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The Mercy of Justice in Dogville

Dogville is a meditation on the appropriate response to human cruelty. It explores the ultimate insufficiency of mercy to reform the human heart without the aid of justice. The film is shot on a stage rather like a play. The set, which encompasses the town of Dogville with its various buildings, has no walls. The buildings are marked by outline on the stage, allowing us to see the whole town at once, to see what people are doing in the background at any given moment. The invisibility of the walls also suggests that this film is concerned with piercing through facades, with penetrating to the heart of things. The action is framed by the narrator’s witty, incisive commentary.

Dogville is a small, secluded town onto which a “beautiful fugitive” named Grace stumbles early in the film. Grace is on the run and the ironically named Thomas Edison, Jr., who is not remotely inventive, hides her in the town’s mine while he speaks with the men looking for her. The men chasing Grace are gangsters, and their leader gives Tom his telephone number, telling him that Grace is very precious to him. Tom urges Grace to hide in Dogville, rather than attempt to flee her pursuers by way of the dangerous pass over the mountain.

Tom is an aspiring writer, who never seems to write much of anything, and a self-proclaimed moral authority. He conducts lectures for the town, which he calls Meetings on Moral Rearmament. He fantasizes of writing insightful novels and plays which will scourge and purge the human heart and mine the depths of the human soul. In other words, Tom has no job. He is a pseudo-philosopher, exclusively concerned with ideas, but unable to produce any substantial ones.

When Tom suggests that Grace stay in Dogville, Grace responds, “I’ve got nothing to offer them in return.” This suits Tom perfectly because he wishes to use Grace to illustrate what he believes is the fundamental “problem of the human condition–to receive.” The only thing Tom loves more than holding a meeting is “illustration.” He convinces the reluctant townspeople to allow Grace to stay for a trial period of two weeks.

Although Grace is not exactly warmly welcomed into Dogville, she is “fond of them all, even the folk who had greeted her with reluctance and hostility.” Her initial impression of this place is rosy: “All I see is a beautiful little town in the midst of magnificent mountains.”

To endear herself to the townspeople, Grace offers to help them with their work and chores. This proves more difficult than anticipated, as none of the townspeople want to admit that they need any help; they do not want to relinquish the myth of their self-sufficiency. Once Ma Ginger allows Grace to weed the wild gooseberry bushes, however, the other townspeople soon find things for Grace to do.

Grace is quickly incorporated into the rhythm of the town, going from house to house to help with various tasks. Everyone in the town comes to enjoy her company and appreciate her help, except Chuck. Chuck, a gruff man who works in the orchard, is averse to Grace. Chuck tells Grace, “This town is rotten from the inside out” and “People are the same all over–greedy as animals.” He continues, “Feed ’em enough, they’ll eat ’til they burst.” Chuck’s bleak view of humanity proves more and more accurate as the film progresses. The town’s name, which suggests that its residents are dogs, parallels Chuck’s comparison of human greed to an animal’s unrestrained appetite.

After the two week trial period, a vote is held to decide if Grace will be allowed to stay. She needs an unanimous vote in her favor to remain in Dogville. Various people leave gifts for Grace, anticipating that she will be cast out. Everyone votes for Grace to stay, though this turns out to be more because they have grown accustomed to having her help than out of genuine compassion for her plight. Liz, for instance, admits that she had a selfish motive for voting for Grace to stay, as it was a relief to her to no longer be the one “All the men had eyes for.” Liz has ambivalent feelings toward being the town vixen: while she is initially glad that Grace takes attention away from her, she later comes to resent the newcomer for the same reason. The narrator says, “Grace had bared her throat to the town, and it had responded with a great gift–with friends,” but this friendship turns out to be fleeting.

Grace becomes even more inveigled with the townspeople, as she acts as “eyes for McKay, a mother to Ben, friend for Vera, and brains to Bill.” Grace seems to be making the town a better, happier place, as well. At the Fourth of July picnic, McKay says to Grace, “You’ve made Dogville a wonderful place to live in.”

Grace holds Tom’s hand at the picnic, and tells him that she loves him. Tom’s affection for Grace proves to be less noble than her love for him, however. He says, “I yearn to be even closer, to touch you.” Grace gently refuses Tom’s all but spoken desire to sleep with her. She says, “The thing I love about you is that you don’t demand anything of me.” Yet, Tom only lacks the audacity to demand, not the desire.

This bliss is marred, however, when a policeman arrives to put up a missing person poster of Grace. The townspeople grow even more nervous when the police return a second time to put up a new poster–this time a wanted poster alleging that Grace committed some bank robberies. Although they know Grace could not have robbed those banks since she was in Dogville at the time, the townspeople are still uneasy about harboring her. Some of them indulge in unfounded fears about what the law will do if they find Grace in Dogville. The townspeople are purely selfish: they do not want to help a stranger in need until she demonstrates her usefulness to them, and at the first sign of possible danger to themselves, they wish to abandon Grace.

Tom tells Grace that “From a business perspective, your presence in Dogville has become more costly because it’s more dangerous for them to have you here.” Grace’s wages are cut and, as Tom proposes, she visits each house twice each day, effectively doubling her work. Even after her labor is increased, the townspeople become less satisfied with Grace. While once they had denied that there was any work she could do for them, now they are easily irritated by her mistakes. Mrs. Henson scolds her for breaking one of the glasses she is packing into crates for sale. This is deeply ironic because the Hensons, rather than make their own glasses, actually grind the edges off of cheap glasses to make them look more expensive and to sell them at higher prices. This process, of course, weakens the glasses, and so Grace’s breaking one is hardly surprising. The Hensons are typical residents of Dogville: they are industrious only about helping themselves; they make a living by profiting from trickery.

Grace makes herself vulnerable to Dogville. She comes to the town a fugitive in need, yet it takes only the posting of a wanted poster for the townspeople to turn on her. As the narrator says, she “had laid herself open, and there she dangled from her frail stalk like the apple in the Garden of Eden.”

Off-camera, Chuck tries to kiss Grace in the orchard. As they discuss it afterward, Chuck tells Grace, “I thought of blackmailing you into respecting me.” Grace is forgiving, telling Chuck “I would never hate you, never.” This ominous exchange foreshadows Chucks actions when the police return to Dogville a third time. Grace is watching Chuck and Vera’s children when Chuck comes home. With the police in the street outside, Chuck rapes Grace. Grace implores Chuck to stop, but does not struggle violently. She tries to get away from him, but does not try to maim him. She does not cry for help.

