The Shack: Don’t Get Your Hopes Up

The Shack was a terrible book, badly written, offering shallow comfort and questionable theology. I’m not optimistic that the movie (premiering March 3) will be able to transcend these immediate problems unless it totally abandons any commitment to its source material and engages a screenwriter who can make us forgive the stereotypes and articulate a coherent spiritual response to the unrelenting grief of a bereaved parent.

Protagonist Mack receives a mysterious invitation to revisit a shack where his young daughter was abducted and murdered. He finds Papa, Jesus, and Sarayu waiting for him—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; and Mack challenges them with his questions and doubts about his battered faith. They cover theodicy, of course—reconciling the existence of evil and suffering with an omnipotent benevolent God; but they also discuss Trinitarianism, the incarnation, Hell, predestination, original sin, and forgiveness.

Author William P. Young tries for a fresh characterization of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, but falls back on stereotypes and predictability. Papa is a jolly Black mother-figure who bakes pies and whips up four-course meals. Sarayu is a mystical, Asian-influenced, pan-dimensional being. And Jesus, of course, is a rugged but gentle Middle Eastern handyman with a big nose. Mack “knew instantly that he liked [him].”

The Shack strays from orthodoxy with vaguely universalist theology, and along the way it fails to provide any deep or satisfying answers to the problem of pain.

The plot revolves around Mack’s suffering over his daughter’s horrifying death. When Mack talks to Jesus about this, seeking understanding and peace, Jesus tells him that his daughter was never alone because the Holy Spirit was with her; they talked and she was comforted; “she was more worried about you and the other kids, knowing that you couldn’t find her. She prayed for you, for your peace,” Jesus tells Mack. “She was so brave!”

This flaccid response to grief and suffering offers the shallow comfort of make-believe. The key question of the book—How do I cope and find comfort in the deepest grief?—gets a cursory treatment in the form of a dialogue with no universal truth or wisdom.

Mack’s conversation with Jesus is fiction, of course—but even in fiction the reader seeks truth and wisdom that transcend the page and translate to real life. Author Young shows Jesus attempting to “fix” Mack’s grief with bromidic assurances. Even if it’s true that the Holy Spirit is with us—and I believe it is—these words don’t bring relief from grief and suffering. They don’t reverse the bad thing that has happened.

We live in a world that still suffers the consequences of sin. Christians sometimes get confused about the promises of the Kingdom.  We are not promised that we will be protected from these consequences. We do experience new life in some ways and at some times—yet clearly not in other ways or times. We cannot “claim” the blessings of comfort and peace right now, on our own timelines, in spite of the vapid affirmations of popular health and wealth preachers.

Even Jesus experienced this already and not-yet paradox of the kingdom. In the garden of Gethsemane, Matthew tells us that Jesus was “very sad and troubled…He fell to the ground” and cried out to God: “My Father, if it is possible, do not give me this cup of suffering.” Luke writes that Jesus was “full of pain” and that “his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.” But His Father did not answer this prayer. Jesus continued to suffer, to the point of death on the cross.

Through his resurrection, Jesus conquered death—but still people die. Aidan died.

In my journey through the valley of the shadow of death, there were no grief-erasing Bible verses, no magic conversations with Jesus, no portion of my faith that instantly turned my sorrow into peace and comfort. That’s not how the blessings of the kingdom work this side of eternity. There is still grief. God has not yet wiped every tear from our eyes.

In real life there are no words that can bring comfort to a grieving parent. It is not only feckless to try to take away a person’s sorrow, it is manipulative and insulting. There are no words, no faith, no message, that take away grief.

What the real Jesus would have said to Mack, what he would say to me, is, “I hate this. I hate the evil that took your child away from you. It’s wrong, and horrible, and no parent should have to endure it. I wish I could take away your pain.”

It’s called empathy. God the Father endured the loss of his own Son. Jesus is “not a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but…one who was tempted in every way.” At Aidan’s funeral, the pastor said “Jesus does not come to death with a gracious invitation. Death is, for Jesus, the Last Enemy, and to death he comes with a sword. To death Jesus comes with his robe dipped in blood.”

These violent images of war convey with Shakespearean vividness that death is the enemy—and that’s what Jesus would have communicated to Mack. He would not have offered unhelpful platitudes that do not bring comfort in the face of such a grievous loss.

So the book failed in its treatment of the universal problem of pain, and the movie will fail too unless it reimagines these conversations and offers a more realistic depiction of what faith can and cannot do for a grieving parent.  

My own recovery from paralyzing grief after the death of my son entailed a long and emotionally grueling process. Time, tears, prayer, therapy and friendship—not to mention wine and anti-depressants—brought me to an experience of grace such that grief is no longer debilitating.

Now I am able, sometimes, to live in the awareness that God is present with me, in the middle of my sorrow. I finally began to discover moments of peace in the presence of God.

It’s paradoxical that peace, shalom, can exist in a world that contains the deepest grief and suffering. It makes no sense—but that is the paradoxical nature of the Kingdom that Jesus offered. Shalom exists, and Jesus walks with us through our grueling times. Jesus somehow, mysteriously, holds on to us.

And unlike the lame message of The Shack, He does not expect us to pretend that death is OK. He never suggests that we can feel better because of some fake spiritual fluffery.

I don’t completely understand it, but the real gospel, the real Jesus, is comfort enough.

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Forgiving the Unforgivable: a Review of The Hiding Place

Provision Theater made me cry.  Twice.  Jerks.

The Hiding Place, a play based on the book by Corrie ten Boom, tells the true and compelling story of the ten Boom family and their costly work with the underground resistance to hide and protect Jews during the Nazi occupation of Holland during WWII.  My family and one other decided that there was no better way to celebrate Mothers' Day than by watching a play about Nazis and concentration camps.

