William Peter Blatty is famous for having written The Exorcist. Regretfully, his popular notoriety tends to end there. At the risk of coming across as hyperbolic and nerdy, I’ll say that it is altogether distressing to me that a work of his called The Ninth Configuration (a.k.a. Twinkle, Twinkle, “Killer” Kane) doesn’t often come up in conversations about 20th century cinema.
It was initially deemed a masterpiece by much of the press and was nominated for several awards (including Best Picture at the Golden Globes in 1981; it won for Best Screenplay), yet not long thereafter was mostly forgotten.
The plot involves a commanding officer named Colonel Kane (Stacy Keach) arriving at a huge castle somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. The castle is being used as an insane asylum for U.S. military veterans whose respective manias are being studied. The government is attempting to rehabilitate them via the intervention and expertise of psychologist Colonel Kane. Kane’s method involves giving them free reign to act out their fantasies and bizarre tendencies as a means of unearthing the source of their illnesses.
It quickly becomes clear that Colonel Kane isn’t who we thought he was. The usually wide chasm between the insane and sane is narrowed early on, absolving the film of any “twist-inclined” sins. Kane is described by one character this way:
“He is Gregory Peck in ‘Spellbound.’ He comes to take over the mental asylum, and he’s nuts himself. I swear it. It’s just like that picture. I took a fork and in the tablecloth in front of him, I made ski tracks and he fainted.”
We are thereby forced to evaluate the soundness of each character’s thinking. Our preconceptions of the characters’ archetypes are stripped away and we’re left with only their words to guide us.
Keach gives one of the most calculatedly understated and measured performances ever. Such careful delivery of intense ruminations on the anatomy of madness and evil serves as a foil to the frenzied interrogations he receives from the inmates of the asylum. His calm presence establishes a sort of equilibrium within the narrative.
The sometimes blaring histrionics of the inmates, paired with Col. Kane’s soft disposition, converge into an enchanting ebb and flow. There are several moments of monologue wherein a slow swell of strings accompanies Keach’s soothing voice to mesmerizing effect.
For my money, though, the star of the movie is Scott Wilson (nominated for a Golden Globe for this role) who plays disgraced astronaut Captain Cutshaw. While Keach meditatively contemplates, the first half of the film sees Scott Wilson’s character up in his face, snide and disrespectful. Nevertheless, his hilarious and witty lines are often poetic and as thoughtful as Keach’s. And that seems to be the point: to give equal intellectual footing to both sides of a timeless debate while seamlessly advancing a predominantly character-driven plot.
Captain Cutshaw: Can you prove there’s a God?
Colonel Kane: There are some arguments from reason.
Captain Cutshaw: Are those the things we use to justify dropping atomic bombs on Japan?
Cutshaw really establishes himself as the standout character when the film progresses into the second half. His clamoring tantrums give way to crestfallen introspection. Throughout the first half of the movie, in an attempt to get to the bottom of Cutshaw’s psychosis, Colonel Kane repeatedly asks him “Why won’t you go to the moon?” while garnering no meaningful response. However, near the end of the movie, after Col. Kane proves his loyalty to Cutshaw once and for all (in probably the most menacing barroom brawl of all time), the broken man finally gives in and tearfully delivers one of the more devastating one-shot moments in modern cinema:
“I tried, sir. See the stars? So cold, so far. And so very lonely. Oh so lonely. All that space, just empty space. And so far from home. I’ve circled round and round this house, orbit after orbit. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like never to stop, and circle alone up there. Forever. And what if I got there—got to the moon—and couldn’t get back? Sure, everyone dies, but I’m afraid to die alone. So far from home. And if there’s no God, then that’s really—really—alone.”
The already solid group of main characters is reinforced by a compelling ensemble of eccentric supporting characters. For instance, Lt. Frankie Reno (Jason Miller, who played Father Karras in The Exorcist) is determined to adapt Hamlet for an all-canine cast. The moments between he and his note-taking assistant provide several laughs, most of them regarding whether a certain breed of dog is compatible with a certain role.
Though I’ve seen references to its “cult status,” I’ve never witnessed evidence of this. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve yet to hear someone prattle on about it the way I’ve heard people gush about, say, Eraserhead or Heathers.
It would certainly make sense, though, as The Ninth Configuration doesn’t follow standard Hollywood conventions, is immune to genre classification (the film’s flawless integration of both comic and tragic elements is something to behold), involves whimsical costume-play, and is extremely quotable. Furthermore, the effectiveness of the film in many ways relies upon striking and evocative imagery and deceptively intricate soundscapes.
My best guess is that the decidedly theistic slant of The Ninth Configuration turns off a lot of cinephiles who prefer their philosophical movies to be served with a generous helping of atheism. It’s unfortunate, because the thought-provoking nature of this movie cannot be simply dismissed as “believer” axe-grinding. It is most definitely independent of that sort of proselytizing, and should instead cultivate discussion on mankind’s role within the framework of a dispassionate cosmos.
“I just think about sickness, cancer in children, earthquakes, war, painful death. Death, just death. If these things are just part of our natural environment why do we think of them as evil? Why do they horrify us so? …unless we were meant for someplace else.”