Why does Grace not resist Chuck more forcefully? It is not because she is afraid of being captured by the police. Grace’s behavior in this scene and throughout the film stems from her key character trait–her ability to forgive. Her name is apt because Grace embodies absolute mercy. She forgives every crime committed against her, and shows the greatest leniency to those who wrong her. She is mercy utterly apart from justice, and she rationalizes the wickedness perpetrated against her. As she tells Tom, after confiding that Chuck raped her, “He’s not strong, Tom. He looks strong, but he’s not.” Grace thus explains Chuck’s evil act as the result of his weakness, and forgives him. If this seems impossible for a human being, it is because Grace embodies unbounded mercy.

What is the result of Grace’s mercy on Chuck? Now every time Grace helps Chuck in the orchard, he forces himself on her. This fact reflects the film’s core insight: when wickedness is returned with mercy, and only mercy, it is impossible for the evil-doer to recognize the wickedness of his or her actions. The mercy which Grace extends to Chuck cannot be received as the mercy it is because it appears to be mere acquiescence. Chuck has no reason not to rape Grace a second time after not being punished for raping her the first time. Mercy cannot be received as mercy in a context completely absent of justice.

What about conscience? Why does Chuck’s conscience not fill him with guilt and remorse? The conscience is similar to a muscle: it only grows strong through regular exercise. Not having spent much time exercising, Chuck’s conscience has clearly atrophied. People have an incredibly capacity to ignore their consciences.

Martha sees Grace and Chuck in the orchard and she tells Chuck’s wife, Vera. Vera chooses to believe that Grace seduced her husband, rather than that her husband raped Grace. She believes that “at heart, [Chuck] is loyal, and he’s good” though he is emphatically neither of those things. Vera revenges herself on Grace by destroying Grace’s beloved porcelain figurines. Grace had purchased the figurines with the money she earned by working for the townspeople. Even more sadistically, Vera promises to only destroy two of the seven figurines if Grace can act stoically and withhold her tears. Grace fails to do so, and Vera smashes all seven. As the narrator comments, “The figurines were the offspring of the meeting of the town and [Grace]. They were the proof, in spite of everything, that her suffering had created something of value.”

Grace resolves to leave Dogville. She hides in Ben’s truck, while he makes his regular trip to Georgetown to sell the town’s apples. Although Grace pays Ben ten dollars, which she gets from Tom, once they get out of Dogville he wants a “surcharge” for carrying “dangerous cargo.” Ben is ostensibly worried about being caught by the police, but really is trying to blackmail Grace. Ben says, “I have to take due payment, that’s all,” as if he would be remiss by not coercing her into sleeping with him. Grace softly protests, but allows Ben to have his way with her.

Just when it seems that Grace has been humiliated and victimized as much as possible, just when it seems that she has finally escaped Dogville, Grace awakens back in Dogville. Ben’s betrayal is double–he reneges on his promise to carry Grace away from the town. He claims that Grace hid on his truck. Tom does nothing.

The townspeople believe that Grace stole ten dollars from Tom’s father, Thomas Edison, Sr., although it was Tom who took the money from his father’s medicine cabinet. Afraid that his father would not give it to him, Tom took the money, and then blamed it on Grace. The narrator explains, “Grace chose to remain silent in the face of these new charges.” Grace does not seek to defend herself against the false accusations. She is willing to endure any reproach, any slander, any humiliation. She never seeks reprisal against those who wrong her. What the film inexorably shows, however, is that Grace’s superhuman endurance and constant forgiveness of those who victimize her does not actually help them realize their wickedness. Without punishment or the realistic threat of punishment, the townspeople simply believe they are in the right. They resort to greater and greater evil because they never encounter any deterrence. Mercy only inspires remorse and repentance in a context where justice is a viable possibility.

Grace’s debasement and dehumanization reach their nadir when the townspeople put an iron collar around her neck. A chain extends from the collar to a large weight to restrict Grace’s movement and a bell is attached to the collar to prevent her from sneaking off. Not only is this horrifyingly cruel treatment of a human being, but it would be an absurd punishment even if Grace were guilty of theft, which she is not. This essentially makes Grace the town’s slave. Revealing how deluded the townspeople are about their own wickedness, Tom, Sr. says, “Don’t think of this as punishment, not at all,” and consoles Grace by telling her that they made the chain long enough for her to be able to sleep in her bed, as if forcing her to sleep on the ground would be unthinkable.

At this point, if not well before, all but the most deranged viewer will be filled with rage and grief at the people of Dogville. Their treatment of Grace is as reprehensible as can be imagined. Yet, Grace herself never protests. As the narrator explains, Grace becomes numb, entering “the trance-like state that descends on animals whose lives are threatened . . . like a patient passively letting his disease hold sway.” It is not Grace who is diseased, but the people of Dogville. Rather than perform surgery to remove the town’s tumor, however, Grace allows the disease to continue unabated. And things only get worse for her.

With Grace chained up like an animal, children throw mud into her bed. Even more disturbingly, “Most townspeople of the male sex now visited Grace at night to fulfill their sexual needs. The harassments in bed did not have to be kept so secret any more because they couldn’t really be compared to a sexual act. They were embarrassing in the way it is when a hillbilly has his way with a cow, but no more than that.” Grace is made the common sex slave of the men of the town, who have so dehumanized her as to be unable to recognize the criminality of their abuse. Grace is now treated even worse than an animal.

Even Tom fails to help Grace. Not even this seemingly unbearable level of debasement rouses Tom’s indignation. The narrator explains, “Tom saw everything. It pained him. And the sexual visits were a particularly severe blow. But he supported [Grace] as best he could.” The irony is that Tom’s pain is due to the fact that other men are sleeping with Grace, rather than him. If he truly cared about Grace he would stand watch outside her room, ensuring that no one entered it at night, or publicly decry their actions, or try to free Grace from her chains and abscond with her over the mountains. Yet, Tom, growing more despicable and pathetic in every scene, does nothing.

What does Tom do? Tom really only knows how to do one thing–hold a meeting. Tom wants to hold a meeting during which Grace will tell the townspeople the truth. He compares them to children unwilling to take their medicine, and believes that they will “realize that this web of misunderstanding and injustice has only one victim” and that is Grace.

They hold the meeting, and Grace addresses the group. The film does not relate what Grace says to emphasize how little the townspeople are willing to listen. The failure of Tom’s meeting to appeal to “consciences stowed farther and farther away by their owners every day,” as the narrator says, establishes that one cannot necessarily convince a person that he or she is immoral. People are exceptionally skilled at justifying their actions, no matter how disgusting or hurtful. As Tom tells the townspeople, “I asked you here to listen, but you came only to defend yourselves.” Warped by selfishness and self-deception, people are fully capable of rejecting the truth. No seminar will convince people of their capacity for evil.

