jacobfam

This story of one family's quest for justice is one of my own family's all-time favorite films and quite possibly our favorite comedy. Even the zero-budget production values contribute to its appeal because the cheap sets, lighting, etc, help to reveal the utter tackiness of the Kerrigan home which is in stark contrast to the family's buoyancy and richness of spirit.

It is a quirky little movie that also serves a curiously noble purpose. After watching, my family is invariably reminded of the implied contract we hold with one another of total acceptance, unity, and unconditional affection. The Kerrigans, while basically ridiculous, yet manage to embody the kind of tolerance and respect we all want, such that their lexicon has added to the shorthand we use to express it. "Icing sugar." "Now, who would go to a restaurant...." "That's going' straight to the poolroom." "So much serenity!" "They're dreamin'." "Whaddya call this?" "You could sell that." "This I'm not even taking outta the wrapper." "He dug a hole!" "It's the vibe o' the thing."

Yes, the Kerrigans are ridiculous, and not least because they believe justice will be done. But the very fact that it is done directly results from their open, honest, egalitarian approach to life. Darryl befriends the Queen's Counsel completely unhampered by notions of class or self-consciousness; he sees only their commonality based on shared regard for home and family, and decency, and doing the right thing.

The Kerrigans at first come across as naive or just plain ignorant but by story's end we are enchanted by--and not a little envious of--their purity of heart and childlike innocence. THE CASTLE is one of those movies we watch year after year and it never fails to charm us.

This movie puts its audience in the same untenable position as the jury, forcing the viewer to decide for himself what really happened. There is no irrefutable truth or incontrovertible evidence, there is only opinion. We are left with our personal interpretation of the facts of the case (such as they are), the behavior and motives of the people involved, and the sleight of hand of the attorneys, but we are never shown proof that we have interpreted any of it correctly.

The elements of the story beg for interpretation--rape or adultery, crime of passion or premeditated murder, protective husband or vicious wife-beater, aloof inmate or cocky creep, scheming arsonist or truthful stoolie, lost panties or planted evidence, good guy lawyer or calculating cynic....By trial's end we don't have the whole story, we have unanswered questions. We have a case of colossal ambiguity.

Do we also have reasonable doubt? How would we, how could we render a verdict? That question is the essence and purpose of this film.

First of all, I find the handling of George's character very elegant. The first time I saw it I bought it completely--how he was wonderful until illness and despair drove him into psychosis. Upon my second viewing I realized a few things that give his character a different slant.

We see from Ellen's flashback to their meeting and courtship that although he is quite dashing he is also sly, self-serving, manipulative, and somewhat malicious. This is shown by the way he tricks her and takes advantage in the hospital room and then laughs at her. We also see in the beach and airport scenes that he relishes taking her away from his own best friend. Anyone with a real heart--get the symbolism there--would feel a little regret about that.

Later, after he is established as an invalid, his isolation and anxiety become evident as he intersperses rational conversation with sudden flights of mania and paranoia. His delusions seem ridiculous compared to Ellen's obvious devotion and worry, but we do wonder if perhaps he isn't right about the involvement of the doctor (his best friend of old). Maybe the poor doctor is guilty of secretly wishing George into the grave, leaving the way clear to pursue Ellen; or maybe he's too noble to ever think such a thing. Regardless, George believes he does.

There is a lovely scene before he dies where we see precisely what his relationship is to these people and what he has planned for them. He describes for Ellen his childhood toy, the ship in a bottle, and the neighbor boy who touched it when his back was turned and whom he savagely attacks in return. Before his mother can force him to give up the ship in apology he purposely dashes the bottle to the floor, destroying it.

The parallel between the ship and Ellen is obvious--something lovely, fragile, and completely captive. He has contained Ellen within their house without allowing her to form friendships or interests and he expects her to exist solely for him, just as he wanted no one else to touch or look at his ship. Now he believes his friend is secretly planning against him, or maybe he's making that up as a form of justification for what he's about to do. Now that he thinks he's dying, he's furious to be giving up his wife to the other fellow in rather the way he was expected to reward the covetous neighbor boy. Just like the scene in his youth, he acts to damage his rival and ruin the prize. The only difference is that now with maturity he can plot and scheme rather than strike out impulsively. I wonder if he truly believes in their "plot" or if this is his crafty, nasty way of shattering the ship all over again.

The moments with Aunt Clara reinforce the impression that George never was quite normal. She has no trouble believing the lie about George turning against her, thus she immediately retaliates with a remark that indicates a family history overlooking his cruel tendencies. I thought it was very nicely done, and all the more effective because Clara isn't a sympathetic character. We see a resemblance to George in her utter self-absorption.

One wonders how Ellen could be taken in by George, but love is blind. This is evinced by the scenes where she always just misses him at the window. Others notice him, or she detects the swaying drapery, but she never gets the whole picture of him sitting spider-like among webs of curtain lace. She never sees the real George.