We ignored the the warning on the company's website suggesting that the material might be too difficult for children under 10.  One of our under-tenners seemed to handle it just fine; but M. Peevie cowered in my arms with my hands over her eyes and ears for much of the play.  "Are there going to be real gunshots?" she asked, remembering the loud and scary moments from The Three Musketeers.

"No," I accidentally lied.  But there were.  And there was hitting and brutality and other mean stuff that when you see it on stage, with real people, can feel more scary and painful than when you see it on the big blue screen.

"If the Nazis had a report card for niceness, they would get all F's!" M. Peevie declared after the show.

But the story is, of course, ultimately redemptive.  The ten Booms risk everything to help Jewish families -- some friends, some strangers -- escape during the War -- and Corrie's father and sister Betsie paid the ultimate price.  "Hold everything in your hands lightly," Corrie said in her later writings, "otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open."

I cried twice during the show: first, when Betsie died in Ravensbruck, and again when Corrie forgave the Dutch informant who facilitated her family's arrest. She wrote this about this forgiveness

Even as the angry vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. Jesus Christ had died for this man; was I going to ask for more? Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him....Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me your forgiveness....And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives along with the command, the love itself.

Adapted and directed by Tim Gregory, the play is sometimes hard to watch because of the subject matter, but definitely worth it.  Lia Mortenson as Corrie strikes believable notes as a believer who sometimes doubts and often struggles to understand God's purposes and the teachings of her faith.  It's a big cast, and the other actors do a great job as well--except for the allegedly German-accented English was distracting and mixed up with some Russian and Eastern European accents. 

The Hiding Place is playing at Provision Theater through May 23.

Dinner Table Conversation, Plus a Bit of a Movie Review

We took the kids to see Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian last weekend. Even though it's only getting 44% on the rotten tomato meter, the kids loved it, and I didn't hate it. The best part, to me, was explaining to M. Peevie what the sexual innuendos meant.

There's sweetness, though not much sexual tension between the main character (Larry Daley, played by Ben Stiller) and his pert, adventurous sidekick, Amelia Earhart (Amy Adams). There's lithping humor from Kahmunrah (Hank Azaria), which your 13-going-on-14-year-old will quote for days afterward. There are Albert Einstein bobbleheads singing "That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it, I like it!", which your 11-year-old will giggle at for days afterward.

And there's Owen Wilson as a miniature cowboy in Daley's front chest pocket, who, after Daley embraces Earhart and smooches her, remarks, "I just got to second base." That got a chuckle from the grown-ups, and even though I was hoping she'd forget by the time we got home, M. Peevie wondered what it meant and why was it funny.

I saw it as an opportunity for some early sex ed, and over the objections of both boys ("Mom! Please don't! Not at the dinner table!"), I started in on the "touchy" subject

"M. Peevie," I said, looking at her seriously, "when a boy kisses a girl, they call it 'first base.'" I paused to watch her face screw up into a disgusted grimace.

"Yuck," she said.

"Exactly," I continued, and both A. Peevie and C. Peevie interrupted, "MOM, Puh-leeze!"

"Do you HAVE to, Mom? At the dinner table?" C. Peevie groaned.

"Yes," I insisted. "M. Peevie, when a boy touches a girl's breast, they call it 'second base.'"

"Ew!" said M. P. "Ew. Why would a boy want to touch a girl's breast?"

C. Peevie just looked me in despair. "Mom, don't," he moaned.

I felt I had to finish what I started, so I went on. "I guess maybe because they want to know what it feels like," I said, "or maybe because they like how it feels."

"Well, I'm NEVER going to let a boy touch my breast," said my breast-less eight-year-old adamantly. "It's gross."

By this time, C. Peevie's head was down on the table, and A. Peevie had started giggling hysterically. I can't remember if Mr. Peevie was even in the room, but if he was, I'm sure he was just shaking his head in awe at my parental wisdom.

"Yes, M. Peevie," I said, "It is gross when you're eight. And just so you know, most of this information is not stuff I want you to talk about with the kids at school."

That was the end of it. I'm kind of glad she didn't ask about third base and home runs. I'm sure the male Peevies are relieved, as well.

Would you have handled it differently?

Creepy, or Just Me?

A boyfriend from eons ago--let's call him David McCall--contacted me through LinkedIn. He used his American name and had shortened his long Middle Eastern last name to a less ethnic-sounding name. He was ostensibly looking for an editor for an engineering report and his resume. I wondered who the guy was, and why was he asking for rates from a writer in Chicago when writers in LA are a dime a dozen.

Then I put two and two together: the first name, the still-recognizable last name, the engineering specialty, the LA location, and most importantly, the LinkedIn connection through the university we both attended--and I figured out who he was. But why the sneakiness? Why contact me as a potential client instead of coming right out and saying, hey, it's me, how the heck are you?

It felt sneaky and manipulative to me, so I did not respond.

The next day, I had another email from David McCall--this time using his full name instead of the Americanized version. This time he was straight up, re-introducing himself, asking about my parents and siblings, and hoping to get re-connected. He also mentioned the engineering report--but I still think it's a smokescreen, a way for him to say how he found me without saying he was looking specifically for me.

I don't know--maybe I'm a little too optimistic about my own attractiveness. But hey, who wouldn't want to hook up with me? I might be a middle-aged, overweight, mildly depressed, unemployed, happily married mother of three above-average-but-incredibly-loud children, but I do have great hair and a killer sense of humor.

But since he was honest, and since I was impressed that he remembered my parents names and the names of all my siblings 20 years later, I responded to his email with an email of my own. I was friendly, but not too friendly, and included details about my perfect family and my deliriously happy marriage, so that there would be no misunderstanding about my intentions.

