On Religious Reverence

Several months ago -- I wouldn't be surprised, in fact, if I found out it was over a year ago -- an incident occurred that really bothered me. It "stuck in my craw" as an old-timer might say, to the extent that even now I am overflowing with things I want to say about it.

My then roommate asked me if I believe in God. It was an out-of-the-blue question with no context or segue. When I explained that I am an agnostic (a concept which she confused with atheism -- a common mistake, albeit one a bit surprising coming from a philosophy major) she demanded to know why I don't believe in God. And bam, just like that, we're off to the races, and oh my dear friends and readers, I so, so don't mean that in a good way.

Let me be clear: I have nothing against, and in fact greatly enjoy a good theological discussion. By a "good theological discussion," I mean one in which two or more people discuss their religious and spiritual differences with open minds and a goal of greater mutual understanding. The problem is that so few theological debates take this route. Oh, to be sure, nearly every theological debater claims that this is their goal, and I have no doubt that many if not most of these people truly believe in their own good intentions. But good debate employs logic, something with which faith, by its very nature, is ultimately incompatible. This leaves agnostics and atheists in a ridiculously hypocritical no-win scenario: Back off, and the believer lords it over you that you have "lost" the debate. Pursue your line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, and somehow you are branded as the intolerant one -- even though it is usually the believer who has set out to "prove" how wrong her opponent is, while agnostics and atheists (save for a relatively few antitheist extremists) usually tend to keep their opinions to themselves unless asked. There is reason to preach the Word of God, but little reason to preach that there is no word at all.

This was certainly the case in the discussion between me and my roommate. Oh, I tried to warn her. I told her that I don't like volunteering my beliefs on such matters, but if asked, I will state my beliefs and the reasons for them. I told her that I respect her religious beliefs, but not to the extent that I will pretend to agree with them, and this leads me to my main point, an examination of what it means to respect a person's religious beliefs.

To truly respect a thing -- whether that thing is a friend, or a nation, or an idea, or a religion -- is to embrace its positive aspects, but also be willing to acknowledge its flaws. Embrace without such acknowledgment is not respect -- it's reverence. Reverence is not necessarily a bad thing; revere your blessings, revere your values, heck, even revere your God if that's your cup of tea. But once you revere not your God but the religion surrounding it, you've missed the point. Reverence of religion as an institution in its own right, rather than as a pathway to God or enlightenment, far, far too often leads to either an abundance or a dearth of tolerance.

On the one hand, you have the all-too familiar social enemy of religious extremism that results from revering one's own religion at the expense of all other views. The religious right who preach that Democrats are the bane of the nation and who declare homosexuals to have an evil agenda are every bit as dangerous, just as much a blight on humanity, as the Islamic jihadists who fly planes into buildings and praise Allah with cries of "death to Israel."

But there is another extreme too, one that is more pervasive in our culture and almost as dangerous as intolerance: too much tolerance. We live in a P.C. world in which the one type of extremism that is accepted is extremist relativism, in which the mainstream's reaction to intolerance is to preach that all religious views are equally valid -- save, perhaps, for the absence of religion (as evidenced by Gallup's recent poll on popular attitudes toward atheists). What's wrong with such a tolerant attitude? Not a thing. The problems start when we surpass tolerance and delve into blind acceptance. The value of a religious faith -- like any other idea, and perhaps more than most -- can be truly appraised only when it has been challenged, and can be considered valid and valued only when it has met such challenges and emerged with evidence that its benefits outweigh its flaws. I'm not arguing that a religion's tenets have to be proven, I'm merely returning to my earlier argument that if one's religious beliefs can't be discussed with an open mind, they perhaps shouldn't be discussed at all.

The West Wing

If there is any artistic justice, The West Wing will long be remembered as one of the truly great series in television history. The show is an awe-inspiring marriage of cinematic direction, excellent writing, remarkable production values, and a stellar ensemble cast.

