The Village

A Meditation for Fall 2004

The grief and fear of those who lose a loved one to an act of willful or wanton violence is a circumstance common to every generation. How those who survive deal with the emotional wounds inflicted is the subject if M. Night Shyamalan’s latest film, “The Village.”

If, indeed, misery loves company, the storied response is less the drama of a single personal and private journey into that dark night, as it is a story of shared grief. The losses held in common with others, those who live in the shadow of untimely death, becomes a bond between broken and mutually fragile souls.

Those in this community of the wounded find strength in the company of others who carry the same burden. Each gives and receives comfort in the resolve to maintain a community around that which unites them, their cherished losses.

Theirs is a common grief, but they also share a common fear, a fear lest irrational death visit them again. This fear has led to isolation from the world and the establishment of “the village.” Theirs is a 19th century era “commune.” Here their culture is puritan, their values, simple. Their corporate and family life is joyous but disciplined.

The children seem to have little knowledge of a world beyond the dark woods which surround their compound. Their parents are guarded in their sharing. They remain protective of personal histories, while committed to the preservation of The Village in which they find security.

A yellow flagged perimeter marks the boundary, beyond which no one ventures. A fear of the dark woods and unseen creatures is sustained, almost as an article of faith. The enemy’s color (red) is not named, but its dreaded face is never far away. A bell on a lookout tower warns of any intruder and its sounding sends families retreating to safety in their cellars.

What breaks the silence and creates suspense is the crisis of credibility, as a younger generation begins to learn the stories of family history, stories of tragedy and loss. Questions emerge about boundaries and traditions which separate them from the outside world. Fear of what may enter their lives from outside leaves the community vulnerable to the evil within the human heart. When that evil erupts, it disturbs the peace and makes real the fear which they had locked away, a fear of violent death.

The community’s hope lies in breaking out, moving though the darkness, and, in particular, in seeking needed medical supplies in “the towns” that lie beyond “the village” and its foreboding boundaries.

The one who volunteers to go is Ivy, a young girl who is blind. Her father, one of the village elders, gives his permission, reasoning with the skeptical council of elders, that her innocence and the unconditional love she demonstrates assures her safety and offers hope.

Here is the crisis of faith, for Ivy and for the whole community. Will a legalistic conformity to their vows of separation from the world prevail or shall the will to risk, to go out in blind faith, to show unconditional love conquer fear?

We thus become participants in a parable for all who trust their traditions, the institutions which protect, but which also isolate and separate. Are we part of communities more trusting of tradition than trusting of ourselves to go out in faith into the unknown? We are challenged to forsake the fears we cherish and to trust love to conquer fear.

We are called out to trust the One who promises that every evil, and even death itself, will never have the final word.

George Gunn writes and goes to the movies from his home in Banner Elk, North Carolina.