Juvenile Court (1973, Frederick Wiseman) (Patreon)

71/100

Ah, that's the stuff. Hadn't seen early, vintage Wiseman since catching a NYC retro back in 2000; this was one of the key titles that I missed, and it confirms that his forte is capturing not so much the inner workings of an institution (see: most of his recent films) as the direct contact points between well-meaning bureaucrats and the general public. He also either lucked into more dynamic situations than he does nowadays or—as I strongly suspect—used to be a bit more ruthless in the editing room. In any event, there's not a single young person in Juvenile Court about whom I didn't find myself wondering Where Are They Now? That can be maddening, sometimes, since Wiseman is Wiseman and doesn't remotely care about pursuing individual cases to their conclusion; I'm dying to know, for example, what happened with the extremely self-possessed boy accused of molesting a little girl, as the girl's mother, by her own account, was obsessively fearful of that possibility before she even hired him as a babysitter. (To my relief, someone eventually raises this concern onscreen.) Granted, adjudication isn't the point, but it's a testament to the film's excellence that every interaction we see is complex enough to arouse our curiosity about how it shook out and/or what later became of the child in question. Even the poor distraught girl who can't stop sobbing as she's placed in foster care doesn't allow for an unqualified reaction, as one can't help but notice her mother's bizarre passivity throughout the entire process (which may be related to the case worker's very polite observation that this is the 36th complaint registered about the woman, involving multiple children). 

In general, the system comes across here as surprisingly compassionate, replete with people genuinely trying to do what's best for kids in trouble. From the title, I'd expected something closer to Depardon's 10th District Court, set mostly if not entirely in the courtroom; while there's a little "please rise," it's nearly always supplemented (if not overshadowed) by footage of the frightened or confused young defendant in another, smaller room, being advised or gently questioned by someone who's determined to make sure that things turn out reasonably well. And the one judge we see throughout seems kind, thoughtful and dedicated. All the same, things still get messy—a teenager facing two counts of robbery with a deadly weapon, even though he'd only driven the car (upon threat of violence, he insists) and never possessed a weapon himself, is so terrified of reform school that his attorney considers him incapable of rational thought, and winds up accepting a judge's deal without his client's consent. "Is that legal?" I wondered; presumably it must be, or we wouldn't be watching it happen, but it still made me queasy, even though the attorney is unquestionably trying to save this kid from a highly likely 20-year adult prison sentence. (Whether tangential involvement in a crime merits such harsh punishment is beyond the scope of this particular film.) And while there's little indication of racial bias—for which I'd been braced, especially when it became clear from everyone's accent that we're somewhere in the south (Memphis, turns out; I'd incorrectly guessed Alabama)—it's quite a jolt when the attorney, seeking to sway the boy by telling him about another, similar case, casually says "This was a white boy [like you], he was the driver, and he got the electric chair." This dude knows he's being filmed! It was a different time, and one can only hope it gets more different still.