Of all the 2012 films nominated for best picture Oscars this year, two have gained press as much for their controversial content as for their awards-caliber quality. Those two films are Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty and Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained.
The former, a tense action thriller documenting the CIA’s decade-long search for Osama bin Laden, has proven controversial because of its hard-to-watch depiction of “enhanced interrogation techniques” (aka torture) early in the film. The latter, a revisionist pop art spaghetti western about a slave uprising in the Antebellum South, has raised eyebrows because of its over-the-top violence, racially offensive language (over 100 uses of the “n” word), and generally irreverent treatment of a sensitive topic.
The Zero Dark Thirty controversy is a murky one, with accusations claiming either that the film dangerously misleads in its depiction of torture (Senators John McCain, Carl Levin and Dianne Feinstein are leading this charge) or that it gets the facts mostly right and is well within the latitude usually afforded the “based on a true story” Hollywood genre. In his lengthy defense of the film in The Atlantic, Mark Bowden writes,
Torture may be morally wrong, and it may not be the best way to obtain information from detainees, but it played a role in America’s messy, decade-long pursuit of Osama bin Laden, and Zero Dark Thirty is right to portray that fact.
Critics on the other extreme, like The Guardian’s Naomi Wolf, accuse Bigelow of nothing less than deception and propaganda, comparing her to famous “facts”-benders like James Frey and Leni Riefenstahl.
In her acceptance speech for best director at the January 7 New York Film Critics Circle Awards, Bigelow defended the film against such attacks by saying:
I thankfully want to say that I’m standing in a room of people who understand that depiction is not endorsement, and if it was, no artist could ever portray inhumane practices; no author could ever write about them; and no film-maker could ever delve into the knotty subjects of our time.
Though Django Unchained exists in an entirely different universe than Zero Dark Thirty (a much more cartoonish, stylized universe), presumably Quentin Tarantino would echo Bigelow’s sentiment that what a filmmaker depicts in his or her films should not be assumed to be endorsement. For Tarantino, who has since the days of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs been something of a scapegoat/posterboy for the societal hazards of violent cinema, the “depiction is not endorsement” defense is a crucial one. But is it ironclad?
In a recent interview with a British journalist who tried to press Tarantino on the question of the relationship between movie violence and real violence, Tarantino went a little bit crazy, saying “I’m not your slave, and you’re not my master,” as he repeatedly refused to answer any questions on the subject. Clearly (and perhaps tellingly) Tarantino was uncomfortable with the topic. Watch the amusing clip here.
In the wake of the Newtown and Aurora massacres, when questions about the role of desensitizing movie and video game violence seem reasonable if not obligatory, it seems that the burden is on filmmakers like Tarantino to at least ponder the question.
In an interview this month with NPR, Tarantino sort-of addresses the subject of violence and exploitation in Django:
What happened during slavery times is a thousand times worse than [what] I show. So if I were to show it a thousand times worse, to me, that wouldn’t be exploitative, that would just be how it is. If you can’t take it, you can’t take it. … Now, I wasn’t trying to do a Schindler’s List you-are-there-under-the-barbed-wire-of-Auschwitz. I wanted the film to be more entertaining than that. … But there’s two types of violence in this film: There’s the brutal reality that slaves lived under for … 245 years, and then there’s the violence of Django’s retribution. And that’s movie violence, and that’s fun and that’s cool, and that’s really enjoyable and kind of what you’re waiting for.
But that’s precisely the troubling thing about movie violence. As fantastical and as clearly “movie-fake” as it might be, it is so often tied up with the emotional arc of a character we are rooting for or a justice we are vicariously hoping to experience. These are Tarantino films in a nutshell: Kill Bill, Inglourious Basterds, Django Unchained, Death Proof. They are revenge fantasies, hypothetical alternate histories in which terrible killers are vanquished with samurai swords, theaters full of Nazis are destroyed by Jews, and evil slaveowners like Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio) are terminated by lowly slaves. The violence in these movies is embarrassingly, unnervingly enjoyable because it is employed in the service of a juicy, attractive tale of (mostly) good overcoming evil.
