Retro Review by Cam Watson
The 2010’s had its fair share of films concerned with modern applications of Christian faith. Paul Schrader’s harrowing First Reformed (2017), John Michael McDonagh’s odd-but-effective Calvary (2014), and Malick’s contemplative The Tree of Life (also 2011) all hit screens within the decade, to name a few. Among these also stands Martin Scorsese’s Silence, which I saw in theaters back in 2017 and have never really stopped thinking about since. I have always had a fascination with films that move a director’s subtextual obsessions into the foreground. Scorsese’s movies frequently deal in some regard with the function of faith, but Silence places it front and center. Namely, the film is meditating on the immediate effect of a silent God, the effect of adhering strictly to religious doctrine, and what it means to put one’s faith into practice. Further, I have an affinity for slow, quiet, and brooding films that focus on the reflection of one’s faith in the world around them. Given these metrics, along with its technical proficiency and sincerity, it is perhaps no surprise that I find Silence to be a masterfully crafted and deeply moving film.
Silence is an adaptation of the 1966 novel of the same name by Shūsaku Endō, and follows the story of two Portuguese Jesuit priests, Rodrigues and Garupe (Andrew Garfield and Adam Driver), who travel to Tokugawa shogunate Japan in order to find their mentor Ferriera (Liam Neeson). Ferriera is rumored to have renounced his faith while on mission in Japan, during a particularly strict ban on Christianity and persecution of Japanese Christians. Soon, the duo of priests learn that the roles of Christianity and faith more broadly are more complex than they had initially hoped. The film also features particularly strong supporting performances by Shinya Tsukamoto, who plays the humble and faithful Mokichi, and Issey Ogata, playing the Inquisitor Inoue. The film was considered a passion project by Scorsese, and had a lengthy, arduous development.
The film begins and ends with the same thing: a black screen accompanied by a slow swelling of the ambient natural sounds of the Japanese wilderness. The sound design in the film is impeccable, not only for its use of lush and vibrant soundscapes such as the ones that bookend it. More interestingly, there are times where the movie decides to flush much of that out. Given the title of the film itself, it’s not really any revelation that the movie is extremely quiet: people hide from authorities, whisper confessions, and recite near-inaudible prayers. In these moments, the negative sound spaces open into a chasm of intimacy, beckoning the viewer to lean in closer, listen more carefully, and give their full attention. This is amplified to its zenith in the few moments that the film chooses to completely drop every bit of noise out. For several seconds at various points, this is deployed most effectively at the film’s climax, and when the silence is finally cut, it’s enough to give you goosebumps.
All of this technical proficiency is in service to the film’s central questions. First: what are the faithful to do with the silence of their Creator? The film deals with this explicitly, with Garfield’s Rodrigues often directly interrogating the notion of a benevolent God that will not directly intervene to cease the suffering of his followers, or at least give Rodrigues the direction to end the suffering himself. This is a common question leveled at Christians, one that I have heard dozens of times as a believer myself, and one that is not easy to answer. The primary things that I pull from these discussions is that we as the people who inhabit the Earth are the ones called to take action, and that the lesson of Christ is one of radical, self-sacrificial compassion, and that (as is often reiterated in the Book of James) that faith without works is dead. Modern Evangelicalism often brushes off these passages as further calls for mass conversion, after all, what can be a greater compassion than to bring someone into the Kingdom of God? However, Silence takes a different understanding of these verses, and emphasizes the effect that one can have on the world around them, to not only address the suffering of the followers of Christ, but to all Creation. I tend to fall on the side of Silence here. During the final act of the film, Rodrigues is presented with the notion that Japanese Christians are not “true” Christians anyway, that they are incapable of understanding the concept of God as the Westerners do. But even if this is true (something neither I nor the film itself seems to believe), does that make the suffering any less valid or worthy of action from the followers of Christ? And to go even further, what good is the institution of the Church if it does not apply itself first and foremost to the suffering of the weak, the hungry, the marginal?
This internal and external struggle brings the film to its more universal question: is it right to outwardly turn your back on your core beliefs if it means the reduction of others’ suffering? Throughout the film, the priests are told time and time again by the Japanese officials that if they publicly renounce their faith, the suffering of the Japanese Christians will instantly cease. The Inquisitor points to the political intrusion of the West that Chrisitanity stands as a proxy for, explaining that the persecution has much more to do with Japan’s attempts to stave off colonial influence than it does with a religious condemnation. They do not care if there are Christians who are practicing their religion, as much as they are (rightfully) fearful of the Western influence that can use Christianity as a vessel for colonial aims. Interestingly, Rodrigues always knew the answer to his predicament. Earlier in the film, when his followers are pleading with him about whether they should apostatize to save their lives, he emphatically tells them to do so, saying that it is only an outward admission, and that Christ will forgive them. However, as he is isolated and tortured, he starts to see himself as Christ suffering in Gethsemane, thinking that this suffering he is enduring is a test of his faith. In turn, he becomes much more strict about his own renouncement. After enduring countless disappointments and observing the suffering of several Japanese Christians, Rodrigues finally begins to see his own rigid adherence as simply pride. At that moment, after being plagued with silence and suffering for so long, Rodrigues hears the voice of Christ telling him gently “your life is with me now,” signaling that despite the blasphemous act – despite never being able to outwardly proclaim Christ from this point forward – he will still be accepted by Christ. When Rodrigues finally apostasizes publicly, the Japanese officials uphold their end of the deal, and the torture ends. Rodrigues has followed the Great Commandment, despite the implications of his public statement.
In the epilogue, we are shown that Rodrigues lives out the rest of his days in Japan, known as a “former priest.” He regularly submits renewals of his apostasy, and even works with the government to help keep hidden symbols of Christianity out of the country. We are also informed that there are still small villages of practicing Christians that the government has decided to leave be. Since there is no longer a priest to organize the religion, the government no longer sees it as a threat. However, after he passes away, we are shown that he always secretly kept his faith, but had simply cast out any outward expression of it. He realized, as all followers of Christ should, that what matters in the world are our actions, not our words, and that it is our responsibility to embody the radical love of Christ, even (and perhaps especially) at the cost of our own pride. It does not matter what we say or what devotion we have to the Church; it matters how we make ourselves a part of Christ’s compassion on the earth, and the direct aid we can give to His followers, especially those who are left behind by society. Silence posits that, as James said, faith without works is dead.