Toy Story 3 (2010), directed by Lee Unkrich

Many years ago, I hired what I thought was a star teacher. He gave an excellent model lesson, had good references, and even played the guitar. Yet I soon discovered a serious flaw. He never wanted to deal with parents. It seems that, once long ago, he was abused verbally and emotionally by an insensitive school parent. The repercussions of that event still lingered and colored his approach to all parents. He was still angry with them, for they were the enemy. Ultimately, I had to let him go because our school welcomed parent engagement and did not see parents as adversaries.

The experience reminded me that sometimes we can let a bad experience define how we behave in the future. In truth, it is a great tragedy if we cannot move beyond a hurtful experience, if we permit anger and ill will towards others to dominate our lives.

Toy Story 3, an animated film that is a parable of human relationships, provides one classic example of this in the character of Lotso, the chief toy in a day care center full of dysfunctional and malevolent toys that lord over the new recruits who come to Sunnyside Day Care. Lotso has allowed a bad experience in his youth to forever taint his relationships with anyone he meets. The back story reveals that Lotso also was once a treasured toy, but his owner abandoned him, or so Lotso thought. In truth, she lost him and did not deliberately abandon him. Lotso, however, lived on the false myth of his abandonment and made that bad experience the seminal one in his life. Anger was what drove him and defined him.

Into Lotso’s monstrous world enter a group of naïve toys, who fear obsolescence when their owner, now grown up, departs for college. They fear abandonment, but take heart in the possibility of finding a warm and friendly environment of a local day care center. From a distance it looks attractive. But a closer look reveals that the ownerless day care toys are not only used but abused. The kids at the day care do not feel any emotional connection to the toys. The children play with the toys and then toss them away. In contrast, the new recruits, accustomed to an owner who had invested in a relationship with them, want in some way to replicate that situation. They want to feel valued, emotionally connected, and respected. The toys are truly us.

Their first impression of Lotso is positive. He is soft spoken and huggable on the outside, but they do not realize he is an angry monster on the inside. His past anger has determined his future.

Jewish tradition tells us that anger is one of the worst traits to possess. In fact, the Talmud compares it to idol worship. When one is angry, it is a manifestation of a lack of belief in God’s providential supervision of the universe. After all, how can one be angry if God is in charge of things? It is a Jewish mode of sensibility to presume that from the aspect of eternity, everything ultimately will make sense because God is orchestrating events in a hidden way which our finite minds cannot comprehend at the moment.

Lotso, whose life is defined by anger, reminds us not to allow negative memory tapes of the past to determine our present or future. It is a bad thing when anger lives rent-free in our brains and influences our present relationships.

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Dead Poet’s Society ( 1989), directed by Peter Weir

One of my children once ran away from home. My late wife and I were distraught. We were about to call the police when I discovered our missing son in the backyard. My son and I had a disagreement of some kind and he had disappeared. But he did not go very far. He just wanted to get my attention, and so he hid in the backyard. This unsettling and frightening experience was a watershed event in my parenting life. Until then, I assumed that the tool box of parenting skills that I had used with my other children would work with all my children. But now I received a wake-up call reminding me that every child is different and I would have to modify my parenting techniques to reflect the idiosyncrasies of each child. I finally understood profoundly King Solomon’s statement in Proverbs that we should “train a child in the way he will go.” When it comes to parenting, one size does not fit all.

Dead Poet’s Society is primarily about a charismatic teacher who profoundly influences his students, but it is also a film about the dynamic between parents and children, about parental expectations on the one hand, and the aspirations of children on the other. Are the two in sync? When Proverbs exhorts us to “train a child in the way that he will go,” it means that parents need to understand the natural inclinations of a child and encourage him to use those natural abilities and interests to develop his own adult identity. When Jewish tradition instructs a parent to teach his child a trade, the choice of trade is not written in stone. The presumption is that the child will choose what suits him with parental input, but not parental control.

