Boy, when this thing started, I was going to give glendjean such
a smack. The set-up was uncompromisingly stagey, a bishop is
brought to a prison to hear the confession of a long-term inmate.
The confession, however, is merely a ruse to confront the bishop
with a sin of his own past, a sin perpetrated on the inmate, and
depicted by a group of homosexual inmates.
The film alternates between the play in the prison and
remembrances of the past, the story of three young boys (the
bishop, the inmate and the lover of the inmate) in a Canadian
fishing town. It works, for several reasons. First, the
performances are uniformly touching. The female parts - played by
the men of the prison, even in flashback - are especially strong.
The torment of the young lovers is caringly communicated, and
their confusion and pain at their struggles with their identities
and their surroundings is palpable. These are roles that, if
played a hair wrong, could produce uncontrollable laughter. But
the players keep everything just beneath the surface and in check.
When asked to be expressive - as when the boy lovers verbalize
their love - they deliver without a hint of the ever-dangerous
excess ardor.
Second, the story is strong with a Shakespearian pathos. It is
essentially a deep, dark secret film, and paced as it was, you
are drawn in.
Third, it is a pretty picture, both in and out of the prison. The
prisoners utilize their surroundings for great effect, and when
you wonder at the ingenuity of their stage, the director moves to
the outdoors with sweep.
Finally, the themes are modern without being overbearing. The
crush of religion upon homosexual love is developed, as are the
frail attempts by the protagonists to combat that weight. One boy
is clouded by religion, the other by a repressive father (and
resultant pyromania), the third by an absent father and a mother
who is mentally disturbed, though incisive.
Most impressive, however, is the ambition of the film. It is no
mean feat to try and film any stage play. They are invariably
clunky and forced, whether Agnes of God or Dial M for Murder.
Lilies thrives with the restrictions, with clever editing from
inside the jail to the exterior of the past, and the initially
discomforting staginess of the arrangement actually enhances
rather than stalls the picture.
One minor quibble is the soundtrack, a consistent moan of choir
voices. I kept expecting to see Monty Python's monks smack their
own heads with wooden clapboards. But that is a little dig.