Choosing a particular stand-out from the cast is impossible only because, even in a series with so many challenging roles, everyone rises to the occasion. As originally conceived by brilliant writer and series creator Aaron Sorkin, the show initially centered on the roles played by Martin Sheen and Rob Lowe, who provide the series with star power, and yet settle into their roles so completely that we forget we're watching movie stars in a TV show. Lowe and Sheen are surrounded by character actors who bring life to Sorkin's snappy dialogue In particular, the otherwise unknown Bradley Whitford and Richard Schiff are such skilled performers that, in their other projects, they bring even the most mediocre scripts to life; teamed with Sorkin's writing and their co-stars on The West Wing, however, they create characters more three-dimensional than some people I've met in real life.

Much has been made of the show changing hands when head writer Sorkin left after the fourth season. This rigamarole is, paradoxically, both justified and overstated. On the one hand, Sorkin's reign over the show is rightfully considered the series' golden era, establishing interesting characters, witty dialogue, and storylines that are surprisingly engaging, when one considers the subject's potential for dullness. When Sorkin left, the lovable characters were still there, but Sorkin's voice was not, and the fifth and sixth seasons struggled with a tendency to slow the pace too severely whenever the characters weren't in crisis mode. As a result, these two seasons are understandably seen as the series' low point, although we need some perspective here: It's a low-point only compared to the countless high points of the previous four seasons, and taken on their own merits, the fifth and sixth seasons still have plenty to offer the patient viewer. (The fall and eventual return of Josh's political power is a particularly compelling storyline.)

The final two seasons shift the focus from Bartlet's presidency to his successor's campaign, and while this move alienated some viewers who were overly loyal to the Bartlet character, it was the right move to make: The extended storyline of Matt Santos's struggle for the presidency provided the series with a much-needed shot in the arm, drawing inspiration from its change of subject, while simultaneously renewing Sorkin's optimistic theme that the excitement of politics lies in its potential to make the world a better place, that the past is important only in its ability to point us toward a better future. Tellingly, the writers were able to maintain intense viewer interest for half a year as we watched Santos struggle to win the Democratic primary -- despite the fact that we already knew he was destined to run against Alan Alda's Republican candidate Arnie Vinick. Just as, in other series, we already know that Kirk will defeat the Klingons and Columbo will solve the mystery, the suspense doesn't lie in whether Santos will overcome his obstacles to win the primary, but rather in how he will do so. If Sorkin's reign over the show represents the series' golden age, the extended Matt Santos storyline represents the silver.

Taken as a whole, The West Wing -- including the episodes that were made both before and after Sorkin's departure -- provides a compelling narrative of such a quality that television rarely matches and has yet to surpass. We are left with both a sense of closure and yet also a wish we could see more. Such is the mark of a good show.

Six Reasons why the New Movie Isn't Just Bad "Star Trek," it's Also Just Bad Filmmaking

1. Continuity (my only "Trekkie" reason, but hear me out): Let's get this issue out of the way. Unlike die-hard Trekkies, I'd be willing to go along with the "the writers can do whatever they want" mentality if this was an actual, honest, complete reboot of the franchise, a brand new narrative that is inspired by Gene Roddenberry's vision but understood not to be a part of the same storyline. But the writers bend over backwards to explain that the continuity differences are actually a result of this being set in an "alternate reality" created by time travel. That's fine, but if that's the way they want to play it, they've got to play by the rules they've established, or else it's just sloppy writing, no two ways about it.