When a parent wants control, not mere input, there is conflict, especially during the teenage years. Neil Perry, an outstanding high school student, wants to be an actor. He is passionate about it and, without his father’s knowledge, tries out and wins the part of Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. When his father discovers his son’s deception, he decides to remove his son from the school which he loves in order to end to his son’s acting ambitions. The emotional strain of this parent-child conflict ultimately has a tragic end, reinforcing the notion that children should be allowed to listen to their own inner voices when it comes to choosing one’s life work.

This parent-child struggle contrasts with the positive relationship between a teacher, John Keating played by Robin Williams, and his students. The teacher encourages the students to think for themselves, to do something extraordinary with their lives. He tells them to seize the day and enjoy poetry, beauty, and love, all things which make life worthwhile. Thoreau is Keating’s literary icon, a writer who listens to the sound of a different drummer, who desires to “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.” Thoreau did not want to die and discover that he had not lived. Keating wants his students to share that robust perspective on life. He invites them to stand on their desks and see things from on high, anticipating that the exercise will embed in their minds the value of seeing things from the balcony. From this vantage point, one can see new approaches to solving problems, new ways to approach the givens of life.

Dead Poet’s Society has much to say about teaching, parenting, and life. Viewing it reaffirms the complexity of the never-ending task of both teacher and parent, who, in their own contradictory and loving ways, want to give children roots to plant and wings to fly.

 

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Source Code (2011), directed by Duncan Jones

 As the years go by, I have become more conscious of time. I count my minutes. It is a mantra that I share with my students as well. When I begin the school year, I inform them that there are two rules in my class: do your best and don’t hurt other people. This means do not prevent other students from learning. When a student talks without raising his hand, when he interrupts another student who has the floor, he is, in effect, preventing other pupils from learning. Furthermore, he is stealing precious time from class, preventing me from maximizing class time for teaching. I tell students that I count my minutes because time is precious. A minute can be an eternity. Consider for a moment the two-minute warning in a professional football game. Destinies can change in a matter of seconds.

This is one of the themes of Source Code, a science-fiction thriller cast in the present, which describes a bold and innovative attempt to avoid a major disaster by injecting a person into a continuum of events eight minutes before one calamity strikes in the hope of averting a second disaster in the future. Sounds weird? It is, but it also provides a meditation on what living in the moment really means. Amazing things can happen if one is aware of the consequences of each passing minute. Source Code reminds us that the same basic events can be experienced in different ways if we will it so, if we truly understand the consequences of each one of our actions.

The movie also addresses a seminal question we have all asked ourselves at one time or another: “What would you do if you knew you had less than a minute to live?” The question forces us to focus on the present moment. Will it be our last? The Ethics of the Fathers, an example of classical Jewish wisdom literature, does not ask that question, but it does suggest a similar mindset.  We are advised by the Rabbis to think of every day as potentially the last day of our lives. This is not to encourage pessimism or depression, but to spur man on to live life to the fullest, to make every day count, to make each day meaningful.

There is a corollary to understanding the value of time. If there is enmity or ill will between friends, between spouses, between parent and child, reconciliation is a priority. Time does not allow for a slow resolution to conflict. In Source Code, this desire for reconciliation finds expression in the fractured relationship of the hero, Captain Colter Stevens played by Jake Gyllenhaal, to his father. Their last conversation was difficult and strained; but now both want to be at peace with one another. Both want emotional wholeness. Colter Stevens now understands, in his heightened state of awareness somewhere between life and death, that if he knew when he spoke with his father that it would be their last communication, he would not have argued with him. He would not want to leave a legacy of bad feelings between them. He would want to tell his father that he loved him just as his father would want to reaffirm his love for his son in any time of crisis.  Facing death also gives Colter a greater appreciation of life. He looks around and remarks “Such a beautiful day.” He sees people laughing and it makes him treasure moments of happiness.

Source Code demonstrates the power of a minute. It implicitly implores us not to waste time, our most valuable commodity, and to repair our damaged relationships without delay.

