No matter how you feel about the death penalty, "Dead Man Walking" is a movie that will shake you to the core, thanks to Tim Robbins’ skilled direction and two powerhouse performances by Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon. In fact, the acting is so intense that it’s easy to overlook some of the film’s flaws.

Robbins’ intent was to make a persuasive movie—to do for the justice system what he did for politics in "Bob Roberts." But what was the writer-director trying to sell us in this 1995 release about the death penalty? Certainly, death-by-lethal-injection is presented with grim accuracy and will make most viewers squirm as they watch the convicted rapist-murderer meet his chemical demise. By that point, Robbins is hoping we feel some amount of sympathy for the death row killer. Yet, it’s hard to pity a man whose crime (shooting two teenage lovers in the back of the head after raping the girl) is shown in equally gut-wrenching black-and-white flashbacks. Robbins can’t have it both ways—either we feel sorry for the inmate or we hate the guy. By the end of the film, his argument for banning the death penalty has been watered down.

When I watch "Dead Man Walking," I prefer to set politics aside and see it for what it really is: the salvation of one man’s soul. I also watch it for two of the greatest film performances of the 1990s and (I’m going out on a limb here) possibly of all time. I was never a big fan of Susan Sarandon or Sean Penn, but after seeing "Dead Man Walking" for the first time five years ago, I was a devout convert. Forget Bette Davis, forget Marlon Brando. These are the most deeply-felt, most honestly-acted performances ever put on film.

Based on a true story, "Dead Man Walking" is about a nun named Sister Helen Prejean (Sarandon) who gets a letter from death row inmate Matthew Poncelet (Penn), asking her to come visit him in his last days before execution. Sister Helen, a friend of the poor and downtrodden, sees nothing wrong with the request—why not comfort a condemned man on his way to the Maker? When she arrives at Angola, the prison chaplain asks her, "Do you know what you’re getting into, Sister?" It’s obvious from the stunned look on Helen’s face that she doesn’t.

Enter Matthew Poncelet. With his heavy-lidded eyes, pompadour and satanic goatee, Poncelet is someone to hate on first sight. Then he opens his mouth, spewing racist venom and self-pity for the crime he believes he didn’t commit. He’s a callous, strutting character but Sister Helen looks deeper and sees that he has emotional wounds barely covered by his veneer of sneers. Swallowing her fear (even though Plexiglas separates them, Poncelet is a threatening figure), she agrees to help the inmate with his last-minute appeals for a pardon.

The movie revolves around the visits Sister Helen makes to the prison, to Matthew’s mother and to the parents of his victims. As she gets more and more involved in the case, the nun finds herself caught in controversy. The victims’ families can’t understand why she’s helping the "scum of the earth" who was one of "God’s mistakes." The blacks in her neighborhood can’t understand why she’s aiding and abetting a self-avowed white supremacist. Even Sister Helen herself can’t understand why she’s so drawn to the man. "A man’s in trouble and for some reason I’m the only one he trusts," she tells her mother. "Well," Mom replies, "even as a kid you were always bringing home strays."

Poncelet is indeed one of God’s lost sheep. In his eyes, we see not only cold-blooded hatred, but also the deep wounds of the past. Penn’s portrait is multi-layered and deeply moving. He hits every note just right as he traces Poncelet’s journey from cynical killer to, ultimately, the broken-down penitent. His eleventh-hour confession to Sarandon is so gripping that nothing, short of Armageddon, could get me to take my eyes off the screen.

(Grouchy aside: Note to the 1995 Oscar voters: PENN WAS ROBBED!)

The rest of the performances are just as bone-deep as Penn’s. Sarandon reaches way inside for a screen presence so real that it seems she was on her own journey of faith while making this movie. I’m sure it helped that her boyfriend, Tim Robbins, was at the helm, shepherding her to a richly-deserved Oscar performance. Robbins coaxes the best from all of the cast—especially Raymond J. Barry, R. Lee Ermey and Celia Watson as the grieving parents.

Robbins also has a deft touch with film symbolism. Notice, for instance, that the first time Sister Helen enters Angola the silver cross she wears sets off the security alarms. Watch also for the way Robbins uses the Plexiglas barrier between Poncelet and Sister Helen—sometimes it’s barely noticeable and other times (when she’s trying to get him to bare his soul) the glare obscures Poncelet’s face. It’s directorial touches like these that show Robbins’ confidence as a filmmaker. It’s just too bad that he had to muddle the story of religious redemption with a wishy-washy political agenda.




Recommended: Yes