National Post (National Edition)
Director Paul Schrader gets to the soul of First Reformed.
THE DIRECTOR OF FIRST REFORMED SEEMS TO HAVE SOME ANSWERS
One of the most talked-about movies of the spring was First Reformed, Paul Schrader’s austere, intense portrait of a Protestant minister coming undone in upstate New York. The movie, starring Ethan Hawke as the Rev. Ernst Toller, explores themes that viewers versed in Schrader’s more than four-decade body of work — which includes American Gigolo and Light Sleeper (as director) and Taxi Driver (as screenwriter) and the critical study Transcendental Style in Film — will surely recognize. This is not the first time he has delved into the existential torment of a man’s soul, nor the first time he has summoned the influences of Ingmar Bergman, Robert Bresson, Carl Dreyer and other transcendental film heroes.
But First Reformed feels timely, even urgent. One of the things that torments Toller is the prospect of human extinction caused by catastrophic climate change. Another is his estrangement from a denomination dependent on corporate largesse to fund its mediacentric spiritual mission. (His small congregation is the satellite of a megachurch called Abundant Life, run by a politically savvy pastor named Joel Jeffers with significant money from Edward Balq, the chief executive of a chemical company.)
Toller lives uncomfortably in the present and in despair of the future. His dark night of the soul begins with his decision to keep a diary and leads him to contemplate an act of violent, suicidal political extremism.
On a recent afternoon in Manhattan, I spoke with Schrader about Toller and the themes and techniques of First Reformed. These excerpts from our conversation have been edited but not purged of spoilers.
Q What kind of pastor is Rev. Toller?
A As a pastor, he’s a charity case. They have this little church, and this is a job that nobody wants, probably it doesn’t pay dirt. When someone actually wants his help, the first thing he tries to do is pass them on to the bigger organization.
I don’t think Toller stands in any Christian tradition other than the existential one — this notion of Albert Camus’: I don’t believe, I choose to believe.
There are two comments I’d make on the larger contemporary world of Christianity. One is, it’s been hijacked by the evangelicals, and it’s important to remember that they are a minority. They know how to grab headlines, so a lot of people have thought they represent Christianity, but they don’t. Hopefully there’ll be a pushback in the larger liberal humanitarian Christian tradition.
Q Do you think environmentalism is part of that?
A Environmentalism is certainly part of the church’s mission. When I was a kid, I was always taught about stewardship. But the Bible of course is contradictory, as it is in so many other instances. On one hand, you’re supposed to subdue the Earth. On the other hand, you’re supposed to preserve it.
Q That’s one way of describing the conflict between Toller and Balq.
A And Jeffers. Jeffers is just a CEO. He’s not a bad guy. He’s actually quite a good guy, but you know, if you’re going to run New York City Ballet you better take David Koch’s money. Otherwise, you don’t have a ballet.
The other interesting thing that’s happened in contemporary Christianity is this splitting of church into two types of services: the smaller devotional congregations and then the arena entertainment-based congregations, which are much more outgoing and communal, like Abundant Life. And I would not presume to say that one is better than the other because I’m sure there’s good Christians in both, but my preference is certainly for the devotional side. If I’m going to go to a Taylor Swift concert or see a football game, I’ll do that. I won’t go to church.
Q Toller’s relationship with young environmentalists leads him to an agonizing question: Can God forgive us?
A I have a secular answer, but it’s not the correct answer. If the question is “can God forgive us,” the secular answer is he has to; that’s why we made him. That’s his job. But the Earth is just fine: 50,000 years after allout nuclear holocaust, it will be up and running without the virus of humanity, and maybe he’ ll take a better evolutionary course next time.
Q The question of the presence or absence of God is a live question throughout this film in a way that’s very, very unusual.
A There’s a lot of God talk. When I first showed the film, I warned people this is a slow movie and there’s a lot of religious talk, be prepared. I was very surprised how these philosophical and theological discussions just glue people to their seats.
Q How would you describe the effect you were after?
A Unease. You’re withholding things that people have come to expect even if they don’t know it. But they know something is different. They know you’re not adjusting the camera. They know they’re not getting the musical cues. The tricky dance is how to keep the viewer coming toward you as you’re moving away.
One day I said to the cameraman, let’s bring out the rail, and he said, but we don’t do dolly shots. I said, today is a day to break the rule. You can break it because you created it. We might need to tell the audience, see, there are rules here; this is something that we’re not doing.
Q What kind of instructions did you give the actors?
A With Ethan it was: Every time you feel the urge to entertain, step away. Every time you feel the viewer interested in you, lean back. But he also understood that that’s a rule you’re made to break. So in this scene with Jeffers at the end, it’s not in the script when he starts to cry. Afterward, he said, I know we agreed that I wasn’t to show emotion, but I just felt that was the one time I should, and let’s go back and do it the other way. I said no, I think you’re right. You spotted the moment to break the rule.
Q You take the audience into this condition of extremism, but you’re there as if it were a perfectly natural place to be.
A I’ ll tell you the trick, and I figured it out years ago. It’s a three-stage trick. First stage is nonemotive narration. So it’s like intravenous feeding. You’re getting nutrition but you can’t taste it.
The next stage is the world is only as our protagonist perceives it. You see no other reality. There’s never a scene that he’s not in. So now you’re seeing his life, you’re being filled up with his thoughts and after about 45 minutes or so, you’ve identified. How could you not identify?
Then, often slowly, you have to go off the rails a little bit, a little bit, a little bit. The first few times it doesn’t bother you, but then all of a sudden you’re saying whoa, I’m identified with somebody that I don’t think is worthy of identification. What do I do about that?
And that’s a great place for an artist to take a viewer because you can’t predict how people will respond when they’re opened up that way; they’re going to have to do something to defend themselves. Here’s how you can defend yourself: Just take a jump, you know.
Q On the other hand, you can’t say in terms of his analysis of the relevant information that he’s wrong.
A This is the path that he’s meant to take. One thing I cut out of the film: When he has the suicide bomber vest on, he had written three entries in his diary and I filmed them and then decided no, it’s better to let the audience imagine what his last words are.
First he writes, “magical mystery tour” and then he crosses that out. Then he writes, “Will God forgive us?” and he crosses that out. Then he writes, “I wish I could’ve chosen a more convenient way to die.” And then he closes the book. And that’s exactly Gethsemane. Take this cup away from me. Lord, take this cup of Drano away from me.