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Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), directed by Steven Spielberg

There is a time in everyone’s life, including my own, when things don’t go the way you want. This happened to me when I turned 60 years of age. I realized as I sought to find another position as a high school principal that I was no longer perceived as the “future” by others. Schools were looking for younger, dynamic leaders; and even though I felt at the top of my game professionally, no amount of conversation with school boards could change the reality of my age.

Looking for work in education, I was faced with rejection after rejection as a head of school. Thankful that I had good health, and knowing that God would only give me challenges that I could handle, I optimistically continued my job search, finally finding work as a family educator with a community Kollel. Landing this job eventually opened me up to new possibilities, and thus began my reinvention several years later on the job market in Israel where I am currently residing. I now write business articles for an internet website and supervise the English Department of a boys’ yeshiva in an ultra-religious neighborhood in Beit Shemesh. My new schedule allows time for daily Torah study, exercise, and writing a long-postponed book. As my mentors often told me and as I now understood first-hand, “when one door closes another door opens.”

This mature perspective in life is serendipitously depicted in the rollicking adventure yarn, Raiders of the Lost Ark. When I first saw it many years ago, it was an entertaining action flick; but the second time around, I saw life lessons in the exploits of Indiana Jones, the movie’s protagonist, who is thrust into one crisis after another, only to emerge wiser from each ordeal. In his search for the lost ark, he confronts adversaries everywhere he turns: physical threats from Nazis, competition from other archeologists, and even from a cave full of snakes. In every instance, he never loses hope, and somehow emerges from these crises a wiser and stronger man. Moreover, he never loses his innate optimism or his focus on his ultimate goal of finding the lost ark. Proverbs tells us the “seven times the righteous will fall, yet rise again.” This saying encapsulates the way Indiana Jones lives. He never gives in or gives up, knowing that to do so will short circuit his dreams.

Our Sages provide a fitting postscript for the conclusion of Raiders. In the Ethics of the Fathers (2:21), they tell us that our job is to begin the task even if we are not there at the end to see our life’s work realized. We are only responsible for input. The outcome of our travail is in God’s hands. This profound life lesson is given visual expression when we see the lost ark, instead of finding its resting place in a prestigious museum, consigned to a storage warehouse in Washington, D.C., probably never to be found again. It is an ironic but true image of man’s inability to control the outcome of his efforts. All we can do is try our best and get ready for the next chapter in our lives.

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The Last Samurai (2003), directed by Edward Zwick

I have been living in Israel for a year and a half and have taken two trips back to the States. On my first trip, I brought a long list of things to buy to bring back to Israel. On the second trip, the list of things to bring back was brief and non-descript. I realized that by living in Israel I was becoming less interested in material things, getting used to a lifestyle of living with less, and arriving at a place philosophically where I truly felt that less is more.

This way of life is celebrated in the rousing and violent adventure The Last Samurai, which depicts in a symbolic sense the struggle between modernity and tradition. Tom Cruise is Nathan Algren, a Union soldier in the post Civil War period, who is haunted by the ghosts of his past indiscriminate killings. He is recruited by the Japanese government to help quash a Samurai insurrection that threatens the economic well being of the New Japan, which is promoting increased trade and dialogue with the West. Algren accepts the job, but in an early and bloody confrontation with the Samurai he is captured and brought to their mountain village. There, Katsumoto, the leader of the Samurai, engages him intellectually and emotionally. In this remote and picturesque setting, Algren soon finds himself enamored by the simple lifestyle of the Samurai, who live by a rich code of ethics supported by close ties of friendship and family.

