 Capturing the Friedmans (2003) Capturing the Friedmans does for child molestation what Hoop Dreams did for basketball. Unsettling, powerful, and deeply disturbing, the film charts the implosion of a dysfunctional Long Island family after the patriarch and one of the sons are accused of heinous sexual abuse. Could Arnold and David Friedman, upstanding father and dutiful son, really have raped dozens of boys who attended their basement computer class over the course of several years? Endless offshoot questions arise. Did Arnold abuse his sons too? His brother? Did the police force alleged victims to manufacture crimes that never happened? If the charges were sham, what would a fake victim gain by continuing to insist against all evidence that they really were raped? If it all did happen, why didn't some abused kid say anything, ever, in the months and years leading up to the arrests? Where were the indignant parents when their sons were supposedly being brutalized and beaten weekly? Why is Jesse, the youngest son and now a popular birthday clown, so shrilly defensive of his father, who even says he gets off on little kids? Clearly, something happened … but … what? Nothing is clear about the facts of the matter, with opinions on all sides clouded by agendas, personal bias, and secrecy. As the movie goes along, your reactions shift with each twist and turn: the bastard did it; no, he was railroaded by self-righteous cops; wait, no, he may have done it; no wait, he was a child molester, but not in the way he was charged; etc. The director skillfully presents all angles until all you know for sure is that the whole situation is fucked. Present-day interviews with the family are juxtaposed with amazing footage from the family's archives (they compulsively videotaped themselves through the whole ordeal), shedding a lot of light on these people as they shattered. It's usually what they're not saying that is the most instructive. Body language is everything as the family members recount what went down. The family footage gives this movie a painfully raw and intimate feel that most documentaries simply can't approach. We get scenes of bizarre comedy in the face of awful tragedy, as three tight-knit boys joke around on the very day one of them will be sent to prison for at least ten years. And scenes of bizarre tragedy in the face of awful comedy, as the sons rally around their father and scream at how unsupportive their stereotypically long-suffering mother is towards her husband, who's an admitted kiddie-porn addict. It's complex and horribly engaging, and the director really knows how to play his hand. Absolutely confident comments from the police are intercut with photos that directly contradict their statements. A defense lawyer says one thing, one of the Friedmans says the opposite, a victim claims this happened, a close friend of the family says it's inconceivable. As ambiguous as the situation is, Jarecki sometimes reveals his agenda a little too obviously – the victim interviewed in a strangely unnerving reclined position, the Friedmans' defenders shown upright and crisply dressed. Or the bombshell third-act revelation about Arnold's brother's private life. You know some kind of filmmaking game is being played, but it's too slippery to tell if it's Taboo! or Jenga! Even without this aspect, there's something so rotten and sinister at the core of the film – the family's story so sad, the questions so lingering—that you'll be hard-pressed to not think about it for days after screening it. Now, our writers (myself included) routinely play pedophilia for high comedy. But this attitude instantly crumbles when you're faced with actual pedophilia. Like the massive throbbing unit of angry Daddy when Mommy gets home, pederasty jokes go all flaccid when the harsh light of reality exposes their veiny, wrinkled testicles. This film that almost makes it impossible to tell another pederasty joke. Almost (as I've so helpfully demonstrated). Because the Friedmans are in many ways a reflection of every American family—though their secrets are far more horrific than most, and the outcome more tragic, the dynamics are painfully recognizable. In many respects, they are less fucked-up than many families—more open, affectionate, verbal, sometimes deliriously happy in each other's presence. The film forces the audience to stare at what is really their own pain, be it related to Daddy's Cock Monster or not. Capturing the Friedmans is certainly not everyone's cup of tea, but this is an important document, brilliantly done. Not the type of thing you normally see in the theater … I sure hope some bozo didn't make the mistake of taking a first date to it; there's no way it would help provide entrée into anyone's pants.
Review by Crimedog & La Fée |