Even when movie violence is gritty, ugly and un-romanticized (as in Zero Dark Thirty), it has a potency that attaches itself to our emotions and causes us to more or less cheer it on. Critic David Edelstein named ZDT the best film of the year but nonetheless finds himself unnerved by some of these questions: “In cinema,” he writes, “the adrenaline rush can overwhelm our squeamish objections to violence. That’s what makes the medium so dangerous. … Bigelow doesn’t just depict the hunt for and killing of Osama bin Laden. She puts it into our bloodstream.”
But is it really the filmmaker’s responsibility to account for the affective, intoxicating power of cinema? Must a filmmaker worry about what others feel, or in extreme cases are inspired to do, because of what they see in a film?
From some angles, the suggestion that artistic depiction is endorsement appears ludicrous. A cursory survey of art history reveals as much. Caravaggio was clearly not endorsing the behavior of the Roman soldiers in his paintings of Christ’s passion, for example. And then there’s the entire tradition of social realist art which intends depiction for the very opposite of endorsement: for chastisement or expose. Courbet’s The Stone Breakers and any number of Ken Loach films, for example, do not depict poverty and inequality so as to endorse their existence; rather they depict them to bring awareness to egregious conditions and abominable injustices.
But the depiction of “the ugly” in art as means to bring about reform is one thing. Should artists be given free pass to depict the extremes of ugliness (torture, unspeakable gun violence, hundreds of uses of the “n” word) when their only purpose is to convey a purported verisimilitude to the “reality” of the world in which their story is set?
In short, yes. I believe that insofar as an artist honestly sets out to tell a story that is truthful (to the world in which it is set, to the real struggles of its characters), then it is their right and even obligation to not shield us from the darker elements. As I wrote recently in Relevant Magazine, “Something about the way the world is (that is: difficult, risqué, R-rated) tells us that to be truthful, art must grapple with darkness. As filmmaker Akira Kurosawa once said, ‘The artist is the one who does not look away.’”
For me, it all comes down to whether the artist is in the business of seeing the world more clearly and thus focusing the audience’s gaze on a reality in the truest since. This would exclude artists and filmmakers who use depiction and all of its accompanying visceral pull to twist reality and tell propagandistic lies (e.g. Leni Riefenstahl), as well as those who use depiction not to guide the viewer toward contemplation of truth as much as to be provoked, grossed out, titillated or otherwise distracted (e.g. “torture porn” directors like Eli Roth, shock-artists, etc.)
In the case of the two films under discussion in this essay, I’d say Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty fairly passes the test. However foggy the history may be in her narrative of the hunt for “UBL,” it’s clear that her intention is not propagandistic or sensationalist. Tarantino’s Django is a bit of a harder case, because everything about it screams sensationalism and maybe even exploitation. It’s less clear whether Tarantino’s aim here is wholly oriented toward truth-telling (as opposed to merely a stylish exercise in genre and pop culture pastiche), but I’m going to go out on a limb and give Quentin the benefit of the doubt.
His film is not a ripped-from-the-headlines true story like Zero Dark Thirty. But in spite of its flamboyance, the world of Django–the passions, atrocities, hatred, fear, vengeance, occupations, camaraderie–rings true. And the same painstaking, sometimes dirty quest for the destruction of a villain that drives Zero Dark Thirty also drives Django. It’s Hollywood, and it’s life.
And that’s precisely why cinema is at once a powerful, beautiful artform but also something that troubles the waters of our scapegoat-seeking, hyper-violent culture. Cinema tells the truth like nothing else because it sticks like nothing else; as Edelstein noted, it “gets into our bloodstream.” It gets our heart pumping. Cinema is powerful because it is dangerous.
