Regardless of the reason, documentaries are enjoying unprecedented recognition these days, and Alex Gibney's Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room (2005) is no exception, having been nominated for an Oscar. Based on the journalistic account written by Bethany McLean and Peter Elkind, Gibney's film traces the spectacular rise and disastrous fall of one of Wall Street's darling companies from the 1990's. Specifically, Enron traces the fraudulent activity of its three principal conspirators: Kenneth Lay, head of the ship; Jeffrey Skilling, Lay's right-hand man and arguably the architect of the fraud; and Andrew Fastow, the number cruncher who created the firm's vast array of shadow companies that became infamous when finally exposed to the light of day.

Enron's pre-bankruptcy fame resulted largely from its innovations in energy markets, and the trading floor at its Houston headquarters became the hub of a cutthroat, testosterone-fueled exchange of supply-and-demand, supervised from above by Lay and Skilling (who each had his own staircase to the upper-level offices). Enron was pushing the envelope constantly, finding new commodities to trade; one of its most ambitious (and ultimately disastrous) endeavors was the new broadband technology that was just emerging in the 1990s — if gold, silver, and oil could be traded on the market, then why not IT infrastructure?

Despite its apparent success, Enron proved to be a lot more sizzle than steak. Besides pushing the envelope in terms of energy trading, it also engaged in some "cutting-edge" accounting practices, allowing it to claim revenue that, in real terms, had yet to enter its coffers. Its sneaky financial dealings (conducted with at least some degree of knowledge from external accountants and bankers) along with a culture of nodding acquiescence from stock analysts (who should have been doing their homework instead of taking Skilling's words at face value), allowed the fraud to continue unabated for years — until the whole deck of cards crashed in the fall of 2001.

Gibney does a good job of showing us not only the mechanics of the fraud committed by Lay et al., but also the culture of greed, machismo, and hubris that permeated the company and led to its eventual collapse. My only major disagreement with the film (and it's a big one) lies in its analysis of California's energy crisis and Enron's role therein. Readers may remember how the world's sixth-largest economy suffered sky-high electricity rates and rolling blackouts several years ago, a malady that conventional wisdom blamed on deregulation. In reality, the crisis stemmed from a botched quasi-deregulation on the part of California's state government; unfortunately, Gibney accepts the flawed conventional wisdom at face value and lingers on it ad nauseam, demonizing the Enron traders who took advantage of the crisis in order to make a quick buck. While one certainly can argue that profiting off California residents at their point of desperation was highly unethical, the ultimate blame for the residents' woes did not lie with deregulation or, specifically, Enron. Yet, I digress.

The most interesting aspect of Enron is its implicit discussion of ambition. All of the main players in the scandal, along with the hordes of rambunctious energy traders, were motivated by an intense ambition rooted in greed. While ambition is not intrinsically immoral (it simply could be a "desire to achieve a particular end," as Merriam-Webster notes), the word nevertheless carries a connotation of narcissism — so much so that Merriam-Webster's first definition is "an ardent desire for rank, fame, or power."

Thus, one who is ambitious (and that includes all of us at some point) walks a fine line between merely wanting to "achieve a particular end" and wanting that end to serve us. While Enron represents an extreme case of ambition gone wrong, it clarifies the many variables that propel those who would follow a similar path (even on a smaller scale): a perpetual desire to improve one's financial lot and social status; an unquestioning acquiescence to a macho, take-no-prisoners work culture; and an unrealistic, arrogant belief in one's own ability to succeed (reportedly, when a business school professor asked Skilling whether he was smart, he replied: "I'm f***ing smart!").

It should be noted that such unruly, self-centered ambition is not found only in business but in most lines of work: academia, law, medicine — even film criticism! Such ambition is particularly dangerous because of its subtlety; unlike "obvious" sins like murder or adultery, self-centered ambition can remain hidden deep within the soul — so long as the person harboring it doesn't commit an Enron-style gaff, his/her subconscious search for Mammon can continue unabated.

So what, then, is proper ambition? Ultimately, from a Biblical standpoint, it seems that the only thing worth striving for is serving God. This, of course, is the pat Sunday School answer, but that certainly doesn't make it incorrect. If we are to take seriously Jesus' words regarding God and Money (Lk 16:13) or Paul's and James' words regarding the evils of selfish ambition (Php 2:3 and Jas 3:13-16, respectively), then we must re-examine continually why we do what we do. There are few jobs and careers that are intrinsically wrong, but the attitudes and motivations behind our vocations vary greatly, and we easily can find ourselves teetering towards the side of Mammon. (What makes Lay's case particularly tragic is his religious background: his father was a Baptist minister of humble means.)

In all fairness, we should note that neither Lay nor Skilling have been convicted of the charges levied against them; as of this writing, their case is being heard in a Houston court room. Of course, even if the jury acquits them, their connection with one of the largest bankruptcies in U.S. history shall remain an integral part of their identities. More importantly, whether they have learned anything about the dangerous side of ambition is (and perhaps forever will remain) an open question.