Tom leaves the meeting to report to Grace on how it is going. He tells her that the townspeople are not convinced, and declares his loyalty to her–“I’ve chosen, Grace; I’ve chosen you.” He seems to think that such a protestation of fealty–though it has no correlative in his actions–will make Grace swoon with desire for him. Although she is clearly exhausted, Tom tries to get romantic with Grace. He wants to sleep with her, but she only wants them to “meet in freedom.” Tom is a bit annoyed, saying “I’ve just rejected everybody I’ve ever known in your favor. Wouldn’t it be worth compromising just one of your ideals, just a little, to ease my pain. Everybody in this town has had your body but me. We’re the ones supposed to be in love.” Tom’s selfishness is utterly astounding. After all that Grace has endured, Tom has the gall to speak to her about easing his “pain.” His lust for her is so disgusting because he ignores the horror of her treatment. Tom is just as selfish as everyone else. Though he does not force himself on Grace as the other men do, he badly wants to sleep with her. With an incomprehensible lack of compassion, Tom laments the fact that other men have slept with Grace while he has not, instead of grieving the humiliation Grace she experienced. In this scene, Tom manages the insanely selfish feat of interpreting the number of times Grace has been raped as evidence of his own deprivation.

Tom leaves Grace and, after returning to the meeting to consult with the other townspeople, he calls the gangster. Although he told Grace he burned the card with the gangster’s telephone number on it, he did not. After five days of anticipation among the townspeople, the gangsters arrive. Tom locks Grace in her shed, thinking it will look better to the gangsters if it appears that they have captured Grace. The extent of Tom’s disloyalty to Grace is apparent when he disingenuously tells the gangsters, “None of us feel able to accept money for just helping people.”

The gangsters are shocked to find Grace chained up. Grace enters one of the cars to speak with the boss, who turns out to be her father.

Grace and her father engage in a robust discussion rich with theological implications. We discover that the gangsters were not trying to kill Grace, but rather to bring her back to her father. Grace ran away from home because she disapproved of her father’s violent methods. Upon their reunion, Grace’s father critiques her policy of mercy: “You do not pass judgment because you sympathize with them. A deprived childhood, and a homicide really isn’t necessarily a homicide, right? The only thing you can blame is circumstance. Rapists and murderers may be the victims according to you. But I call them dogs, and if they’re lapping up their own vomit, the only way to stop them is with a lash.”

According to Grace’s father, Grace is too sympathetic. She excuses evil with recourse to the circumstances, such as a “deprived childhood,” which condition people to do wrong. While Grace admirably is able to understand that even the most despicable people–rapists and murderers–have typically been victimized themselves, her merely excusing their behavior because she understands it falls short of justice. What Grace fails to realize is that her approach involves more than her own victimization. By refusing to resist the evil directed against her, she allows the townspeople to slip ever more rapidly into wickedness. Grace gives the people of Dogville the opportunity to enact their most shameful desires, desires which were, before her arrival, buried in the subterranean depths of the unconscious. Apparently typical humans at the beginning of the film, the townspeople have degraded themselves–through Grace’s passivity–to the level of dogs by its end.

Grace’s father argues that discipline is the only way to stop a dog from returning to its vomit. Grace’s father’s image of dogs returning to their own vomit evokes 2 Peter 2:22, as well as Chuck’s earlier description of people as being “greedy as animals” who will “eat ’til they burst” if allowed to do so.

Grace is not yet convinced, however, by her father’s arguments. She responds, “But dogs only obey their own nature, so why shouldn’t we forgive them?” Grace touches on the paradox of sin and responsibility in Christian theology: if people are sinful, then how can God hold anyone responsible for doing evil? Is it not unjust for God to hold people to standards they cannot possibly meet? The Old Testament is unequivocal that humanity’s inherited sinful nature does not negate its responsibility for its actions. Deuteronomy 24:16 says, “Fathers shall not be put to death because of their children, nor shall children be put to death because of their fathers. Each one shall be put to death for his own sin.” Yet, such passages condemn the stubborn refusal to repent and turn away from evil. God abhors not those who sin, for he, like Grace, fully understands the chain of victimization and abuse that leads people to do evil, but those who perpetually return to their sins–like a dog to its vomit.

Grace’s father’s reply continues in the vein of comparing people to dogs: “Dogs can be taught many useful things, but not if we forgive them every time they obey their own nature.” A savage, wild dog may be free from the commands of its master, but it is not free from rabies and starvation. Likewise, discipline is required to teach people not to do wrong. This is most obviously true when trying to teach children, but is equally applicable to cultivating virtue in adults. Merely forgiving a person for every evil act, or telling him or her the right thing to do is insufficient because of human selfishness. Dogs do not learn to sit or stay or not to bite people by suggestion; they learn through discipline. People cannot be taught to heed commands other than their own desires unless they are punished for doing wrong. Grace’s father’s position is essentially that of Proverbs 13:24: “Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him” (See also Proverbs 22:15).

Grace’s father’s position recalls the prophetic books of the Old Testament. God is most angry with the Israelites when they consistently refuse to heed the rebuke of the prophets: “And you shall say to them, ‘This is the nation that did not obey the voice of the LORD their God, and did not accept discipline; truth has perished; it is cut off from their lips” (Jeremiah 7:28). In Jeremiah 31:18, Israel is compared to a calf, “I have heard Ephraim grieving, ‘You have disciplined me, and I was disciplined, like an untrained calf; bring me back that I may be restored, for you are the LORD my God” (See also Jeremiah 30:11). People need to be trained to be good. This disciplinary logic is taken up in the New Testament, as well: “For the Lord disciplines the one he loves, and chastises every son whom he receives” (Hebrews 12:6). The portrayal of God’s wrath as discipline reflects the doctrine of God’s love for humanity: if God was not loving, he would hardly care what kind of damage people inflict on each other.

Even with the opportunity to return with her father, to share his power and responsibility, Grace initially chooses to remain in Dogville. She believes that “The people who live here are doing their best under very hard circumstances.” Grace even goes so far as to think that she would have acted just as Tom, Chuck, Vera, and the others did toward her were she in their places. The narrator poses the key point as Grace sees it, “How could she ever hate them for what was, at bottom, their weakness?” Grace rightly understands that human nature is imperfect. She realizes that people commit evil deeds out of weakness, whether fear or anger or greed. It takes strength to be virtuous. From her father’s perspective, however, understanding the causality of evil does not excuse it. Grace absolves the townspeople of moral agency, whereas her father insists that people be held accountable for their actions.