(Listen to me. I really do have an inflated sense of self-worth, don't I? Like if I'm not careful, every man on the planet who once vaguely knew me would be knocking on my door if I wasn't clear enough about my lack of availability. I crack my own self up.)

When David M. wrote back, I was immensely relieved to find out that he was married, with two very young children. I thought, finally, he's reached a happy, healthy place. (Early on in my marriage, this guy would call me once every four or five years, and tell me yukky stories about his pathetic lonely life and tell me I was still his best friend; and I could not wait to get off the phone. I was happy when he finally stopped calling after about ten years.)

Anyway, I started regretting accepting his friend invitation on LinkedIn when he called me on my cell phone one afternoon shortly thereafter. On my cell phone--after no contact for almost 20 years! My own parents don't call me on my cell phone! Where the hell did he get the number? I wondered-- and then I realized: it's on my email signature line. I gave it to him myself.

And here's the weird part: I picked up the call because the number had a 773 area code--the area code of my part of Chicago. I thought it was going to be a neighbor or a friend, and when I heard this voice from my past, I was flustered, creeped out, and probably rude. I told him I couldn't talk and to call back later. My stomach was still churning hours later--but that might just have been the tuna I had for lunch.

How and why was he calling from a 773 area code? Does he have some kind of magical re-routing software to hide the origins of his calls? It's very 24--and again, this felt slightly manipulative to me.

Later I found that he had emailed me again, requesting my parents' phone number because, he said, "I miss them." My parents. He misses them. Oh, and he asked again for a quote on revising his resume. Doing his resume will require talking to him on the phone for about an hour, and frankly, I don't really want that kind of contact with an old boyfriend who got a little too clingy after our relationship was over. I didn't respond.

About a week later, I got another email from him alleging that that he had heard about the shooting at a church in Illinois and was worried about my family's safety. Again, a little disingenuous. David McCall knows I live in Chicago, and the shooting was nowhere near Chicago. He asked again for my parents phone number.

I wrote back, curtly told him yes, we were fine, and said that I'd need to check with my parents first before giving out their phone number. I never did get back to him with the phone number, or with a quote on his resume. I should have emailed him and just told him it made me uncomfortable--but I didn't.

This week, a month later, I got another kind of weird and freaky email from him, written all in the third person about a man who happened to be surfing the internet looking for a technical writer when he happened upon the profile of a writer who turned out to be his old friend. He even mentioned the earlier calls from 15 - 20 years ago, and specified that he had no ulterior motive, "particularly after knowing that his friend is also happily married."

Doesn't that clause imply that if his friend were not happily married, that there might have been an ulterior motive? I wonder what his wife thinks about that.

His email continued,

"The man kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting for a response from the writer, but for some odd reason, the writer never, ever bothered to get back to the old friend...Was it right for the friend just to put off the man and deny his friendship? Probably not. The good book says the following..."

--and then quotes three Bible verses, including this one from Job: "My relatives and my close friends have failed me." He asked me--in the third person still--to delete everything he sent me.

He visited my blog at least four times the first week that he contacted me--but I don't know if he still comes by The Green Room. He might be reading this right now and thinking, hey, what a bitch! Or perhaps it will give him a clue about normal social boundaries. Part of me is thinking, how does he have time for all this, with two very young kids and a wife and a big-ass engineering job? I can barely get a blog post written once a week even though I have no clients and my kids are in school all day!

The more I think about it, the more irritated I am that this person has any expectations of me at all, let alone has the nerve to send me an angry, manipulative email quoting the Bible at me! It's exactly this kind of response that confirms for me that my instincts were correct.

I'm probably I'm not being very Jesusy here, but at this point, I don't even know what Jesus wants me to do about this.

Is it creepy, or is it just me?

Minority Report: Chicago

Why do people think we need more rules and more laws? Why do people think it's a good idea to make rules or laws governing problems that MIGHT occur at some point in the future?

Some day, when I am the benevolent despot, I will make the inherently ironic law that there are enough laws already, and no more law-making will be tolerated. Don't you think by now we have enough laws to cover everything?

At church, TPTB (come on, you know this one: The Powers That Be) were discussing whether or not to make a rule proscribing coffee in the sanctuary. Why? Because at some point in the future, we might get carpet, and then someone might spill coffee on it. Give me a break.

In the same Minority Report spirit, our city's Office of Emergency Management and Communications will enact a "voluntary moratorium" on alcohol sales in Wrigleyville after the seventh inning of a clinch game "to prevent Cubs playoff celebrations from turning ugly," the Sun-Times reported Monday. In other words, they're afraid something bad might happen.

Don't we already have enough rules, regulations, ordinances, and laws to cover this situation? It's already against the law to over-serve alcohol to already-impaired customers. Drunk and disorderly conduct and driving under the influence are arrestable offenses.

Why can't we just enforce the laws that are already in place--and let those of us who are mature enough to drink responsibly still have a beer? I hate being told what to do; and if I were a bar owner, I'd hate being told how to run my business by a bunch of bored civil servants.

I heard someone suggest that this extraneous rule-making is likely related to Chicago's bid to host the 2016 Olympics. The less negative publicity we have, the better our chances to pluck that primo opportunity; and theoretically, the one-hour alcohol moratorium will reduce the chance that Wrigleyville will erupt into a mad, dangerous, frenzy of out-of-control celebration-related destruction.

But I think it makes more sense to take a less totalitarian approach: Increase police presence. Ask bar owners to increase their vigilance about over-serving--but don't prevent them from making a living serving the 99 percent of people who won't overdo it.

What do you think?

Oh, and go Cubs!

The Great Tornado of 2008

Where were you during the the Great Tornado of 2008? Were you at the Cubs game, being evacuated to the stadium concourse? Were you filming the meteorological events from your downtown high-rise?

