Can a movie change your political convictions?
Maybe, but first you have to see it, which is why I’m always skeptical of message-films like “Trial by Fire.” Based on the true story of a Texas man executed for murdering his three young daughters by setting fire to his home, it’s a powerful indictment of the American justice system that seems unlikely to attract viewers who aren’t already singing in the anti-capital-punishment choir.
Even though “Trial by Fire” is less than a masterpiece, it still came as a gut punch that forced me to examine my own complicated feelings on the issue. In short, it taught me something, and that was a surprise.
Director Edward Zwick (“Legends of the Fall,” “Blood Diamond”) accomplishes this rare cinematic feat by skillfully manipulating the sympathies of the audience.
British actor Jack O’Connell stars as Cameron Todd Willingham, and from the moment the character emerges gasping from his doorway in a cloud of black smoke, he is easy to despise. Sporting an unruly mullet and demonic tattoos, he’s a white-trash stereotype — an unemployed layabout who spends his nights (and his wife’s money) swilling beer, chasing skirts, and getting into fights. He has a history of domestic violence and a vocabulary that rarely reaches for a fifth letter.
Zwick starts early laying down clues that Todd might be innocent. Investigators suspect arson before they step inside the burnt-out house, and the trial is borderline farcical, with a jailhouse informant and an expert witness who sees an Iron Maiden poster as evidence of cult activity, even sociopathy. But as Todd curses out the judge and is dragged kicking and screaming to death row, it’s tempting to think the world would be better off without him — guilty or not.
And that, of course, goes a long way toward explaining how justice can be so easily miscarried. “Maybe he didn’t commit this crime, but he’s guilty of something.” I’ve heard that sentiment in the movies and in real life, but it turns out the problem isn’t just the cops and the prosecutors and judges. It’s me, too.
A flash-forward of seven years finds Todd a changed man. Working on his Hail Mary appeals, he’s had little to do but read and think, and when a bleeding-heart activist (played by Laura Dern) pays him a visit, she finds him thoughtful, even gentle: “Have you ever read ‘Man’s Search for Meaning’?”
This doesn’t prove his innocence (maybe he’s just become a better liar), but it is a reminder that you can’t judge a person’s potential by the failures of their youth. “Trial by Fire” is based on a 2009 article in the New Yorker, which notes that Willingham’s troubles began when he was abandoned by his mother as a baby. A childhood marked by trauma and poverty may not be an excuse — but it is an explanation.
The legal drama of the film’s second act meticulously lays out everything that can go wrong in our adversarial criminal-justice system, with a particular emphasis on the junk science that often passes for forensic “expertise.”
It all gets a little heavy-handed, in both the polemics and the pathos. Todd has conversations with his dead daughter, who appears to him as a towheaded cherub. It’s a shorthand way of definitively signaling his innocence, but it’s an overused technique that pulls a little too hard on the heartstrings.
I have other quibbles, too, but there’s no denying the strength and range of O’Connell’s performance, nor the devastating impact of watching Todd’s final convulsions in the execution chamber. He’s been demonized. He’ll soon be forgotten. But no matter what he did or didn’t do, he is still a human being.
In my head, I heard a plaintive couplet sung by Conor Oberst of the indie band Bright Eyes:
“Into the face of every criminal strapped firmly to a chair / We must stare, we must stare, we must stare.”
Trial by Fire
Did Texas execute an innocent man?
By David Grann, The New Yorker, August 31, 2009
The fire moved quickly through the house, a one-story wood-frame structure in a working-class neighborhood of Corsicana, in northeast Texas. Flames spread along the walls, bursting through doorways, blistering paint and tiles and furniture. Smoke pressed against the ceiling, then banked downward, seeping into each room and through crevices in the windows, staining the morning sky.
Buffie Barbee, who was eleven years old and lived two houses down, was playing in her back yard when she smelled the smoke. She ran inside and told her mother, Diane, and they hurried up the street; that’s when they saw the smoldering house and Cameron Todd Willingham standing on the front porch, wearing only a pair of jeans, his chest blackened with soot, his hair and eyelids singed. He was screaming, “My babies are burning up!” His children—Karmon and Kameron, who were one-year-old twin girls, and two-year-old Amber—were trapped inside.
Willingham told the Barbees to call the Fire Department, and while Diane raced down the street to get help he found a stick and broke the children’s bedroom window. Fire lashed through the hole. He broke another window; flames burst through it, too, and he retreated into the yard, kneeling in front of the house. A neighbor later told police that Willingham intermittently cried, “My babies!” then fell silent, as if he had “blocked the fire out of his mind.”
Diane Barbee, returning to the scene, could feel intense heat radiating off the house. Moments later, the five windows of the children’s room exploded and flames “blew out,” as Barbee put it. Within minutes, the first firemen had arrived, and Willingham approached them, shouting that his children were in their bedroom, where the flames were thickest. A fireman sent word over his radio for rescue teams to “step on it.”
More men showed up, uncoiling hoses and aiming water at the blaze. One fireman, who had an air tank strapped to his back and a mask covering his face, slipped through a window but was hit by water from a hose and had to retreat. He then charged through the front door, into a swirl of smoke and fire. Heading down the main corridor, he reached the kitchen, where he saw a refrigerator blocking the back door.
Todd Willingham, looking on, appeared to grow more hysterical, and a police chaplain named George Monaghan led him to the back of a fire truck and tried to calm him down. Willingham explained that his wife, Stacy, had gone out earlier that morning, and that he had been jolted from sleep by Amber screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!”
“My little girl was trying to wake me up and tell me about the fire,” he said, adding, “I couldn’t get my babies out.”
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Source: AZ Central, Kerry Lengel, May 13, 2019
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"One is absolutely sickened, not by the crimes that the wicked have committed,
but by the punishments that the good have inflicted." -- Oscar Wilde
