screen suggests a versatile talent and a reliable professional, someone who would give each assignment his best no matter the film’s genre, target audience, or budget. That in turn suggests a humility. He seems to have been an actor who called attention to his characters and their place in the stories they were a part of, not to himself. But all I know for sure is how much his performances enhanced these films that mean so much to me. So this week, in his honor, four of the above films are displayed at the top of my Letterboxd profile, and Nicholas Hooper’s score for Half-Blood Prince—which includes a requiem for Dumbledore—is playing in my car. I am saddened by Gambon’s passing, and grateful for his work.

Maybe You Should Give That Film/Book/Album a Second Chance

How many times have I been underwhelmed or upset by a first viewing of a film, or a first reading of a book, or a first listening of an album, only to be glad I gave it a second, third, fourth chance later on? 

For the past few years I have found this to be a helpful rule of thumb: so often, the first viewing/reading/listening is for finding out what the film/book/album is not. It isn’t until the second viewing/reading/listening that I can begin to appreciate what the film/book/album actually is. 

This rule of thumb is especially true if I come to the work with definite expectations. My disappointment with it will be directly proportional to how much it deviates from what I wanted it to be. But if I can get over how it doesn’t meet my terms and try to understand the work on its own terms, then a funny thing can happen: I become glad that it isn’t what I wanted it to be, because what it turns out to be is so much better.

Really, wouldn’t it be boring and dispiriting if my favorite band’s latest album, or my favorite film franchise’s latest sequel, or the book that multiple friends recommended I read, turned out to be exactly what I pictured in my head? The dissonance between expectation and reality can be a very good thing. I won’t gain or learn much of anything from familiarity and predictability.

This is not to say I should give everything that’s ever disappointed me a second chance. There are many works that, after a first viewing/reading/listening, I can fairly confidently predict will not be worth a second appraisal. But if a trusted friend or critic makes a compelling, plausible argument praising the work for something I didn’t notice in it, or if I suspect there’s more going on under the surface than I could comprehend at first, then I am willing to give it another try. More often than not, I’m thankful I did.

P.S. August 27: See Tim Lawrence’s elaboration on the above.