Hallmarks of the Samurai way of life are self-discipline, devotion to a set of moral principles, and striving for perfection in whatever they do. Algren senses the spirituality of the Samurai and learns how to focus his mind so that he feels “life in every breath.” In many ways, the Samurai values echo the Jewish notions of living by a higher law and striving for spiritual perfection. Before the climactic battle scene, there is a scene of prayer suggesting that success in battle depends on one’s spiritual state. This is very much a Jewish sensibility. In these heightened moments of awareness right before battle, when life is so precarious, there is thoughtfulness about what really matters in life. Tradition is paramount. Katsumoto articulates this in a dialogue with the financial entrepreneurs who want to remove the archaic Samurai from the contemporary political landscape. The money men see them as a relic of the past, preventing Japan from entering the modern industrial age. Katsumoto tells them that the Samurai cannot forget who they are or where they come from. For him the sacred traditions animate and give meaning to the present.

When Algren, at the movie’s denouement, informs the young emperor of Japan of Katsumoto’s death, the young monarch wants to know how he died. Algren perceptively and wisely responds: “I will tell you how he lived.” His answer reminded me of the Jewish imperative to live by the commandments and not die by them. Following the eternal principles and traditions of the Torah gives meaning to one’s daily existence, imbuing each day with a sense of transcendent purpose. Both the Samurai and the Jew understand that although life can be filled with peaks and valleys, with joy and pain, leading a life of the spirit can give meaning to the entirety of one’s journey on earth. The film closes with speculation that Algren returns to the Samurai mountain village where he first met Katsumoto to begin a new life of spiritual integrity. He has discovered that progress is not always a good thing and that, spiritually speaking, less is often more.

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A Cry in the Dark (1988), directed by Fred Schepisi

At conventions of educators, school principals often share their personal “war stories” with colleagues either to unburden themselves, to gain insight into a problem, or perhaps to find a remedy for a difficult professional situation that threatens to hurt them or their school. I remember vividly one principal’s narrative about a parent who wanted so much to remove the principal from his position that he spread a rumor that he had fired one of the beloved veteran administrators of the school. Another principal confided in me that he was falsely accused of being lax in enforcing the school’s no-tolerance drug policy. In both cases, the accusations were false; but, nevertheless, the rumors damaged the reputation of two outstanding professionals in Jewish education. I considered myself very blessed to be in Atlanta as a school principal for many years where the lay community supported the professional leadership of the school even when I occasionally made unpopular decisions. Hearing the narratives of my colleagues reminded me of the terrible harm that slander and gossip can do.

It is the power of slander that is the topic of A Cry in the Dark starring Meryl Streep as Lindy Chamberlain. The movie is based on a true story of an Australian murder trial of a mother accused of killing her own daughter. The body is never found, but a bias against a woman who is seen as cold and unfeeling by her peers creates a mob hysteria that destroys her reputation. Our tradition tells us that every person is presumed to be an upright individual unless proven otherwise. The Torah commands us in many places not to be a talebearer, not to embarrass someone, to always give someone the benefit of the doubt. Yet this is difficult to do when the object of our comments is someone whom we dislike. The fact is, however, that this is precisely the time when we have to overcome our instincts to judge someone unfairly. This is the time when we have to withhold judgment until we have all the facts.

The destructive effects of prejudice are grippingly dramatized in a pivotal scene in which Lindy, exhausted from the trauma of losing a child and then being suspected of murdering it, gives testimony in a courtroom in a cold, dispassionate way. The jurors see her as an insensitive mother who might, indeed, have murdered her own child. As the prosecutor relentlessly cross-examines her, the interrogation is intercut with scenes of ordinary people in the street commenting on her guilt, offering interpretations of why she did it, and feeding the publicity frenzy. As one watches  the montage of images, one gets a real sense of the emotional pain Lindy is suffering when giving evidence of her dead child’s death by a dingo, a wild dog, before a mistrusting audience of jurors and lay people who have come to watch the spectacle with detached amusement.

A Cry in the Dark on a literal level refers to the cry of a baby in the night. On a thematic level, it refers to the cry for compassion and understanding in a world that is often insensitive to the emotional pain of other people, where the public desire to know trumps sensitivity to other human beings. The obvious message: death and life are in the power of tongue, so we have to very careful about what we say about other people. Speech distinguishes man from animal; it is a gift that should not be abused.