Grace pities the townspeople, rather than truly loving them. Since doing evil corrupts the evil-doer as much as it harms the victim, loving them would entail forcibly preventing them from destroying themselves through their wicked actions.

As Grace contemplates the townspeople, she has an epiphany. The narrator explains, “If she had acted like them, she could not have defended a single one of her actions, and could not have condemned them harshly enough. No, what they had done was not good enough.” Grace ultimately decides that “If there’s any town this world would be better off without, then this is it.” She joins her father and has the gangsters execute the townspeople and set fire to the town.

Grace instructs them to shoot Vera’s children in front of her, refraining only if Vera can withhold her tears. She thus reciprocates Vera’s treatment of her: as Vera destroyed Grace’s figurines, promising to stop at two if Grace refrained from crying, so Grace gives Vera a taste of her own medicine. As Vera destroyed Grace’s seven figurines, so the gangsters kill Vera’s seven children.

As he watches Dogville burn around him, Tom tells Grace, “I was scared, Grace. I used you and I’m sorry.” Yet, Tom’s apology, and his lack of genuine remorse, is utterly inadequate to the magnitude of his betrayal. As always, he rationalizes his own failures and pursues a policy of protecting his own interests. Even after seeing all of his peers shot to death, Tom does not register the horror of what he has done to Grace. Tom is too proud to admit to being wrong, which leads to his self-deception. This prevents him from noticing his own flaws, which makes contrition and repentance impossible.

Grace shoots Tom in the head herself.

Why does Grace destroy Dogville completely? Why not imprison the townspeople or force them to do hard labor? Why are the men, women, and children alike put to death? The film shows exhaustively that everyone in Dogville is guilty of abusing Grace: the men rape her; the women verbally abuse her and condone their husbands’ behavior; even the children, particularly Vera’s son, Jason, mistreat her. Everyone must be killed, not only because they deserve death for their crimes, but also because if punishment is always withheld, then mercy ceases to be mercy. If people can imagine no possibility other than forgiveness, then active forgiveness becomes passive acquiescence.

The narrator gives another reason why Dogville must be destroyed: “And if one had the power to put it to rights, it was one’s duty to do so. For the sake of other towns. For the sake of humanity. And, not least, for the sake of the human being that was Grace herself.” People learn by example.

Dogville reveals that justice and mercy are interdependent: justice is merciful because it prevents people from sinking deeper into corruption; mercy cannot be perceived or received as the grace that it is in a context absent of justice.

Fathers and Sons Part 1: The Departed

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Martin Scorsese’s Oscar-winning gangster film, The Departed, is about cops and criminals, loyalty and betrayal, and fathers and sons. The two pairs of fathers and sons around which the film revolves are not related biologically. Captain Queenan serves as a father figure to Billy Costigan, who works undercover, while crime lord Frank Costello (based on James “Whitey” Bulger) acts as a father figure to Colin Sullivan, a decorated cop who protects his gangster benefactor. These pairings are complicated by the fact that Costello and Billy also develop a close, father-son relationship while Billy works undercover. Costello’s downfall has less to do with good police work than with his failure as a father figure for Sullivan.

The film opens with Costello buying groceries and comic books for a young Colin Sullivan, whose own father is gone. Costello asks the boy if he does well in school, and then offers him a job. Costello ingrains his personal motto–“No one gives it to you. You have to take it”–into the young boy. When Sullivan grows up, he goes off to the police academy, and through his excellent performance gains a spot on the Special Investigations Unit, whose job, in the words of its supervisor, Captain Ellerby, is to “smash–or at least marginally disrupt–organized crime.” Sullivan is thus perfectly positioned to thwart the cops’ efforts to arrest Costello.

When Sullivan takes calls from Costello he often speaks to him as if he is his father. This is to avoid arousing suspicion, but also suggests the father-son dynamic between the two. When the cops plan on raiding Costello during his deal with the Chinese, Sullivan calls him to say, “Dad? I’m not going to make dinner. Something big has come up.”

If the first scene featuring Costello and Sullivan establishes their father-son dynamic, then so, too, does the first meeting between Cpt. Queenan and Billy Costigan. Billy is summoned to Queenan’s office, where the captain and Sergeant Dignam offer him the job of going undercover. Billy’s family’s connections in Southie and his uncles’ criminal records make him ideal for the task. The film’s script describes Cpt. Queenan as a “mild and scholarly man who might as well be a Jesuit history teacher.” Queenan is kind and wise, and thus makes a perfect father figure. Unlike the tough, brash, and vulgar Dignam, Queenan is meekness personified–his strength is concealed in gentleness.

Queenan treats Billy with warmth. When Queenan observes that Billy “doesn’t have much family,” Billy replies, “I don’t have any family.” His father is dead; his mother is dying. Queenan becomes the most stable paternal influence in Billy’s life, and one of the few people who treats him kindly. Queenan proposes that Billy plead guilty to an assault and battery charge, and then “serve enough jail time to convince anyone that it’s no set-up.” When Dignam comments that Billy has “already pretended to be a Costigan from South Boston,” meaning he learned how to fit in with his dad’s criminal side of the family, Queenan says, “Do it again. For me,” implying intimacy between the two although they have not known each other long.

Moreover, as the pressure of working for Costello wears on Billy, it is Queenan who encourages him. Again, speaking much like a father to a son, Queenan says to Billy, ” Hang tight for me. Just a little longer. We’re this close.” When Cpt. Ellerby suggests to Queenan that “direct access to your fucking guys would have certain fuckin’ advantages,” Queenan responds, “Not to my guy.” Queenan implies that the more cops who know the identity of his undercover agent, the more danger he will be in. Despite constant pressure to reveal Billy’s identity, Queenan steadfastly refuses to do so to protect Billy.

Although in their first meeting Costello inflicts some serious pain on Billy to find out if he is an undercover cop, the two grow increasingly close the longer Billy works for the gangster. Despite the fact that his sole purpose is to find a way to put Costello behind bars, and the fact that his life is constantly endangered by being undercover, Billy still develops a rapport with Costello. Early in their relationship, Costello seems to be constantly scrutinizing Billy, testing him to see if he is trustworthy. As the film progresses, he gives Billy greater responsibility. At one point, Costello mentions Billy’s father:

“You know if your father were alive and saw you, sitting here with me, let’s say he would have a word with me about this, in fact, he’d kill seven guys just to cut my throat. And he could do it, which is something you may not know about William Costigan, Sr.”

