Film Favorites: The Village

An isolated community.

An older generation hiding from past pain and present fear.

A younger generation raised in ignorance and taught superstition.

Trusting children exploited, sacrificed to appease their parents' anxieties, reared in a tiny culture bubble, guarded against outside influences that would endanger or enlighten them. All significant choices made for them by their authorities.

Secrets. Control. Manipulation. Lies. Fear. Facades. All in the guise of protection and love.

But ultimately, the same evil that lurked outside the borders could not be kept out. It arises from within, threatening the security the community "authorities" had labored so hard to create.

M. Night Shyamalan's "The Village".

I don't watch horror films. But this didn't seem at all like horror to me in 2004; it seemed terrifyingly true to life. And when my husband and I first watched The Village, we wanted to shout from the rooftops. 

Finally, I had an image I could refer people to! Just as the Duggars' 19 Kids and Counting offers a narrow glimpse into the world of Quiverfull homeschooling, this film illustrates the emotional experience of growing up in an isolated Christian fundamentalist subculture: "Have you seen The Village? It's like I grew up there."

And like Ivy Walker, I walked away with fear and trembling, only to be amazed at the world outside that was so very different than I'd been told.

"There is kindness in your voice. I did not expect that."

On Growing Up Modest

My family looked like everyone else when I was little. Mom liked to be comfortable so she wore jeans a lot, but she also sewed her own dresses and liked feminine details like ribbons and lace.

Then my parents attended Bill Gothard's seminars. In the Advanced Seminar, Gothard and his buddy Jim Sammons explained why women shouldn't wear trousers. The accompanying textbook went into a lot more detail, warning against long necklaces, sundresses, false eyelashes, dangling earrings, open-heeled shoes, and t-shirts with "written messages".

So Mom got rid of her jeans and started wearing only skirts. For a while I was still allowed to wear pants to school, on Wednesdays when my class had P.E., but Mom homeschooled me the next year and got rid of my shorts and jeans. I tried to take it in stride, but I did miss those pink seersucker shorts dreadfully. I thought about them every summer.

And speaking of summer, swimsuits became an annual adventure. When I was four, I wore a pink bikini to the neighborhood pool. Later I had a blue one-piece with a little whale on it; I remember wearing it at the lake. The next year Mom had me wear a  cotton romper in the water. It tied at the shoulders and had elastic around the legs (remember the 80's?). I was 8 or 9 when Mom made me my first "swimdress": dark red floral calico, full skirt gathered at the elastic waist, puffy sleeves, a little ruffle at the elastic neck, and matching red bloomers. I stayed with my grandparents for a week that summer and Grammie wanted to take us to her pool.

"Did you bring a swimsuit?" she asked.

"I have a new swimdress," I said dubiously.

"Same difference," said she. But I doubted she understood.

I spread the red outfit on the bed for her to see. Grammie tried to cover her dismay as graciously as possible. But we didn't visit the pool.

Swimwear, late 90's

Over the years I swam in a denim jumper, a prairie dress with a tied belt and bloomers, culottes and a homemade blouse, and finally a periwinkle twill jewel-neck dress with a pleated split skirt and puffed sleeves. I wanted to put cuffs on the legs, but that was not permitted. At the time, I laughed about it. It was better than crying. When it was finished, I put on a pearl choker, put my hair up, and gazed at myself in the mirror. I sighed, I shrugged, and then I laughed.

The beach was a tricky place anyway. We generally went when nobody else wanted to be in Lake Michigan: early mornings when it was still cool, or overcast days. Though we were safe in our full-coverage outfits and the boys kept their shirts on, at the first sighting of a woman in a real bathing suit, we were packing up our beach toys and heading for the car. I bought my first retail swimsuit for my honeymoon.

From Gothard's Advanced textbook

Princess seams were often a problem. As difficult as they were to sew, I loved the smooth curves. But sometimes those curves got us into trouble. I once encouraged my teen sister to buy a floral church-style dress at a yard sale, only to have Mom tell her she couldn't wear it because the bodice fitted "too tightly". I felt terrible. Another time I made a blouse out of a rosy cotton chintz, only to hang the finished article in the storage room for a younger sister to wear before her bosom blossomed to 34B.

