As a genre, science fiction has an advantage over its entertainment rivals. The parameters of its source material are as vast as one's imagination will allow.
Science fiction can explore numerous frontiers: inner and outer space, the Earth's core, the depths of our oceans, alternate universes. And the best sci-fi acknowledges this storytelling advantage by crediting the ultimate source material, the one responsible for its very existence in the first place.
Reverence, indeed, is a lost art. An ancient artifact. But once upon a time, Hollywood wasn't so eager to cast off faith as an unfortunate and inconvenient relic of the past.
Take, for example, the 1966 groundbreaking classic "Fantastic Voyage." Director Richard Fleischer's film explored a new frontier: the human body.
In this twist on space exploration, a submarine crew is miniaturized to microscopic size and inserted into the body of a defecting scientist who survived an assassination attempt. A blood clot in his brain can only be repaired from the inside, and new miniaturization technology is used to shrink a crew so it can go in and repair the damage.
The crew's mission is to guide the submarine through the body's natural defenses--white blood cells, anyone?--reach the brain and repair the damage. All before the temporary effects of the miniaturization wear off.
The film won Oscars for special effects and art direction and perhaps, most importantly for some, introduced a new young actress. She might be familiar to readers of a certain age: Raquel Welch. (Ms. Welch's next movie, released the same year, would propel her to international pin-up girl status. That film was "One Million B.C.")
Reverence, even in teaspoon doses, is sorely missed in today's pop-culture environment.
One particular passage from "Fantastic Voyage" comes to mind. It takes place as the crew enters the scientist's brain and marvels at the light show:
Dr. Duval: Yet all the suns that light the corridors of the universe shine dim before the blazing of a single thought . . .
Grant: . . . proclaiming in incandescent glory the myriad mind of Man.
Dr. Michaels: Very poetic, gentlemen. Let me know when we pass the soul.
Dr. Duval: The soul? The finite mind cannot comprehend infinity, and the soul, which comes from God, is infinite.
Dr. Michaels: Yes, but our time isn't.
This brief passage is by no means overt; it doesn't lecture, preach or proselytize. But it reveres, acknowledging mankind's inability to fully grasp the scope of his creation. And it represents a refreshing escape from today's secular brimstone sermons.
The best sci-fi always includes this reverence. Faith and science aren't at odds, after all, despite what some might have us think.
Besides, Raquel Welch in a tiny sub fleeing white blood cells . . . What's not to like?