Costello is considering truly taking Billy under his wing, making him his protege. His reflections on Billy’s father are interesting because of the obvious similarities between Costello’s portrayal of Billy’s father and Costello himself: both possess strength and determination; both are capable of great brutality. Costello seems to see in Billy’s father a man to rival himself, yet one who always “kept his own counsel.” Billy’s father was the only member of his family not to live a life of crime. If Costello considers Billy’s father his equal, then he sees in Billy one capable of becoming his heir.

While Queenan is meek, kind, and compassionate, Costello is demanding, belittling, and verbally abusive. When Costello loses contact with Sullivan because his phone’s battery dies, Costello calls him on a land-line to berate him: “What the fuck is it with your phone?” Sullivan replies, “Last time I checked, I tipped you off and you’re not in jail.” What is Costello’s response? He shows Sullivan no gratitude, not even deigning to acknowledge the he did indeed avoid going to prison because of Sullivan’s help. He forces Sullivan to constantly work to earn his affirmation. Costello then asks Sullivan if he knows about an undercover cop in his crew. Sullivan says, “It’s locked up. Queenan and Dignam run the snitches. They don’t give anybody a peep. I’m doing the best . . .” at which point Costello interrupts him to mock him some more: “Your best? What do you think we’re in, the fuckin’ haberdashery business?” Like all bad fathers, Costello forces Sullivan to work for his approval, instead of showing him unconditional love.

Costello persistently dismisses and diminishes Sullivan’s performance, even as Sullivan protects him from the cops. Later, when Sullivan suggests that Costello keep a lower profile–“Frank, for me, you’ve got to lay low”–Costello merely scoffs, saying, “Laying low is not what I do.” Sullivan says, “Lookit, Frank, what good am I to you if you don’t listen to me?” A son’s worst fear is to not be heard by his father.

Queenan offers Sullivan the affirmation that Costello consistently withholds. During the cops’ attempt to raid Costello during his deal with the Chinese, Queenan perceives Sullivan’s nervousness and reassures him. He says, “The readiness is all. You know the players, call the game.” Queenan does not realize that Sullivan is nervous because he is worried about Costello being captured. Queenan alludes to Hamlet Act V Scene II. As he prepares to face Laertes in a fencing contest, Hamlet tells Horatio

“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is ’t to leave betimes?”

Horatio worries for Hamlet’s safety, yet Hamlet himself is finally ready to embrace the moment, willing even to face death. Although Claudius’ invitation for Hamlet to fence with Laertes seems suspicious (Laertes has poisoned the tip of his sword, and Claudius has prepared a chalice of poisoned wine) Hamlet is not afraid. With a new-found faith in God’s providential ordering of things, Hamlet sheds his former anxieties and will no longer defer the moment of crisis. It is through his “readiness” to face Laertes that he succeeds in unmasking Claudius’ treachery and avenging his father’s murder, though it costs him his life. Queenan, thus, in his typically literary way, encourages Sullivan to be bold, to seize the moment, and act with heroism. Costello never shows this kind of confidence in Sullivan.

Queenan is the only man Billy can trust. When he calls Queenan, but gets Dignam, he demands to talk to Queenan. He says, “I’m gonna get on a plane unless you put Queenan on the phone.” After learning that Costello is an FBI informant, Billy, desperate, goes to Queenan’s house in the middle of the night. Inside, Queenan tells Billy, “Come and have something to eat.” Billy tries to say no, but Queenan insists, “We’ll talk in the kitchen. Come and have something to eat.” Despite how late it is, Queenan wants his surrogate son to be well-fed.

Although he reviles Costello and wishes more than anything that the cops arrest him, Billy still comes to see him as a father figure. As Billy and Costello discuss the problem of the rat in Costello’s crew, Billy speaks candidly with Costello:

“You’re seventy fucking years old. One of these guys is going to pop you. As for running drugs, what the fuck. You don’t need the pain in the ass, and they’re going to catch you. And you don’t need the money.”

Despite everything, Billy shows genuine concern for Costello. He implies that Costello should quit while he is ahead, should retire before one of his own thugs takes him down. As the conversation continues, Costello implies that Billy is under suspicion of being the rat. Billy argues that the rat would be the guy who thinks he can take Costello’s place at the top. The film again emphasizes the similarity between Billy and Costello when the crime lord asks, “You want to be me?” Billy’s reply reveals at once his affinity for Costello and his refusal to become like him: “I probably could be you. I know that much. But I don’t want to be you.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8xT_afGr-c

Billy is drawn to Costello personally, growing increasingly concerned for Costello’s well-being, but he is never seduced by the criminal lifestyle. While Billy expresses the respect he has for Costello’s abilities–“I base most of what I do on the idea that you’re pretty fucking good at what you do”–he ultimately rejects him as a model.

When Sullivan is promoted to head up the internal investigation into the rat in the police department, he asks Queenan for advice. Queenan tells him to “Follow Costello and you’ll find his rat.” Ironically, Sullivan uses Queen’s own idea against him. Sullivan deploys a team to tail Queenan when he meets up with Billy. Sullivan lets Costello know where Queenan and Billy are meeting, and Costello sends some of his thugs there. Queenan and Billy talk on the roof, and Billy again expresses his frustration at still being undercover and his fear of getting killed: “I’m telling you, he’s gonna find out who I am. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill me, I know it.” Queenan tries to calm Billy down, as usual, and promises to help him: “I hear you. I’m sorry for you trouble. Look, I’m not gonna jeopardize your safety any longer. I’ll get you out. I can’t do it overnight but I’ll do it.”

By the time that Queenan and Billy realize that Queenan was tailed, Costello’s men are already inside the building. Queenan urges Billy to get out using the fire escape. When Billy asks what Queenan will do, Queenan says, “I’ll be fine. If you get made I can’t protect you. Go down the fire escape. Now. That’s an order. I’ll be fine.”

Queenan shows his fatherly love for Billy by sacrificing himself so that Billy can escape. He places himself squarely between Billy and danger. He waits for Costello’s thugs, giving Billy time to get away. The elevator opens, and the thugs advance. Queenan faces them with equanimity. With an unlit cigarette in his mouth, he asks “One of you mugs got a light?” They proceed to throw him out of the window.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sbd3akiEGQ&feature=kp

After Queenan dies, Sullivan learns that Costello is an FBI informant from Queenan’s notes. The prospect that Costello will betray him, coupled with Costello’s ongoing failure to appreciate him, convinces Sullivan to beat Costello to the punch. Toward the end of the film, Sullivan warns Costello that the police are tailing him. Instead of sending others to supervise a drug deal, however, Costello insists on going himself for the excitement. He demands that Sullivan “Get rid of the fuckin’ tail!” This proves to be the last straw for Sullivan. Costello has finally alienated him enough for him to betray his mentor. Sullivan tells Ellerby and the other cops where Costello is going, and then sends a team to ambush him.

