4.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity, sexual candor, drug use and violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.15.14
This one should be required
viewing for all filmmakers, particularly those residing in Hollywood.
 |
| During a conversation more candid than they've had for a long time, Fiona (Kelly Reilly) admits that she'd be shattered if something ever happened to her father (Brendan Gleeson). Sadly, this comes as disturbing news to the priest, who carries the knowledge of his own, likely very impending mortality. |
Not merely because writer/director
John Michael McDonagh has delivered a powerful drama fueled by Brendan
Gleeson’s heartbreaking and impeccably subtle starring performance — about
which, more in a moment — but because McDonagh flawlessly demonstrates the
proper way to breathe complex life into every single supporting character, even
those glimpsed only briefly.
Too many lazy screenwriters give
us one, perhaps two, maybe even three compelling characters; the rest,
invariably, are little more than scenery. Wallpaper with a few lines of
dialogue, but certainly nothing approximating actual people.
McDonagh, in great contrast,
populates his newest film with what seems an entire small town’s worth of men,
women and children who matter. Nor is this merely a function of crafting
compelling personalities; McDonagh and casting director Jina Jay also found
actors able to breathe life into each of these characters.
Every supporting player is
introduced in a vignette that feels like its own mini-movie, with the quiet,
sometimes raw power we’d expect from a live stage drama. Half an hour into this
film, we’re transfixed, thinking Goodness ... this is how it should be done.
And why doesn’t it get done this way more often?
All that said, Calvary is a
deeply melancholy and quite disturbing drama that builds to a shattering
conclusion: not an easy story to experience, and a difficult film to recommend
capriciously.
It’s also a very brave film, with
a narrative — and a revelatory point of view — all but ignored at a time when
strident media overload indicts people and institutions, based on guilt by
association.
Father James (Gleeson) is a
Catholic priest in the tiny hamlet of Easkey, County Sligo, on Ireland’s
craggy, wind-battered West Coast. The rugged pastoral setting, gloriously
illuminated by cinematographer Larry Smith, is both verdant and curiously
lonely, much of the action taking place against the brooding Knocknarea, a
massive, table-shaped hill that dominates this land.
Father James is a good man:
benevolent and patient, yet unwilling to suffer fools at all, let alone gladly.
His sharply perceptive observations are perhaps his most visible flaw; he
resents people who dissemble or otherwise avoid truths — mild or painful — and
he’s not shy about saying as much.
He came to this calling late in
life, following the death of a beloved wife taken by illness. That crisis
claimed a second victim, if only emotionally: his adult daughter Fiona (Kelly
Reilly), whose fragile hold on the day-to-day has been compromised by
ill-advised relationships, and punctuated by thoughts of suicide. Indeed, she
shows up at Easkey with both wrists bandaged, prompting mordant jokes about how
she clearly made the “rookie mistake” of slicing the wrong way.
As it happens, Fiona’s
vulnerability may be the least of Father James’ problems. The film begins
during Confession, as he hears a soul-shattering account from a parishioner who
speaks bitterly and graphically of having been abused, as a young boy, by a
priest. That man is long dead, but the confessor’s frustrated rage hasn’t
abated; he feels that A Statement Must Be Made.
But recent events have been
filled with the arrests of bad priests, and the condemnation of those who
shielded them; the fate of bad apples no longer moves society. Ah, but the
brutal murder of a good priest ... that would make headlines.
And, so, Father James is told
that he’ll be killed Sunday next. He has a week to “put his affairs in order,”
before confronting a destiny not of his making.
Perhaps the most disturbing note:
Father James is pretty sure he recognizes his potential killer, from the man’s
voice. But he refuses to tell anybody, and McDonagh refuses to tell us. We’re
left to guess, as Father James visits, chats with and/or confronts various
Easkey residents during what could be viewed as a normal week of priestly
duties, were these various encounters and rituals not tainted by a shroud of
hovering menace.
And goodness, but this seaside
community is home to a flamboyant mix of cynics, nihilists and hedonists: a
microcosm of the greater 21st century world’s lost, broken, disaffected and
disillusioned. As the local representative of the reviled Catholic Church,
Father James often is greeted with scorn, animosity, sniggering amusement or
downright hostility by neighbors — even so-called friends — who, in the next
breath, reveal a palpable, desperate need for his counsel.
(Mankind never has trouble with
hypocrisy.)
More than anything else, McDonagh’s
narrative reveals our profound hunger for faith, even — perhaps most
particularly — at the worst of times, when we seem betrayed by “established
order” at every turn. Although clearly conceived as a modern Christ figure,
Father James cannot deny his own humanity, and McDonagh cheekily (and quite
cleverly) puts his protagonist through the five classic stages of grief:
denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance.
