Doubt

I watched a movie last night. Woo-hoo, right? Well, typically, upon finishing a book or movie—and I can’t say this is the case for just any book or movie, but one that HITS me—I like to write about it. I don’t like the word “review,” but I probably ought to call a spade a ... well, not a SPADE, because that’s simply not enough, and it’s so cliché. (the Greeks, from what I understand, call figs figs, but I think the OED sites the most appropriate for the day:) So I will call a spade a “bloody shovel,” because this is likely to be significantly more than a movie review.

In the past (and still), upon a great book/movie experience, I’ve emailed a fellow literary conspirator with my thoughts, or simply given expansion to a recommendation (I rarely “review” that which I don’t care for, mostly, because I rarely finish that which I don’t care for, and I’m not going to recommend a movie that I don’t— sorry, I’ll move on). When the show or book’s really good—or impacting, at least—I frequently wish I were back with my old kids at the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy and that we might watch, appreciate, tear to pieces, and get it. Well, I don’t have SASA. Heck, I don’t have a school at all. OR students, for that matter. I do, however, have fellow literary conspirators, and that’s whom this is seeking.

Back to the lack of a school:

Every review or critique—mine, anyway—needs a context, else there’s no understanding for the nature of the impression, or, in this particular case, the CRATER. So, I’m couching this movie review in unemployment—and not because that’s the title of my freaking BLOG and that I’m particularly interested in maintaining a theme, but because my COUCH—the very one from which I watched the movie (or at least it’s pillows which supported my view from the floor, because my back was hurting) —IS unemployment. Or my glasses are, at least.

So I watched John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt. I loved it. Period. (DISCLAIMER: if you have any thoughts that my review might be anything more than totally subjective and if you might be offended thereby, then, please, stop reading.) So, yeah, it was great. Here’s what I think (excuse the general generic-ness of the beginnings):

The performances are wonderful. I’m a big fan of the accents, for one thing. And Philip Seymour Hoffman—man! —really dug into his Father Flynn sermons. When it comes to it, and despite how great the interactions between him and his co-stars might be, these sermons were the highlight. I particularly enjoyed how each (four, I think, altogether, and two significantly better than the others) seemed to usher in the next act, which, of course, makes sense, as it was adapted from Shanley’s own stage play. (I’d love to see that.) More on the sermons later.

I appreciated Shanley’s selection for historical context. It would have been easy, and a copout, to put it all up in a more modern time, what with the Catholic church’s bad press with priests and scandals and stuff. What’s great about putting it so much earlier is he firmly points out that the movie’s not about the potential scandal (and this reinforced by the enacted, non-lexical iteration/rendering of the title in the abrupt and perfectly-placed End), but the swirls of leaves and feathers that surround it.

That being the case, I’m brought up to probably my biggest point of the movie (and thereby explain my general inability to write of the movie concisely and fluidly). But first, a word on art and poetry (please refrain from groaning):

For me—and I’ve tried to instill this in my students—art is, and should be, personal. Who cares how great a work or event or person is if it/he/she doesn’t mean something to you (case in indirect point: while I was amazed by Yann Martel’s most recent book, Beatrice and Virgil, I couldn’t understand why he—so not-a-Jew—should write such an evidently personal account of the Holocaust, and in such a way as to make it appear that the book was no more than a writing exercise designed to determine his ability at conveying a significant piece of history—it could have even been randomly selected, but I guess he was looking for audience—as artistic metaphor!)? It’s difficult for me to say exactly why any of my very favorite works are favorite. I can point out what I think makes them great or impressive, but the personal connection is the clincher. The emotional connection is what elevates the work to—another cliché—more than the sum of its constituent parts. That’s what’s happened with Doubt. Cinematography. Location. Season. Cast. Delivery. Pacing. Metaphor. Motif. Blah. Blah. Blah. Just pieces. Take the blinding old nun, for example, and her relationship with Sister Beauvier (Streep) Maybe it was just a tool, but were she not there, Beauvier would look like the dragon Hoffman’s Flynn labels her as from the beginning. But she’s not! She’s human! Though we very nearly in fact and indeed see her in no more human capacity than a great fire-breathing lizard. And her relationship with Amy Adam’s character, Sister James. This woman—Streep’s—is a good person, trying to do what’s right, but she screws up. She points the finger (echoing, conversely, the great God-finger from the gossip sermon) at Flynn.