By the film’s end, Billy has taken Sullivan’s place as Costello’s favorite son. While Sullivan is in the midst of betraying Costello, Billy tries to warn him of his impending downfall. He asks Costello, “How do you know you don’t have a tail?” Costello shrugs this off, but Billy persists, “What if they took one off and put another one on, Frank?” Billy has come to genuinely care about Costello, to see him as a father figure.

After the cops spring their trap, Sullivan confronts an injured Costello about being an FBI informant. Sullivan asks if the FBI know about him, Costello replies, “I never gave anybody up who wasn’t goin’ down anyway.” Sullivan repeats his question, paranoid that Costello ratted him out. Only when he is reduced to utter desperation does Costello show signs of fatherly affection for Sullivan, but it is too little, too late:

Sullivan: “Frank, Frank, do they know about me?”

Costello: “I know about you, Colin. You know I’d never give you up. You’re like . . .”

Sullivan: “A son . . . to you? Is that what it is about, all that murderin’ and fuckin’ and no sons?”

Costello tries to raise his gun, but Sullivan shoots him. Sullivan is right that after all the sex and death Costello has engaged in, he still has no son, hence his interest in Sullivan and Billy.

It turns out the Costello felt that Billy was a better son than Sullivan. His lawyer kept tapes of Costello’s conversations, so that he could blackmail anyone who turned on him. As Billy taunts Sullivan, when Costello died, “His lawyer came to me. Costello trusted me the most.”

The Departed thus presents a tableau of fathers and sons: Queenan the loving father, Costello the abusive father, Sullivan the disgruntled son, and Costigan the loyal son.

Tryin’ Real Hard to be the Shepherd: Miracles and the Major Prophets in Pulp Fiction

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Pulp Fiction, Quentin Tarantino’s signature film, memorably combines violence, hilarity, and theological reflection. Its central characters, Jules and Vincent, are hit men. Although at the film’s beginning they are more or less on the same page ethically–both content with their job, both killers with little pity for their victims–their viewpoints diverge radically after a hit almost goes fatally wrong. Jules’ perspective is wholly reoriented, while Vincent’s remains the same. Jules resolves to abandon his criminal life, while Vincent clings to it and is killed soon after.

Jules has a habit of reciting a well crafted speech before blowing away his victims:

“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.”

Why does Jules recite this speech? As he admits in a mood of self-critique at the film’s end, “I been sayin’ that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your ass. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a coldblooded thing to say to a motherfucker ‘fore you popped a cap in his ass.”

As a hit man for L.A. gangster, Marsellus Wallace, Jules kills people for a living, but he also has a sense of style. He recites this quasi-biblical passage to build the intensity before striking the executioner’s blow. He likes the dramatic imagery and grandiose phrases. Jules may also enjoy reciting this speech because it serves as a self-justifying hermeneutic for killing others. Not that Jules is religious, but that the powerful rhetoric seems to give him the confidence to adopt the role of merciless killer necessary for his occupation. The speech has a self-aggrandizing effect, making murder seem righteous, as Jules casts himself as the instrument of divine wrath.

Jules gives this speech twice in the movie: the first time, near the beginning, he delivers it with great fervor before he carries out a hit on Brett; the second time, near the film’s end, he recites the words in a more subdued tone in the diner, after having forsaken murder.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2WK_eWihdU

Jules claims that this speech is from Ezekiel 25:17, though only the last part of it is. In the English Standard Version, Ezekiel 25:17 reads, “I will execute great vengeance on them with wrathful rebukes. Then they will know that I am the LORD, when I lay my vengeance upon them.” This last part is how Jules ends his recitation, but the rest of his speech is not in the biblical text. The context of Ezekiel 25 is a series of judgments against enemies of Israel: Ammon, Moab and Seir, Edom, and Philistia.

The speech is filled with biblical phrases, like “Blessed is he” and the “valley of darkness,” and various biblical buzz-words, like “righteous,” “iniquities,” and “charity.” It also includes a number of characters which could be said to have biblical models: the Selfish, the Weak, Evil Men, the Shepherd, and Lost Children. As we will see, Jules’ transformation will involve his embracing the shepherd’s role of guiding others.

What changes between the first and second time Jules recites the speech? The plot unfolds in a non-linear fashion, so the scene in which Jules and Vincent kill Brett and his friends is split into two parts. The first part of the scene ends with Jules reciting his speech, and then Vincent joining him in blowing Brett away. In the second part of the scene, however, we discover that another of Brett’s friends was hiding in the bathroom. This guy unloads his own gun at Jules and Vincent. Incredibly, he misses completely, and Jules and Vincent kill him, as well.

Jules and Vincent respond in diametrically opposed ways to this. Jules believes it’s a miracle; Vincent believes it’s luck. Jules exclaims, “We should be fuckin’ dead!” and Vincent replies, “Yeah, we were lucky.” Jules immediately realizes that Vincent’s idea of luck and his own conception of the miraculous are incompatible. Jules says, “That shit wasn’t luck,” and continues “ That was . . . divine intervention.” He asks Vincent, “You know what divine intervention is?” and Vincent responds, “That means God came down from Heaven and stopped the bullets.” Vincent is being sardonic, but Jules is dead serious, “ Yeah, man, that’s what is means. That’s exactly what it means! God came down from Heaven and stopped the bullets.” Vincent still tries to down-play what happened, “Chill the fuck out, Jules, this shit happens,” but Jules is insistent, “We should be fuckin’ dead now, my friend! We just witnessed a miracle, and I want you to fuckin’ acknowledge it!”

For the first time in his life, Jules is willing to consider that God may be real, and not just real, but intimately involved in human life–so involved that He would comes down from heaven to deflect bullets away from a couple of hit men.

In All Things Shining, Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly analyze the disparity between Jules’ gratitude and Vincent’s skepticism toward their miraculous survival. They align Jules with the Greek spirit of wonder, exemplified by Homeric figures like Odysseus, and Vincent with the more Roman belief in chance. Vincent, like “the Roman citizen invoking blind Fortuna” (70), cannot understand Jules’ gratitude. Dreyfus and Kelly observe that Fortuna, the Roman goddess of luck, “has no natural precursor in the Homeric world” (65) Unlike the Greek world, in which favorable events were thought to be caused by the beneficence of the gods, in the Roman world of Fortune, “stoicism and reserve” (65) are the proper attitudes. Stoicism and wonder represent incompatible alternatives: either good things happen for a reason, and should elicit gratitude, or they are the results of random chance, and should merely be shrugged off. When the spears of Odysseus’ foes go awry, he praises Athena, just as Jules is grateful to the divine for miraculously surviving a barrage of shots fired at him from point-blank range.