 

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Frequency (2000), directed by Gregory Hoblit

From time to time, whenever I reflect on the milestone moments in my life, I think how special it would have been if my parents had been alive to share them with me. My decision to become a Jewish day school principal, a career that occupied the bulk of my professional life, was made after they died; and I never was able to share with them the peak moments of that experience. Moreover, they did not see all of their grandchildren. They never attended their weddings, nor were they able to bond with grandchildren as I am blessed to do now.

I thought of this as I watched Frequency, a crime thriller with a resonating subtext of a father-son relationship that spans the years. The plot is not easy to summarize. It deals with a supernatural phenomenon that allows a dead firefighter father to communicate with his son 30 years after the father has died in a tragic fire trying to rescue someone. They speak via short-wave radio and their communication creates the possibility of changing their family history.

The film opens with beautiful scenes of a family reveling in their close connections. We see a loving husband, an adoring son, and friendly neighbors. We see a father teaching a son how to ride a bicycle, which is the quintessential metaphor for a parent giving a child the ability to be independent. The love between them is evident. Against this background, father and son open up a conversation many years later after the father is dead. It is improbable, but once father and son accept the veracity of this seemingly impossible dialogue between two different time periods, they are overwhelmed with the opportunity to catch up with one another. The father asks the son what his job is, does he have a wife, does he have children; and then the conversation moves to the arena of sports, a topic which intensely bonded parent and child. The son reveals to the father how an injury prevented him from becoming a major league baseball player, that he is now a policeman and not a fireman like his father.

What touches the viewer is the palpable love between father and son. They have tears in their eyes as they sign off from one another with heartfelt “I love you”s. Father tells son “You have the voice of an angel.” Son tells father: “You have to be more careful because I don’t want to lose you again.” They are living in alternate realities but love spans the generations.

When something of note happened in my life, I always wanted to share it with my parents. I knew it meant something to them if I achieved something in life; and their acknowledgement of my accomplishment meant a great deal to me. I knew they loved me unconditionally and were there for me whether I would succeed or fail; but I wanted very much to share my successes with them. Parents are invested in the well being of their children. A parent, by Jewish law, has an obligation to help his child navigate life. A parent wants to be a parent and guide his children; and when there is love and openness, this guidance can occur.

Frequency reminds us that this parent-child relationship is at the core of family life, and it is to be treasured. When there is dialogue, there is love and there is hope.


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We Were Soldiers (2002), directed by Randall Wallace

As a child growing up, one of my most vivid memories was that of my father, of blessed memory, showing me pictures of himself dressed in his Navy uniform in World War I. Coming to the United States as a young teenager fleeing the pogroms of Russia, he felt a great debt of gratitude to America and enlisted in the Navy. That time in the Navy was very special for him, and I remember him often marching in the local Memorial Day parade which honored the men of the Armed Forces. This love for America made us a very patriotic family. The thought of purchasing a foreign car was an anathema. We would buy only American.

As a recent oleh in Israel, I have again become very conscious of the military. I see soldiers daily and I feel safer in their presence and appreciate and value their holy work of defending the land. On the Sabbath, I notice a few worshippers in the synagogue carrying weapons, reminding me of the terrorist uncertainty that is part of the landscape in Israel. I also observe congregants who disappear for weeks at a time and then resurface at the daily minyan. This is because they are on active reserve duty, which requires them to separate from their families in order to protect the country.

All these thoughts came to mind as I watched We Were Soldiers, the story of one of the first major battles of the Vietnam war. It is a violent movie, with graphic scenes of warfare. However, there are aspects to We Were Soldiers that transcend the gory content. It is a film about disparate men becoming a family unit, protecting one another in times of extraordinary danger and crisis.

