For Greater Glory

"Between heaven and earth...

between light and dark...

between faith and sin...

lies only my heart...

lies God and only my heart."

For Greater Glory:

The True Story of Cristiada

. . .

"What price would you pay for freedom?" is the film's tagline, one that certainly resonates throughout the movie, but could be reworded several ways. In the characters, we can see the questions rolling around, questions like: 'what price will I pay for family?' 'what price will I pay for vengeance?' 'what price will I pay for God?' In this epic, Western film, with just as many similarities to the movies The Patriot or Braveheart as it has to a traditional Western like The Magnificient Seven, For Greater Glory introduces the watching world to the Cristeros War--an event that has been largely wiped out from the history books, but not the hearts of the Mexican people.

For Greater Glory opens with a mandate being presented by President Calles, for a breaking off from all foreign relationships and a crackdown upon the Roman Catholic Churches in Mexico. The people instantly revolt, and the story starts as we watch from various viewpoints how the people of Mexico decide to defy the government. But, this government is ruled not by a willing president, but by a stubborn tyrant, and when the people say "No!", the government responds with sentences of death.

From here, we watch the journeys of many people, each with their own convictions, but all with the same purpose. Based on real life people, we see the peace-seeking press led by Miguel Anicieta fighting the government with words; we see the ranchero Victorino taking matters into his own hands with a gun in one hand and a cigar in the other; we see the priest-gunslinger, striving to fend off the government in order to have freedom; we see the atheistic General uniting the people against a government in the ultimate plight for liberty; and we see the young boy, Jose, inspired by the death of his Padre to fight for Christ--which he is told is the "greater glory".

In the end, then, this story is about many things, but it is mainly about the many sacrifices all these people gave in a hope for the greater glory. "Viva la Cristo Rey"; "Long live Christ the King and Our Lady of Guadeloupe."

The Plot

Overall, I thought the plot was very well constructed. We have here what really is a collage of stories, but each person's contribution is seen evident as all these people's lives weave in and out with each others'. You have the soldier, the strategist, the priest, the martyr, and the movie does justice to each person's role. In the end, however, while there are many important characters, the story primarily focuses in on the general and the boy.

The story flowed along well, and not too much of the movie's 2hr 23min is wasted. Still, there a few slow parts and what might be considered holes in the logical progression of the time frame. There are also a few battle instances that might appear rushed through or awkwardly paced. Those are easily overlooked, however, and can be explained away if one wants to get really particular with the movie's structure.

Pacing: 4

Storyline: 5

Rating: 4.5/5

The Characters

In my honest opinion, the characters were what truly made this movie. Portrayed by a stellar cast, each character was brought to life and you cared when you saw their struggles. Even the ones who had less than ten minutes of screen time had your heart screaming when you saw their sacrifices.

A few did fall flat, however. Not because they seemed fake, but merely because it would have been nice to see more of them in some of the scenes--particularly the "breather" scenes. That said, this still doesn't take away from the tears that fall for them. I don't want to say too much without giving anything anyway, so I'll simply say this: don't expect to watch this movie with a dry eye. By the end of the movie, there can be found a new sort of respect for each of these people, a sort of bittersweet satisfaction.

Characters: 5

Acting: 5

Emotion: 5

(- Casting: Andy Garcia, Oscar Isaac, Catalino Sandino Moreno, Santiago Cabrera, Eva Longoria, Peter O'Toole, . . .)

Rating: 5.0/5

The Action

While good, the battle scenes weren't exactly stellar (except for, perhaps, one scene that comes to mind). Some might also think that there aren't enough of them. They were well placed, however, and handled fairly well. While they are deserving of an R-rating (mostly because of the implied viciousness, not the actual details), the effect is more of an emotional shock rather than a visual, gory one. All in all, the violence was handled well and the action, while not as good as it could have been, was satisfactory.

