The Hunger Games - A Review

Note: this is a review of the movie based solely on the movie itself - not on the books, and not what may come up in future movies in this trilogy. To those who have not seen the movie, I recommend reading a synopsis of it if this review seems confusing. Also, this review does contain mild spoilers, in that it hints at the overall tone and outcome of the movie.


As I watched The Hunger Games, I became enthralled with the central characters and the choices that they would be forced to make once in the arena. I wondered, "Twenty-four teenagers being told that they will have to kill each other in order to survive? How is the author going to redeem this situation? What kinds of noble sacrifices will I see? Who is going to lay down his or her life in order to demonstrate the wrongness of this situation?" In fact, the character development and pacing of the first half were so excellent, so that I was at the point of being physically affected by tense moments in the plot.

In my mind, I was beginning to harken back the coliseum in ancient Rome, where those who called Jesus Lord repeatedly demonstrated the excellence of their Redeemer by laying down their lives in His name, and by refusing to kill in cold blood. So, when I began to realize that both of the main characters seemed prepared to kill in order to survive, I began to become wary of what might happen next, though I still expected some plot element to somehow redeem the situation and demonstrate to me value of life, or the excellence of sacrifice, or some other noble virtue. Afterwards, I remembered thinking of the story of Telemachus, and how different it is from that of The Hunger Games.

As the characters interacted with each other inside of the arena, the story unfolded into one of total human depravity. I am unsure of whether the author meant it to be taken as such - perhaps I was supposed to see the main characters as justified in what they did. Kill to survive. Kill by default. Kill in self-defence. But by the end of the movie, I could only think that they had displayed evil selfishness. Any serous Christian evaluation of the movie must conclude the same. Not one of the twenty-four teenagers was willing to openly oppose the games before they started, and not one of them displayed a total unwillingness to kill for survival.

So then, what should a Christian do with this movie? Should he decide against seeing it because of its display of depravity? I do not think so, as I would cautiously recommend Hotel Rwanda to adults who can handle the terror it portrays. However, the effect of  The Hunger Games on the viewer will be very different from that of Hotel Rwanda, as The Hunger Games asks us to identify with characters who we eventually see as evil. My mind was extremely troubled by the story for several days afterward. Therefore, my recommendation is that a Christian who understands human depravity may see this movie without violation of conscience. However, he or she can expect to be disturbed by what they see - there is nothing at the end of the movie to redeem what happens.

One final note: the majority of those who see the movie will likely not understand that the main characters were wrong to kill. I even came across a review by a Christian missionary who thought that the main characters were vindicated, and simply victims of their situation. If you discuss this movie with friends, please keep in mind that killing for self-preservation is wrong, no matter how an author may frame it. We have the testimony of the Christians of ancient Rome, who considered it a privilege to die for the Glory of God. A person who chooses to kill others to save his or her own life is without excuse because of the Law of God which is written on the heart of every person.

Quotes >

"God loves to save the most despicable kinds of people."
 
This quote is from a sermon by Art Azurdia. He continues,

"And that was certainly true in my case. In getting me, God wasn't getting something good. In getting me, God wasn't getting anything special. In getting me, God wasn't getting anything that would add to Him or benefit Him in any way, shape, or form. Have you forgotten, by chance, the sewer out of which God rescued you?"

Behold, the love of God. When we come to Him, we bring our selfishness, our lusts, our wretchedness. He takes us as His children, to restore us to Himself, to teach us to worship Him. He gains nothing from it, except that which is beyond earthly comprehension - that He is glorified by this display of boundless mercy and patient love.

I am the worst of sinners! Let me serve this God, who sent His own Son to pay for my rebellion.

The Thunder-Clouds of Caesar

The thunder-clouds of Caesar are advancing,

Scorched heads of grain fall under Roman foot;

The cindered huts of Gauls, long since abandoned,

Stare, dark-eyed, at these passing Roman swords.

        Some Gaul had held his torch,

        Spread silently the fire on his home

        In death of dreams to take

        What power might be taken from his foe

But march on, mighty Caesar, conquer on!

Spread fear from Roman hill to Briton's end,

For man shall wear the laurel, crowned forever!

And earth shall serve a pantheon of men.

        The woman holds her child,

        Stares silent at his frozen, fading face

        To catch what bit of life

        May still be caught before he fades away

But stand, oh mighty Caesar! Give no way!

The least of these are not a god's concern;

Vercingetorix's mighty men lay slain

And Rome awaits triumphant man's return!

