Book of Martyrs
“Go ahead and pray, but do it with your eyes open,” says Liam Neeson’s Father Ferreira to Andrew Garfield’s Father Rodrigues in Martin Scorsese’s latest passion project Silence as the latter is subject to torture — not his own physical torture, but mental and emotional torture as he bears witness to the physical torture of his “flock” of Japanese Christian converts. The casting of Garfield as Father Rodrigues might almost be considered a piece of stunt casting given his previous turn as Spider-Man, except that Garfield completely inhabits and owns the role in its own right. There is a recurring theme in many superhero stories, and especially in the Spider-Man films, both with Tobey Maguire’s run and Garfield’s, of the hero keeping his identity secret to keep those closest to them protected from the danger of being used as leverage or blackmail upon pain of suffering or death against the hero. Invariably there, as here, a villain captures a loved one or ally and subjects them to danger or death despite the hero’s best efforts. But the story here isn’t a purely fantastical exercise. The film is based on the novel by Shūsaku Endō, not on a “true story” but historical events in 17th century Japan.
Portuguese Jesuit priests Rodrigues and Garrpe (Adam Driver) travel to Japan to find what has become of their mentor, Father Ferreira, said to have abandoned the faith and gone native. Along the way they are accompanied by a Japanese guide, Kichijiro ( Yôsuke Kubozuka) and oppressed by an inquisitor (Issei Ogata) and his interpreter (Tadanobu Asano), all of which steal practically every scene they appear in. The priests encounter native Japanese Christians who practice their faith in silence, hiding it from the Japanese government on pain of torture or death.
As the priests offer their comfort and guidance to these sheep (are they the priest’s sheep?), they never lose sight of the mission they came to accomplish: finding Father Ferreira and reaffirming his faith. In this sense, the film plays out as a “white savior” story: the white, European, cultured, and in this case religious heroes embark to save their friend while also inspiring and saving the common natives along the way.
But not too far into this story, things go awry. The natives begin dying to protect the priests. The priests are separated in flight to avoid the samurai who have caught wind of their presence and want to hunt them down. The priest’s guide, Kichijiro, betrays them. And their agency in pursuing their mission becomes inhibited by their jailers. For all their moral certainty and devotion to the great commission that Jesus gave his followers to spread the good news of his sacrifice and resurrection to redeem the souls of all men, they are faced with a situation, a society, a government that just doesn’t care and doesn’t want intruded upon.
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The silence of God was a recurring theme in the films of Ingmar Bergman, himself a doubter, an agnostic, an atheist, yet who made film after film wrestling with the idea of God. In fact, he made a film entitled, The Silence, directly addressing the apparent silence of God, a creator who has left his creation in silence, ignoring them and their day-to-day struggles, as part of his loosely dubbed faith trilogy. But as in Bergman’s film, Scorsese’s movie answers this question not with a direct voice of God (although that is an element here), but with the characters, the setting, and the engagement of the physical world surrounding the characters in the film — and that surrounds us all. The soundtrack of Silence powerfully and specifically highlights this: no music or song other than what is played by characters — people, individuals — in the film, and background sounds of the waves crashing against a shore, birds singing their song, nature itself crying out to be heard, an appeal to God and an echo of His creation.
Garfield’s Father Rodrigues struggles, alone in a foreign land with no friends and growing disappointment with his travelers and mentors, with the encroaching, overwhelming roar of God’s silence. But he is constantly interrupted in his struggle by his jailers, by the pain and torture of the Japanese Christians imprisoned with him and by Kichijiro, the guide who led him to the place he finds himself and who betrayed him and who, after all, believes and seeks forgiveness.
Kichijiro is a Judas figure, a betrayer, and Scorsese doesn’t hesitate to frame a scene to make that connection without question. Kichijiro is also a Gollum figure, a once upright, easygoing individual become haunted by a choice once made and seeking solace in a trinket — and always absolution. Garfield’s Rodrigues grows tired of him, exasperated, frustrated but unable to turn him away for pity and in a way an unwavering faith even as he denounces it to the men in power around him. And so Kichijiro and his vile, pathetic attempts to hold faith in God even as he sins, betrays, and rejects God becomes the lesson Rodrigues must learn. To give up his pride and vanity and ideology in the face of men to do what is right and leave the saving of natives, the saving of souls to God.
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“You have a martyr complex.” — my ex-wife to me
Fathers Rodrigues and Garrpe are willing to die for their faith. They take strength and encouragement from others who struggle and maintain faith in silence and ultimately die for them. They are willing to experience any personal hardship — from a voyage across the globe to being smuggled between villages to being shut in a shack in hiding, to not knowing when their next meal will be, to physical suffering. But until the story plays out, they are not willing to give up their faith in themselves. Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,” but it is a hard lesson to learn when we want to save the world.
“Go ahead and pray, but do it with your eyes open,” Father Ferreira encourages Rodrigues as he leads him out to watch the physical torture being administered to the people in Rodrigues’ care? — no, in God’s care. Rodrigues’ faith is ultimately challenged not in the face of God’s apparent silence — for God is always speaking through His creation — but in laying down his pride and trust in human institutions and doctrines. Praying with our eyes open is realizing we are just as wretched and prone to betrayal and piteousness as Kichijiro. Praying with our eyes open to the suffering and pain and need around us requires we lay down even our most cherished ideologies, our sense of ability to affect change through pure faith or force of will, and to do what we can to extend mercy, grace and love to those around us and trust God to take care of what has already been done: salvation.
