CAPED CRUSADER: Meryl Streep's Sister Aloysius makes it her business to bedevil Philip Seymour Hoffman's Father Brendan in 'Doubt.'
By Richard von Busack
Juicy" is the word for Doubt, though it's about as deep as a holy-water font. The film evokes the world of old parochial-school Catholicism of 1964, in the form of a turbulent Bronx that seems as remote as Buffalo. Director and writer John Patrick Shanley goes full gothic: storms cascading through, crows cawing on a fire escape and light bulbs that blow out because of the tension in the room. The high school with its attached convent leaks. The rain blows in. It's a classic old dark house.
The nuns do the teaching and the disciplining. Shanley makes the contrast between them and the real power at the school like something out of Potemkin. The sisters (most of them half-senile or going blind) eat dismal suppers of succotash and grisly meat, while the priest and his superiors guzzle Seagram's and feast on barely roasted beef, as gory as road kill.
Shanley has the confidence to play Doubt for the Sturm und Drang, as the setting for a grand diva part. The diva gets to say things like "It's my job to outshine the fox in cleverness." Meryl Streep's foxy Sister Aloysius is a flawed, sometimes fanatically eccentric detective. She can't quite nail down her case on anything more than circumstantial evidence. She believes that she is holding the line for the old virtues: opposing cough drops ("candy by another name"), ballpoint pens (a terrible invention that destroys penmanship) and the tune "Frosty the Snowman" (it's occult).
Aloysius suspects the priest of taking a too-close interest in Donald (Joseph Foster), the school's only black student. The elder nun is helped in her detective work by Sister James (Amy Adams), an innocent sidekick.
Father Brendan is a popular, modern and friar-plump priest. He is played by Philip Seymour Hoffman with a Peter Lorre–worthy blend of the childlike and the sinister.
The acting is theatrically grand. Streep tears into the material, and Hoffman shivers the timbers with his voice during a parable about gossip. He uses an Irish accent that, at first, seems to be comic. Then it takes an about-face into roaring seriousness. It's the kind of acting you feel in your spine instead of your brain. Later, though, it seemed that Brendan is a part that would have been better in the hands of someone sneakier. James Cromwell comes to mind. Longtime Hoffman watchers wouldn't have trouble suspecting one of his characters of pedophilia. The subject of the story is doubt, and Hoffman doesn't inspire that; he's played the bottled-up pervert so many times that we can't take his friendliness at face value.
This showcase for old-fashioned, wall-rattling thespianship works on our horror of the priestly molestation scandals, and the cover-ups that followed. Naturally Doubt deplores these betrayals. But it also deplores witch-hunting. It's not what you could call controversial.
Viola Davis co-stars as the boy's mother, who is doing her best trying to play off the stacked deck handed to her. In the kind of mystery Doubt is modeled upon, Davis' Mrs. Miller would have played her big scene in the courtroom. The conversational rhythms between Davis and Streep play just like the climax of a courtroom drama, with ever shorter and more staccato sentences bouncing off each other, leading to the climax, the high note and the outburst of weeping. Fine silver tears roll down Davis' face as she tries to remind this arch-Catholic dragon Sister Aloysius of the humanist creed: everyone has his reasons. For this moment, this movie gets a little bigger than what it is: a ripping entertainment for the art-house crowd.
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