Doubt vs. Certainty

Critics have lavished almost unanimous praise on Doubt,1 the film based on John Patrick Shanley’s Pulitzer Prize-winning play (Doubt: A Parable).2 The Oscar-nominated film presents a tautly suspenseful conflict of wills between Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman), an affable Catholic school priest who champions progressive thought and compassion for wrongdoing; and Sister Aloysius (Meryl Streep)—the draconian, staunchly traditional principal who becomes convinced that the priest has been sexually abusing one of the students. Though critics vary in their focus, one common theme runs through almost every laudatory review: The film is admirably complex because it ends ambiguously, leaving us in the same anguished state that overcomes the seemingly certain Sister Aloysius in the final scene—a state of irreconcilable doubt.

That the film is intelligently written and its dramatic conflict powerfully rendered is beyond question. But what elevates the film above other expertly written, masterfully acted “detective films” of its kind is, according to most reviewers, that it refuses to satisfy viewers with a conclusion—either about the facts of the case or about the moral rectitude of the parties involved. In a review titled “Between Heaven and Earth, Room for Ambiguity,” New York Times reviewer Manohla Dargis writes: “As its title announces, ‘Doubt’ isn’t about certainty, but ambiguity, that no man’s land between right and wrong, black and white.”3 And Wall Street Journal critic Joe Morgenstern calls it “a cautionary tale about the dangers of being sure.”4

Shanley, who also wrote and directed the film, confirms that eliciting such reactions is precisely the point of his story:

Doubt requires more courage than conviction does, and more energy; because conviction is a resting place and doubt is infinite—it is a passionate exercise. You may come out of my play uncertain. You may want to be sure. Look down on that feeling. We’ve got to learn to live with a full measure of uncertainty. There is no last word. That’s the silence under the chatter of our time.5

In other words, Shanley’s “Parable” is intended to caution us against being blinded by certainty in a world where there is, in fact, “no last word,” no right answer. And we would be wise to acknowledge this, says Shanley, for “[p]eople who are utterly certain are vulnerable to a brand of foolishness that people who maintain a level of doubt are not.”6

This message apparently resonates with moviegoers, who, in the words of one critic, are left “squirming” with unshakable mental discomfort at the film’s end.7 And this doubt-induced discomfort reflects an eerily deep sense that certainty is, as Shanley claims, forever beyond one’s reach, and that none of one’s conclusions can ever be fully trusted. What is it about the film that leaves viewers stricken with such an all-encompassing doubt?

In groping for an answer, one might observe that, within the confines of the film, uncertainty truly is inescapable—because the facts themselves are unclear. We cannot possibly hope to pass final moral judgment on either the priest, who may or may not be a sexual predator, or on Sister Aloysius, who, in vigorously pursuing her suspicions, eventually compels Father Flynn to resign from the school—only to be promoted to an even more powerful position at another school. Because we do not know whether her suspicions were correct, we cannot possibly guess the consequences of her actions: Has she saved a boy from being further traumatized by a priest’s molestation, or has she torn from him the only man to have offered him support and genuine kindness? All we know is that the boy, the first black child to attend the school and the victim of derision and isolation from the other students, is seen weeping hot tears as the priest says his final good-byes to the parish. Whether he is being saved from further abuse or abandoned by his only friend and protector, we cannot know—and yet our ability to judge Sister Aloysius’s choices hangs on our ability to know.

But this does not explain the film’s profound effect. What it means is that, given the limited data Shanley offers us, we lack sufficient information to be certain in our judgment of his characters. This is not what casts doubt in viewers’ minds on their ability ever to be certain in their judgments. After all, if Shanley had provided us with enough facts, certainty on the matter would be entirely within our grasp. We could simply assess the facts of the case and judge the intent and consequences of each character’s actions accordingly. For instance, had the priest’s guilt been established—had Sister Aloysius actually witnessed the priest molesting the boy, or hired a private investigator to catch him in the act—we would have no doubt about her certainty nor about the moral rectitude of her efforts to extract the priest from the school.

As it stands, however, Sister Aloysius has no real grounds for certainty. The most she ever has is a hunch, based not on evidence but on a visceral emotion. “You haven’t the slightest proof of anything!” Father Flynn correctly reproaches her, to which she replies, “But I have my certainty!”—as if a mere assertion or feeling of certainty overrides the need for evidence. If she had gathered sufficient data to establish real certainty—an evidence-based conclusion—then the morality of her actions in attempting to expel the priest from her school would have been unimpeachable.