McDonagh’s entire approach is
darkly humorous, this sly murder-to-come mystery brightened by Father James’
often mordant conversations with Easkey’s equally tart-tongued residents.
And we wonder, is this fellow the
one? Or that guy? And, resigned, we realize that the near-impenetrable Irish
accents make all the men sound alike.
The local law is of little use, as
represented by Gerry Stanton (Gary Lydon), a dodgy cop who, we suspect, has
based his career on shooting first, and asking questions later. Surgeon Frank
Harte (Aidan Gillen, immediately recognized from his role as Littlefinger, on
HBO’s Game of Thrones) is no better: an unapologetic atheist who clearly
believes some lives are more worth saving.
In his own bitter way, Harte is
just as world-weary as Father James; the difference is that the doctor has
succumbed to discouragement.
The town butcher, Jack (Chris
O’Dowd), has become the local joke: the cuckolded husband of an
unapologetically philandering wife (Orla O’Rourke, as Veronica). Her latest
“boyfriend” is car mechanic Simon (Isaach de Bankolé), whose dark skin prompts
reflexive hostility from some in this isolated community.
O’Dowd, generally regarded as a
comic actor, demonstrates more of the persuasive dramatic chops that brought
him a Tony Award nomination, for his recent portrayal of Lenny in the Broadway
revival of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. Despite Jack’s superficial insistence
on self-deprecating humor, his eyes carry a burning degree of shame and
humiliation; O’Dowd makes him a sad and tragic figure.
Mild-mannered Milo (Killian
Scott) struggles with inferiority and invisibility, pining for love — or even
attention — that he fears just isn’t in his destiny. The fabulously wealthy
Michael Fitzgerald (Dylan Moran) is learning that money truly can’t buy
everything; he leads a life of shattered isolation in an enormous mansion,
surrounded by art treasures that mean absolutely nothing to him.
Father James’ responsibilities
include a visit with incarcerated serial killer Freddie Joyce (Domhnall
Gleeson, Brendan Gleeson’s son, and star of the recent rom-com About Time),
who seems incapable of repentance, and refuses to reveal where he buried the
remains of his final victim. Local bar owner Brendan (Pat Shortt), furious
about financial pressures, unfairly blames Father James for “not speaking
about” bank malfeasance.
Nor does Father James gain any
solace “at the office,” so to speak. His junior colleague, Father Timothy
(David Wilmot), is a feckless, tone-deaf twit who has no business being a
priest: a vague, lost soul who stumbled into the entirely wrong profession.
Fortunately, all isn’t doom and
gloom. Father James is admired by ex-pat American novelist Gerard Ryan (the
venerable M. Emmet Walsh), and the two men share an easy, jokey camaraderie.
Father James also enjoys the love of his devoted dog, and he soon finds an
unexpected kindred soul: Teresa (Marie-Josée Croze, remembered from both Tell
No One and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), a French tourist whose husband
is mortally wounded in a car accident. Teresa is the one character who shares
Father James’ gut commitment, no matter what, to the primacy of faith.
Mícheál Óg Lane is memorable as a
cheeky altar boy who clearly looks up to Father James.
There’s also Fiona, of course,
although she regards her father’s new calling as a sort of abandonment: a
second parent lost to her, just as irretrievably as when her mother died. This
accusation isn’t entirely unwarranted, and Reilly is both effervescent and dangerously
delicate during several poignant father/daughter exchanges. Reilly moves, even
breathes, with the stiffness of porcelain; we fear that the slightest emotional
bump will shatter Fiona beyond repair.
Captivating as all these people
(and several others) are, though, Gleeson owns this film. He’s one of very few
actors who could withstand so many of Smith’s tight close-ups, McDonagh showing
a definite fondness for the intensity of nose-to-nose dialogue. Gleeson’s every
scene is powerful, devastating and memorable, starting with our first glimpse,
as Father James reacts with unconcealed anguish over the childhood trauma
endured by the parishioner who, in his next breath, promises to kill him.
Gleeson brings that level of
quiet passion to every scene, his probing eyes and taut expressions sliding
from sympathy to concern or irritation — sometimes even contempt — with no
apparent transition. One probably could gain insight merely watching Father
James shop for groceries. It’s a bravura performance, likely (sadly) to be
ignored, in an indie production gaining scant attention on these shores.
This is a thoughtful, sensitive
and deeply unsettling film, with McDonagh’s guiding hand carefully choreographing
every scene: orchestrating performances, ambient sounds and the subtle — but
deeply moving — notes of Patrick Cassidy’s melancholy orchestral score.
Calvary is a slow study, often
difficult to watch, that builds to a distressing conclusion. At the same time,
it’s a profound statement on the importance of faith, hope and the enduring
power of love. No matter what happens, Father James never, ever loses his faith
in God.
His faith in people, though ...
that might be a different story.
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