“The Antichrist is clever. He uses a man’s virtues to mislead him.”
Terrence Malick, A Hidden Life
A Hidden Life is a masterful film. Whatever you think of Ross Douthat’s “decadence thesis” that most American culture is sclerotic, bored, and repetitive, A Hidden Life is an exceptional film about an exceptional person. Malick uses the singularity of cinematic experience to revive and commemorate a life that was lost to history, and that, even now, eludes us. Malick’s spectacular shots reveal the artist’s inability to make visible the human heart.
But what makes the film most compelling is that the hero is both relatable and unrelatable.
A Catholic, conscientious objector to Nazism and war, the protagonist is relatable in his calm, ordinary, non-flashy demeanor, his pastoral simplicity, yet unrelatable in his purist commitment to principle for which he is willing to sacrifice everything, including his family’s welfare. There’s something extreme about a person who would rather die than utter a lie. After all, he wouldn’t have to kill anyone if he worked as a medical assistant in a hospital (his wife’s suggestion); and, as a prisoner, he is still forced to shine the shoes of the Nazi soldiers. What could compel an ordinary person to be so principled other than stubbornness?
Kafka’s short story, “A Hunger Artist” captures something grotesque about the ascetic. The punch-line to the story is both underwhelming and hilariously macabre: the hunger artist fasts to the point of starvation because he is a picky eater. The deflated explanation makes the figure all the more alienating.
Characters throughout the film seek to convince the protagonist to fake it, suck it up, and go on with his life. They are also trying to convince themselves, since the presence of a dissident disturbs their consciences. But one persuasive line uttered by a Nazi supervisor is that the Antichrist can often sound righteous. “The devil can quote Scripture.” Another way of saying this is that “listen to your gut” can often be terrible advice.
Luther argues that we should consult our conscience, rather than outsource moral questions to experts. But Luther also admits that the self is hardly a reliable source of authority itself; it’s just “less wrong” than others.
The effect of a film in which you both root for the conscientious objector and wonder if his nobility and courage aren’t somehow delusional is strange. Not only does it raise the question of what we’d sacrifice “for truth,” but whether sacrifice—even for a good cause—isn’t fundamentally terrible. Judging by impact, it’s not clear that the conscientious objector does much except “exit” into our cultural memory. I found it to be a fascinating re-telling of Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Not only does A Hidden Life make it seem as though we likely would not have objected to Nazism had we been villagers at the time, but that we would have had good moral reasons for going along to get along.
As with all things, religion is used by all to justify their lives. The conscientious objector seeks to live a life in imitation of God. The Church authorities, for the most part, argue that one should save the Church and live a decent life by not stirring up political trouble. The film’s moral skepticism cuts in many directions. And it makes us wonder what moral education could possibly prepare one to face moral dilemmas. If it cannot help prepare us, of what value is it?
What is Called Thinking? is a practice of asking a daily question on the belief that self-reflection brings awe, joy, and enrichment to one’s life. Consider becoming a paying subscriber to support this project and access subscriber-only content.
No bread, no Torah…but what is the price of bread and who is paying for it.