CAN A MOVIE MAKE A DIFFERENCE?

The Impact of JACK KETCHUM'S THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

By Philip Nutman

Can movies make a difference to our lives?

In 1975 a shark named Bruce traumatized an entire generation, filling them with fear at the thought of swimming in the ocean. Two years later, a small film entitled STAR WARS transfixed people young and old around the world (especially the young) and inspired many of them to become filmmakers, either as writers, directors or special effects artists. But that's not what I'm talking about.

The question I pose is: can a movie make a difference to peoples' lives in a healing sense; can such a movie help them throw off the shackles of shame and guilt, and help heal emotional and physical pain?

The answer is, seemingly, yes.

The film in question I am referring to here is the recently released JACK KETCHUM'S THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, a highly disturbing, very dark coming-of-age drama which deals with child abuse, rape and murder. (caveat emptor: I co-wrote the screenplay based on the Ketchum novel and am one of the film's producers.)

So how can a low budget movie which focuses on abuse—at first verbal, then emotional and physical; which spirals rapidly into torture, rape and mutilation—make such a difference? Catharsis, the foundation stone of drama, especially tragedy, is seemingly the key.

The novel, THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, originally published in 1986, on which the film is based, was inspired by a terrible true crime—perhaps the most heinous incident of child abuse that led to the horrible, horrible death of an innocent teenage girl, a crime orchestrated by an adult but perpetrated by other children, pre-teens and teenagers. The case in question is the Sylvia Likens case, which took place in the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Midwest in the early 1960s (for the sickening details of the crime, check CourtTV.com's crime archives for a comprehensive account of the heartbreaking incident). The film, like the novel, is set in suburban New Jersey in 1958, the era of LEAVE IT TO BEAVER, the coming of Rock 'n' Roll, of Cadillacs and Mom's apple pie. I won't recount the plot here (see Dr. Piers Locke's review elsewhere this issue), but Stephen King—a big fan of the novel—perhaps sums it up best:

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"The first authentically shocking American film I've seen since HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER over 20 years ago. If you are easily disturbed, you should not watch this movie. If, on the other hand, you are prepared for a long look into hell, suburban style, THE GIRL NEXT DOOR will not disappoint. This is the dark-side-of-the-moon version of STAND BY ME."

But how is this dark—for some, highly depressing—movie making a difference?

While I was attending one of the 22 screenings which took place at festivals around the world this past summer, something special happened.

Director Gregory M. Wilson was talking to me outside the Alamo Drafthouse in Austin, Texas the day after our first screening at FantasticFest, when a young man approached us, who thanked us profusely for having the courage to make such a bold and disturbing film. Why? Because it had given him the courage to speak out about the abuse in his own family (what he shared with us, along with his name, shall remain in confidence). Furthermore, said young gentleman stated that he now had the courage to do something and to ensure the cycle of abuse would be broken.

A few days later, after returning to my home in Atlanta, I received two emails from other people who had seen the film and confided the same thing.

That was just the beginning.

Over the last two months or so following other screenings, over a dozen people of varying ages have contacted me, either by phone or email or have spoken to me after appearances at the Directors Chair Film Festival in NYC and at Screamfest in Orlando, Florida, expressing similar sentiments. Although the film has its vociferous detractors, the overwhelming response has been positive, both in certain quarters of the press and particularly from audiences.

It appears a movie I co-wrote with fellow screenwriter Daniel Farrands is promoting a positive change in some people, although that was never our intent: we merely wanted to write a faithful, powerful adaptation of a vivid, memorable novel. Did we ever conceive of this response when we spent six months adapting the book eight years ago? No. All we knew was author Ketchum (real name, Dallas Mayr, as his increasing number of readers know) had granted us the opportunity to adapt his work. It was a challenge, and not an enviable one. Having read the novel three times for various reasons, not the least of which was being asked to contribute an afterword to a limited edition with a laudatory introduction by Mr. King, the last thing I wanted was to return to Ruth Chandler's basement. Once the dust had settled and we sent out the screenplay—fully endorsed by Ketchum/Mayr—and the feedback (mainly positive, but "I couldn't make this movie even if the script is great" was a common comment from name producers) started rolling in, I honestly believed this script would never be filmed. It seemed we had succeeded in our intent, maybe more than we ever imagined.

Yet here we are, eight years later and nearly 18 months after the filming in New York and New Jersey wrapped and we've been acclaimed for writing a great script (but credit where credit's due: the movie wouldn't exist without the vision of Moderncine producers Andrew van den Houten and William M. Miller who went out on a precarious limb to make our script their second feature; nor would the film be some effective without the sensitive direction of Gregory M. Wilson). Cinema's a collaborative art form, and no matter how fine the script is, it's just a blueprint for the film a director guides.

What that young man confided in me and Greg that Sunday afternoon has stayed with me, and probably always will. If I only ever knew this uncompromising film had made a difference in one person's life, I would be happy and humbled; the fact it is clearly touching the lives of many others, be they from abused backgrounds or not  just makes me feel humble, for it's the story, not the teller, that counts.

Philip Nutman

Atlanta, GA, December 4, 2007