After seeing “The Passion,” (or at least as much of it as I could stand) I just wanted to respond to the Jewish voices in our community and actually everyone who has expressed horror at Mr. Gibson’s depiction of the last 12 hours of Christ. I couldn’t agree more. It was a cruel, obsessively gruesome, uninsightful exercise in, what? “How deep does my maniacal desire for torture go? Should I let it go on for two minutes, nah. Let’s make it 12. Nope, too short. How about 20? That should just about do it. Yeah, this is good. Like it. Love it. Print that one. Oh wait, I want to do one more take, but this time let me have a go with that hammer.” I couldn’t even get to the idea that the film might be anti-Semitic. My mind wasn’t able to think coherently about anything other than how to get the hell out of the Malibu theater without losing it on my husband’s lap. When I demanded the car keys, he nervously fumbled in his pocket for them, knowing I usually make good on my promises. This overwhelmingly bloodthirsty story, presented under the pretense of a spiritual meditation on Jesus’ last hours, (Ha!) hits like a sledgehammer (No pun intended). So much so, that there is little room for any thoughts on the matter of the Jews and Jesus. Never even got there. I was too busy running for the door.
Kathryn Wrye