Two vignettes that do not take place on the battlefield convey a powerful message about the emotional bonds that are created between people when they face a common threat. As I watched these scenes, I thought of Gilad Shalit for whom we all prayed and I thought of the other soldiers who are still missing for many years and for whom we still pray.

On the eve of their departure from Ft. Benning, Georgia, to Vietnam, Colonel Hal Moore, played by Mel Gibson, addresses his men in a stirring and memorable speech: “We’re moving into the valley of the shadow of death. I can’t promise you that I will bring you all home. But this I swear before Almighty God, that when we go into battle, I will be the first to set foot on the field and I will be the last to step off and I will leave no one behind. Dead or alive, we will all come home together.”

This is a prelude to a soundless pre-dawn departure in which the men bid farewell to their wives and children and then assemble in the darkness waiting for transport to Vietnam. It is a quiet moment filled with apprehension and uncertainty, and we can feel the emotional stress of the soldiers and especially their loved ones as they take leave of one another to face an uncertain future.

As I reflected on the film, I felt reverence for those soldiers, both in America and Israel, who put their lives on the line for us. They teach us a valuable life lesson: all of humanity is interconnected. We are created in God’s image, and we are all part of the family of mankind. Family members care for one another, sacrifice for one another, and feel responsible for one another. At times of crisis, no family member, no one, should be left behind because, in the divine scheme of things, we all will come home together.

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Bella (2006), directed by Alejandro Monteverde

I recently spent a Shabbat in Jerusalem at the Bar Mitzvah of a friend’s son. My friends had converted to Judaism a number of years ago, and now their youngest son was celebrating his Bar Mitzvah at the Kotel. During the course of this joyous weekend, we reminisced about their spiritual journey, which began in earnest in a restaurant in Prague. There they met my son Ezra who struck up a conversation with them and showed them one of the famous synagogues in the city. Ezra put them in touch with me in Denver many months later where they enrolled at a Denver Jewish day school at which I was principal. The journey continued with a move to Rochester, New York, where they officially converted to Judaism and were re-married according to Jewish law. As we talked over dinner in Jerusalem, the wife reminded me that their journey began in a little conversation in Prague which changed the lives of the family forever. One moment in a life can have everlasting ripple effects.

“One moment can change your life forever” is the advertising mantra for Bella, and it proves to be true in the case of Jose, a star soccer player, who on the day of his contract signing experiences a life-changing moment. Infused with the excitement of playing professional soccer, he loses his concentration while driving his car and causes a horrible accident. The terrible effects of this tragedy haunt him as he struggles to come to terms with the consequences of his actions. Near the beginning of the film, one of the characters says, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” This adage of an old grandmother highlights one of the essential messages of the movie; namely, that we are not in full control of our destinies, and it is foolish to think that we are. One day can change everything.

Jose works as the chief chef in a restaurant owed by his adopted brother. He is a master chef; but when he sees his brother treat Nina, a waitress, callously, he leaves the kitchen to console Nina after she has been fired. We find out that Nina is pregnant, and morning sickness has caused her lateness. As Jose and Nina walk the streets of New York together, they meet a blind street vendor with a sign behind his stand which reads: “God closed my eyes. Now I can see.” This sets the stage for each of the main characters to undergo a spiritual transformation, which brings with it a new understanding of life and its adversities.

The street sign with its message of hope provides the spiritual subtext of Bella. Jose and Nina both have experienced hard times; yet Jose, especially, tries to use his tragic past to build a hopeful future for himself and Nina. Jose is a man of faith who comes from a family of faith. They say grace before eating and are mindful of the presence of God in their lives. They celebrate life together and are joyful in relationship with friends. Their wisdom and energy are infectious, and Nina basks in their warm presence.

Through a day’s quiet conversation between Jose and Nina, Nina overcomes her aversion towards carrying her baby to term, and decides to accept motherhood. To Jose, this represents an affirmation of life. Jose values people and values life; and his goal is affirm life not only by encouraging Nina to have her child, but also by reprimanding his brother when he treats his employees cavalierly. He berates his brother for only being concerned about business, and not caring enough about the people who work for him. “It’s all about you,” he shouts when he wants to brother to think about his workers.

