I used to let films preach to me. I think a little bit of that left me when I started to take filmmaking a little too seriously and became bitter and jaded about an industry that once gave me life. But movies have always been one of the few places where I could go and be honest about my junk, because other people were being honest about their junk. Recently, I was reminded that sometimes the best sermons come in the form of a movie as I watched two films – Birdman and Whiplash. Both films have very different styles, but they both speak to the emotional and physical pain that comes with being an artist, which also speaks to the flawed nature of the human condition.
As much as we grown-ups like to scoff at the narcissism of our Face-, Twit-, and Insta-culture, there is still that little part of us that is either explicitly or implicitly obsessed with what other people think and the ways in which our appearances aid in that process. For many artists, one of the many haunting, internal questions is: “Do I or the work I do even matter?” This is, in essence, the question that Riggan Thomson, a Hollywood action hero of yesteryear, asks himself in the film Birdman. As Riggan tries to stage his own comeback via the Broadway stage, it is the voices inside his head, as well as the doubting voices of his daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), and Mike, his young, co-star in the play (Ed Norton), that keep reminding him of his past mistakes and irrelevance.
But amidst all of the voices reminding him of his demise, it is his loyal fans that keep reaffirming that he still remains an icon in their eyes. Riggan’s internal struggle is heightened by the industry’s new standard for what defines success. In one scene, Riggan gets locked out of his theater dressing room wearing only a bathrobe, only to discover that his robe is stuck in the door. He wiggles out of his robe, and then must walk through Times Square in only his underwear and socks through the rain. He is utterly embarrassed, afraid that this instance has further stained his career.
Yet, in an entertainment culture saturated with sensationalism and tabloid debauchery, that event becomes a milestone that makes him newsworthy again. Riggan eventually begins to believe his own hype, and while it is debatable whether or not that is a good thing, this film shines at characterizing the frenetic discombobulation that happens when an artists’ privatized fears become public record as part of the work, and then, by necessity, eventually become their means for survival and success.
Which leads me to Whiplash, a story about what happens when ambition drives you first to madness and ultimately to genius. In this film, Miles Teller plays Andrew Neiman, a young, first-year drummer at a prestigious conservatory who wants to be counted among the great musicians, like Buddy Rich. Andrew’s desire is to be “seen,” and not necessarily to be seen in a fame and fortune kind of way. He wants someone to see and understand his talent, ambition, and hard work. to nurture the gift and to say “well done, good and faithful servant.”
For Andrew, that someone is Terence Fletcher, the conductor and teacher of one of the school’s top jazz bands. Fletcher turns out to be physically and verbally abusive, but this does not drive Andrew away. Instead, it drives him to push harder. Andrew begins to distance himself from his family and from his girlfriend. Once again, the need for acceptance causes this artist to push himself to the point where his ambition literally bleeds with every stroke of the drum. In his world, the only person that “sees” him is the abuser, and eventually it is affirmation from the abuser that spawns his Andrew’s egotism.
During one scene in the movie, Fletcher makes a comment that the worst phrase in the English language is, “Good job,” indicating that his style of motivation is through denigration, even to Andrew’s detriment. Yet, Andrew does indeed grow in his musicianship in the technical sense. Does that make the abuse worth it? I think not, but the sheer existence of Andrew’s dilemma is definitely sermon-worthy.
So how, then, did these two films preach to me on a sunny, Saturday afternoon in LA? For starters, they reminded me of the ways in which insecurity can breed self-centeredness. I once read a Facebook post from a fellow artist that said, “It’s such a hard thing to not think of yourself more highly than you ought to when your profession depends on the approval of men.” This quote speaks to the dichotomy of working in a field in which we are always on display. Actors, directors, painters, writers, etc. often create from a personal space. And even during those instances where the work itself is less personal, the personal still becomes evident in the performance, as was the case with Andrew, and to an extent, Riggan. Yet, it is the need for approval that becomes the dangerous seed.
For many years, I told myself that my relationship with God made me exempt from the feelings of irrelevance, insignificance, and inadequacy felt by Riggan and Andrew. But Birdman and Whiplash were reminders that I am not exempt. None of us are. As someone who currently suffers back pain from carrying too many cameras and light kits alone on the New York City subway in order to prove that I was a strong woman who could survive this industry, and as someone who has endured emotional abuse from a person who seemed to be the only one who understood my ambition, I understand Riggan’s frustration, and I understand why Andrew put up with Fletcher’s abuse.
Second, these films issue a challenge regarding what arts ministry looks like. Many people see the glamorous side of the entertainment industry but fail to understand the pain and hurt that comes along with it. Ministry to artists is not just having someone videotape a sermon or paint pretty pictures for the sanctuary as a “labor of love.” Ministry to artists also means walking beside someone through the pain that they are often required to mask. It means affirmation and reassurance that they matter to the world and ultimately to God.
In Jeremiah 2, God recounts the disobedience of the people of Israel throughout the reign of several kingships. They had ignored God, and they had begun to worship other gods. Yet, after all that time, no one thought to question where God was. In verse 8, God says, “The priests did not say, ‘Where is the Lord? Those who handle the law did not know me; the shepherds transgressed against me; the prophets prophesied by Baal and went after things that do not profit.’” They had completely missed several opportunities to see God’s glory and to serve the people. As a body of believers, where else are we missing the Lord’s presence? Are we missing opportunities to really serve people? I believe we miss opportunities to walk with artists, to let them know that they are not alone, and to truly affirm their strengths and lovingly help develop their weaknesses.
My prayer is that churches would continue to work through the ways in which the emotional needs of the artist community can be addressed and nurtured. But one need not be an artist in the traditional sense to identify with the themes of these two films. A message was spoken in the form of a man in a bird suit and a kid who plays the drums. The church of the movies has spoken. And all I can say is Amen.