My DMs are a-ma-zing right now. Lots of us former Wrap staff wondering why the Daily Beast didn't call!
At age 13, he started a gaming profile to play fantasy games. Hearing him interact with other players over the headset made Linda happy. Middle school was hard for him. The family had moved. It was a new school. He was depressed. He was in and out of therapy because he hated it. All he wanted was to feel normal, but the therapy made him feel like he was “not human.”
Linda, played by Ann Dowd in the new film Mass, is sharing what she remembers about her son because Gail, played by Martha Plimpton has asked her to. “Why do I want to know about your son?” Gail says. “Because he killed mine.”
Written and directed by Fran Kranz, Mass is a volcanic, unflinching depiction of four parents navigating the unthinkable. Years before, Linda and Richard’s (Reed Birney) son opened fire on his classmates at his high school, before going to the library and taking his own life. Gail and Jay’s (Jason Isaacs) son was one of the victims.
Neither couple is certain what they’re after by participating in this meeting. Forgiveness? Acceptance? An explanation? Their lives are forever tethered. Maybe conversation can do something for their grief, the pain that has overwhelmed their lives in so many different ways.
“I knew I would do it, because how can you turn something as extraordinary as this down?” Dowd tells The Daily Beast. But she was concerned. “The other thought was: Can I live in this level of grief to the degree that would honor this character? We’re talking about something that is so profoundly painful and that so many parents have gone through. There’s a sense of genuine responsibility to get to the depth of this.”
Kranz was inspired to write Mass, in part, after the 2018 shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, where 17 students and staff members were killed. He was listening to an interview on the radio with one of the victims’ parents and became so overcome with emotion that he had to pull his car over and collect himself.
While researching more about school shootings and their aftermath, he discovered stories about parents of school shooters and parents of victims having meetings like the one he’d end up dramatizing in Mass. With titanic performances from Dowd and Plimpton, the fictionalized version of such a meeting becomes a rich backdrop for exploring what it means to be a mother—especially after such a loss—and how to persevere over grief on a journey toward healing.
Filming took place over two weeks in an Episcopal church just outside of Sun Valley, Idaho. Before it began, Dowd read A Mother’s Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy, the 2016 memoir from Sue Klebold, the mother of Dylan Klebold, who was one of the two shooters in the Columbine High School massacre of 1999. The book finds Klebold recalling what her son was like as a teenager. She wonders if there were signs that she had missed and works through what it’s like for a mother to grieve the loss of a child who had perpetrated such a hideous and violent act.
“Sue Klebold has gone through something unimaginable in its level of tragedy,” Dowd says. “It’s what Linda goes through. How would I put this…? I needed a friend. I needed to touch base internally with a woman who lived it and survived it.”
By contrast, Plimpton found herself avoiding those accounts. “I did not want to do any reading of that sort,” she tells The Daily Beast. “I just did not feel there was any way for me to approximate or conjure the world of Gail that would be helped by a real person’s experience. And I think I feared that it would add a level of detachment or removal that I did not want.”
What does someone like Gail want from a meeting like this, sitting face to face with the woman who raised the killer of her son? It’s almost too complicated to say. There are forces outside of her control that bring her there. Her marriage is falling apart. Her therapist wants her to go, specifically to deliver a statement to Linda’s face that the therapist thinks could free her.
“She’s being eaten alive by anger and recrimination,” Plimpton says. “I think she’s doing battle with herself, because she can’t conceive of saying the words that she’s supposed to say. Not in a million years. And I don’t think she can imagine that Linda will have anything to say that will fix it, that will answer her questions. But she can’t help asking.”
The meeting’s emotions undulate like readings on a Richter scale. There is politeness and pleasantries. Everyone smiles kindly and says thank you for meeting. There is small talk and sheepishness, as apologies are made for what attorneys had said publicly. Gail begins slightly begrudging and dismissive, but warms when she starts sharing stories about her son.
The gruesome details of the massacre are recounted. The idea of blame and culpability are explored. What it means to be a parent—to be a mother—is discussed, passionately. Everyone cries. Everyone yells. Everyone changes. As you watch, you wonder if, maybe, there’s a connection that is forged, parent to parent, over this morbid, involuntary bond they share.
“I think she simply becomes exhausted,” Plimpton says about Gail. “It hits critical mass. One of the things I think that human beings struggle with forgiveness is they think that if you do this or that, then you can forgive. Then you change your thinking, and then you can forget. Of course it’s not that way. Forgiveness is just the beginning, because you have to keep doing it. It’s a behavior. It’s not an action, and you keep going back and forth. It’s a process. It opens the door to a world that’s been unseen. That’s terrifying. That’s what we fear about it.”
Both actresses have understandable difficulty delivering clear answers about what happens in that room. It’s overwhelming. In some respects, the entire point of the meeting and this film is figuring out if clarity is even possible when things are that overwhelming, that seemingly impossible.
“All of us have experienced grief to some degree,” Dowd says. “This is to the exponential. But I remember in periods of my life when deep grief was present—I would say in the death of my father— the world changes. You are in your own world. Tragedy is everywhere you look, of course. But I remembered in my own experience that people are going about their business. They don’t realize the world has changed for you.”
Linda grapples with her own place within this extreme tragedy. It unmoors her. It means reconciling his actions with the person she thought she raised, who she thought she knew. It means coming to terms with the fact that she had to bury her son in secret. In place of proper mourning, there was shame.