We bought cotton mesh polo shirts from Land's End, because they were the only knits we were allowed to wear by themselves. Jersey knits like turtlenecks and t-shirts could only be worn under jumpers, sweaters, or vests. Blouses usually needed a tank top or camisole underneath to disguise any bra straps. Bras could not be lined with any kind of padding--I wore this style until I started breastfeeding. We all wore full-cut briefs, and long homemade bloomers under our skirts. Girls wore nightgowns (sometimes with matching bloomers), not pajamas.

When I got bold enough to buy sweatpants and a pair of loose cotton capris, I sometimes wore them under my jumper on the trampoline. I also started wearing pajamas, being careful to cover up in a robe when I left my room. At the University of North Dakota, I wore shorts and a sleeveless shirt for swimming instead of my old dress.

For years, the boys could only wear shorts to the beach. I nervously went out in shorts for the first time in 1999 when I traveled with two younger brothers to visit my grandparents. I was nearly 24. It was terribly awkward, sitting in the middle of Bebop's backseat being blinded by my white thighs. But it was a hot day and I was determined to try shorts while I had the chance.

Besides dressing carefully ourselves, hiding the JCPenney catalog, and periodically asking to be removed from the Victoria's Secret mailing list, we were cautious about immodesty slipping through in other ways. Dad would preview VHS movies in his office, then show them to us with entire scenes blacked out. The Sound of Music, Fiddler on the Roof, and Chariots of Fire were all edited for modesty.

The offensive dress

I was a teenager when my dad showed us the black-and-white biopic Madame Curie, but he skipped through a couple of scenes in the most emotional part of the story, explaining that Marie's dress was  "immodest". This year, I watched the film again, savoring the chemistry of Walter Pidgeon and Greer Garson as they depicted one of my favorite real-life love stories. Then came the particularly tender scene with Greer as Marie trying on a dark floor-length gown (described by her adoring husband in the film as "becoming", "very beautiful", and "a rather special gown--not low, of course"). The dress is important to the story, since Pierre has a fatal accident before Marie has a chance to wear it. But I'd never seen the scene before. I studied the dress curiously, searching for "eye traps". It was partly a relief not to understand what was wrong with the gown, partly an exasperation.

At the time, I thought my family held unusually high standards, even for conservatives. Now, thanks to the Internet, I can now read how the modesty principle worked out practically in another fundamentalist family. And another girl's story of how churches use "modesty" to shame women. I can laugh with other ex-ATI daughters about lingerie and zealous mothers as clothing police. But, like gazing at my swimsuit in the bathroom mirror, it's a strangled laugh.

Growing Up: Other Mentors

Continued from the previous installment:


I was a wary and skittish reader in those days, fearful of teachers who would lead me further astray. But I felt safe with Phillips. Who could be more heavily invested in the truth of the scriptures than a Bible translator who had wrestled personally with its meaning and essence?

In Your God Is Too Small, J.B. Phillips gave me "permission" to grow up spiritually, as it were. To make sure my faith and my perception of God kept up with my adult mind and my adult responsibilities. I was startled by the first page:

"It is obviously impossible for an adult to worship the conception of God that exists in the mind of a child... unless he is prepared to deny his own experience of life."

Obviously? The concept of adulthood, or maturing as a process, had not been emphasized in our home. Adolescence as a stage was patently denied within IBLP. We were praised for our "maturity" and wise choices, which were more often based on ignorance and behavioral conditioning. Children were early expected to shoulder adult responsibility, but without adult motivation or evaluation of risk. I never felt that I "became", or was treated as, an adult.

Faith was based on truth, which was either-or, good-bad, true-false, black-white. A child could learn these distinctions, and ought to. For the most part, anything unfit for children was inappropriate for adults as well. Learning to drive was a rare exception; a milestone that meant one was authorized by the state to operate a vehicle. Similarly, through marriage God authorized two individuals to have sex with each other. Before a wedding, sex was bad. After, it was good.

Now Phillips was telling me it was healthy to be dissatisfied with my childish understanding of God. That I needed a God who could command my respect and cooperation. Who was bigger than my expanding knowledge of science and humanity. As Phillips expressed it in 1961, my need was "not for the God of the ancient Hebrews, nor the God of the early Church, nor the God of Victorian England, but the God of the Atomic Age--the God of Energy and Wisdom and Love". This quest was getting more exciting.

**********

I love libraries. Always have, from the time I could barely pronounce, "Lai-bur-dee-dee". Whenever I visit someone's home, or a new church, I like to pause to check out the bookshelves. Book collections give me a feel for the family or group's history, interests, and "slant", sometimes going back generations. I've found some unlikely treasures this way. And after I chanced upon Soul Survivor: How 13 Unlikely Mentors Helped My Faith Survive the Church in my church's library, Philip Yancey was my new favorite author.

