Warrendale (dir. Allan King, 1967)

What's Hell really like? I've read Dante, but it's not a subject I care to dwell on. There's a moment in the black and white documentary Warrendale that must at least approximate what it sounds like. It's when Carol, one of the residents of Warrendale (a home for emotionally troubled children somewhere in Canada), wails in grief and rage after the news is broken of the sudden death of Dorothy, the institution's cook, who we've seen in an earlier scene clowning around with the kids. Never has the sound of despair been so disturbingly captured on film. The closest thing to it I've seen and heard is Emilie Ekdahl's wails of grief over her dead husband in Ingmar Bergman's Fanny and Alexander.

Of course, that's fantastical fiction, this is an unfiltered real-life moment captured by a master documentarian who now has a chance to become better known thanks to the recent release by Criterion of The Actuality Dramas of Allan King. If you've never heard of this Canadian filmmaker you're far from alone. I hadn't until two weeks ago when this tribute piqued my interest. King's method was a variation of the "fly on the wall" approach, eschewing narration and on-screen interviews, though fully cognizant of the mediating influence of the camera and its propensity to influence the behavior of its human subjects. Indeed, there are scenes in Warrendale where the camera is pointed out by its subjects and the filmmaker's name invoked.

The details of the cruel traumas that landed these children in this strange institution remain a mystery, as is the exact clinical nature of their dysfunctions. If there's a common thread it's that these are kids that haven't (can't?) grown up. Think teenagers with the emotional maturity of toddlers. The antics of the terrible two's in a teenager are not merely annoying they're downright dangerous. The "attachment therapy" practiced by the professionals of the home consists in liberal use of "holding" -- in which the child's arms and legs are pinned in order to create a safe space for them to vent rage, grief, whatever. The goal seems to be to prime the pump of pent-up emotions, to get it all out. At other times infantile behavior is encouraged. At bedtime the staff conduct rituals more appropriate for babies. In one peculiar scene Terry -- a caregiver of quiet strength and beauty -- gives a bottle to 15-year old Carol while telling the story of Rapunzel in a reassuring whisper.

One can't help but speculate as to the ethics and practical value of this sort of treatment. Yet one comes away admiring the dogged dedication of staff members Terry Adler, Maurice Flood and Walter Gunn. Walter is the most compelling character of Warrendale. It's evident early on that he has a special rapport with the children. He's the one brought in when the others can't make any headway, like when Carol refuses to get out of bed, or when a group of boys go missing. When Walter's around the kids light up. Looking like a more rakish version of Bobby Kennedy he's part pied piper, part surrogate big brother -- especially to potty-mouth angel-faced Tony. In keeping with the non-narrative structure of the film we learn nothing of the personal lives or motivations of Walter and the rest.

Warrendale contains moments of happiness. Like when Walter gathers the boys around the telly for "Hockey Night in Canada" accompanied by cigar-smoking and wagering. I told you this was an unorthodox place. If there weren't moments of joy then watching it would be an impossibly grim exercise. It turns out that Warrendale isn't quite hell and Carol's scream isn't the cry of the damned. Because there's still hope. I wonder. Did the children of Warrendale grow up to be well-adjusted adults with kids of their own? They would be retirement age now. Possibly spending winters in Florida like thousands of other Canadian snowbirds. Hard to believe, but possible.

Allan King concludes his deeply human piece of cinema verite at the graveside of Dorothy. We watch as a young priest with a hacking cold (remember this is real life) performs the last rites. His perfunctory words are scant consolation to the troop of grieving juveniles standing by, but within them are the seeds of hope for a broken world full of Warrendales.