The film does a fine job ratcheting the suspense by using mundane scenarios. The almost ridiculous obstacles in her path contrast with just how sinister George's plan is. He must know that an investigation into his death would be inconclusive at best, but a close review of Ellen's activities that day would cast new light on the details in his letter. We see Ellen driven by panic and pent-up stress into behaving less and less rationally, appearing more and more guilty. She certainly seems doomed, and this could only be brought about by the revelation from George. I feel this is further evidence that he has contrived the plot out of malice rather than paranoia or a desire for justice. He knows exactly how her innocent, beleaguered heart will react to the news. In fact, he is counting on it, he has carefully cultivated this moment.

I don't believe for one second that he intends to shoot her. Notice he never points the gun directly at her. I think he means to shoot the woodwork, cementing the impression of self-defense. He wants it to appear she was forcing him to overdose. He knows the drugs he took earlier will add weight to the accusation; he just doesn't expect them to finish him off right then.

The irony of her later shooting the floor herself serves as a tidy little bookend moment.

I love the ironic, abrupt ending that simply pole-axes Ellen and halts her in her steps. It's wonderful how the relentless, pounding pace of her mounting hysteria is like heart palpitations bounding out of control when suddenly it all just...stops. (Rather like George). Another great bookend moment. Delicious.

How apt that a story about sight requires some close scrutiny in order to be understood.

The real impetus of this movie occurs in the details. Some random examples:

*Lucas' name means "light."

*The pattern on his pajamas resembles prison stripes, perhaps symbolizing the entrapment and immobility that he fears from impending blindness.

*The dual nature of the knitting needle--a)descriptions like 'sharp' and 'penetrating' apply to its function as well as to a person's insightful abilities, and b)the veiled sexual reference of the act of stabbing as a displacement for the impotence Lucas feels, both in losing his sight as well as for the basic powerlessness of childhood.

*He sees through a telescope/he calls his knitting needle a telescope...telescopes are supposed to bring the distant object close, but they also fold inward on themselves, a diminution of what they were. They reveal, and then they collapse.

*The color blue, mostly missing from the film's palette, is used mainly for tiny details like picture frames (something which contains our visions...rather like Lucas' eyeglass frames contain his actual vision); a cabinet (also something which contains, even locks up, and can withhold its contents from view as opposed to putting them on display); the baby sister's beautiful blue eyes, praised even as Lucas' eyes are ever more distorted through his lenses; the knitting his mother makes for the baby, surely an unusual color for a female infant--but is it really blue or has Lucas completely lost sight of reality by now? Even his demeanor is "blue" as he becomes increasingly more detached, both from reality and from the people and events around him.

His detachment is partly a result of his confusion. He can hardly see, and what he thinks he sees, he can't trust. Therefore, his responses to people become odd and then almost nonexistent. For the most part he stops reacting to them. He is in the process of disappearing from his own life. The world is becoming invisible, and so, it seems, shall he.

He further detaches from the world around him as people remain blind to his bizarre inner landscape and the worries besetting him. There is a lovely dichotomy in the scene where he is across the street from the wedding crowd. Without his thick lenses, the people appear to be ineffectually stabbing about with canes and dark glasses. When he puts his lenses back on, the people look normal. They can't see when he can't see, but they can when he can. One of his fears is that the world will be as uncomprehending of him as it will be incomprehensible to him, when he is blind.

There is also the fear that other senses aren't to be trusted. Notice the scene where Toby is trying to get in the window: the squeeching of the soapy rag against the glass blends with the dog's eager whines until the noises and suds somehow become the signs of a crazed, foaming beast. The deterioration of Lucas' senses and the destruction of what he loves become one and the same.

No wonder this is a terrified little boy. And if he can be impelled by his dark visions to kill Toby, whom he loves, what might he do to baby Tess who is, at the very least, an object of ambivalence? Interesting that the name Tess means 'harvester' or 'reap.' To reap is to glean (a common synonym for comprehension, as in "what can you glean from this situation?"). It is to collect, to gather--also terms for pulling oneself together. A harvester is productive, someone who expedites growth (crops in the field) into sustenance (grain for the bread), just as the emergence of baby Tess brings about the full flowering of Lucas' fears, feeding them to the point of his fateful act.

Tess is the final catalyst, personifying the loss that Lucas so dreads. He has lost big sister Rose to marriage and eventual motherhood, his parents to their absorption with the baby, his pal Toby is dead, his grip on reality is loosening, and he is losing his vision and with it, his freedom. For all he knows he could even lose his life in the impending eye operation. All this loss solidifies in the diminutive image of Tess. The periphery of his world has narrowed until the only focus is this new little baby who hasn't seen anything yet, and so he takes her. To preserve her? To show her his view of the world? To make her the repository of his last vision? Or for something more sinister? At this point the action is pretty ambiguous. I can't tell what his intentions are, and maybe he can't, either. However, in looking at the clues provided in the names (father Frank, means forthright, let's-be-frank; mother Miriam, biblical namesake protects the boy Moses; sister Rose, roses signify purity, love; brother-in-law Tony, means 'praiseworthy'; Lucas and Tess, lucidity and reaper) I tend to think a positive outcome is intended all along.

It is a nice moment at the end when Lucas tells the nurse, "I like to look," whereas before, looking had become a frightful, confusing exercise. He watches her knitting needles as shadow puppets on the wall, but instead of something horrific they are just...knitting needles. Nothing more. Real is real.

That's how I see it, anyway. Someone else might have a different interpretation. I have to love a movie that lends itself to alternate views.