Not that Dogma is a seminary thesis. The first of Smith‘s movies to essay a visual style, the movie has all the gruesome cheek of a cartoon for the under-20s. That’s if you go for angels‘ wings detumescing under attack into bloody stumps, and a poop-monster who rears up to sabotage the pilgrims’ progress. The screenplay is another foul-mouthed rehearsal of Smith‘s near-Dickensian genius for the slacker patter of his generation. Yet though Dogma plays like a live-action comic book for boys, it’s also shot through with wisdom at once juvenile and wizened, coupled with a sweetness of temper that rescues Dogma from the sour cleverness -- the mere cleverness -- of chilly youthgeist exercises like Trainspotting. ”Why are we here?“ asks Bethany when at last she has the Deity‘s attention. And is rewarded for her pains by same with an affectionate bop on the nose. A more Buddhist than Catholic gesture, in truth, but absolutely consistent with Smith’s evident enjoyment (lucky man!) of the idea that God moves in a mysterious way, even -- perhaps especially -- when She looks like a ringleted female rock star with a penchant for turning headstands.
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