(Haven’t seen it, so I can’t judge)
It is only at the very end that Christianity makes a brief but portentous appearance, aboard a fleet of Spanish ships that appears suddenly on the horizon. JP and his long-suffering wife watch from the jungle as a small boat approaches shore bearing a long-bearded, shiny-helmeted explorer and a kneeling priest holding high a crucifix-topped staff. "Should we join them?" asks his wife. "No," he replies: They should go back to the jungle, their home. Roll credits.
Given Gibson’s fervent Christianity, you might have expected JP to run up and genuflect. Why does he turn away?
My colleague, film critic Richard Schickel, has observed that Gibson has little use for the institutional Roman Catholic church, preferring a "less mainstream version of his faith." True, but the Traditionalists with whom Gibson is often associated are defined primarily by their objections to the liberalizations under the Second Vatican Council of 1962-5 — not an issue in Jaguar Paw’s day.
Another explanation is that the director has always been better at Crucifixions than at Resurrections. Just as the risen Christ seemed like something of a tack-on to The Passion, Mel may have little interest in how Christian culture might reconfigure either the peaceful village-dwellers’ way of life or the bloodthirsty Mayans’.
The third possibility, it seems to me, is that Gibson does know — and wants no part of it. I tend toward that last one because it reflects a learning curve of my own. About a year ago I visited an exhibit on another Mexican civilization, the Aztecs, at New York’s Guggenheim Museum. The show was cleverly arranged. Visitors walked up the Guggenheim’s giant spiral, the first few twists of which were devoted to the Aztecs’ stunning stylized carvings of snakes, eagles and other god/animals, and explanations of how the ingenious Aztecs filled in a huge lake to lay the foundation for Tenochtitlan, now Mexico City.
It was only about halfway up the spiral — when it had become harder to run screaming for an exit — that one encountered a grey-green stone about three feet high. It was sleek and beautiful — almost like a Brancusi sculpture, I thought — until I read the label. It was a sacrifice stone of the sort in the movie. Not a reproduction, not a non-functioning ceremonial model, but the real thing. People had died on this. I felt shocked and a little angry — it was like coming across a gas chamber at an exhibit of interior design.
But I kept walking, and at the very top of the museum I encountered another object that might be considered an answer to the sinister rock: a stone cross, carved after the Spanish had conquered the Aztecs and were attempting to convert them to Catholicism. Rather than Jesus’s full body, it bore a series of small relief carvings: his head and wounded hands, blood drops — and a sacrificial Aztec knife.
How striking, I thought. Here was a potent work of iconographic propaganda using the very symbols of a brutal religion to turn its values inside out, manipulating its images so that they celebrated not the sacrifice, but the person who was sacrificed. Visually, at least, it seemed an elegant and admirable transition. And after seeing Apocalypto, I wondered why Gibson hadn’t created the cinematic equivalent: an ode to the progression out of savagery, through the vehicle of Christianity.
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