I have often been asked the difference between movie reviews and film criticism; and after much thought, I've decided the answer is about one week. That's my excuse, anyway, for not having written until now about Andrew Jarecki's highly praised debut feature, Capturing the Friedmans. The picture has undergone a metamorphosis since its release: changing from a made-for-TV documentary (produced through HBO) into a kind of celluloid soapbox, from whose top any number of orators can speak. If I've been slow to climb up, it's because I wanted to hear the other speeches.

They have concerned both the subject matter of the film and the nature of its materials--which is telling, since the story is inflammatory in mere paraphrase. It concerns a well-respected high school teacher in Great Neck, Long Island, Arnold Friedman, who in the mid-1980s attracted the notice of postal inspectors for having received man-on-boy pornography. A search of Friedman's house turned up many such items, along with the roster of a computer class he taught privately in his basement, to a student body that was apparently all-boy. By means of persistent questioning of the students--aided at times by hypnosis--the police brought forward dozens of complaints of sexual abuse against Friedman and his youngest son, 18-year-old Jesse, who had helped teach the class.

After bail was posted, Arnold was reduced to shuffling around the kitchen in mute humiliation, while his wife, Elaine, railed at him (now, at last, she knew why she was so neglected), and their three sons railed at her in turn. We needn't strain to imagine the gestures and vocal tones. We see and hear them as if at first hand--because the eldest son, David, had bought a video camera, and the footage he obsessively recorded of his wretched family is now a major part of this film.

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