About Doubt

After seeing the screen adaptation of "Doubt," I thanked God that my parents had sent me to public school. Where your fellow students were whacking you in the head, not the teachers. Truth be told, my mom and dad did give serious thought to sending me to a Lutheran middle school. But they probably reconsidered when they realized it wasn't free. Yo, why do you think it's called "private school?" But, I digress...

I've written here previously about my experiences growing up as a Protestant in an all-Catholic neighborhood. Unfortunately, a lot of the school memories of my childhood buds I cannot share firsthand. However, I do remember secondhand their tales of terror. Nuns who seemingly delighted in bitchslapping kids into the next Lenten season. One such "enemy" allegedly had a paddle with spikes embedded in it. And, of course, I have discussed before their bizarro and hateful teachings that directly impacted upon me. School workbooks that showed non-Catholic children with a black hole in their chest that would signify their ultimate doom to Hell. When you're eight years old and you hear and see this extended from someone supposedly in authority, it is very, very scary. One friend has told me that, perhaps, this was an isolated incident in a single school. But, my own pastor, raised as a Catholic in the Midwest, remembered the same workbook picture. Does this mean every single Catholic education was like this? Of course not. And she did tell me that teachings have advanced to a less judgmental level. But, still, I still remember it all and it lingers for me. Does it indict every single practicing Catholic? No. Just as Jerry Falwell and Rick Warren don't sink every Protestant religion. And so on and so forth. It's an argument for the ages, which are no way near any completion.

Because, when it comes to organized religion, there are stains across the board on all robes. Billion dollar law suit payouts for Catholic priests who have fondled one too many altar boys. Billion dollar law suit payouts for Protestant pastors who have screwed the mothers of one too many Cub Scouts. And the creator of my family's own chosen religion, Martin Luther, was viciously anti-Semetic. But, perhaps, this points to what God had in mind way back when. Nobody, even the chosen ones with the chosen words, is perfect.

And that's the point of "Doubt." Nobody is perfect. As a matter of fact, you still don't even know what the imperfections are by the end of the movie. The priest may or may not have done something inappropriate with an altar boy. The pain-in-the-ass nun, who is principal of the school, may or may not have proof of said priest's indiscretions. You don't understand the priest's motivations and the nun's. She admits to being married at one time to a husband who may or may not have been killed in the war. You're completely dark to the ultimate outcome. And, as in belief of every religion, the movie is perhaps an ideal metaphor. None of us are ultimately sure about what happens at the end or our end.

This ultra-wise statement is certainly not as profound as "Doubt" would lead you to believe. Indeed, as a movie, "Doubt" probably worked a lot better on stage. Yes, the performances of Meryl Streep, Amy Adams, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman are all spot-on and Oscar nomination-destined. But, it is the small scene of Viola Davis as the altar boy's conflicted working mother that has the best chance for Oscar gold, because she is the one character that does not lapse into occasional lapses of cartoony over-acting. She seems to be the only completely real person in the film, which, at its finality, is nothing more than a two hour exercise in histrionics.

A lot of the fault for the movie's heavy handedness goes to the playwright and screenwriter John Patrick Shanley. He somehow coerced some studio bigwig into letting him direct the film and it is to the movie's detriment. Shanley uses every cheap directing school device to excess. Storm clouds, thunder, wind whipping around a character to show their distress, tilted camera angles to display conflict. It's like you gave your 12 year-old nephew a video camera and sent him to the basement to make a film. It's that amateurish.

The next morning, I was glad I saw "Doubt." Or maybe I wasn't. I went to my own church service to think about it. And, still, there were no answers. And I asked my own pastor. And, still, there were no answers.

As if there could be any answers at all.

Dinner last night: Meatloaf at the Cheesecake Factory.