The Peevies spent the evening in basement, having an impromptu family movie night. We wrapped ourselves in blankies and cuddled up on the couches and watched Hercules, which was better than I remembered.

Danny DeVito, as Phil, even had a singing role! Awesome. Also awesome: James Woods as Hades. Apparently they re-wrote a lot of his lines, and he ad libbed a bunch more, because in his audition, he played the character as a fast-talking, smooth operator, and the casting directors liked this rendition better than how it was originally conceived.

In one of my favorite lines, Pain and Panic defended themselves against the charge that they didn't kill Hercules as instructed with this hilarious exchange:

"This might be a different Hercules."

"Yeah, I mean, Hercules is a very popular name nowadays."

"Remember, like, a few years ago, every other boy was named Jason and the girls were all named Brittany?"

Hee!

Anyhoo, there we were, safe in our basement, with the radio in the background repeating the warnings to seek cover and describing the progress of the fast-moving storm. We'd pause the movie periodically to listen to the update. I probably should have resisted this urge, because it only increased A. Peevie's anxiety--but I couldn't help myself. It's not every day that we get tornadoes headed for the city limits.

It made me wonder how often it does actually happen, so I did a little research. This report from the National Weather Service Forecast Office is kind of interesting. Did you know that

• there were 92 significant tornadoes in the Chicago area between 1855 and 2008?
• the deadliest Chicago-area tornado killed 33 people in 1967? and this one actually did hit the city limits, on the South Side.
• it's been 18 years since the last F4 or stronger tornado--and the NWS says that means "the Chicago area is overdue for a major tornado"?

Scroll down this USAToday link for the answer to a question about tornadoes in downtown Chicago. The author reports that tornadoes have struck within the city limits three times, in 1876, 1961, and 1967.

And finally, I will leave you with this AP story about the storm, with an inadvertently hilarious last line. What does it even mean?

(Photo courtesy of the National Severe Storms Laboratory.)

Counter-Intuitive

A. Peevie has more anxiety than Woody Allen. From the time he was very young, he has experienced the usual childhood fears (and some not-so-usual) only in disproportionate levels. Separation, storms, dark places, animals, death, germs--these things would cause him to erupt in a screaming, inconsolable fit of terror.

One time, at the Wisconsin State Fair, we were walking happily along the Midway when A. Peevie sighted a teeny tiny storm cloud on the horizon. The sky was otherwise as clear as the skin on a Clearasil spokesteen. AP started whining for us to leave.

As the teeny tiny cloud got a little bit bigger, and a little bit closer, the whining turned to crying. "We have to leave NOW!" A. Peevie sobbed. "It's going to rain! There's going to be lightning and thunder! WE! MUST! LEAVE! NOW!"

We kept trying to reassure him. We'll go inside if it rains, we told him. We'll keep you safe. We won't let you be outside if there's any lightning. It was no use. Gradually the cloud got bigger, and the sky started to get a bit darker as the storm moved into the county. The crying turned to panicked screaming: "A storm is coming! We're going to be struck by lightning! We're all going to DIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!"

This was all before one drop of rain fell. A. Peevie kept sobbing and screaming until we finally headed into the chicken barn. It did eventually rain, and there was brief thunder and lightning. Afterward, we tried to talk rationally to A. Peevie about his fears, but he came back with a rational retort: "Lightning can KILL you," he said. And that was that.

So anyway, my point is, the boy has fear and anxiety issues. But guess what his favorite movie is.

Hint #1: It's not Sound of Music.

Hint #2: It's not animated.

Hint #3: It was made by one of my favorite movie makers, who has a new movie that just came out in June that I totally want to see, even though it only rates a 19 percent on the TomatoMeter.

That's right. A. Peevie's favorite movie, that he watches over and over again, is Signs, by M. Night Shyamalan. He loves to pause it on the brief frames where you can see a leg, a hand, or the whole body of an alien. He replays the alien scenes, and some of the other scenes too, like the one where the awesome Joaquin Phoenix leaps back six feet after seeing a video clip of an alien on TV.

He has also watched all the extras on the DVD, which makes me think that someday maybe he'll be a filmmaker. "I'll make scary movies," he told me.

Go figure.

How is this the favorite movie of a kid who can't stay in his own bed at night because of nightmares and awakemares? Sometimes he comes into my room and tells me that his imagination is scaring him, and he can't help it. "My imagination is thinking of scary things," he says.

I know what you're thinking: then stop letting him watch scary things on TV, you dummy! But we do restrict his access to scary things. This movie came on cable one night when we were on vacation (because, as you know, we STILL don't have cable at home, do we, MR. PEEVIE?), and he accidentally started watching it. The other kids, including his older brother, ran screaming from the room as soon as the scary music started, but A. Peevie talked us into letting him watch it. He was intrigued by the aliens.

And by way of brief review, I love this movie as well. I can watch it over and over again, just like A. Peevie does, because the characters capture me, and the signs, when I recognize them, make me catch my breath every time.

I love Roger Ebert's review of this movie (of course); especially this paragraph that explains exactly why I will go see Shyamalan's new movie, even though it's getting the worst TomatoMeter rating of all his movies:

In a time when Hollywood mistakes volume for action, Shyamalan makes quiet films. In a time when incessant action is a style, he persuades us to play close attention to the smallest nuances. In "The Sixth Sense" (1999) he made a ghost story that until the very end seemed only to be a personal drama--although there was something there, some buried hint, that made us feel all was not as it seemed. In "Unbreakable" (2000) he created a psychological duel between two men, and it was convincing even though we later discovered its surprising underlying nature, and all was redefined.

It's kind of cool to me that my quietly brilliant 10-year-old appreciates the nuanced story-telling of Signs. It's counter-intuitive, but cool.

