WITNESS (1985)

A police procedural that quickly becomes a fish-out-of-water tale about belonging and community, Witness would be far less effective if Peter Weir hadn’t helmed the project. With his vision guiding the film, its characters’ emotions are best understood in moments of silence. This could come in the form of a child’s sense of wonder being sparked by the sights around them, someone making a shocking discovery as another person notices their expression and recognises its gravity, or deep longing that speaks only to the passions of what remains unsaid, which are always more intense than the alternative. Such moments aren’t just where Witness unlocks the height of its emotional potency, they are also the film’s lifeblood. These characters often silently observe the world around them, soaking in new environments with little expectation of what will arise from them. Although this is not a moral tale designed to make audiences question their own beliefs, we become implicated in this story by also being part of this silent form of communication.

In Witness’ opening scene, the Amish are either shot from far away or where they are mostly obscured, with only their heads rising above the greenery surrounding them. Though initially kept at a distance, not long after this they are depicted walking towards the camera, before walking away from it once more, their backs to the viewer. It’s this brief moment of connection, where they are in plain sight and easy to comprehend, that this movie sets out to convey. It does so through a slowly blossoming love story, though the film’s plot takes some time, and a very different premise, to get there. The Amish are walking towards a wake for the husband of Rachel Lapp (Kelly McGillis) and the father of their son Samuel (Lukas Haas). The scene unfolds slowly and delicately, a sombre affair that matches the event that brings them all together.

A preacher speaks at length in German, with no subtitles provided. Witness often proves that words are not the only form of effective communication, so it’s an interesting by-product of this that it finds an unorthodox way of conveying meaning in speech, this time where viewers have no idea what is being said, but don’t necessarily need to. The solemn nature of what is unfolding is clear as day; whatever message this religious leader is delivering can be easily summed up in the very essence of this scene. It also creates an effective barrier between the viewer and the Amish, keeping this exotic and unknowable group at bay from prying eyes looking to dissect them and their ways. After all, if there’s no effective conduit for the viewer yet in this story, it is only right that they should speak in a way that only includes their people, unencumbered by the existence of outsiders, who this film’s Amish characters term ‘the English’.

This simple, honest snapshot into these characters’ lifestyles gives way to an entirely different world, with loud noises, billowing smoke, eye-catching sights, and constant motion. Weir produces some beautiful shots from this brief introduction to a world we know so well, the most memorable of which centres on a horse and cart carrying Rachel and Samuel amidst a barrage of traffic at an intersection. With all of these different routes in sight, it’s as if the competing interests of the loud, harsh outside world are bearing down on these characters from all angles. This mother and son are temporarily leaving their home to board a train so that they can visit Rachel’s sister. They don’t get very far before Samuel unwittingly winds up as the sole witness to a murder in a train station, where he and his mother had spent all day waiting for a connecting train.

Unlike most films featuring children in important roles, Witness doesn’t ignore or discount Samuel’s perspective. In this case, more so than in most movies of this kind, that would be a stupefying decision, given that he’s initially the one who kickstarts the idea of being a witness to injustice, a core component of this story. But this sensibility goes beyond the boundaries of the plot. Weir does an excellent job very early of making the sights of the countryside and city seem awe-inspiring to a child, especially one from a very insular community. Shots from low and high angles dwarf Samuel in the wonder of what lies around him, whether it’s a large statue in 30th Street Station or a hot air balloon in the distance. Haas provides another rarity in film, turning in a strong child performance. His silent expressions of joy, wonder and nervousness are keenly imitated and easily understood.

Samuel’s involvement in an open murder case, where the two suspects fled the scene before police arrived, causes him to be an integral part of cracking this code. Their plans derailed, Rachel and Samuel find their well-being thrust into the hands of Detective John Book (Harrison Ford). Book is the kind of detective so often found in fiction, whose gruffness makes him seem callous at a cursory glance. Not so well buried beneath this tough exterior and dry sarcasm is a good heart, though that can scarcely be seen as he’s stopping by a bar to grab one of its patrons and hurling him at the police car window, asking Samuel if he was the same man that he saw commit the murder.

