The Bells Toll for 'Boys of St. Vincent'

The chilling winds of New-foundland may howl outside the St. Vincent orphanage, the setting of director John N. Smith's compelling new film "The Boys of St. Vincent," but the territory inside the cloistered stone walls provides no safe haven either. The black-clad priests of St. Vincent slip like sinister, dark shadows through the looming corridors, creating a world of terror for the young boys entrusted to their churchly protection. The orphanage is a realm of the wicked, built not only upon layers of deceitful whispers and abuse of religious power, but also upon the sadistic sexual molestation of these small boys. Smith's film cloaks itself in the robes of fiction, but draws upon real cases of pederasty in the priesthood of Newfoundland and Canada during the 1970's. Without degenerating into lurid sensationalism, the twopart film details the reality of this painful nightmare, as well as the brutal psychological effects both on the innocent souls of the boys and the souls of the guilty priests.

The ability to penetrate various interior psychological experiences without exploiting this creepy material is what makes "The Boys of St. Vincent" such a strong film. Part I deals explicitly with the twisted events that take place within the walls of the orphanage between the staff and the children entrusted to their care. Though the horror of the situation is captured through the terrified eyes of the young boys, the film skillfully enters the interior life of the priests as well. Images of the boys showering and scrubbing their fresh young bodies are seen through the watchfully lascivious eyes of the voyeuristic priests. The camera alludes to the sexual abuse which will soon follow, as well as exploring how the everyday routine life of the orphanage so quickly degenerated into a sick and twisted web of priestly perversion.

Within this world of veiled desire, the movie focuses on the tense relationship between the central character, Father Peter Lavin (Henry Czerny), who runs the orphanage and Kevin (Johnny Morina), a 10-year old boy surrounded by a halo of pure innocence. Lavin is a tyrant of the priesthood--in his black robe, he is a model of pathology and pure evil. Czerny's performance in the role is nothing less than stellar--as his steely eyes glitter, he brings to light both the calculated ruthlessness as well as the moments of ferocious anger in this complex character. Silent and introspective, Kevin is the perfect victim and foil for this brutal priest. The bruises which appear on the young boy's face become a map with disturbing clues to the extent to which his body and soul have been violated by Father Lavin.

Lavin's special fondness for Kevin does not go unrecognized by the frightful eyes of the other boys. When Kevin is called to see Lavin in his office each night, the boys give each other knowing glances. Yet their inability to do anything in the face of this authority is overwhelming. Silence translates into an uneasy acceptance of these secret sadistic practices. Invoking the words of God, the priests regularly threaten the young men with tales of hell and torture. They force the boys to believe that the orphanage is their last refuge in a society that has rejected them. Daily religious instruction inculcates the boys to accept their lot and pray for a heaven--a better life--in the next world, or suffer the consequences of eternal damnation here on earth.

Within the orphanage's word of fanatic discipline and smothered cries, the scenes between Lavin and Kevin stand as the most disturbing and complex moments in the film. When Kevin responds to Lavin's caresses by saying "You are not my mother," Lavin erupts into a volcanic fury. He has literally taken the avenging power of God into his own hands, and transformed it into the sadistic whipping of a terrified young boy. On a powerfully symbolic level, the film uses religious iconography to express the corruption at the core of the Church. The cross in Lavin's robe becomes a steely knife and the carved statues of a silent Christ embody the pain and suffering of the boy's world in St. Vincent.

Eventually an observant janitor realizes the extent of the abuse in the orphanage and, together with one of the older boys, reports these heinous acts to doctors and authorities. The coldness and brutality of the external world is again shown, this time not in the form of the wintry Newfoundland landscape, but in the heartless bureaucracy of the state. In a painful scene, the efforts of one investigator to expose these moral injustices are blocked by the venal relations between the church and state. Part I of the film may end with the transfer of the guilty priests from the orphanage, but no sense of closure is achieved.

This then is the task of the second chapter of "The Boys of St. Vincent." Part II of the film takes place 15 years later and centers upon the relationship of the private histories, memories and experiences of the individuals--both victims and perpetrators--to this past they have left behind. The court has decided to prosecute the priests of St. Vincent now for the sexual abuse of 15 years past, which now becomes reconstructed as a public legal case. In this sense, the second part of the film is narratively continuous with the first part, yet it also clearly deviates from the more nightmarish techniques and style of its predecessor. The locus of events becomes the public courtroom and the legal machinery surrounding it. Within the drama of this setting come scenes of the private homes and families of each of those involved.

The film begins with this radically destabilizing image of the private bourgeois existence within which Lavin has withdrawn. Since the days in the orphanage, Lavin has become an architect, now married with a wife and two young boys. Smith aims to explore the ambiguities of this man, who at one point in his life inflicted such pain on those around him. With the sudden return of his past actions. Lavin still inflicts pain on those around him, but in a radically different way. Now the camera focuses on the confusion, mistrust and terror in the eyes of his wife. She must come to grips with this former life of her husband--one which she is forced to confront every time she turns on the evening news, or looks at their two young sons.

Just as Smith so acutely mapped the emotions of the young orphans in their faces, so too is he able to convey the interior psychological experience of Lavin's wife. The therapy sessions of Lavin--his substitute for the confession he never made during his reign of terror over St. Vincent--also stand as a complex tool in probing the introspective experiences of each character involve, as well as dissecting the soul and source of brutality.

The resurrection of the St. Vincent case deals with the difficulties of facing the past and the personal memories which have since been either healed or deeply repressed. The film enters Kevin's present-day existence, as well as those of the other victims of the orphanage. Their responses to their years in St. Vincent range significantly, from anger and resignation to revenge. The wide span of emotions testifies to the moral ambiguities involved in re-examining the case so many years later. As the film makes clear, there are no clear-cut answers to dealing with this painful territory of the past.

Though "The Boys of St. Vincent" is not an easy movie to watch, it explores issues which have long been covered by a veil of tightlipped silence. Because of the reality embedded in these uncomfortable and perverse themes, the film encountered a long journey of censorship difficulties with Canadian television. After garnering both widespread praise for its honest portrayal of corruption in the Catholic Church, as well as criticism from those who saw the film as an affront to the Church's authority, this powerfully chilling drama-documentary has landed at the Museum of Fine Arts. With recent talk of orphanages capturing the headlines, this brilliant film could not be more timely.