Like Elisabeth Elliot, Yancey introduced me to dozens of other authors, expanding my theological and literary horizons. But most of all, Philip Yancey gave me permission to ask tough questions, and to not put up with ineffectual answers. I devoured What's So Amazing About Grace? and Disappointment with God. I got The Jesus I Never Knew on audio cassettes for my husband. I pondered Rumors of Another World (now retitled The Skeptic's Guide to Faith) for a long time. I bought Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference? for a women's church study group in 2009, but by then my questions were stronger and my doubt was growing. I got frustrated with his defense of prayer halfway through the book and never finished it.

I respect Yancey's courage and honesty and open-mindedness in the face of criticism from other Christians. He can even impress me with dreadful stories about the close-minded church of his childhood. I love his perception of irony; while he does not exploit it, you can't miss it where it exists. (And he introduced me to Flannery O'Connor, who must be the queen of irony.) Yancey writes like a journalist: always observing, making connections, telling the stories of how ideas affect real people. I learned so much from Philip Yancey. Which made it all the more strange when I felt I'd outpaced my mentor. Strange, and a little frightening.

*************

In 2006, I flew to Philadelphia to visit my grandmother and introduce her to my newest baby girl. On the way home, my return flight left without me and I was stranded at the Minneapolis airport for six hours. When I stopped crying, I found a bookstore and promptly lost myself in a riveting book entitled Kingdom Coming: The Rise of Christian Nationalism, by a journalist named Michelle Goldberg. It occupied my thoughts while Baby napped, and piqued my curiosity. How did this female outsider know so much about America's religious right?

Goldberg offered a perspective I'd never been exposed to before. It was as if we'd attended the same conferences, but her experience of the identical event was the utter reverse of mine. Inside was out, back was front, up was down, cold was hot, clothed was nude, red was blue, white was black. Her book reminded me of reading The Screwtape Letters; the angle made me mentally dizzy. The cultural and political movements I had grown up supporting genuinely disturbed her. The men I admired freaked her out. Goldberg was probably the first to describe Patriarchy to me as a negative thing.

When I finally made it home, I hesitatingly told my husband about the reading material I had chanced upon. I remember feeling sheepish and a little guilty, but I just had to read the rest. I looked up the book at the public library and the world didn't fit into the same box afterward. I couldn't say that Goldberg was right, but I knew that, like Elisabeth Elliot, she was being  truthful about what she saw.

**********

My grandmother, an avid reader, had a book sitting by her bed when I visited: What Jesus Meant, by Garry Wills. This interested me since I didn't think of her as particularly religious. I found that book at the library, too, and immediately admired the author's expansive knowledge of the Bible (rarely did I encounter a Bible scholar whose grasp of the scriptures exceeded my own) as he used his research to describe the historical context of each of the Gospels. A committed Catholic with criticisms of the Church, Wills had stuck on many of the same points of the Jesus biographies that I had (What is this "kingdom of heaven"? What about Judas?) and I loved reading the conclusions he'd reached. Like Yancey, he asked tough questions boldly.

Like Phillips, Wills did his own translations from the Greek texts. When I read What Paul Meant, a similar treatment of the Epistles, I was struck by how the vocabulary has evolved since we began reading these letters. The word we translate "church", what exactly did Paul mean by it? There were no church buildings, no denominations, no history. How can we fairly examine the Bible without the clutter of centuries of religious practices? Is it even possible to cut through thousands of layers of religious grime?

But for Garry Wills, I probably would never have watched The Last Temptation of Christ. Remembering the scandal of the 1980's, I felt sneaky and apostate bringing it home on VHS. The film, low-budget but incredibly artistic, is based on a novel written by a Greek Christian. The author focuses on the doctrine that Jesus was fully human, as well as divine, and has Jesus experience the same conflicts all humans do. We found it extremely moving, Willem Dafoe's Great Lakes accent notwithstanding. In fact, we watched it again that same week. Perhaps we weren't so far off, after all. Perhaps we just didn't fit the American evangelical mold anymore. Perhaps our God didn't.

Film Favorites: Rabbit Hole

Rabbit Hole is a beautiful movie* about grief and recovery. Simple but deep, poignant yet sometimes funny, it is the story of a couple (played by Aaron Eckhart and Nicole Kidman) grieving the loss of their young son. His death was an accident--there is no one to blame--but that does little to assuage anyone's pain.