This mistaken case of assumed criminality is waved off by Book as a simple mistake, as the man who just got dragged through the street and slammed against a cop car simply laughs and walks away. One can only assume that this is a common occurrence in the area — hence the palpable tension amongst the bar’s customers when Book and his partner Elton Carter (Brent Jennings) enter—so it’s no wonder that this man’s only response is to laugh. What else can one do against such casual injustice doled out remorselessly, an experience he knows could be awaiting him at any moment, in any social venue, around any street corner? Even in indoor locations at the heart of his local community, he can be plucked from obscurity and harshly thrust into the centre of these officers’ suspicions.

A clever parallel is drawn throughout Witness between the police and the Amish. It is articulated by the corrupt Chief of Police Paul Schaeffer (Josef Sommer), who uses the similarities between both groups to explain that there are certain codes that their members must abide by. For as much as this film becomes a loving ode to community and making unexpected connections, it is just as eager to expose the foolish nature of groupthink that eclipses these tight-knit groups. In the context of the Amish, this is seen in the forbidden love between Book and Rachel. The pair’s yearning is so pronounced that it’s almost tangible, yet neither feels it is right that they should act upon their urges.

Though Book is initially the one left to look after her and Samuel’s welfare, convincing his disgruntled sister to offer the mother and son a place to stay for the night, it’s not long after this that Rachel becomes his caretaker, tending to the detective’s wounds in Amish country. The pair’s yearning for one another is obvious very early on, but to commit this transgression could lead to Rachel being shunned by the only people she’s ever known. Her life is impossibly tied up in this community, whereas Book is similarly tethered to the outside world, even if this is far less restrictive given all the room he has there to be whatever kind of person he envisions for himself. While the uniformity of Amish values would never allow for such differentiation in thought and behaviour, the real tragedy here is this tale of two people who have it within themselves to look past their different backgrounds and embrace each other as human beings. But to take that crucial step would undo the fabric of their worlds, since accepting outsiders threatens the Amish way of life.

Similar levels of groupthink are found in the police force, though how Witness’ corrupt police officers use this to their benefit is very different. While both groups sustain their close inner circle through coercion, many of Book and Carter’s corrupt co-workers hold great influence over outsiders. Lieutenant James McFee (Danny Glover), who viewers learn very early on is the killer, has effortlessly used his role as a narcotics officer to cast a shadow over his criminal acts, since there’s no expectation that this elusive murderer  (or any kind of criminal ) could be within Book’s precinct. The entitlement that this produces is most obvious when McFee insists to his accomplice in the murder that they stay at the scene of the crime for a little longer, with the killer standing right beside the body of the man he’d just executed as he observes his appearance in the mirror.

For people like McFee, there is an acceptance that the world is his, where even an act like murder shouldn’t be enough to put a wrinkle in his self-assuredness. Conversely, acceptance of the inverse of this entitlement is written plainly on the expression of the man Book turned into a potential suspect with no probable cause. A man who was likely once a criminal —hence Book’s assumption of guilt —can only laugh in the face of continual victimisation, while a cold-blooded killer is so trusting of the security that his occupation brings that he has no fear of being caught. Worse still, it is the righteous police officers who are punished for being so much as complicit in the realm of justice or upholding the law. Even this assumption of guilt from Book is quickly forgotten by the film as he earns our sympathy.

The Amish, meanwhile, are powerless, their passivity and non-violence aiding their cause, since otherwise they could draw unwanted attention from the law. Their need to live outside the basic rules and functions of the rest of society ensures that they cannot rely on outsiders for help, so they accept mistreatment on the rare occasions that they interact with the English. These police officers, meanwhile, can step outside the bounds of their exclusive club and still find themselves in a position of power over everyday people. While the Amish’s non-violence is a choice that benefits them greatly, the same can be said of police criminality, with Witness proving a cynical look at a precinct where the only prohibited behaviour is doing the right, honest thing.

