As Capturing the Friedmans unfolds, one thing becomes
painfully apparent: The more you know, the less you know, and
the less you want to know.
Documentaries often challenge the accepted notion that movie-going
is all about voyeurism, playing on the cliché that truth
is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the truth transcends
the strange and heads straight to creepy. Capturing the Friedmans
ratchets up this uneasiness several notches, mainly because of
the previous two notions; as first-time director Andrew Jarecki
craftily sculpts his narrative, he sets up the viewer to believe
there is a mystery to be solved, but ultimately reveals his story
to be more about the destruction of that most misunderstood entity:
the American suburban family. By the end, you don't know whether
to sift through the evidence one more time, or take a long shower.
Early on, a distraught David Friedman plops himself down on his
bed in front of a camera and seethes, "If you're not me, you really
shouldn't be watching this"; by the end, you finally understand
his point.
The film is so revealing thanks in part to the incredible
luck blessed upon Jarecki when he sought out Jesse Friedman
-- the youngest son in the family -- who had been working as
one of the most popular party clowns in New York City. After
their meeting, Friedman told Jarecki about hours and hours of
videotape he'd shot of their family, much of which also chronicled
the trials and tribulations they endured when his brother Jesse
and their father, Arnold, were accused of molesting several
elementary schoolchildren during off-campus computer lessons
conducted in the basement of the Friedman home in Great Neck,
N.Y.
What Jarecki lacks in sophisticated filmmaking technique --
too often relying on time-lapse cinematography to insinuate
the passage of time -- he more than makes up for in editing
and narrative precision. Imagine having access to a family's
life on film, and cobbling together a cohesive structure that
balances a crime story with a family's self-destruction. That's
what makes the film's title so perfect; Jarecki's challenge
is to capture the Friedmans with his own camera while complementing
it with the Friedmans' camera. In this regard, Jarecki -- whose
previous claim to fame was as the co-creator of the Internet
service MovieFone -- comes off as a seasoned pro, and the results
are gut-wrenching.
Like so many other families, the Friedmans are at first glance
a typical, successful middle-class family; Arnold is a popular
and honored high school science teacher and his smiling wife,
Elaine, is a housewife raising their three active sons, David,
Seth and Jesse. The male Friedmans -- their four-fifths majority
rule in the household cannot be stressed enough -- are obsessed
with themselves. They seem like an untapped vaudeville show,
constantly performing for themselves and in front of a home-movie
camera in all its 16-millimeter glory -- with its fuzzed colors
and off-kilter rhythms. They josh, they cajole, they clown,
they perform improvised skits, they grab each other for a dance
around the room. And they all love it. All, that is, except
perhaps Elaine, who always looks like she's the honorary member
of the boys' club. It is foreshadowing writ large.
And then in 1987, the walls came down -- or were they crumbling
before, but none of that got caught on film? Arnold finds himself
at the center of an investigation by the U.S. Postal Service
for ordering child pornography through the mail. The local cops
get wind of this, and next thing he knows, Arnold Friedman and
oldest son Jesse find themselves accused of sexual molestation
while teaching computer classes to elementary schoolchildren
at their home.
Then it gets tricky. Evidence recedes just as quickly as it
mounts; for every moment you suspect their innocence, more revelations
suggest their guilt. Less ambiguous is the destruction of the
family under the pressure of the investigation as secrets are
revealed, allegiances affirmed and accusations hurled. What
on film was once an ongoing summer vacation becomes a nightmare.
Despite all the notions of victimization, the ultimate victim
appears to be Elaine, who not only finds herself trapped in
a lie of a marriage but also labeled a scapegoat by her sons.
(Only the middle son, Seth, refused to be interviewed for this
film.)
Capturing the Friedmans provides
layers that rarely are seen in traditional documentaries. That
you are left questioning your own right to discovery just adds
to another mystery entirely: the mystery of why we love to watch.