Aliens

A. Peevie wandered into my bedroom an hour or so after he was supposed to be asleep. He was rumpled, flushed, and tired-looking.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. I hate it when I have to parent after 9 p.m. I'm supposed to be off the clock. The union is very clear about that--but very bad about enforcement.

"I'm hot," he said. "And scared."

"OK, let's go back to your room and turn the fan on," I suggested. We walked down the hallway to his room.

"The fan's too loud," he said, as he climbed back into bed.

"OK, then, I'll open the window a little bit," I suggested.

"No, that's worse! That's even more scary!" he non sequitured.

I opened it anyway. "What are you scared of?" I asked, lying down next to him, and sliding my arm under his hot little head.

"Aliens," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Ah, aliens," I repeated. "Are you afraid that an alien will come in through the open window, take over my body, and be a better mom than I am?" I joked. A. Peevie was not amused.

He turned his head and looked at me. "You are not helping matters," he said, like a smallish adult who just happens to be afraid of aliens.

"Sorry," I said.

And all this talk about aliens reminds me that there's a new M. Night Shyamalan movie coming out in June. Yay.

Roger Ebert: Can We Have Dinner Sometime?

Sometime in my life, I'd like to have a leisurely dinner with Roger Ebert, and talk about movies and books and writing, and how they fit in with the really important things in life. I love how he sort of accidentally fell into his dream job, a career that combined something he loved with something he's very, very good at. What providence!

I love Ebert's writing. There are few things I like better in this world than really good writing. To attain this accolade, a writer has to first be a top-notch thinker. There's no such thing as a great writer who isn't first of all a clear, smart thinker. I don't buy it when a person says, "I know what I'm thinking, I just don't know how to say it." Bullshit. If you don't have the words, you don't know what you're thinking, and if you say you do, you're a pretender. It's best at that point to just stop talking. (Trust me, I know of what I speak.)

But I digress. My point is, Roger Ebert is a really talented writer, which necessarily means that he is a clear, logical, and at times, deep thinker. I admire that. I learn so much more from his reviews than whether or not he liked the movie. There are nuggets of philosophy, or literature, or history; if you read enough of Ebert's reviews, you end up getting a bit of a film school education. I always find myself wanting to learn more, read more, think more.

But while his reviews leave no doubt about his expertise and cleverness, Ebert's style is never intimidating or pedantic. He doesn't patronize me, nor does he try to impress me with his vocabulary and mastery of the subject matter.

I love Ebert's reviews because he obviously loves movies. I swear, I don't know why some reviewers don't just quit their jobs and become RTVF professors--they seem to hate everything they see, unless it's completely unfathomable to us regular viewers. But Ebert loves movies! He doesn't love, or even like, everything he sees; but he often finds value and redemption in movies that other reviewers scorn. More often than not, my movie-going experience matches up with the movie-loving guy rather than the nose-in-the-air critic.

Readers who love excellent prose, even if they are not necessarily film buffs, should seek out his columns in the entertainment section of the newspaper. Each review is different, and Ebert takes chances with his style and format instead of boringly sticking with the same rubric of grade, summary, critique. For example, his re-review of E.T. was writtten in the form of a letter to his grandkids, and he seizes the opportunity to reveal a new or renewed observation about the POV of the filmmakers--that "almost every important shot is seen either as E. T. would see it or as Elliot would see it. And things are understood as they would understand them."

Later in this same redux review, Grandpa Roger observes, "That's the sign of a great filmmaker. He only explains what he has to explain." See what I mean? Each review is a tiny class in the art of film-making.

Thanks for the education, Roger Ebert. And if you're ever free for dinner, it's a standing invitation. You're on the cover of The Green Room's People We'd Love to Have Dinner With Sometime issue.

Movie Review: Hot Fuzz

I did not have high expectations of this movie. Can you blame me? With a name like Hot Fuzz, I expected lots of sight gags and adolescent humor: cops wearing short shorts and bad guys careening around on motorcycles and flipping over car doors in slow motion.

But this guy Simon Pegg, who co-wrote (with Edgar Wright) and starred in Hot Fuzz, has won me over with his talent as a writer, comedian, and actor. Watching this movie made me realize why I don’t generally enjoy watching comedies: they’re just not that funny. They patronize with the obvious gags, and the writers and actors rely on easy laughs. Hot Fuzz brings exactly the opposite: it’s a smart, hilarious, and well-acted parody of the action genre.

Speaking of action, this picture (from Rogue Films) says it all:

I need to watch it again to get all the subtle and not-so-subtle allusions. I know there was some Eastwood, some Lethal Weapon, some Star Wars—oh, there were tons more, but they went by so quickly it was like an episode of Arrested Development, only British, and with bullet-proof vests.

Here’s the story: Nick Angel is an over-performing London cop who gets shipped off to a drowsy village with a crime rate near zero but a suspiciously high rate of fatal accidents. He gets teamed up with an easy-going, oblivious partner, Danny, a Jerry Bruckheimer fan and the son of the police chief. Sergeant Angel drinks cranberry juice and brings his type-A law enforcement personality to bear even when the only misdemeanant is an irascible, AWOL swan.

Props to Mr. Peevie, who selected this flick and talked me into giving it a chance. Usually Mr. Peevie and I have wildly divergent taste in film. He loves “Breakfast at Tiffany's” and I love “Die Hard.” He loves those wacky Austin Powers movies, and I…don’t. But this movie made us both happy.

Because of my innate insecurity, I always feel a tiny bit validated when the Rotten Tomato Meter agrees with me about a movie that I love or hate. Hot Fuzz gets a very respectable 89 percent.

OK, enough reading. Get out there and rent Hot Fuzz! Then check back in and tell me if you loved it, or if you’re canceling your subscription to The Green Room.

The Golden Compass: Conspiracy Theory Du Jour

I was expecting to receive email alerts about the anti-Christian message of the new movie The Golden Compass, and sure enough, one landed in my in-box today.