The film’s intriguing thematic subtext bleeds over well into its plot, which eschews cheap thrills and clichés of the thriller genre for an earnest and unashamedly sentimental tale. The trade-off for this is that the plot grinds to a halt once Book begins recuperating under Rachel’s care. Though the detective is quite gruff, he’s never unapproachable and certainly doesn’t dip into malevolence in his dealings with Rachel and Samuel. His ignorance of the Amish is of the plain, neutral variety, benevolent rather than rooted in malice. While it’s entirely possible that painting Book in a more negative light by the film’s opening would have only made his character arc trite, it’s hard not to feel as though little is being developed when the plot shifts into this unexpected gear, becoming far more slow-paced and meditative. The longer it persists, the more winning power it accrues: the film’s simplicity and sweetness in this regard are too endearing to be summed up only as a flaw in the narrative.

While audiences won’t find rich internal lives in these characters, Weir’s ability to emphasise and amplify the power of silence serves as the vessel for many of this segment’s most powerful moments. Ford and McGillis lend a lived-in feeling to their respective characters without leaning into stereotypes of the snub-nosed detective who’s seen it all, and the closed-off housewife who’s seen nothing of the world, other people, and the evils they are capable of. But both actors do their best work in their sensual push-pull dynamic together. They have natural chemistry, meaning that one can see the edges of both characters’ identities and worldviews gradually fraying, as a seemingly impossible point of overlap between them draws wider with each interaction.

The strained longing of the kind that truly pains the heart is conveyed expertly, especially in one brief moment when Rachel turns to respond to Book after he makes a crucial, revealing statement. The look on her face doesn’t just tell us that she is about to speak, but that this will be a monologue like no other from this character, as all of her pent-up longing and despair has reached its breaking point, threatening to choke her if she does not bear her heart at once. But when she turns, he’s not there, the moment lost before she turns back sadly to resume her tasks.

As rumours begin to circle regarding the pair, Rachel insists to her father-in-law Eli (Jan Rubeš) that she hasn’t done anything, not dissimilarly to how Carter can’t be accused of aiding Book in his partner’s attempts to flee Schaeffer and McFee. In both cases, these characters are complicit in actions viewed as dire enough for their involvement to make them untrustworthy in the eyes of their insular societies. Neither Rachel nor Carter are immoral characters, nor are they committing any wrongdoing. But that does not mean they won’t be judged or punished for their lack of adherence to their group’s values. It is this film’s mix of sweetness between individuals, and cynicism with regards to wider groups in society and the power they wield, that makes Witness a compelling watch.

For as excellent as these lofty aims and tender depictions of connection are, including some light-hearted, endearing scenes where Book becomes a genuine part of the Amish community, Weir’s film is never able to effectively blend these elements with the police procedural format that bookends the film. Whether it’s a plot that comes to a standstill and has to be slowly revived and nursed back to health— similar to Book’s ailments—or a fairly cheesy shootout that feels inevitable, this story frequently stops and starts gaining momentum in many of its most crucial moments.

Witness’ screenplay, though competent, is worthy of praise more so as a vessel for its lead actors and Weir’s inimitable direction to amplify its qualities greatly. The trio make cinematic magic at times, almost in spite of a plot that doesn’t always feel as if it can enable it. As for the movie’s sentimental qualities, sometimes it becomes a bit too sappy for its own good, but then again, it’s also because of the film’s tenderness that it has such a memorable ending. Witness doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable truths about its principal characters’ lives, but it also longs for them to succeed, and doesn’t inhibit their independence by denying them the intelligence to do so. For better or worse, Rachel and Book understand each other, and themselves, better than we ever will. We can only sit in silent, rapt attention to their decisions.

USA | 1985 | 112 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • GERMAN

Cast & Crew

director: Peter Weir.
writer: Earl W. Wallace & William Kelley (story by Earl W. Wallace, William Kelley & Pamela Wallace).
starring: Harrison Ford, Kelly McGillis, Josef Sommer, Lukas Haas, Jan Rubeš, Alexander Godunov, Danny Glover & Brent Jennings.