A Letter to Guitar (and His Butterfly)

Dear Guitar,

I also love you. Thus, I write in sadness: the blind man who thinks he sees is the closest to death. You will not believe me when I say this, but the world is full of butterflies and guitars - yet all the butterflies have broken wings, and all the guitars make music in vain.

I remember when we had adventures together, and kept each other alive with a joke or word of encouragement among the Greeks. I held a hope for you then (you know the hope of which I speak). I have not given up that hope, even with the news I have found.

You have not found clarity, dear Guitar. You have hidden your pain behind the temporary happiness of romance, and as the pain is hidden, so is the danger. Has poetry never been dark? Has poison never been sweet for a time? Have you not already seen the sweet turn bitter in your own life? For a short time, the music of a guitar may heal the broken wings of a butterfly. But that music will fade, and the wings will be shone still broken in the end, as always. The pain will only be greater for the music that was played - the music is evil.

The clarity of repentance and the hope of forgiveness stand unmatched, and will always stand. The love of a butterfly is only a broken shadow of that great love. Please forgive me if you find this pretentious, Guitar. These are only the words of a sad fool to a blind instrument.

The Battle of Celden Wood

This poem is not yet finished. However, I cannot seem to reconcile the element I want included at the end with what I have in the body. So for now, enjoy.

I stepped from Celden Wood into the silent silver sun
Which drove before it Dourish spear, and horse, and sword, and drum
And glinted from the foeman’s steel, still half a mile away;
“Come meet this blade of Celden, foe, and show thee to thy grave.
Come hither, cross the frozen field, the shining, deathly snow,
Where once the farmer’s wicked scythe cut down the golden rows,
Where, when a child, I used to walk, behind my father’s plow,
My ax is sharpened, Dourish lords; come forth and meet me now.

“Come whir the dance of death with me beneath this frozen sun,
My ax has bowed, and welcomes thee to where thy blood will run,
The frost is glinting off its edge, the steel is cold and pure,
And keener than the winter air; come now, thy end is sure.”
And came the lords across snow; it thundered up behind,
Mixed frozen mud with hoof and boot, and man and beast entwined
The great black stallions plunged across, and ninety-seven fell,
Though still our arrows could not stop that frothy wave of hell.

And then, behind the devil-beasts, ten thousand foemen came;
Mortality was in their eyes: a maddened, writhing flame;
I drank it up like smold’ring myrrh, I breathed it deeply in,
And faced the horsemen with my ax, and loved the battle’s den,
And flung myself into their ranks, and cut them down like wheat,
But felt my brethren driven back, and giving in retreat,
Withdrawing to the field’s edge; pushed back into the trees,
And leaving there a stream of blood to drip and run and freeze.

The pride of Doureland’s sons kept on, and followed through the wood:
The coward’s name shall ne’er be giv’n a fighting Dourish lord;
They urged their steeds through brush and brier, until they were deep in,
Beneath the silent trees, which held the trap we’d laid for them,
And arrows poured, like seeds of wrath, into the floundering ranks,
They chased in vane: we circled ‘round and cut them at their flanks,
And felled the plunging devil-beasts into the drifted snow,
Where wild eyes turned lifeless ice, and blood, like roses, grew.

Then came the footmen, pike and sword, advancing at a rush,

But broken by the trees and hindered by the frozen brush;

We came against them, ax and bow: our souls were in our breath,

We fell, and matched our foemen blood for blood and death for death!
Then, at our shouts, the Dourish line stepped back and gave us way
And broke and scattered in the snow and fled the crimson day

Like shadows when the morning sun is risen in the east,
Chased back from rocky hill and crag across the crimson frost.

SAICFF and The Sojourner's Poet Fellowship

Among the SAIC Film Festival's highlights was a rough screening of Ace Wonder, Message from a Dead Man. Directed by John Moore, this movie will show that independent, family, Christian studios can produce films which are technically sound and have good storytelling. It was satisfying to see the vast improvements in acting skills and in storytelling, and to hear a world class musical score by Ben Bodkin. Did I mention that John Moore's storytelling has improved?

Other good movies included The Runner from Ravenshead (VERY GOOD), Divided (Yes!), The Penny, Agenda: Grinding America Down, and Live to Forgive.

The main thing which I discovered at the festival, however, was an idea. I have long wanted to form (or join) a group of poets with a kindred belief in the sufficiency of Scripture. After watching the accomplishments of so many small studios and ordinary people, I have decided to put this group officially into a planning stage, with "The Sojourner's Poet Fellowship" as a working name. Membership will be by application/invitation once the Fellowship becomes official. Hopefully a founding document/manifesto will be forthcoming.

So come ye poets, (if ye do exist). James, may I enlist you as my first co-member?

