An unholy mess

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, I paid 11 bucks to watch an after-midnight screening of Mel Gibson's The Passion Of The Christ at the Arc Light cinema just off the strip at Sunset+ Vine.

Gibson's movie focuses on the hours leading up to the Crucifixion, and I'll leave others to argue over its religious aspects. As the official heathen in our family, I'm hardly qualified. My brother in Nashville goes to church twice a week, and he and his family study the Bible together at home.

I go to church for weddings, christenings and funerals. But I do know a lot about violence in the cinema. I view Quentin

Tarantino as a cinematic master of chopsuey, non-gratuitous violence. You may agree - or disagree.

However, I found Gibson's sadistic relish for what I would call pornographic violence quite disturbing. There's a nineminute sequence where Jesus is being whipped and beaten by two Roman soldiers. It's so sickening that I had to turn my head

What startled me was that many of those sitting near me didn't bat an eyelid. It's as if they'd become inured to screen violence, completely de-sensitised by a diet of Lethal Weapons and Bravehearts.

Gibson's camera lingers over the cuts, lesions and blood on Jesus's torso and I found the scenes of him being nailed to the Cross unbearable. And yet, I don't think I've seen a movie from a so-called major film-maker that was so uninvolving. I read an interview with James Stewart years ago where he said that even the worst movie has a moment; something that reinforces your love of cinema. I didn't find one here.

It took $20 million on its opening day, and, sadly, a lot of people will think that because it's made big bucks, it's good. It's not. It's grotesque. It has made me want to do something astounding. I'm going to pray. And the prayer will be that Gibson doesn't direct another picture.