Rating: 3.5/5

The History

Considering that the Cristeros War is such an unknown event in history, I'm afraid that not much can be said on this front. I can say, however, that after the feature and during the credits, there is an amazing collection of photographs from the actual period, and there is continuing information on the lives of some of the people showcased in the movie. From what I know of the war, the film handled it very well and I am glad to see that the cast and staff were willing to do a movie on such an unknown story on so many different influential people.

Other inappropriate content

There is smoking (pipe and cigars), mild drinking (no one gets drunk or anything), thematic elements (wouldn't recommend letting young children watch this), mild cursing, little to no sexual content (there might be a reference or two in there; show's man talking to his wife while they're in bed).

Overall Rating: 88/100

On a side note, I'd like to tackle something about the ratings on other websites. Most critics, I've noticed, have given the film a rating as low as 4/10, citing its lack in production, its poor portrayal, and its religious overtones. The majority of viewers, on the other hand, have given the film a similar rating to mine (8.+/10). Reading further, I realized that this was because of what seems like a bias against religion on the critics side (perhaps even more so because the film is such an obviously Catholic film). It seems absurd to me that one would rate a movie poorly for that reason, especially considering that a movie like For Greater Glory can't really help but be so explicitly Christian in its content, considering that this is in fact the root of the Cristeros War.

That said, there really isn't anything remotely preachy in the movie, but that doesn't negate from the amazing effect it has either. At its basis, For Greater Glory is a story about a people's revolt against tyranny, for their liberty and for their God. It's a rally, and a reminder, to each of us. It provokes us to wonder what we would be willing to give up for the greater glory. For many, it was their very lives. 

So then, on a story level, it is beautiful and will definitely be going on my list of favorites. Watch it if you can, and don't forget to bring the box of tissues.

Letter to a Writer, Part the Third

Days have passed since you last put your lips to the coolness of water or touched the warmth of another human being. Your canteen is almost empty and you do not trust any of the wavering images around you. Instead, you continue to walk eastwards, towards the very sun that is burning the sand beneath you. The heat at this time in the day is slightly more bearable, but only slightly, as the sun is low in the sky and the day is almost over. You shuffle through the shifting sand, and slide down a dune. A few feet in front of you is gathered a group of cacti.

Dropping your pack to the ground, you sit down next to it and cut open one of the cacti with your blade. It drips with a purple liquid, meaning it is poisonous to eat. With a sigh, you unscrew the cork off your canteen and take a small sip; the trickle of water teases the back of your throat, but you force yourself to save the rest of the water. You shake the canteen from side to side, and know you only have two days worth at the most.

The wind blows about you; you pull your wide-brimmed hat lower and pull the collar of your shirt up to your nose. It sounds as if the wind is calling you, perhaps mocking you, and if you had the energy or the will to do it, you might scowl at it in reply. With one last gust, the howls quiet and the sand in front of you is flattened. At first you think it is a mirage, but then you see words appearing in front of you, as if some invisible person is dragging his finger through the sand. . .

---

Hello unfortunate traveler...

It welcomes you to its domain, a place many a weary soul has come to, and many a weary heart has fallen. It welcomes you with open arms and a hunger for your company. It has not seen visitors in some time and, by now, most of its guests are much thinner, and not so full of... life as you are. So welcome, unfortunate traveler; it bids you welcome, indeed.

---

You lean forward, wondering who or what the “it” in the letter is. As if a hand is passing over the sand, the words are brushed away and new words begin to form as whatever the creature is begins writing again to form new sentences. The winds around you begin to increase in volume, as if this invisible thing is trying to speak to you in some strange, airy tongue.

---

You were brave, if not foolish, to challenge the Illusionist and run from the Seductive One. All you have done so far has been in vain, however, for it has only grown hungrier, and more desperate, for the taste of a weary soul. How... unfortunate. If only for you, but not for it; oh, it does get weary of speaking to such a ready traveler, but the traveler does yet seem willing.