So back to the sermons. The two strongest are the first, regarding the general issue of doubt, and later—the second? —about gossip (this one because it was just amazingly-well presented by Hoffman—yes, AMAZING). Obviously, that first sermon sets up the premise for the whole movie, and how it permeates so much of everything—like those scattered feathers of gossip do—throughout every little nook and cranny of the plot, its characters, and into the very fabric of the whole construct. Really, it’s a very small movie, technically speaking. A Hulme or Pound compared to the epoch operatics of a Tolkein or Steinbeck. But, and just like “Town Sky-Line” or “The Garrett,” it’s SO * MUCH * MORE.

So what?

(This isn’t changing the subject. Really.)

While I served my LDS mission in Italy, many of the other missionaries and I collected quotations and anecdotes from and about big members of the church, generally and particularly regarding Joseph Smith. My favorite of these, likely apocryphal, and not about Smith, regarded a current member of the Church’s Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Dallin H Oaks:

Oaks had just been called to the Quorum of the Twelve and, as such, delivered his first General Conference talk. He stepped into an elevator soon thereafter and was joined by President Kimball, who congratulated him on Oaks’ address. Oaks was gratified and smiled. “Thank you very much,” he said. President Kimball then said, rather abruptly, “Therefore what?” “Pardon me?” Oaks asked. “Therefore what?” Kimball repeated. “It was a wonderful talk, but therefore what?”

The point, which I took when I heard the story and hold still is this: it doesn’t matter how eloquent or scholarly or humorous or whatever a presentation or work may be if it doesn’t ask anything of the audience (sort of takes down to nothing—if we apply this to the act of creating art—making art for the sake of making art and doing it for self (though I’ve got opinions there, too—another time)). So, the movie, Doubt. Therefore what? Well, here it is. Doubt. That’s the answer—the therefore-what: DOUBT. Duh—which is nearly as universally applicable as is my blog title, only less generic, as it turns out.

So why “doubt,” if this is such a personal work for me? And that first sermon of Father Flynn’s nails the big question. Is IT—doubt—a good thing, an endowment from our Maker—forcing us into care and caution? Is it the divining force toward humility, wariness, gratitude? The problem with this is that, from my understanding, caution is the opposite of impetuousness, and shouldn’t we, as testifying Christians (I speak of me, here), heedlessly/impetuously do whatever is right—black and white—and right now?

Sheesh. What does that even mean?

If I were impetuously GOOD, would I have stayed with Bud or left anyway? ...I have my doubts.... (ha!) (And, I swear, I will only permit myself two more entries that even mention the man; I’ve had other jobs, after all.)

Let’s look at it—Stay versus Go Anyway. And it really only amounts to a bunch of questions—all ultimately pointless, because I’ve already resigned! 

• WAS HE A BAD DUDE?
• WAS HE A GOOD DUDE?
• DOES HIS GOOD OR BAD DUDE-NESS EVEN MATTER (IT WAS A GOOD ENDEAVOR, REGARDLESS)?
• SHOULD I HAVE FOLLOWED MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S ADVICE ALL ALONG AND BEEN SHOT OF IT TWO YEARS AGO?  

Further: doubt regarding—

• how I discipline my children,
• working for Bud,
• joining Facebook,
• leaving public education,
• leaving Michigan?
• Is Father Flynn’s “wind” blowing at my back as well? And if so, is it destiny or suggestion? 

So I finished the movie. I already mentioned this, but here it is again: The ENDING is perfect in timing and significance—perfect. Perhaps less so because of itself and its location on the spectrum of PERFECTION, than for the subjectivity of my viewing, and it hit me, less perhaps because it was a great movie than because it was so stinking applicable. Unemployment lends doubt, man!

*

So this was not an unbiased or objective critique. I apologize. I warned you. But watch the movie. We’ve all got our doubts.