I’m not going to reprint the entire email here, but the short version is this: The movie is based on a book by atheist Philip Pullman, and many people of faith are disturbed that the movie and books seem to be targeted to children and intended to turn them away from God.

The email alarmed, “The movie is a watered down version of the first book and is designed to be very attractive in the hope unsuspecting parents will take their children to see the movie and that the children will want the books for Christmas.”

There are so many problems with this statement that it makes me want to drink gin from a soup tureen. First of all, this: “The movie is a watered-down version of the first book.” With few exceptions, every movie I’ve ever seen that was based on a book has diluted the message and story-lines of the source material. By definition, movies and books tell stories in different ways—so the movie will always be different than the book.

Then there’s this: the movie “is designed to be very attractive.” Unlike those other inoffensive movies that are just blips of celluloid with ugly actors and childish production values.

“In the hope (that)…” In whose hope? What nefarious pagan multinational conspiracy is plotting, hoping, to trick me? Who’s behind it all? Could it be… SATAN?

“Unsuspecting parents will take their children to see the movie.” What, exactly, are they supposed to suspect? That there is a conspiracy afloat to convert their Sunday School charges to ACLU card-holders? That the author of the book is—gasp!—an atheist? That it is his mission to “kill God”?

And the best part of all is this: “the children will want the books for Christmas.” I…I…I got nothing. Children. Wanting books. For Christmas. Oh, for crying in a bucket. If you’re going to be an alarmist, then don’t phone in your Big Finish. Make it a little juicier than children wanting books for Christmas.

Bill Donohue, President of the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, categorically enjoined parents to boycott the movie: “No parent who wants to bring their children up in the faith will want any part of these books.”

I haven’t read the books myself, so I’m just as ignorant as most of the rest of you. (My husband and my 12-year-old son have, though.) But I do plan to read them, in spite of the dire warnings, and I do not expect to be sending in my membership dues to American Atheists anytime soon. I wonder if Bill Donohue and the email alarmists have read the books. Hmmmm.

I am also wondering

∙ Why do they think that The Golden Compass is more dangerous or evil than other books and movies written by atheists, agnostics, or others who have an other-than-Christian worldview?

∙ Why do they believe that this story/book/movie has that much power over our minds, and over the minds of our children?

∙ What do we think is going to happen if our kids read these stories or watch the movie? That we might—ACK!—have to talk to our kids about it? That it might raise some questions in their minds?

∙ Should we not read books and listen to music and watch movies made by people with a different world view than our own? And to a certain extent, shouldn’t we also teach our children how to do so? Isn’t it a great opportunity to talk and think and learn?

Maybe if more Christians watched and read them, we could have more dialogue with people like Pullman and those who agree with his views. Maybe we could engage our friends and neighbors in discussions about what parts of the book we liked, and why, and what parts we didn’t like, and why.

For a Christian, any encounter in this world needs to be viewed through the lens of faith and sifted through the colander of Scripture—even sermons that we hear at church or on the radio. Nothing is exempt from this scrutiny, except the Bible—and even that often requires that we seek help to interpret and apply it.

I think the message this blog wants to put out there is: think for yourself. Before you warn other people about it, read the book(s) and/or see the movie. Then decide if it’s bad for your kids or not. And let other people decide if it’s bad for their kids.

Or, if you prefer, wait until I read the book and post my review and tell you what to think.

Movie Review: The Bourne Ultimatum

This movie is hopped up on a speed and adrenaline cocktail. It’s pretty much non-stop action, with very little character development, minimal dialogue, and no Life Lessons.

You don’t watch this kind of movie because you want to sit around over lattes discussing the meaning of this camera angle or whether that object was a metaphor for the futility of human existence. You watch this kind of movie because you like testosterone and adrenaline, and you get a rush from watching action sequence after action sequence, and the good guy is Matt Damon, who’s kind of sweet to look at, with his squared off nose-profile and his regular guy chagrin-face.

There’s not much chagrin-face going on in Bourne, though. It’s all intensity and fierceness and fast camera angles that might give you motion-sickness, especially if you’ve eaten too much popcorn with fake movie butter.

Regarding Julia Stiles: I don’t know how much she got paid for this movie, but it probably came out to about a million dollars per word. Every time the camera looked at her, she looked back wordless and wide-eyed, like she had forgotten her lines, and the director just said, “Hey, we’ll use that! Don’t worry about the lines, JJ. It’s all good.”

Don’t watch this movie if you’re looking for the complexity of the Bourne novels; but if you love edge-of-your-seat action connected with the movie-Bourne character, the Bourne Ultimatum delivers.

Stardust Twinkles

Stardust is a fun, beguiling, and often unpredictable fairy-tale.

Reviewers are comparing Stardust to Princess Bride (but without the quotable one-liners like "As you wish" and "I am Inigo Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die!"), so I'll be different. I'd say it's one part Willow, with the innocent that needs protecting; one part Harry Potter, with a not-quite-seamless blending of magical and mundane worlds; and a tiny bit of Pirates of the Caribbean, complete with a flamboyant, girly-man pirate and a Greek chorus of ghostly princes.

The story concerns young Tristan, who sets out to win the love of a beautiful but shallow girl by bringing her a star that has fallen into a dangerous and magical land. Tristan becomes the protector of the star--which has taken the form of an irascible beauty--who is pursued by the fraternity of ambitious, fratricidal princes and a sorority of badly aging, cackling witches.

Along the way Tristan and the star, Yvaine, meet up with an extraneous pirate ship with a don't-ask-don't-tell culture. Robert De Niro is Captain Shakespeare, the tough-talking pirate chief whose loyal crew "aargh"s on cue and keeps his cross-dressing penchant under wraps (pun intended). They sail the skies, buoyed by a dirigible; they don't really advance the plot, but they add goofy fun and a connection between earth and sky, magical and muggle.