As near as I can figure, the only reason this alternate reality exists is the sudden appearance of a 24th century Romulan ship in the early 23rd Century, and it's disruption of the timeline caused by the Narada's attack on the Federation starship Kelvin. Since the newborn Jim Kirk's father is a casualty of the Narada attack, I can understand how Kirk's life would be radically affected by this event, but since the Narada disappears after it's attack on the Kelvin, I don't see how it can be interfering further with history. Therefore, I don't understand -- because the writers don't bother trying to justify it -- how the destruction of one starship causes massive changes in Starfleet. Starship design is completely different, uniforms are pointlessly inconsistent, etc. And how does any of this explain the romance between Spock and Uhura? Don't get me started on that yet, that's a whole other topic I'll talk about in a bit. For now, I just have to repeat that I'd have no problem with any of this if it was established as a brand new version of "Star Trek" unrelated to the other narrative, but if the writers are going to saddle us with a convoluted, half-assed "explanation" for the differences, they've got to apply some kind of logic to it.

2. The Romance between Spock and Uhura is the best example of how the "anything goes" attitude fails. The Spock/ Uhura romance is simply cringe-inducing. Anyone even remotely familiar with the character of Kirk can easily imagine him trying to pick Uhura up in a bar, but the Spock/ Uhura romance is so completely out of left field, it clearly exists for one reason and one reason only: to provide shock value for the Trekkies in the audience. Put another way, because it adds absolutely nothing of consequence to the story, the Spock/ Uhura romance is nothing but a thoroughly awkward and otherwise pointless twist included merely to remind the viewers that this is an alternate reality, so the writers feel like they can go in any direction they want. (Given the history of the characters, a romance between Spock and Christine Chapel would have made much more sense, but the writers aren't interested in making sense.)

3. The Story jumps along in leaps and bounds, as if the filmmakers knew they wanted to include certain scenes, and the rest of the script exists merely as an excuse for the writers to get from point A to point B. Actually, Alfred Hitchcock's writers often did the same thing, at Hitchcock's request, but the difference is that Hitch's writers actually bothered to come up with storylines intriguing enough to hide their artificiality. The key events in the latest "Star Trek" movie, by contrast, always seem to come out of left field, as if the writers sat around and said, "hey, wouldn't it be cool if this happens? Let's write that in!" and didn't give it a further thought. The result is an "anything might happen" feeling that sounds exciting, but is really just a cause for increasing indifference as you realize that there is little rhyme or reason to the events unfolding on the screen.

Furthermore, the writers' insistence to present the events in chronological order illustrates a poor understanding of story structure. On his website, Thom "Poobala" Holbrook illustrates how the addition of a simple prologue to Superman Returns would have greatly improved the film as a whole, and then questions why professional screenwriters failed to realize this, when it was so obvious to Holbrook himself, a casual viewer. The same could be said with Star Trek, a film with even less of an excuse because unlike Poobala's Superman Returns prologue, all of the material for a potential "Star Trek" prologue is already there in the story.

Opening Star Trek with a prologue featuring the events that set the story in motion would have done wonders for explaining what otherwise seems like completely random events, as well as the villain's motivations, not to mention why his technology seems so much more advanced than it should be. I can imagine how this could be done very well, but the writers instead chose to rush through an explanation with a flash-forward that doesn't take place until midway through the film. Did the writers think that keeping the villain's motivation a secret for most of the film would create an intriguing mystery? If that was their motivation, it simply doesn't work, for the following reasons:

4. The Villain: In the 24th Century, Romulus is about to be destroyed, so Spock attempts to save it with an experimental procedure that would, theoretically, prevent the Romulan sun from going supernova. (It's up to Spock since, apparently, out of all the scientists in the Federation and Romulan Empire, only a retired ambassador can come up with a theory on how to prevent the supernova.) Spock's plan to save Romulus fails, and so Romulan captain Nero swears revenge. So, to recap: Romulus was going to be destroyed anyway, and Nero swears revenge on the one man who actually tried to save his home world. What the fuck?