Meditations, II - IV

II

Like a deep well is a man whose tears are not hidden,
The one who speaks plainly is a cool cistern.

III

The heart is like a drunken man,
And stumbles like a man full of wine;
Standing, he declares his balance
Until he has fallen again.

IV

He has cast wide the stars beyond the heavens;
Will you count each as a grain of sand?
Each one burns – mankind dwells in a hundred trillion shadows.
Will you change them, or brush them away with your hand?

Should He seek you out from the heavens?
Should He find a single grain of sand from all the shores?
Should He love you, a grain of a grain?

From the Archives

To those who know me from Apricotpie: you may disregard this post. The purpose of this is simply to put some of my older poetry on display for those who know me from elsewhere.

Memoriam

I didn’t know the someone
Who left us with this smold’ring
In our minds; who left us holding
Less, and wond’ring what had gone.

And watching from the pew-side,
Her good friend praying, clinging
To the railing; mem’ry ringing,
With her smile before she’d died,

I saw her shaking, sinking,
To the floor, and felt my weakness,
Looking on and standing, helpless –
Asking then what all were thinking:

What is this empty evening?
God, why have You shred these faces?
Lord of Mercy, filled their glasses
With the bitterest of wine?

---

Later on I heard her brother
Barely reading what he’d written –
That she’d never be forgotten,
That he’d loved her like no other,

And his voice became unsteady,
(Had some mem’ry of his sister
Crossed his eye?) His words were
Halting, and his sorrow free.

And I, who was a stranger,
Bowed my head in silence, broken,
Wond’ring at the words he’d spoken,
Reeling in the painful wonder:

“Tell your family, tell your friends,
What I wasn’t there to tell her;
I wish that I had been there,
And I will see her, soon, again.”

---

And now, the dwindling rays
Of this dark Friday’s evening
Are sketching shadows, leaving
Traces of the grief-struck day,

And I’m, in silence, sitting;
Dim reflections of Your glory
Have begun to overcome me;
All that I have left is trusting

That the smile she had while with us
Was like a candle, flick’ring
In the darkness of our misery
Of a traveler through this earth;

And that her smile, now with You,
Has become a brilliant burning;
And though we remain in mourning,
Hers is everlasting joy.


Moth’s Wing

Lay the tulips softly, withered hand;
Grass has crept onto the dirt
And skirts the ashen stone.

The first touch of her fingers
Had been a golden moth’s wing beneath the moon;
A silver-blue shape at your brother’s wedding dance,
With laughing eyes.


A Prayer to the King of Glory


Let me dwell within Your breath, my King of endless Glory,
And hide me in the shadow of Your love;
Though my sins, like a forest, stand ever thick around me,
Remind me that Your promise is enough.

It’s been years since You first called me, to this desperate journey,
And I tremble for the little way I’ve come;
But though my love is faithless, still Your face has not turned from me,
And Your arms are open, even though I run.

Lord, it is not Your justice that eludes my comprehension,
Nor Your judgment passed on worthless, filthy men,
Nor Your wisdom, nor Your power, but your graceful intervention,
And Your sacrifice to pay for all my sin.

King, You know that I’m a failure, and my wrongs are like an ocean,
And I’ve little courage, even for a man,
But I’m resting in Your promise, though with faltering devotion,
And trusting You’ll complete what You began.

And when it is they ask me, “Who is this King of Glory?”
I pray that I will answer with Your name;
Though men of wrath or lions stand open-mouthed before me,
Give me the strength to answer them the same.

Drifting

Ripples
Spread behind.

The glass is touched;
Broken, where I’ve gone,
Clear ahead,
Quiet.

Silent trees
Stoop down to meet the water,
Hidden shores drift by;
Red-crowned mountains
Spread the lake
With twilight fire.

The owl’s cry
Echoes in the fading sun:
I must have come by dream
Into this living song
Where mountains
Speak with wild words:
“This is a shadow of the Glory”


Sobibor

Hush, Naomi;

The sparrow sings
Beyond the twisted wire

Last night
His small hand
Held your finger,
His glassy brown eyes
Held yours
When they took him,
They left his empty blanket
In your hand:
It is cold

And still
You sit beside the door
And watch
The wood ants file
Slowly by
And hear the sparrow sing.

Hush, Naomi.

Where Have the Stars Gone?

This piece was written during a road trip from Alabama to New York. It is supposed to be a song, with the music provided by my good friend and former roommate Chris Adams. The words and the tune, however, have not yet been tried together and may not actually work. Also, the tune for the chorus has not yet been written, so I left the words of that part unedited.

