October
4, 1999 | Right at the start of Dogma, a movie that already
has managed to outrage thousands of people who likely will never bother
to see it, writer-director Kevin Smith tries to make it perfectly clear
that - honest to God! - he doesn't really mean to offend anyone.
During
a lengthy opening "disclaimer" - which Smith frankly defines
as "a statement made to save one's own ass" - the filmmaker
defends his latest and most controversial effort as "a work of
comedic fantasy, not to be taken seriously. To insist that any of what
follows is incendiary or inflammatory is to miss our intention and pass
undue judgment; and passing judgment is reserved for God and God alone
(this goes for you film critics too….)"
Sorry,
Kevin: You can't get off the hook that easily. This critic claims the
inalienable right to declare Dogma is outrageously, if not sinfully,
hilarious. Indeed, even when it resorts to unprintable expletives and
scatological sight gags, the movie remains abundantly and ingeniously
clever. It helps that Smith is able to bring out the best in every member
of his crazy-quilt ensemble cast. But it helps even more that the actors
are perfectly attuned to Smith's impudent comic vision.
And
if that isn't enough to appease those who would brand the writer-director
as a blasphemer -- well, send them over to another screen at the megaplex,
where they can delight in the apocalyptic frenzy of The Omega Code.
In
the beginning - that is, shortly after the disclaimer - Dogma
sets its sacrilegiously cheeky tone by introducing comic George Carlin
as Cardinal Glick, a media-savvy huckster who's determined to make the
Catholic Church more consumer-friendly. As part of an image-enhancement
program, the cardinal wants to replace the traditional crucifix (which
His Eminence views as, well, kind of creepy) with "a new and inspiring
symbol" - The Buddy Christ, a smiling dude who encourages the faithful
with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
More
important, Cardinal Glick appeals to dissatisfied ex-customers (i.e.,
lapsed Catholics) by promising a plenary indulgence -- complete and
total absolution for all past sins - to anyone who passes through the
doors of a newly restored New Jersey cathedral. Unfortunately, there's
a downside to this grand plan: Some sinners should never be forgiven.
Consider
Loki (Matt Damon) and Bartleby (Ben Affleck), two fallen angels long
banished to the purgatory of Milwaukee, where they spend their endless
days bringing people back away from God. Loki and Bartleby figure that,
if they can enter the New Jersey cathedral, they will be restored to
their rightful place among the Chosen. Trouble is, this upward mobility
will upset the balance of the universe and, not incidentally, obliterate
all of humanity.
The
last best hope for mankind is a most unlikely savior: Bethany (Linda
Fiorentino), a cynical ex-Catholic who works at an abortion clinic.
Bethany is visited by Metatron (Alan Rickman), a droll seraphim who
establishes his celestial credentials by demonstrating that, like all
good angels, he is "as anatomically impaired as a Ken doll."
Metatron serves as a spokesangel for God - who inexplicably is missing
in action - and bids Bethany to prevent Armageddon by journeying to
New Jersey. Not exactly an inviting destination, to be sure. But nobody
said that saving the world would be a vacation.
At
heart, Dogma is an old-fashioned road movie, a sort of metaphysical
version of The Wizard of Oz in which a grown-up Dorothy renews
her faith in ways that Cardinal Glick could never imagine. Instead of
worrying about lions, tigers and bears - or, for that matter, flying
monkeys -- Bethany has to watch out for demonic street-hockey skaters
led by Azrael (Jason Lee), a smug and smart-alecky devil who wants a
little payback for being booted out of heaven. And instead of following
a yellow brick road, our heroine hitches a ride with a couple of scruffy
modern-day prophets: Motor-mouth Jay (Jason Mewes) and stoic Silent
Bob (director-writer Smith), the same stoners who previously appeared
in Smith's Clerks, Mallrats and Chasing Amy. These guys
hang out near Bethany's place of employment because "abortion clinics
are a great place to pick up loose women."
Also
along for the ride: Rufus (Chris Rock), the heretofore unknown 13th
Apostle, a black firebrand who claims he was edited out of the Bible
for "political" reasons; and Serendipity (Salma Hayek), a
stripteasing muse who takes credit for inspiring "19 of the Top
20 grossing films of all time." (She refuses to accept any responsibility
for Home Alone.) God Almighty - played by a sweetly out-to-lunch
Alanis Morissette - appears just in time for the climactic clash between
good and evil, which Smith presents with equal measures of special-effects
spectacle and subversively sassy lunacy.
Dogma
often plays like a series of Saturday Night Live sketches stitched
together with a mock-serious doomsday melodrama. A few episodes aren't
quite amusing enough to justify their protracted length, and the pacing
of the movie as a whole is, at best, bumpy. Even so, the end result
is something exhilaratingly original and, in its own iconoclastic way,
provocatively profound. You can't help thinking that only a True Believer
would want to have so much flat-out fun with such serious matters of
faith, redemption and divine intervention.