Likewise, the American Jewish Committee (AJC) had this to say: "The forthcoming release of Mel Gibson's 'The Passion of the Christ' has presented a challenge to religious leaders committed to ecumenical outreach. The film's approach to highly sensitive and controversial matters has the potential to heighten misunderstanding and could set back, at least temporarily, the extraordinary advances in interreligious dialogue and cooperation that have taken place in recent decades."
The original intention of my writing here was not to refute the claims of those organizations who perceive the film as anti-Semitic and single-minded, though it turns out that I must do so briefly, lest I betray a native impulse to combat the rhetoric of patent absurdity. Indeed, there is doubt in my mind that the executives of the ADL who so virulently deplored the message of Gibson's film had, in fact, sat through it in its entirety. I have yet to reconcile their statement that the film is "unambiguous" in its depiction of Jewish responsibility for the death of Christ.
It seems to me that the film could not have done more to foster ambiguity as to its imputation of fault for several reasons. First, while it is true that many of the Jewish high priests were violently in favor of condemning Jesus, it is also true that among them were numerous dissenters, and a host of Jews who came courageously to Christ's aid. One scene, for example, depicts a young Jewish peasant girl with a cup of water fighting her way through the prefect of armed Roman soldiers in an effort to sate Jesus' thirst as he struggles under the weight of the cross.
Second, no character in the film is depicted to be so utterly reprehensible as the callow and injudicious Roman governor Pontius Pilate. Given the opportunity to liberate Jesus many times, he lacks the strength and conviction to do so. Furthermore, a number of Roman officials take inhumane, sadistic pleasure in torturing the bedraggled corpse of Jesus.
Third, and most telling, at the end of the film, Gibson evokes a flashback of Jesus preaching to the Jews that nobody individually is responsible for his death-that instead, it is something he chooses himself as a sacrifice for all people (hardly an "unambiguous" censure of the Jews).
Fourth, the film follows the New Testament (particularly the writings of Matthew and John) almost to the word. Thus, to claim that the film is anti-Semitic is much the same as to claim that Christianity is de facto anti-Semitic. This is simply not true in light of the fundamental Christian ethic: Forgiveness. Finally, it is Gibson's hand that nails Jesus to the cross, a cameo symbolic of his own assumption of responsibility for the death of Christ. Gibson seems to assert that it is not the fault of a specific group, but the collective fault of human frailty and our perpetual tendency to commit sin.
Criticism of "The Passion" has also cited Gibson's inattention to historical accuracy. Yet, controversy abounds as to the true history of Christ's final 12 hours-this is nothing new. The great debate rages on, and therefore it is inevitable that some historians will assent and that others will dissent from Gibson's film rendition. It is my opinion that to view the film through the lens of agreement about historical accuracy is tragically frivolous-to focus on such a confining dominion of judgment is to ignore the essential qualities of the film. And therein lies my purpose: to apply here the vague dichotomy between literature and history.
The twentieth century has seen, in film, the precipitous rise of a new form of literature. The early innovators-Fellini, Kubrick, Coppola-helped to establish film as a mode, not only of entertainment, but of high art. If we agree that filmmakers may assume membership in the annals of art and literature, we must ask ourselves, when before have we confined our artists to such staid and objective truth? Is not the aim and allure of art quite the opposite: interpretive truth? Why decry the fruits of artistic interpretation? Should we raid the tombs of Dryburgh Alley and torch the bones of Sir Walter Scott for some petty historical inaccuracies running throughout the Waverly Novels? Or should we celebrate him as the father of the historical novel, the first true champion of proletarian virtue?
The historical novel is not an account of objective history, and neither is the historical film. Both belong within the realm of literature-one not inevitably coterminous with the realm of history. Never before have we obliged our makers of literature to unremitting factuality, and I hope that we never do again. Literature is a right, to be practiced through the most liberal, not the most temperate, employ. I agree with St. John the Apostle that literature is a good thing, "perhaps the best of things." Here he may well be paraphrased: in the end is the word, and the word is man, and the word is with man.