Dreyfus and Kelly argue that a life of wonder and gratitude is more meaningful than one of stoicism. They observe that ungrateful characters in Homer are typically condemned. Ajax, for instance, offends Poseidon by claiming that he survived the wreckage of his ship unaided by the gods. Poseidon destroys Ajax for his lack of gratitude. Pulp Fiction gives Vincent a similar fate.

While Vincent maintains his cynical position, Jules’ beliefs are reoriented by the miracle. Jules says, “But me, my eyes are wide fuckin’ open” and then tells Vincent that he is going to retire. Vincent finds Jules’ resolution absurd; he cannot fathom why Jules interprets what happened to be anything more than good fortune. Like many in the modern world, Vincent cannot accept miracles, the supernatural, or Providence; he is shocked that Jules seems to imply that “God came down from Heaven and stopped the bullets.”

Vincent’s indifference is even more extreme when we consider that this is the second of three “miracles” which he experiences throughout the film.

The first miracle: at Marsellus’ request, Vincent takes his boss’s wife, Mia, out for the evening; Mia snorts some of his heroin, thinking it is cocaine; she almost dies, but Vincent gives her a shot of adrenaline to the heart. Had Mia died, Marsellus certainly would have had Vincent killed.

The third miracle: Jules and Vincent drive off with a friend of Jules’ named Marvin who was connected to Brett. Vincent accidentally shoots Marvin in the face, and Jules goes to his friend Jimmy’s house to get off the road. Jimmy’s wife, Bonnie, will soon be home, and Jules, Vincent, and the car are covered in blood and gore. With the help of Mr. Wolf, however, the body is hidden in the trunk, the car is cleaned, and Jules and Vincent get some new clothes before Bonnie gets home. They succeed in driving the car to a junkyard where the evidence will be discreetly destroyed. Vincent, therefore, has at least three profound reasons to feel immense gratitude, yet he feels none.

Later, as Jules and Vincent share breakfast at a diner, they continue their discussion of the alleged miracle. Vincent reiterates his skepticism: “I witnessed a freak occurrence.” Jules counters that Vincent is looking at it all wrong, that “What is significant is I felt God’s touch, God got involved.” Jules argues that he experienced God’s presence in their survival, and he cannot go back to his old life after that.

Vincent wonders what Jules will do now. Jules says he plans to “walk the earth.” Vincent is pretty confused as to what this means, so Jules clarifies: “Just walk from town to town, meet people, get in adventures.” Jules envisions an itinerant life of ministry not unlike Jesus’. Vincent is not sold on the wisdom of Jules’ plan, so he asks, “How long do you intend to walk the earth?” Jules responds, “Until God puts me where he wants me to be.” Vincent then asks, “What if he never does?” Jules’ reply reveals the depth of his new-found faith: “If it takes forever, I’ll wait forever.” Now that he trusts that God intervened to save him from those bullets, Jules believes that God has some purpose for his life and is fully open to whatever it may be. Jules has been so transformed by the miracle he experienced that he is willing to forsake his old life and devote himself to wandering the earth with no promise of reward.

Vincent decides that Jules will become a bum, “like those pieces of shit out there who beg for change. They walk around like a bunch of fuckin’ zombies, they sleep in garbage bins, they eat what I throw away, and dogs piss on ’em.” Vincent is also unnerved by how unwavering Jules is in his new sense of certainty about the folly of his old life and his determination to begin his new life. At one point, Vincent says, “Stop fuckin’ talkin’ like that!” to which Jules replies, “If you find my answers frightening, Vincent, you should cease askin’ scary questions.” The “scary questions” which the two have been entertaining are scary to Vincent because they question everything which he has assumed about life. Jules has brought an ethical dimension into things which was previously absent.

Vincent makes decisions based on how they will benefit him. He is an essentially selfish person, in the sense that his moral calculus rarely prioritizes the good of others. The only traditional virtue which Vincent seems to abide by is loyalty, and even that commitment is tenuous at best. After taking Mia out, Vincent finds himself back at the Wallace home, considering whether or not he should sleep with Mia. Mia obviously enjoys her night out with Vincent, and invites him in for a drink when he takes her home. Vincent goes into the bathroom to debate his course of action with himself.

Vincent speaks aloud to the mirror: “One drink and leave. Don’t be rude, but drink your drink quickly, say goodbye, walk out the door, get in your car, and go down the road.” He tries to convince himself to leave without taking advantage of Mia. Vincent recognizes the situation’s ethical dimension: “It’s a moral test of yourself, whether or not you can maintain loyalty.” Yet, his conception of the importance of loyalty is devoid of any content: “Because when people are loyal to each other, that’s very meaningful.” Vincent has no real reason to maintain loyalty, just a vague sense that it is important. The real reason he convinces himself to leave without making a move on Mia is his fear that Marsellus will find out and maim or kill him, as earlier references to Tony “Rocky Horror” show.

Tony “Rocky Horror” fell four stories from his balcony through the glass roof of his greenhouse, apparently because Marsellus ordered it. According to rumor, passed on to Vincent by Jules, Marsellus had Tony “Rocky Horror” tossed off of his balcony because he gave Mia a foot massage. Mia denies this, but it sticks with Vincent, nevertheless. It is thus not loyalty which actually constrains Vincent, but the prohibitive danger of cuckolding his boss. Vincent has no ethical reservation about sleeping with Mia; his only concern is self-preservation. Vincent has no true ethical code, nothing by which to live other than the pursuit of pleasure–such as his heroin use–or the pursuit of power–such as working for a gangster.

The genius of the film’s non-linear structure is that it ends with Jules and Vincent each poised on the moment of choice–Jules rejecting his old life, Vincent reaffirming his violent, selfish lifestyle. By the film’s end, however, we already know that Vincent will soon die. This gives Vincent’s decision not to heed Jules’ example a sense of doom. While Jules decides to resign from Marsellus’ services, Vincent continues to work for Marsellus, and dies on his next assignment. He is killed by Butch, a boxer who double-crosses, and then later rescues, Marsellus, and whom Vincent was sent to kill. Vincent ironically tastes his own medicine as the man on whom the hit was put out kills the hit man. Vincent goes to Butch’s apartment, ready to kill him if the boxer returns there. Butch does return, seeking a watch that belonged to his great-grandfather, surprises Vincent, and shoots him with his own gun. One thinks of Ajax.

