Posthuman Blues

Well, I relented. Caved. Succumbed. I forked over eight dollars to see what the Mel Gibson Jesus movie was all about. Why? Maybe because I felt a little sheepish about bad-mouthing it without having seen it. Perhaps because I thought that its bad rap might be unfair. After all, it's a movie about religion; of course it's going to be controversial.

Having said that, the movie was god-awful. I intended to write a proper review, but what's the point? The reviews calling "The Passion of the Christ" gruesome and exploitative are right on the money. If anything, they're being kind. So instead of a review, per se, I'll share a few random impressions and get back to more important subjects.

Firstly, no characterization. No pretense of humanity. In Gibson's defense, "The Passion" simply doesn't have time for it. The entirety of this movie, except a murky first scene in which a brooding Jesus is apprehended by snarling Jews, consists of stomach-wrenching torture sequences. "The Passion" is a distended spectacle of aerosolized blood, flayed flesh, poked-out eyes, weeping onlookers and occasional blink-and-they're-over flashbacks.

Shame on Ebert and Roeper for branding this movie an "epic"; there's a palpable lack of depth to this eyesore, an utter absence of narrative meat (unless you count those sheets of ruined skin and muscle dangling from Jesus' mutilated torso). Compared to this, Japanese manga has the complexity and substance of Thomas Pynchon.

"The Passion" proceeds with malignant inevitability. At least fifteen minutes of the film consist of yawn-inducing scenes of Jesus, blood-drenched and oozing, collapsing to the ground in slow motion, accompanied by a so-dramatic-it's-comical musical score. The intention, I guess, is to pound home the title character's spiritual resolve, but it was all I could do to refrain from glancing at my watch. At one point, as Jesus once more toppled to the dirt under the crushing blows of Roman soldiers, I actually stifled laughter.

This movie doesn't merely approach self-parody -- it revels in it like maggots in shit. Not a good thing.

On the other hand, this cinematic atrocity isn't meant to withstand criticism. It's meant to provide the faithful with a high-budget retelling of their favorite bedtime story. And if the only way Jesus can sell tickets is to bathe in artificial blood, then so be it. Give 'em what they want.

I could go on (and maybe I will). I could mention the distinct and ironic lack of passion that went into Gibson's insufferable vision. I could harp on the completely unnecessary and gratuitous FX scenes depicting what I took to be an androgynous Satan, or the way the sound of whips cracking just gets, well, fucking old after 45 minutes. I could even present my case for "The Passion" being the product of a somewhat disturbed mind. But I won't, because I have the feeling that's partly what Gibson and company want. Instead of feeding the meaningless controversy already blazing around this forgettable piece of Celluloid, I choose to let it die the quiet, unremarked death it deserves.

Yet I can't resist mentioning the final scene. (Yes, I'm about to issue a "spoiler," but it's not like there's anything vaguely innovative to report, so bear with me.) After a brief dramatic silence, we see Jesus' gravestone rolled away, a conspicuously unoccupied burial cloth . . . then the J-Man suddenly appears in profile, scar-free, while the soundtrack escalates into a militant staccato unmistakably reminiscent of the opening credits for "The Terminator." And, in an uncanny Terminator impersonation that challenges viewers not to fall into the aisles screaming with laughter, the naked, robot-like Jesus proceeds to hasten off the screen -- but not before we get a good look at one of the bloody holes left over from his crucifixion.

Cue closing credits. Eight dollars, squandered. Get me the hell out of here.