Verse 1

Savior I run to you, stumble and fall,
The lights of this city are shining in vain.
My eyes, they are weary; my drink, it is gall,
My head has forgotten, my hands hold a stain.

Chorus

Oh God, where have the stars gone?
In never-ending blackness
They shown brilliant with Your glory.
My soul had been well rested,
Until they disappeared.

Verse 2

A burden of sorrow is tied to my shoulders,
How will I not stumble, how will I not fall?
And how will the wounded around me see comfort
If stars do not guide me, if you’re not my all?

Verse 3

Oh, vanish the lights of this terrestrial city
For stars are most brilliant when darkness is shown!
And if I should stumble, yet I’ll be made steady,
And if I should fall I will still be your own.

Quotes >

"I preach as never sure to preach again, and as a dying man to dying men."

This was originally spoken by the English preacher Richard Baxter, who lived from 1615 to 1691. The thought came out of Baxter's perpetual struggle with internal bleeding, which informed his ministry to such an extent that he is remembered as one of the greatest preachers and pastors of the era.

Recently, I had an opportunity to present the Gospel to a group of about forty fellow midshipmen as I gave the talk at my school's Christian Fellowship Club. There were at least five people in the audience who were not regulars, and probably another ten or so regulars who were not believers. I spoke as God allowed, and with some emotion. I talked about the goodness and justice of a Holy God. I talked about repentance, redemption and forgiveness. I talked about having God as a father. I believe that most heard a bit of what I said, but I am not sure if any of the unsaved heard the heart of it.

Now, with my graduation approaching, I have just days left. My witness to my classmates will effectively die on June 21, 2010. Even now, I can think of one person in particular who I care about, who is abjectly miserable, and who has never heard the full Gospel from me. I wonder if I will have a chance to speak with him again.

God is sovereign, and His plans are beyond our understanding. But from our viewpoint, the lines of battle have been drawn. We are surrounded by miserable, hopeless, evil people who are doing everything they can to convince themselves that they are happy, content, and deserving. They hurt others, they hurt themselves, and they despise the idea of surrender to Christ. We cannot present a timid Gospel to them, because a timid Gospel has no power to challenge that kind of miserable self-reliance.

We will often not know which conversation or which opportunity to speak will be our last. Thus, I resolve this: to write as a dying man to dying men, to speak as a dying man to dying men, and to pray as a dying man for dying men. And I will be adding Baxter's The Saint's Everlasting Rest to my reading list.

Ezra

A Traveler Who Loves the Rain

The follwing are two versions of the same poem. I begain the poem in an attempt to write a Villanelle, but then experimented with several shorter forms. The first is the original, and the second is the best of the shortened versions:

Don’t ask that life be good to you, or free from pain,
Lest you, betrayed, should stumble on the slip’ry ground,
And fall, a bloodied traveler who hates the rain.

And rising, do not shake your fist aloft, in vain:
The sky is brooding, dark, and ever without sound;
This life will not be easy, or lived free from pain.

The blood and dirt mix on your coat, a spreading stain,
And drip (a sting, each drop) from fingers to the ground,
From you, a weary traveler who hates the rain.

The water’s running down your arm in little veins,
And washes down your coat and cleans your dirty wound;
Don’t ask that life be always kind, without this pain.

But readjust your pack: you are hurt, not slain,
Stand fast, and take a footing on this muddy mound,
You silent, brooding traveler beneath the rain.

Look down this gritty road, this black and muddy lane;
A way was made for you until you’re homeward bound:
“Don’t ask that life be kind to you, or free from pain,
But learn to be a traveler who loves the rain.”

---

I asked that life be good to me, and free from pain,
And I, betrayed, soon stumble on the slip’ry ground;
And rising, then, I shook my fist aloft, in vain;
The sky was brooding, dark, and ever without sound.

The blood and dirt mixed on my shirt, a gritty stain,
And dripped (a sting, each drop) from fingers to the ground;
The rain ran down my wounded arm in little veins,
Until, through all the darkness, came a voice, a sound:

“Now readjust your pack: you are hurt, not slain,
Stand fast, and take a footing on this muddy mound,
Don’t ask that life be kind to you, or free from pain;
A way was made for you until you’re homeward bound.”

Broken (Meditations, I)

This thing I ask of my Lord:
That when my soul becomes lofty, I receive tears,
And that my arrogant heart will be scorched with truth.
Then I may dwell at the side of God,
And my soul will be lifted up.

As the proud heart which stands in grace,
So is the soldier who sleeps in battle;
When his enemy comes, he will be surrounded,
He will lay down his rifle in the face of his foe.
Only in prison will he learn to be watchful,
And he will find humility through pain.