The witches hunt Yvaine in order to cut out and eat her still beating heart -- it's their black magic Oil of Olay. Michelle Pfeiffer leads the sisters in their witchy quest for the star, using the dregs of the last eviscerated star to restore her villainous beauty.

Stardust is too long and too convoluted to be a true classic, but it has plenty of charm and whimsy to keep you caring about Tristan and Yvaine to the fairy-tale ending.

Food Groups

My family loves the movie Elf. We've probably watched it 600 times.

One of our favorite scenes and lines occurs early in the movie when Buddy (Will Ferrell, one of the highest-paid actors in Hollywood because he gets every comedy note exactly right) is sitting at dinner with his new-found family, including his daddy, played by the eternally cool James Caan. They're having spaghetti for dinner, and Buddy asks for syrup.

Emily (the mom, played by Mary Steenburgen) widens her wide eyes. "It's...spaghetti," she stupidly reminds him. "Oh, just a minute, I might have some with me," Buddy says, happily retrieving a sample-size maple syrup from his elfian sleeve. As he pours syrup on his spaghetti, and everyone gapes, Buddy explains, "We elves like to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corn, and syrup." HA!

So anyway, around my house, we have three main food groups: candy, ice cream, and ketchup.

Every single (I just typed the word "single" as "snigle"--hee!) morning before breakfast at least one of my kids asks me if they can have a piece of candy. They go to sleep thinking about candy and they wake up thinking about candy.

A. Peevie keeps a stash of mini Tootsie Rolls and Jolly Ranchers in his room in a "secret" place. He collects it from birthday parties, Halloween, and camp; and he hoards it jealously like a pirate with his chest of jewels. I check it periodically, and I'm kind of amazed at his high level of self-control, considering the easy access and the fact that he asks for candy sometimes several times a day.

M. Peevie traded in her arcade prize tickets not for toys or stickers, but for a three-pack of Fun Dips in Razzapple Magic and Cherry-Yum-Diddly flavors.

A day without ice cream, in our house, is a day without sunshine. No, it's a day without oxygen. We're putting the ice cream truck guy's kids through college. A. Peevie eats ice cream with legendary focus and intensity that most kids reserve for television and video games: head down, eyes glassy, rhythmic wrist action.

Sixteen ice cream trucks line up on the street every day after camp lets out, blaring The Entertainer or Pop Goes the Weasel or Tainted Love. (Just kidding about that last one.) Every kid asks every parent, every day, "Can I have ice cream today?" I made a deal with my kids: once a week I'd buy them ice cream from the truck. The problem is, kids have no concept of time. A week feels like a month when you're six years old and waiting for the next Good Humor Chocolate Eclair or SpongeBob Popsicle.

And then there's ketchup (and BTW, this blog prefers the simple spelling rather than the antiquated and non-phonetic 'catsup'. Don't you?). This one is really only a food group for C. Peevie. It's not a condiment, it's an entree. He squeezes a half of a cup of red paste on his plate, scrapes it up with six french fries, and reaches for more. More than likely, a blob will end up on his shirt or shorts. We buy cartons of it from Costco.

What are your family's favorite non-traditional food groups?

10 Things I Love. No, Eleven.

I know of people who have "hate" lists: a list of things they hate, like being cut off in traffic, or paying taxes, or Japanese beetles. That's a tiny bit negative for me. I'd rather offer a list of ten excellent things to love in this imperfect world--no, I mean eleven excellent things:

1. Forgiveness. Man, do I screw up. It's such a relief to know that someone invented forgiveness for people like me.

2. Humility. Not the obsequious Uriah Heep kind, where people act all, "Oh, I'm not really THAT cute" or "Oh, it was nothing, really" after they've given you a kidney. I'm talking about the real kind of humility, that's like an internal glow that makes you want to be near someone, because humility makes her transparent and honest about who she really is, and you know you can be real around her.

3. Books. So many books, so little time. Novels, biographies, mysteries, cartoon collections, philosophy, the Bible. I'm currently reading politics, young adult lit, classics, a prayer classic, and a book about books, called The Top Ten: Writers Pick Their Favorite Books.

4. My children. Today they have been on my last nerve, with their noise and bickering and hyperactivity. But I could not imagine life without them. I know it's a cliche, but parenting them is the best thing I have ever done or will ever do.

5. The sun. Being out in the sun, even if it's cold outside, makes me feel hopeful and happy and optimistic.

6. Words. What is a word, really? It's merely the sound, or the combination of sounds, that we put to a specific concept. But to know and use exactly the right word in the right way at the right time is a rare gift. I hope I get that gift once or twice in my lifetime.

7. Meeting new people. Every person you will meet has an interesting story, and if you ask the right questions, you can elicit a tale of hope, or endurance, or good triumphing over evil, or cleverness. This amazes me every single time.

8. The Internet. Oh. My. Word. Seriously--is there anything better in the whole world than the Internet? It's unlimited access to information, to people, to the world!

9. Diet Coke. OK, so I'm addicted. I love the "Aaaaaahhhhh" that you get with the first sip. I drink it for breakfast. So shoot me--I'm culinarily shallow.

10. Friendship. I'm lucky enough to be married to my best friend. And you know what they say--you don't get to pick your family, but you get to pick your friends. "Who finds a faithful friend, finds a treasure." I am wealthy beyond imagination.

11. Humor. Does anything feel better than a laugh that makes you double over and fall on the floor? OK, well maybe some things do, like fiiiiiinally being able to pee after having to hold it for a super-long time, and some other things not mentionable on a rated PG blog. But I love a funny story, a clever joke, a dry sense of humor, a wacky situation, a hilarious line from a funny-enough-to-watch-over-and-over-again movie like Elf. I love to laugh.