Since most of the film unravels before we learn of Nero's "revenge" motivation, we mostly have to simply accept the fact that he does the things he does simply because he's a bad guy. When Nero's back story is finally revealed, however, it does remarkably little to explain his agenda: he wants to kill Spock's best friend, destroy Spock's home world, and also destroy Earth, apparently just for good measure, or maybe because he blames the entire Federation in addition to Spock (it's really unclear). Considering that all of this is allegedly because he seeks revenge against one man, Nero's plan is so beyond overkill that the only way to comprehend his actions is to just completely ignore the "revenge" storyline, and go back to saying, "o.k., he's a bad guy because he's a bad guy, end of story."

5. The Cast is uneven. Some of the actors, like Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto, slip into their roles with ease; considering how much we associate these characters with other actors, it's a pleasant surprise how quickly we accept Pine as Kirk and Quinto as Spock. Simon Pegg is hilarious as Scotty; his interpretation of the role has little to do with James Doohan's performance, but Pegg runs with his broad caricature and makes it his own. By contrast, Karl Urban plays Dr. McCoy as if he's doing a bad imitation of DeForest Kelley. We never get the sense of McCoy as a real person, and Urban seems so distracted trying to act like Kelley, that he's got no chemistry whatsoever with Pine as Kirk, despite the fact that we're supposed to be witnessing the birth of a friendship. Anton Yelchin also seems distracted by pre-established aspects of his character, struggling with Chekov's accent as if he was in desperate need of a dialect coach. We eventually warm to Yelchin's interpretation of the character, but it shouldn't be such a struggle for the viewer.

6. The Direction is an exercise in hyperkinetic chaos. The editor went nuts with how many times he cuts from one shot to another in any given scene, and in most of those shots, the camera is almost constantly floating about like a drunken dragonfly. The result of all this constant motion is that the movie ostensibly looks cool, but there is -- no pun intended -- no appreciation or establishment of space. Even though almost half the movie takes place on the Enterprise bridge, for example, I have no idea what that bridge would look like if I was standing on it. The layout of the Romulan ship is even more unclear.

The scenes that suffer the most from this hyperactive direction are the action sequences. When Kirk and Sulu fought the Romulans in hand-to-hand combat, that should have been an exciting action scene. Instead, I was just confused. How many Romulans are they fighting, exactly? Where are each of the combatants in relation to the others? Too many unresolved questions, all of which could have been answered easily enough if J.J. Abrams had simply instructed his cinematographer and editor to calm down and stop moving all over the place so we can see what the heck is going on.

Don't get me wrong, Star Trek will do great at the box office. You've got a popular director, lots of action, and cool visuals, and these days, that's all it takes. But a movie's artistic value and commercial value are two very different things, and with awkward romance, incoherent story, incompetent direction, ineffective villains, and an uneven cast, Star Trek should not be mistaken for a decent motion picture.

The Only Work of Fiction That Ever Made Me Cry

I couldn't sleep last night -- such is the curse of the night-shift workers that we're always almost falling asleep when we're at work, but can never quite fall asleep when we're home -- so I popped in a DVD of "Homicide: Life on the Street." I've already seen every episode -- some of them more than once -- but damn, does it still pack a wallop even with repeated viewings. I found myself admiring the writing on a new level, walking away from certain scenes with a different interpretation than I'd had upon my first viewing. One thing I admire about the show is how any given story arc can work on two different levels, either as a self-contained narrative or as a part of a greater whole.

The perfect example is the one scene that stood out the most for me, a scene in which homicide detective Meldrick Lewis desperately tries to talk his partner out of killing himself. Desperate to get rid of Meldrick so he can do the deed in private, Detective Mike Kellerman tries to offend Meldrick by callously insulting the memory of Meldrick's dead partner Steve Crosetti. Crosetti's been dead for years by this point, but this is one show that doesn't shy away from its history (as opposed to such shows as "Law and Order," which completely and immediately forgets its characters after they are written out of the series). So many things are happening in this scene between the lines. We're not just watching Kellerman's meltdown here, we're forced to wonder about the inner workings of Meldrick's mind. Has he always felt such affection for Crosetti, an affection that was unspoken while Crosetti was still alive? Or were the two partners merely co-workers, has Meldrick built up Crosetti's memory in his mind so much that he feels a merely posthumous affection borne of guilt? We realize something neither character in the scene realizes, that if Meldrick is able to talk Kellerman out of his suicide, he may finally purge himself of the guilt he feels over being unable to do the same for Crosetti. In his own self-involved acts of desperation, Kellerman is inadvertantly providing Meldrick with a redemption he never even knew he needed.