This is serious subject matter and the deliberation of the filmmakers shows up in the detail: colors, lighting, clothing, score. The filming and acting are gentle, yet so honest that we feel the rawness of the emotional wounds each individual is struggling to survive: Becca, Howie, Becca's mother, and Jason (the teenage car driver). Becca and Howie have a strong marriage and seek recovery together, but inevitably their paths diverge as they heal at different rates, in different ways, with different needs. This inevitably stresses their relationship, and us the viewers who are rooting for their survival.

Rabbit Hole voices questions, rather than offering answers. It observes and portrays the human experience, reserving judgment. While Becca's mom finds some comfort in the church, her daughter is exasperated by well-meaning friends telling her that "God wanted another angel." In many ways, this awkward scene with their grief recovery support group reminded me of sitting in church.

Another Angel
Rabbit Hole at MOVIECLIPS.com

But the film is ultimately hopeful. Becca and Howie endure the crisis. By the end of the movie, our own wounds even feel more "bound up" as we watch them, together, step tentatively toward the light again. The sorrow is still there, but as Becca's mom confides, "At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and... carry around like a brick in your pocket."




*A year after we saw  the movie, we had the chance to see the original stage version. We wondered how it would compare, since we already knew the story. The play was extremely moving. The narrowed setting and smaller cast really put the dialogue into focus. Definitely go if you get the chance.

Spiritual Abuse Survivors: Paradise Recovered

I love this piece, penned by Andie Redwine. It did me good to reread it today and realize how much progress I've made since last year!

We Are Spiritual Abuse Survivors

...Sometimes when people are vulnerable and need answers, someone pretends to give support by exploiting the needs of hurting people, using their ‘answers’ as a recruitment tool to get people to do their bidding in the name of God.

This is what happened to us.

We aren’t crazy, naïve, foolish, stupid, or lazy. We are human, like you. We have needs, like you. And, unfortunately for us, someone took advantage of our human needs for their personal gain.

We thought we were specially called by God. We learned later that we were just a means to an end, with the end being the elevation of our leader. 

Or we were rigidly raised to believe that everything on the outside of our group was bad. That only our group alone understood God, salvation, and the keys to living rightly.

We were taught or reconditioned to fear everything that contradicted our leaders’ edicts. We believed dissent to be wicked, evil, and Satanic.

And then we learned something about our leaders that made us question all that we built our lives upon.

. . .

We learned that some of our phobias have been granted to us by leaders who manipulated us into believing that the world is really a terrible, horrible place.

Of course, our leader’s group is wonderful and the only good to be found in the world.
Or is it?

And then we learned that asking these questions makes us expendable to the leader and the rest of the group.

. . . 

But one day, we noticed that many around us were genuinely happy. Even the ones that were supposed to be ‘really bad.’ They laughed, smiled, and were kind.

Some had faith, some didn’t. All were free to believe as they wished.

We were supposed to fear them. And yet they didn’t seem all that scary.

We didn’t know this worldly culture very well. Their music, their movies, their celebrations, their workplaces, their books, their relationships. And they scared us a little. Or a lot.

They also intrigued us a little. Or a lot.

And we confused the heck out of these people. They had no idea where we were coming from, and we were too ashamed and embarrassed to tell them that we had been in what they called ‘a cult’.  That we ‘drank the Kool-Aid’.  That we were ‘mind-numbed robots’ that had been ‘brainwashed.’

There was a lot of shame. So we didn’t say a word about our experience. We did the best we could to assimilate.

You may have known us for years and never known our stories. We can bury them pretty deep.

Because of the Internet and our Googling late into the night when we can’t sleep, we’re learning that we aren’t the only ones. Because of the anonymity that the Internet affords, we’re getting braver. We’re telling our stories.

We’re speaking out.

. . .

There's a lot more, including suggestions for how to relate to a spiritual abuse survivor. I am so grateful for those friends, old and new, who have been patient and accepting as I find my way, sometimes flying, sometimes just muddling along. 

If Andie's writing strikes a chord with you, check out this film she wrote and produced: Paradise Recovered. It is touching and funny; how you feel about the ending will depend on where your own journey has taken you. 