What do you love?

The Joys of Camping

This weekend we went "camping" with our friends VoD and MoD.

By "camping" I mean Mr. Peevie and MoD and the five kids "slept" in a tent big enough to have its own zip code on the hard ground in MoD's backyard. And by "slept" I mean talked, giggled, changed places, told ghost stories, cried because of the ghost stories, shushed, fidgeted, whimpered, checked watches, watched skunk shadows skulk past the tent, and asked for blankets between about midnight and 6 a.m. We estimate actual cumulative sleep time at approximately 27 minutes per unit.

Meanwhile, VoD and I slept in comfortable beds in comfortable, kid-free rooms in the house. The next morning the kids woke up at the sound of dawn cracking, and VoD and I changed places with Mr. Peevie and MoD. The dads went upstairs to nap, VoD made breakfast for the gang, and I buttered the toast. I try to be useful.

Before the actual sleeping-in-the-tent part of the camping experience, we had the fire-pit and s'mores part. This is the part of camping during which the goal is to not set clothing, deck chairs, or body parts on fire with flaming marshmallows. We were mostly successful, but there were some close calls.

The kids love s'mores, of course, but they love setting marshmallows aflame and waving burning sticks around even more. And if it weren't for the fire aspect of s'mores, they'd be just as happy eating the Hershey bars straight up.

I'm all in favor of camping, and I think it's a great outdoor experience for the kids--but the sleeping-on-the-hard-ground part of camping is for the birds (and the children). What a good sport Mr. Peevie is. The next time we camp, for real, I will be in the tent, too, but only if I can sleep on a nice, cushiony air mattress.

My favorite part of "camping" was watching Gladiator with MoD after the kids finally went to sleep. We watched studly Russell Crowe and the creepily evil Joaquin Phoenix battle to the death until 2 a.m., and then MoD crawled back into the tent and I sacrificed fun on the comfort-quilted, continous support inner-spring altar of clean sheets and extra pillows.

I love camping.

The Blah Shepherd

Sheesh. This movie was so boring I could not even finish it. That rarely happens to me. I am usually determined to finish what I start, and hoping like the foolish optimist that I am that things are going to come together, make sense, and deliver a kick of an ending.

But I gave one hour of my life to The Good Shepherd, and as much as I love Matt Damon and his supporting, high-profile cast mates, I could not keep going. I just didn't care what happened to Edward (Damon's character), let alone any of the other characters, whom I couldn't even name.

I haven't read the reviews, but I'm assuming that more than one reviewer has already suggested that this movie desperately needed a giant pair of scissors in the editing room.

Here's the story, as I understand it: Edward, a humor-impaired Ivy-Leaguer, dated a deaf girl but accidentally got the slutty sister of a colleague/classmate (Angelina Jolie) pregnant. Meanwhile, he's been recruited by the new Spy Department, and one week after his shotgun wedding gets sent to London to do some spying.

Clips from JFK speeches about the Cuban Missile Crisis are dropped in at random intervals. At the one-hour mark, Edward betrays his teacher, whose crime seems to be liking men, and watches from a distance as a band of thugs messes him up and dumps him in his watery grave. The music was ominous and foreboding enough for my family to ask me to turn it down, but as I was feeling nothing but boredom, I just turned it off.

I have a lot of tolerance for things that don't make sense until the very end (i.e., the novel Life of Pi), but it's at least got to hold my attention along the way. The Good Shepherd did not meet this basic criterion.

The Fountain

Is it an epic, mythical story of a thousand-year search for eternal life? Or is it a confusing, disjointed tale of time-traveling true love? I had to read the reviews to understand what was going on in The Fountain, and call me stupid, I still don't understand it.

I Netflixed it because of a) Hugh Jackman and b) the science-fiction/action genre. I'm thinking that's a pretty good combination, no?

Hugh plays Tomas, a hairy 16th century conquistador; Tom, a bristly (both literally and figuratively) 21st century medical research scientist; and Taaahhhhmmm, a glabrous 26th century yoga instructor/astronaut. Actually, I just made most of that up, except the part about his being a futuristic cue ball.

Eeenyway, Tom is testing a new compound on monkeys with brain tumors. He has a vested interest because his wife Izzi (Rachel Weisz) is dying from a brain tumor. Izzi is writing a book about a conquistador who is searching for the antediluvian Tree of Life on behalf of the Queen of Spain. Meanwhile, CueBall Yoga Dude is floating around in a bubble eating bark and hallucinating Izzi from 500 years ago.

That about sums up the storyline. It's kind of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind meets Solaris, with a little bit of The Fifth Element thrown in. Only with lots of crying.

What's going on? It's anybody's guess: reincarnation? time travel? parallel universes? hallucinations? Maybe I could figure it out if I watched it again, but I'm just not that interested.

However, if you saw it, and you have a different perspective, I'd love to hear it.

[Picture Credit: Warner Bros.]

Retro Insults: Are they bad?

Spoiler Alert!

I just learned the secret of The Prestige. I'm usually not quite so dense, but I totally missed the trick on this one. My friend King explained it to me, and I was all, What?! It's a cloning machine?! Now it's so obvious that I feel completely retarded.

And that comment right there brings up the question: Should I even be saying "I feel retarded"? I don't want to be mean and offensive, nor do I want to hurt somebody's feelings. But that word retarded is so retro funny that I find it hard to resist.

So my question is, why is it wrong for me to use that word? Let me guess: It's offensive and disrespectful to mentally disabled people. But why is it offensive and disrespectful to somebody who is mentally disabled? How is it disrespectful? I'm serious here. Is it worse than using the word "psycho" outside of the clinical context of psychotic?

If you are persuasive enough, I will remove it from my vocabulary.