What is it, you ask? It has known many things in its life and been known by many names; hmm, yes it has. It has been called a dry spell, which is a rather amusing but horrendous understand of its nature. It has been called weariness, a burn out; the simple may even confuse it for what they call a “writer’s block.” But they all are wrong, for it has no name. It cannot be named. It is the very spirit of devoid, desperation, destruction; a living death. It is despair.

---

As it wipes away its writing to start another series of sentences, you feel a shiver crawl up your spine. The sun has since passed from view and the winds grow ever colder. Whether you shiver from the temperature or the force writing the haunting words in front of you, you know not, but you reach for your steel and grip it with a weak yet determined hold.

---

It senses that you are weary, traveler; it senses that you are weak. Do not your bones ache when you stretch your legs, and do not your lips ache for the kiss of water? Do not the winds reach for you with their cold fingers and the sand shift beneath you with no promise of holding you up? Tell it this is not true. Rest yourself, weary traveler, and find peace in its embrace. . .

It has known and seen many guests that did not heed its word or take its advice, so find rest while you still can or die alone in the unforgiving hell of this desert. Let it give you a soft leaving, a peaceful departure; lend to it your soul and it will ease your pains and suffering. Do not concern yourself with fruitless travel; do not continue to put yourself through such misery for an empty promise. Look to its promises instead and find peace; stop your endless wandering and sleep.

Touch its words in the sand and sleep. . .

---

You can hear its last words whispered into the air around you as the winds quiet and your eyes begin to close. You see before you the words: “touch these words and sleep peacefully.” Rubbing your eyes, you stare at them again and wonder if it truly is worth the pain, the journey. You wonder if there really is something past this desert, or if it is never ending. You wonder if the thirst can ever be quenched, and if the words you have in your heart will ever satisfy you. All it takes to be free of your burden is to touch the words.

You stand up and stare at the words, then tighten you grip around the hilt of your blade and slash your steel through the sand. No, it is not worth it. A flash of lightning splits the sky above you and you hear the winds howling as if in pain and anguish. Lifting your head to the sky, you hear thunder rumble in the clouds. You feel a muted tremor beneath your feet and feel the first few drops wet your cheeks. You continue to stare upwards as the rain increases, peppering you with sheets of rain.

Opening your mouth, you let the water parch your thirst and know that they care a different message for you to follow: “keep walking and never lose hope.”

Letter to a Writer, Part the Second

Weary from the recent battle, you let your blade dip towards the ground and lean against the frame of your open door. A cold yet quiet wind blows across your skin, sending a shiver through your body. Around you the blood of your enemies--Mr. Procrastination and Mr. Pressure--stains the pavement, but they had escaped you back to their dark master. Leaving the door hanging ajar, you stagger back into the house while clutching your arm, which has a long, red cut from the shoulder to your elbow. You grit your teeth at the dull, throbbing pain and clutch it tighter to stifle the blood.

After finding your way to the washroom, you search for a disinfectant and clean your arm, hissing at the sting and cringing at the smell of alcohol. Ripping your sleeve off, you dress your wound in a clean, tight bandage and return to your study. You pick up a bag at the desk, already filled with the things you will need for your journey, and find the sheath to your sword. Once you've tied the covered blade to your side, and have hoisted the bag over your unmarred shoulder, you set out from your house back to the streets to start the run for your life.

Stepping over the asphalt and blood, your shoe brushes against something and you lean down to notice another letter. This one is, or once was, a ghastly white; but it is now painted with the red of blood. Unaddressed, it smells of a rich perfume and the emblem on its face displays a wine glass held by a woman's hand. Turning it over, you find that it is sealed with a rose that has had its thorns shaved off. You stick it in your shirt and decide to bring it with you. . .