There is much to admire in Bella. It is about being sensitive to the trials and tribulations of others. It is also about repentance. How do we atone for a grave sin? How can we get forgiveness from someone who is no longer alive? Do we have to atone for a sin that we committed inadvertently? All these questions are discussed in the codes of Jewish law, and the dilemmas that Jose faces can be viewed in the classic context of Jewish repentance literature. Moreover, the film demonstrates the value of family as a positive force to help one overcome challenges in life. A loving and supportive family is critical to Jose’s ability to cope with personal tragedy. Other people might choose illicit drugs to escape a painful reality, but Jose is not part of that culture.

Above all, Bella presents not only a story of personal tragedy and redemption, but also a story of one act of kindness that is transformational in the life of one person, Nina. The Ethics of the Fathers reinforces the importance of kindness when it tells us that it is one of the three pillars upon which the world is based (Avot 1:2). Kindness is an eternal attribute of the Jewish people, and this seminal life lesson of kindness is embedded in the gentle and thoughtful narrative of Bella.

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Hereafter (2010), directed by Clint Eastwood

My son-in-law served in the Marines during the Gulf War. Sent to Kuwait, he was probably the only Orthodox Jew serving there. When he returned safe and sound, thank God, I had several discussions with him about the most important thing he learned from his military experience. He told me it was unforgettable and he valued it because it gave him an intense appreciation of every moment of life. He became more attuned to the presence of Godliness in the world, more attentive to the everyday miracles of life. It is this awareness of the preciousness of every moment of life that is at the core of Hereafter, a film that has something to say about the afterlife, but has more to say about how we lead our lives. Do we pay attention to our life experiences or do we simply go through life on auto-pilot?

Hereafter tells three stories of emotional crisis. One is about a woman who survives a tsunami after having a near-death experience. Another is about a young boy, Marcus, who loses his twin brother, Jason, and another about a man who has a childhood illness leading to a near death experience, which leaves him with the ability to communicate with the dead. The stories originate in different locations, Paris, London, and San Francisco; but they all converge in London at the story’s end where all the main characters have arrived, suggesting perhaps that a hidden divine hand is guiding their respective fates.

In Hereafter, things happen which can easily be explained as natural events, but which can also be explained as supernatural. It depends on how you view life. Is it ordinary or extraordinary? As if to punctuate this juxtaposition, George Lonegan, the psychic played by Matt Damon, goes to sleep each night listening to audiotapes of the novels of Charles Dickens. His depiction of everyday Victorian life emotionally grounds George who is haunted by his psychic gift that prevents him from leading a conventional life. The scene depicts the normal human ambivalence between perceiving the world as the unfolding of natural processes and perceiving the world as a constant revelation of the miraculous.

Another scene portrays this dissonance between natural and supernatural perceptions of the world. The surviving brother, Marcus, seeks to communicate with his dead brother. On one day he goes to the underground London train station to travel to someone who he thinks can help him with his task. As the train enters the platform, his hat, which belonged to his dead brother, falls off his head. He struggles to retrieve it as it is trampled by passers-by. When he finally reclaims it, he misses his train. Seconds later, there is an explosion on the departing train and Marcus miraculously escapes death. Was it a coincidence, what is God intervening, was it his dead brother protecting him? The answer is ambiguous but the question is not, for it presupposes a willingness to see the world without preconceptions of why things happen.

Often, there is often a sign over the ark in traditional synagogues on which is inscribed the classic line from King David’s Psalms:  “God is always before me.” It is a passage that resonates with me. It reminds me never to take things for granted. It reminds me to pay attention to life, to see God’s handiwork always in front of me. Focusing on the maxim, I am reminded to look for God’s hidden hand behind everyday events. What are His messages? Am I listening? Am I paying attention?


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