For Dowd, the key to understanding that sentiment was when Linda says after, “Does that make sense?” Because, for her, it does. “Our children live in our souls,” she says. “They are part of us.”
Dowd’s oldest son is on the spectrum. “He taught me what listening was. And patience. That is the gift, among many other things, that that beautiful boy has shown me.” Then there’s her daughter. “She taught me what joy looks like, and lack of fear.” Her youngest, who is adopted and “came from a very difficult childhood,” continues to teach her everyday. “He’s taught me about trauma, what it looks and feels like. And that there is a way forward. Those are profound gifts.”
Linda resides in truth. She’s able to see that if her son had never been born, these children would be alive. These families’ lives wouldn’t have been ruined. There would not be so much despair.
“But Linda would not have been better for him not being there in this world, with her,” Dowd says. “I don’t know how that would be possible for a mother. Before I had children, I thought I knew what love was. I was raised in a loving home. I have a very loving husband. A child teaches you something else. It brings something else to you. I don’t even remember my life before my children. It just changes everything.”
Then she raises the big question that echoes through Mass—and one that Plimpton also asks frequently while talking about how these characters feel. She takes a pause and asks: “Does that make any sense?”
Read full article at The Daily Beast
11 October, 2021 - 06:00am
For the first 40 minutes of its runtime, the film Mass refuses to reveal why its four protagonists—two sets of parents—have gathered in a small room in a church basement. They don’t appear to be friends; they’re polite toward one another, but cold. They’re not there to pray or to eat the food that’s been provided. Their conversation is stilted and awkward, descending into silence every few beats.
Finally Gail, played by Martha Plimpton, clarifies their situation. She squeezes the words out, as if desperate to hold them in but incapable of doing so any longer: “Why do I want to know about your son?” she asks. “Because he killed mine.”
Mass, which is now in theaters, is about the lasting trauma spurred by a school shooting that happened years before. Linda (played by Ann Dowd) and Richard (Reed Birney) are the parents of the shooter; Gail and Jay (Jason Isaacs), the parents of a victim. But the film doesn’t dwell on the tragedy that took their sons. It doesn’t indulge in flashbacks, never shows the two boys, and rarely moves outside the sunlit but stifling room. Instead the drama rests in the quartet’s private discussion, an attempt by all parties to move forward, whatever that means.
The writer-director Fran Kranz blocks Mass, his first film, like a stage play. Inspired by true stories about parents of shooters meeting parents of victims, as well as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, in South Africa, Kranz delivers a delicately paced study not of a school shooting and its aftermath, but of the way people communicate grief. The conversation, which plays out in real time, captures the second-to-second emotional evolution of dealing with unfathomable loss: Their hesitancy to touch the subject of their sons’ deaths bubbles into geisers of vulnerability that they then try to quell. They struggle to modulate their expressions of pain and guilt, especially when their personal conclusions about the event haven’t crystallized as much as they thought—and perhaps never will.
In brewing such precise discomfort, Kranz forces the audience to concentrate deeply on what’s being said and, more important, unsaid. The characters, played meticulously by four top-of-the-line actors, all believe they understand why they’re there: Gail and Jay want more clarity, and, as they repeatedly insist, “to heal”; Linda and Richard feel it’s their responsibility to provide answers. But their exchange doesn’t unspool so neatly. Jay’s gun-control activism hides a buried anger. Linda’s obvious yearning for forgiveness—she offers Gail a handmade bouquet as a gift as soon as she enters the room—betrays her fear, while Richard’s matter-of-fact demeanor covers up a guilt he can’t shake.
This isn’t the typical approach for a school-shooting movie, an unfortunate subgenre born of America’s real-life crises. Recent films that use a school shooting as a backdrop, such as Lakewood and Run Hide Fight, focus primarily on the violence and horror. Others, such as Vox Lux and the Oscar-winning animated short film If Anything Happens I Love You, concentrate on the painful aftermath for survivors and relatives. The current creative impulse, it seems, is to lean into either the drama of the shooting or of its impact; anything else would be too messy.
Mass’s unusual approach—to consider how people communicate with one another—results in the rare dramatization of a school shooting’s lasting effects that feels truthful without being exploitative. That choice also helps the film resonate beyond its particular tragedy. The close examination of a single conversation shows the frustratingly familiar rhythms in discussions about other sensitive subjects, for instance. Self-editing phrases—“I’m just saying,” “It’s just,” “What I mean is”—pepper the dialogue; the characters are searching for the right words where there are none. In some scenes, they talk past one another, too eager to share their perspectives first. Midway through the film, Jay delivers a monologue about his memory of visiting the school after the shooting that gains speed like a runaway train. It obviously stings Linda and Richard, and the conversation shuts down. In moments like these, Mass understands how the inability to compassionately discuss grief perpetuates it. Yet both couples manage to continue talking, showing the value of empathy.
During a panel I moderated for The Atlantic Festival, Isaacs and Dowd briefly debated whether their film is about a school shooting at all. To Isaacs, it’s not, but Dowd disagreed. Looking back, I think they’re both right: Mass wouldn’t work without the event that led its foursome into that small church room, but its message—that the simple act of talking about trauma is an often overlooked step toward healing—also transcends its specific tragedy.