Later, as you sit next to a campfire, you consider bringing out the book that you had protected from the enemy, but remember the letter and wonder about its contents. Pulling it out, you put it to your nose and let the lavish aroma fill your senses once more. You pull out the rose to unseal the envelope and realize that the letter within has been sent upon a silk handkerchief. Curious, you spread out the silk and begin to read its curvaceous words. . .

---

My dearest incomparable inamorato,

I fear I must apologize for not being able to visit you. It has been long since we last talked and I miss the soothing words of your voice and your heart. Ever since you found that abhorrent book, your writing has turned from feathered bow to unfeeling sword. Will you not again whisper sweet things in my ear and let me feel the smooth touches of a hand without callous?

Recently, I was informed that the great Illusionist had planned to send you two of our mutual comrades, Procrastination and Pressure. As of now, I am writing to you in earnest that you accept their offer, for they can be most brutal and unaccommodating when they have a mind to do it. I fear, however, that my letter will not reach you in time, so I send you my warmest wishes and hope that you make the right decision.

If you do not, however, and you insist on your stubborn, incorrigible ways, then I hope you do not come to too much harm, for I wonder if you might still be able to be saved from your childish thinking. And so, should your heart and feelings lead you to it, and should you have any inclinations to seek me out once more, I plead with you that you visit me. You may find me down that lane in the Bohemian City that we used to always meet at, but come in the dark of the night and cover your face from sight.

Will you not visit me if only for old times’ sake? To weave those truths in ethereal lies and recapture those fleeting moments of bliss? Do you not remember the sweet taste of the forbidden fruits and the stolen water? I know you remember, even if years have hardened your heart towards me and the cursed light has blinded your desires from me.

For I know that deep down, you still feel the weight of those desires. The book that you hold with you, what has it done but brought you strife and war? Would you not instead cast it aside and reach for the comfort and ease of my words of love, of want, of anything your heart should seek for? Ask for anything in the darkness, and I will help you find it. Heed not the words of the skeptical, for I will let you draw your hand out and help you draw it back if needed.

Come to my apartment, dearest, and allow me to tend to your wounds. Take your mind off the things that distraught you and I shall allow you to find happiness. Forget your sadness, forget the light, and remember again the comforting blanket of words without messages. For why cause your mind to focus when it can instead wander? Why search for meaning when you can accept the enjoyment of mere entertainment? Come to me; I will steal your soul away within the words of endless fantasy.

I will never lie to you, except to ease your heart. I will never twist reality, except to make it sweeter. The writers of old that you have been reading, they say that your fantasies are ways of seeing beyond reality and into man's heart. But I say that fantasies are just that--fantasies, which you can lose yourself in willingly. Man's heart is not evil, it cannot be, for it only seeks what it wants, and we have happiness when we get what we want. 

But I digress, for I have talked on much too long. Hurry to me, dearest, that we may meet again in more than words.

Yours lovingly, with all manner of desires for your return,
Miss Lucia "Pleasure" Felicitous 
written in merriment, birthed with endearment

---

You stare at the silk for some time, mindlessly rubbing it with your thumb to feel its texture, but then you grasp it with a violent hold and tighten your jaw. Balling it up, you toss it into the fire and watch as the flames slowly eat away at its fabric, the flames changing color as they come into contact with the perfume. The perfume's scent itself, which was once sweet, now fills the air with a pungent odor as the fire changes its composition.

The howls of wolves ring out in the distance. Slinging your pack over your shoulder and grabbing your sword, you put them in their places and prepare to set out. You kick dirt over the fire and jog away from the camp, running across the green field lit only by a half moon. Purposefully, you run the opposite direction from the address that Miss Pleasure had left you, but the faint memory of the address still remains etched in your mind.

You steel your gaze to up ahead and recite words from the book you are holding with you; the words of James filling your mind with a slight hope: ". . .lay apart all filthiness and superfluity of naughtiness, and receive with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save your souls. . ."

You hear again the howls of wolves, and you continue to run eastwards where the sea lies and the sun will rise in the morning.