How The Apostle Gets Religion Patton Dodd Not long ago, my eleven‐year‐old daughter stepped into our living room just as I was starting to watch The Apostle, Robert Duvall's 1997 film about a Pentecostal minister gone bad. She huffed a bit—Dad was about to watch something boring—but stuck around, then stuck around some more, her eyes glued to what was rolling forth from the screen: tent revival preaching, charismatic dancing, holy rolling worship, whooping for Jesus, and, in one moment, a bit of angry fist‐shaking at God. My daughter was fascinated. She was curious. She was, to be sure, a touch disturbed. What is this? Who are these people? What are they doing? Why are they doing that? I hushed her—not just because movie talkers are annoying, but also because the answers to those questions don't come easy. Watching Pentecostal Christians worship is a bit strange if you've never seen them do it before, and The Apostle—as I'm about to argue—plays Pentecostal worship incredibly straight. So it was not surprising when my daughter's questions were still with her the next day as we were in the car running errands. That movie you were watching yesterday? What were those people doing? Is that church? Do they think that's worshipping God? Is that worshipping God? Why do they think that's worshipping God? How can chanting “Jesus” over and over be worshipping God? Especially in the movie's first twenty minutes or so, she had seen a lot of praise jigs, a lot of pulpit stomping and shouting, and for a girl whose main exposure to church has been mild evangelical and mainline Protestant settings, well, the churches of The Apostle might as well have been from a different religion entirely. I assured her that this, too, was Christianity. This was one approach to the faith. It was, in fact, a hugely popular approach. Once upon a time, it was her dad's approach. The first time I saw The Apostle was soon after its release in October 1997. I was in college, and I dragged some friends with me to the theater—the operative word being “dragged,” since my pals were not at all inclined to see a quiet, personal film about an aged Pentecostal preacher. Gattaca was playing that month, as was Boogie Nights, and if we had to have some religion in our weekend movie, The Devil's Advocate was in theaters, too, featuring a hammy Al Pacino and a naked Charlize Theron. But I had been waiting for The Apostle for months. In my freshman year of college, I had dipped deep into the waters of Pentecostalism myself, and while I wanted to be done with my past, the past wasn't done with me. I was, in fact, rather obsessed with what had happened to me—speaking in tongues, dancing in the Holy Spirit, trying to exorcize demons. The trailers for The Apostle had delivered the impression that director and star Robert Duvall were genuinely obsessed with all this, too, and I saw in those trailers a kind of mirror, one I wanted to study. The Apostle is the story of Euliss “Sonny” Dewey, a Pentecostal Christian minister in southeastern Texas who becomes a fugitive from justice after he maims his wife's lover in a moment of drunken rage. Sonny flees town the afternoon of his crime, sinks his car in a pond, re‐baptizes himself in another pond, and emerges with a new spiritual identity and purpose. Christening himself “The Apostle E.F.,” Sonny establishes a makeshift church in Bayou Boutte, Louisiana. Sonny's new town takes to him almost immediately, and the bulk of The Apostle documents his short‐lived—but, we are meant to believe, quite genuine—ministry success among the people of Bayou Boutte during the few months it takes for the police to locate and arrest him. The Apostle is clearly a fictional film, but its overall mise en scene—its visual and auditory aesthetic from beginning to end—is a fiction/nonfiction mashup. The film's central conceit is not the idea of a fugitive minister...