In film, historical narratives often receive scrutiny for their adherence to—or lack of—historical accuracy.
But, of course, the study of history is never objectively “right,” but rather a highly fallible art that, ultimately, rests on choice: choosing what methods to follow and choosing how certain events or people are represented.
Because of this, the histories of marginalized groups are frequently politicized, reshaped, and silenced by shifting modes of cinematic discourse, as seen in Roland Joffé’s The Mission (1986).
Joffé’s film centers on a Jesuit mission located above the formidably beautiful Iguaçu Falls in 1750. Although the story progresses with an ostensibly well-intentioned attempt at revealing the strengths and weaknesses of Jesuit missionaries, it ultimately glorifies the relationship between these religious figures and the indigenous community of Iguaçu Falls. In this way, the film sacrifices the bitter realities of imperialism for a heartfelt story of “human connection” between kindly Spanish Jesuits and the Guaraní.
In The Mission, Father Gabriel (Jeremy Irons), a serene priest from Spain, gains the trust of the Guaraní through an enchanting melody performed on his oboe. The yearning strains of Ennio Morricone’s score wash over the haunting visuals of the lush waterfalls. It is an idealistic moment: the benevolent priest traverses both a physical and ideological boundary to befriend a marginalized group.
As D.A. Miller notes in “On the Universality of Brokeback,” a film can easily hypnotize the audience with its “strong sense of craft.” In this moment, it is wholly tempting, as a viewer, to succumb to the rich imagery without fully engaging in its questionable politics.
D.A. Miller further explains, “[C]raft is our Switzerland. In acknowledging the neutrality of this country, at once political sanctuary and psychic sanatorium, we lay claim to our whole, healed humanity—to the universality of ‘any feeling person.’”
Rather than wonder how Father Gabriel would have proceeded if his peaceful tactics had failed, the audience is instead wooed by the romance of the emerald greens of the jungle and the sh sh sh of the water. The cinematography—its mesmerizing craft—depoliticizes the moment. We, like the film’s representation of the Guaraní, are “drawn” to Father Gabriel’s music; the experience is now universal, a “human” moment devoid of the inherent threats of colonialist violence.
In reality, not all priests abided by such a diplomatic approach to establishing a connection with the indigenous peoples of South America. Historically, the Jesuits frequently attempted to Christianize native communities by any means necessary—including force.
In 1559, Manoel de Nóbrega, a Jesuit Friar, wrote to Tomé de Sousa, the Governor-General of Brazil, explaining his wish “to see the heathens subjugated and thrown under the yoke of obedience to the Christians.”
Many Jesuits reacted to indigenous groups in a condescending, paternalistic manner, hoping to mold their supposedly malleable personalities into ones suitable for Christianity. Yet, the film repeatedly fails to grapple with the complicated historical reality of the Jesuits’ relationship with imperialism. Instead, it seduces the audience with a utopian vision of human goodwill and care.
Throughout the film, the Jesuit priests enthusiastically introduce all aspects of Christianity to the Guaraní; they do not simply teach them about Christian learnings—they also invite indigenous figures to join the Jesuit Order and to share feedback. In this sanitized version of missionary work, the Jesuits are primarily positioned as helping the Guaraní, who eagerly embrace these new teachings. It is an easy depiction of amicable give-and-take, one where the aims of the missionaries are never questioned.
However, in truth, no Guaraní were allowed to enter the Jesuit Order. Additionally, the Guaraní did not always wholeheartedly embrace Christianity. Although no mention is made of their specific form of spirituality in The Mission, the Guaraní did follow a type of animistic pantheism, and many resisted Christian proselytization. Although the film makes note of initial Guaraní resistance towards Eurocentric religion, it glosses over the tribe’s personal form of worship—further emphasizing the perspective of the Jesuits.
Moreover, although Father Gabriel criticizes Spain’s forceful actions in South America as methods of repression, he fails to consider his own infringement upon the Guaraní as a similar form of colonialism. Instead, he believes the Jesuits and the Guaraní should maintain a harmonious alliance because of their shared identification with the land—and, if his proselytization succeeds, with God. He believes in a land that recognizes both Europeans and South Americans as inherently worthy of the territory, and seeks a future where their love of Christianity links them together as true “natives” of the land.
However, Father Gabriel’s utopian vision largely ignores the cultural advantages possessed by Spain as the imperialist power. Tellingly, the film itself focuses more on the perspective of a Jesuit priest enamored with the promises of Iguaçu Falls—and far less on the experiences of the indigenous peoples of Argentina and Brazil.
As the story progresses, the native residents of Iguaçu Falls do not receive the privilege of voicing their own thoughts, observations, or questions. Perhaps the most troubling aspect of the film is that the Guaraní do not speak for themselves. When they communicate within their tribe, no subtitles are provided. Instead, the Jesuits translate all Guaraní conversations, which emphasizes a Eurocentric viewpoint that prevents the Guaraní from sharing their own opinions. The audience never knows whether the Jesuits are translating the Guaraní properly, which forces all viewers to regard whatever the Jesuits say as truth. Such a precedent is dangerous because it further depicts Father Gabriel and the other priests as saviors who should always be taken at face value; they are the designated “good” against the “bad” slave traders and colonists.
As a result, we, the viewers, intuitively see ourselves as “Father Gabriel” because he is the one who is able to verbalize his perspective and emotions. He—and, by extension, us—become the “universal.” Critically, D.A. Miller notes, “Because the characters’ viewpoints are manifestly partial, limited to particular social, psychic, or narrative coordinates, our own seeing gets defined in the contrast as ‘universal.’” The viewpoints of the Guaraní have been sidelined, made “manifestly partial,” which inherently makes it difficult for the audience to relate to them. The film allows only Father Gabriel, a European character, to possess a rich inner life; he alone demonstrates a nuanced search into the conflicting emotions of his humanity.
Thus, although the film registers sympathy for the Guaraní, its disinterest in exploring their perspective cripples the supposed honor of its intentions. When discussing Brokeback Mountain, D.A. Miller says of the film’s audience: “Having made the Homosexual a Martian, they may then congratulate themselves for finding in him their fellow man—or rather for trying to, as the effort must never be entirely persuasive.” Within the context of The Mission, the “Martians” are the Guaraní. If we identify with Father Gabriel, then his gradual emotional evolution—one where he grows to love and accept the Guaraní—is ours, as well. In this way, the film pats itself on the back for its supposedly pure intentions: it attempts to function as an ideological ally for the Guaraní. Yet striving to become an ally is useless—and wholly disingenuous—if the community fighting for political and social equality remains voiceless. Ventriloquizing their freedom is not the same as the Guaraní actually acquiring freedom.
Many cultural events, ideas, and people have existed beyond standard historical frameworks. In this way, the idea of historical “truth,” specifically as shown in film, is a misleading concept because it is based on inequitable structures that allow certain people to decide what is “objectively” valid—and sideline all other voices. Although these situations remain highly complex, they also require a nuanced, critical analysis that recognizes fluctuating systems of power and perception. When watching The Mission—and other films that reposition the perspectives of one group onto other characters with greater societal power—we must grapple with these same enquiries: Who is the focal point of the story? Who gets to share their perspective? Where, exactly, does the story end—and why? The questions of privilege and responsibility repeatedly arise in cinematic works based on (or inspired by) events from the past.
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