In the film’s final scene, the robbery at the diner, the full scope of Jules’ transformation–and how radically different he is from Vincent–becomes apparent. Jules offers the inept robbers the money in his wallet–$1,500–but will not part with the case belonging to Marsellus, which he and Vincent retrieved from Brett. This sparks a comically tense and tensely comical situation in which Jules holds a gun to one of the robbers, while trying to keep the other hysterical robber–Yolanda–calm enough not to shoot anyone.

Jules is more than happy to part with the money, as it is no longer as important to him as it used to be. Vincent, however, is less than thrilled about the situation. He says, “Jules, if you give this nimrod fifteen hundred bucks, I’m gonna shoot ’em on general principle.” To what “general principle” does Vincent refer? To his guiding principle of self-interest. Vincent cannot understand the compassion which Jules shows to the hapless robbers. From Vincent’s perspective, Jules has one of the robbers at gun point, and thus should not give up any of his money. For Jules, however, the money matters much less than his finding a way out of the situation without anyone being killed. The authoritative voice which Jules possesses, which he used to taunt and intimidate Brett early in the film, he now uses to maintain calm and preserve life.

Amid Yolanda’s periodic shrieking, Jules explains the change he has undergone. After reciting his speech for the robbers, this time without fury, Jules tries out a few interpretations. The first is a self-serving reading of the text: “Now I’m thinkin’, it could mean you’re the evil man. And I’m the righteous man. And Mr. .45 here, he’s the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness.” Jules’ second interpretation is an idealized, wish-fulfillment: “Or it could be you’re the righteous man and I’m the shepherd and it’s the world that’s evil and selfish.” Finally, Jules’ dismisses these first two interpretations–more eisegesis than exegesis–as the fantasies they are. His third interpretation abandons self-justification: “I’d like that. But that shit ain’t the truth. The truth is you’re the weak. And I’m the tyranny of evil men. But I’m tryin’. I’m tryin’ real hard to be a shepherd.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PeyiU3uWJ8

The robbers are “the weak” for obvious reasons: they are lazy cowards. They cannot or will not work real jobs; they are only robbing the diner because they think it will be easy money. In the film’s opening scene, they discuss how restaurant managers and waiters will not endanger themselves to stop a robbery.

Jules rightly sees himself as a representative of the “tyranny of evil men.” He acknowledges his guilt as a murderer, and recognizes that gangsters like Marsellus Wallace need henchmen to enact their will. Jules’ new motto is to try “real hard to be the shepherd.” He embraces the role of guiding others, beginning with the robbers of the diner. He chooses to be for others, while Vincent remains committed only to his own interests.

The character of the Shepherd is a particularly robust biblical archetype. Israel’s patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, were shepherds. So, too, was King David, Israel’s greatest king and the forebear of the Messiah (See 2 Samuel 7). By the time of the prophet Jeremiah, the image of the shepherd was a well established figure of leadership. The people of Israel are described as sheep, and their leaders as shepherds. In Jeremiah, Israel’s shepherds–its priests and kings–are generally castigated for failing to lead the people properly:

“Wail, you shepherds, and cry out, and roll in ashes, you lords of the flock, for the days of your slaughter and dispersion have come, and you shall fall like a choice vessel. No refuge will remain for the shepherds, nor escape for the lords of the flock” (Jeremiah 25:34-35).

Even as Jeremiah criticizes Israel’s current shepherds, he also foretells the emergence of better shepherds who will lead the people in righteousness. This passage also reiterates God’s promise to send the Messiah, a king who will rule from David’s throne and deliver the people from their enemies:

“Then I will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the countries where I have driven them, and I will bring them back to their fold, and they shall be fruitful and multiply. I will set shepherds over them who will care for them, and they shall fear no more, nor be dismayed, neither shall any be missing, declares the LORD. ‘Behold, the days are coming, declares the LORD, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land'” (Jeremiah 23:3-5).

One cannot be a good shepherd without a powerful voice. Sheep have poor vision and get lost easily, so they learn to follow the shepherd’s voice. As Jesus says, “The sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice. A stranger they will not follow, but they will flee from him, for they do not know the voice of strangers” (John 10:3-5). In his role as the Good Shepherd, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me” (John 10:27).

Jules’ voice makes him uniquely suited to the role of the shepherd. Throughout the film’s final scene, Jules controls the situation with his voice:

Jules: “So, we cool Yolanda? We ain’t gonna do anything stupid, are we?”

Yolanda (crying) “Don’t you hurt him.”

Jules: “Nobody’s gonna hurt anybody. We’re gonna be like three Fonzies. And what’ Fonzie like? C’mon Yolanda, what’s Fonzie like?”

Yolanda (through tears, unsure): “He’s cool?”

Jules: “Correct-amundo! And that’s what we’re gonna be, we’re gonna be cool.”

When Vincent returns from the bathroom to see Yolanda pointing a gun at Jules, and Jules pointing his gun at the other robber, he is ready to intervene. Only with his commanding voice does Jules prevent either Vincent or Yolanda from opening fire: “It’s cool, Vincent! It’s cool! Don’t do a goddamn thing. Yolanda, it’s cool baby, nothin’s changed. We’re still just talkin’.”

To be a good shepherd, one must also be willing to risk oneself to protect one’s sheep. When David tells Saul that he will fight the Philistine giant, Goliath, Saul protests that David is too young to challenge such a skilled warrior. David counters that he “used to keep sheep for his father. And when there came a lion, or a bear, and took a lamb from the flock, I went after him and struck him and delivered it out of his mouth. And if he arose against me, I caught him by his beard and struck him and killed him” (1 Samuel 17:34-35). To be a shepherd requires defending the flock from predators.

David was literally a shepherd before he became king and, as king, he was figuratively a shepherd over the people. Like his ancestor, David, Jesus not only adopted the role of the shepherd, but also was willing to sacrifice his life for the sake of his flock. Jesus declares, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11). Humanity is Jesus’ flock: he “saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matthew 9:36).

The call which Jules hears to the shepherd’s vocation demands both a powerful voice and a willingness to sacrifice one’s life for others. Jules, it seems, has both.

Sources:

Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly. All Things Shining: Reading the Western Classics to Find Meaning in a Secular Age. New York: Free Press, 2011.

http://handsomecitizens.com/2013/09/05/the-year-is-1994-pulp-fiction-unleashed-itself-upon-the-world/