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
How does the viewpoint you present here apply when it comes to depicting sexuality in film. May the filmmaker and other artists deploy the same range of verisimilitude for the purposes of telling the truth? Nudity, on-screen sex, perversions, etc.; or does it only apply to grappling with the “truth” about violence, but not about sexuality? And if there is a difference in the way the two should be treated, how do you account for it?
There are other nuances with regard to the depiction of sexuality but I think much of what I write above could apply in this area too. I think sexuality, like violence, can appropriately be employed when it is an essential part of the world being explored or the story being told. That said, there are tasteful ways to go about it and I’d argue that a good artist is often a master of the implicit rather than the explicit in this area. As I write above, I do not endorse those who use depiction of “the real” in a mode that is mostly about provocation and titillation (i.e. excessive explicit sexuality, nudity, etc.) as opposed to leading the audience to a place of aesthetic or existential contemplation. It’s hard to contemplate anything when the screen is full of gratuitous flesh, whether in the form of sexualized bodies or dismembered bodies. Violence and sexuality can’t be hidden from art, as if they don’t exist, but there comes a point when their depiction is more distracting than illuminating.
Brett: Do you think P. T. Anderson’s film “The Master” depicted sex in “tasteful ways”? I’m no prude but I felt his depictions hindered my contemplation of the themes.
Brett, thanks for the article; I think your analysis of the portrayal of violence is great, and I probably agree with your conclusions (I’m still thinking it out).
This dichotomy between implicit and explicit portrayal is interesting, because I think Christians of our generation (myself included) may have something of a double standard when it comes to violence vs. sexuality (or anything vs. sexuality). We don’t usually condone explicit sexuality in film, but we absorb explicit violence without thinking twice. Yes, we reject gornos like Hostel; but while I’m sure everyone squirmed when Brad Pitt carved a swastika in the bad guy’s forehead in Inglorious Basterds, we accept that more easily than we do a full-on sex scene in an otherwise not-porn film.
So my question, I guess, is whether you think we ought to apply the same explicit/implicit standard to violence that we do to sexuality in films. Because while yes, Christianity does promise justice in the form of warfare in the eschaton, and one can make a convincing case for Christians participating in violent justice and just war, personal violence is pretty roundly condemned by Jesus and we see next to nothing of it in the early church.
Depiction is not endorsement; perhaps though, enjoyment is.
Great article. I enjoyed both movies and agree with your assessment. I argued that this “revenge fantasy” can be seen from a Christian perspective as “typological justice.” This in no way means we can ourselves perform this justice, but in art it can point us to justice that is to come. http://patrickschreiner.com/2013/01/14/django-unchained-and-justice/
No serious movie director makes a movie without considering how he/she/ wants the audience to respond, even if the only response is for viewers to hand over their wallets and that of their friends multiple times. Tarantino betrays his motives with the words “entertainment” and “fun”.
Depiction may not always equal endorsement, but there’s a case to be made that depiction is never neutral. It’s an argument for *something.* The challenge is in unravelling what that something is. Christians too often fall into this trap when thoughtlessly freaking out over the Harry Potter series for its depiction of witchcraft.
I think this is a good point. You don’t have to endorce when you show something, but you do have to know why you are showing it if you want to consider yourself a real filmmaker.
[…] Is Depiction Endorsement? Filmmaker Responsibility in “Zero Dark Thirty” and “Djan…- I don’t necessarily agree with every conclusion the author draws here, but it’s an interesting take on violence in movies. As you could probably guess if you know me well, I don’t find violence entertaining, and I consider the fact that so many do to be incredibly barbaric. While it’s disappointing to see movies as graphically violent as Zero Dark Thirty and Django Unchained, I can’t fault the filmmakers entirely – they wouldn’t make the movies if people didn’t pay to see them (so if you’re paying to see them, stop it). […]
[…] A great post today from Brett McCracken over at Mere Orthodoxy. […]
[…] question of depiction in film as endorsement rather expertly–as he usually does–over at Mere Orthodoxy. The question came up surrounding the films Zero Dark Thirty and Django Unchained last year, and […]