Yet the core relationship in the series is between detectives Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss. Yes, this is an ensemble drama, but if the show can be said to have central characters, they'd be Bayliss and Pembleton. As his own wife points out, Pembleton is not the type of man who has friends, but Bayliss is clearly the one man who comes closest to such a position; the dynamic of their not-quite friendship creates a relationship that is truly unique in television history, in its own understated way. Bayliss is ostensibly set up as the slightly more central figure, but it's Pembleton who grabs your attention, with his bombastic arrogance and uncanny, almost effortless knack of drawing confessions out of suspects.

"Homicide," incidentally, is probably the most spiritual show I've ever watched and enjoyed -- but only if you take the series as a whole. True, many, many episodes don't address spirituality at all, except in the negative: John Munch (a non-practicing Jew) and Frank Pembleton (a lapsed Catholic) are the only characters who really address the concepts of God and religion, and neither one seems to be for either concept. We get monologues and wisecracks about how a homicide detective, having seen what he's seen, could never believe in a God, or at least not one who is truly benevolent. Yet when Pembleton is finally moved to prayer, his motivation is somehow both shocking and inevitable, given the direction of the character. I'm an agnostic, but I still cried when Pembleton finally turned to God for help, because even if I can't relate to Pembleton's spiritual past, I can relate to his desperation, his fear, his grief. For that one moment (and, we realize at only this point, many other moments in the series' history) Pembleton has become more than just another quirky TV character: he has become a reflection of each of us during our darkest time.

Workplace Folly

As I'm leaving work on Wed. morning, Isai (mentioned previously in "Musings From the Movie Man") tells me that I "forgot" to block off the parking lot, which I was supposed to do when I got to work on Tuesday night. I explain that this was the first I'd heard of it, so it didn't count as me forgetting. I then ask him if I am supposed to block the parking lot off on Wed. night too, but he says no, it was only for Tuesday night/ Wed. morning.

Thursday morning: The place is abuzz with frenzied anticipation. This is unusual for my experience at work, since I leave at seven in the morning, which is usually at least an hour before most people arrive. But this morning is different, because there is going to be a big meeting of 100 bankers.

One girl, who has seen me patrol the grounds many times, walks up to me. She sees me sitting behind the front desk, in my suit, typing up a document on the computer.

"Do you work here?" she asks without a hint of humor or irony.

Later this same morning, the engineer (who really is a very nice guy) demands to know why I haven't blocked off the parking lot.

"Didn't anybody tell you that you were supposed to do this?"

I explain that no, nobody had told me I was supposed to block the parking lot off, and, in fact, when I had asked Isai if I was supposed to do so, he had told me that those special instructions were only for the previous night.

"No," the engineer insists, "they're re-paving the parking lot today, nobody's supposed to be there. Security was supposed to block it off so that nobody would park there overnight." I point out that management really should learn that if they have special instructions for security personnel, it really only works if somebody informs security.

Then it occurs to me: On the same day that the parking lot is scheduled to be re-paved -- in fact, at the very exact same time that the parking lot is scheduled to be re-paved -- management has also scheduled a meeting for one hundred guests -- potential investors in the business, by the way. And exactly where are these one hundred people supposed to park? Well, the secondary clubhouse -- a five minute walk away -- also has a parking lot. With one dozen spaces. Something tells me that after these one hundred bankers fight over a dozen parking spaces and then walk in the rain for five minutes, they will no longer be considered potential investors.