Film Favorites: Away We Go

One of my all-time favorites

We saw this film at the theater when it came out in 2009 and now it seems to represent several years of my life. We like to think our cinematic tastes are discriminating, and back then we were still hesitant about R-rated art, so that date night broke daring new ground for us. And I still laugh and cry every time I see the movie. Just watching the trailer again (for this post) made me happy inside.

Away We Go is an offbeat post-modern dramedy, with a side of realistic romance, in the road picture tradition. Burt and Verona are thirty-somethings living in a trailer with a cardboard window and taking life as it comes, until they learn they are expecting their first child. When Burt’s parents announce that they are moving to Belgium for the next two years, the young couple feels abandoned and unmoored. So Burt and a very pregnant Verona set out on a cross-country trip, visiting relatives and old acquaintances in hopes of finding a supportive setting in which to start their family.

Away We Go is full of quirky humor played directly to Generation X. Most of the characters are written as caricatures and I laughed out loud at the cast’s over-the-top renditions. The script and performances have the feel of a play, relying on dialogue and performances that almost seem too exaggerated for cinema. Still, many Gen-Xers will relate to the uncomfortable social situations. Our parents may not have moved to Belgium, but they have let us down.We laugh at Lowell, L.N., and Beckett’s mother not because they amuse us, but because we all wonder how to deal with pessimists waiting for the Apocalypse, parents who take themselves too seriously, or zealous proponents of fringe theories. When Burt shouts, in perhaps the best line of the film, “And I renounce your unbelievable bullshit!”, we cheer him, envious of his freedom.

John Krasinski plays a sincere, blunt, and clumsy Burt Farlander. Verona (Maya Rudolph) is reserved and thoughtful, but she and Burt have a comfortable relationship and are constantly communicating. Together, they face their fears and inadequacies head-on. Their optimistic quest for parenting role models and kindred spirits takes them—by car, plane, and even train—to Phoenix, Madison, Montreal, and Miami.

Retro clothing styles, older cars, and a subdued color palette make this film seem like it could be decades older than it is. The story values things and places and people that have weathered life. We feel conflicting values as the camera lingeringly contrasts rugged landscapes, beaches, trees, and sunsets, with luxurious buildings, stately townhouses, and nighttime cityscapes. Burt and Verona are clearly comparing the distinctive “feel” of each stop on their itinerary. The film’s soundtrack is moody and introspective, featuring many songs by Scottish singer/songwriter Alexei Murdoch. The music is beautifully haunting, the lyrics pregnant with  hope.

This screenplay was a first for husband-wife team Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida. Dave, a satirical novelist once called “the J. D. Salinger of Generation X”, has written characters whose experiences mirror many of his own. Like Verona, he lost both parents while he was a college student. Like Burt’s brother, he felt the burden of raising a child alone. Burt’s sister-in-law disappears, abandoning her daughter and husband. Eggers’ sister committed suicide. Dave found that parenthood dramatically changed his lifestyle and the way he approached his career, and Burt and Verona are willing to embrace the inevitable changes that accompany pregnancy and new parenthood.

The meaning of parenthood, family, and commitment is a poignant and continuous theme. Verona is committed to Burt, but refuses to marry him. Burt’s brother wonders how his daughter will fare without a mother. Burt’s parents pursue their own European adventure, leaving their youngest son feeling rejected. Verona’s sister wonders how to know if she and her boyfriend are compatible. Both girls have to deal with the absence of their deceased parents. LN, a well-heeled New Age feminist university professor and “lactivist”, and her seahorse-obsessed husband smother their children under their notion of familial devotion. Tom and Munch try to protect their adopted family from sad reality, though their own hearts are bleeding. Lily and Lowell ignore or put down their children, while the lady at the hotel is raising a well-informed brat. After each encounter, Burt and Verona reflect on their observations, establishing their own values while considering the long-haul demands of parenting and realizing that there is no guarantee of success.

I feel a kinship with Burt and Verona every time I watch this movie. I appreciate that they want to live on purpose. Like them, I often feel lost in a sea of choices and even conflicting desires; I love the way they analyze their options. IMDB quotes director Sam Mendes as saying, “[All my films are]  about one or more people who are lost and trying to find a way through. It’s no different with this one, it just happens that they do find a way through.” While Burt and Verona find some of their friends’ homes more appealing than others, they ultimately realize that they must find their own way and create their own unique family. When they finally choose a place to be their own, Burt tells Verona, “This place is perfect for us. Don’t you think?”

Verona smiles through tears, “I hope so.”

I hope so, too.