So why can we not simply conclude from the film that certainty depends on evidence, that a mere hunch is not enough, and leave it at that? Why does the doubt planted in viewers’ minds upon seeing the filmseem to hang as a cosmic warning that, try as we might, certainty as such is unattainable?

The answer attests to the power of masterful characterization. Sister Aloysius, presented as the paragon of unbudging certainty and the victim of the accompanying “foolishness” that Shanley warns of, strikes viewers as anything but foolish. Despite her reputed religious dogmatism, she does not act like a woman swayed by her emotions or her faith to claim certainty without evidence; rather, she comes across as someone whose certainty is founded in facts. Based on her every word and action throughout the film, Sister Aloysius (at least in Meryl Streep’s poignant performance) bears the hallmarks of someone who recognizes the grave importance of due diligence toward discovering the truth—not jumping to hasty conclusions nor letting herself be blinded by unexamined emotions. For all her apparent religious fervor and traditionalism, she neither denounces nor criticizes the young boy when his mother implies that he is homosexual. “I care about actions,” says Sister Aloysius in response to this news, after which she continues to defend him with equal determination. So deeply does she care about what she regards as the truth that she, who has dedicated her entire life to the cloister, is willing to risk excommunication and denunciation by God himself in order to expunge the priest from the parish and save the boy. “I will do what needs to be done, though I’m damned to Hell!” she cries, tearing the cross from her waist.

Sister Aloysius comes across not like a flippant emotionalist who claims certainty on the basis of a hunch, nor like a blind religious dogmatist who claims to be carrying out God’s will, but like someone who has earned her right to be certain. She is shown to sincerely care about the boy’s fate, and to believe with serene confidence—in spite of substantial opposition—that expunging the priest from the school will be in the boy’s best interest. Such confidence properly belongs not to someone who capriciously jumps to conclusions without sound basis, but to someone who has conscientiously earned her certainty.

And yet in the end, this woman who seemed to be so sure, who possessed all the trappings of factual and moral certainty—about whom one might think, “if anyone has ever been certain, this lady is”—turns out not to be so certain after all. In the final scene, after having held so firmly and so compellingly to her conviction throughout the film, she suddenly breaks down in equally compelling pangs of doubt.

But the mere fact that she collapses in doubt, after having appeared so certain, need not necessarily thwart our efforts to morally evaluate her character. For instance, if we were to find out that she had been fooling us with her appearance of certainty, that, in fact, she had lurking doubts about the priest’s guilt all along but simply disliked him and so persisted in her crusade, we could judge her as dishonest and dangerous. Or, if she had seen evidence we had not and was thus rightly convinced of the priest’s guilt, she might in retrospect still doubt the propriety of her actions; after all, her effort only resulted in a promotion for the priest—which means, in effect, an invitation for him to molest more children. In such a case, we could still admire her intentions and her efforts in attempting to end the priest’s folly; we would only sympathize with her for having failed.

As the film is written, however, we can reach no such judgment, because we are not even enlightened as to the source or nature of her doubt. Does she doubt the factual merits of her accusation? Does she doubt her faith, given that addressing the priest’s wrongdoing required stepping away from God and the church? We are not told. Absent sufficient evidence from which to reach certainty about the case in our own minds, and absent sufficient evidence from which to conclude whether she ever truly reached certainty, we are left suspended in our own judgment. After so powerfully convincing us of her state of mind—a state of certainty that appears too sober, sincere, and self-assured not be grounded in compelling evidence—Shanley pulls our certainty about her certainty from under us.

This is the real trick—and it is indeed a trick—that renders the film so compelling. We trusted our own conclusion about Sister Aloysius’s state of mind, and then discovered that our conclusion was unfounded. Consequently, we are left feeling as though certainty is an illusion: However certain we make think we are, we can never really be sure.

But it is only by forgetting or failing to realize that Sister Aloysius never had a basis for certainty to begin with—that her “certainty” was a mere feeling, a leap of faith, despite all her actions and appearances suggesting the contrary—that one can be “taken in” by the message of the film. And yet it is easy to be taken in, because Meryl Streep’s Sister Aloysius is highly convincing as a woman who has—or seems to have—earned her certainty.

If we set aside her characterization and reassess the film by reference to the facts alone, we can see that there is simply no basis for believing that Sister Aloysius is certain; no real basis for her certainty was ever given to begin with. Viewers who leave the theater feeling as though their certainty has been undercut have, in effect, been duped. Blinded by compelling characterization, they failed to notice that their “certainty” about Sister Aloysius was based, not on any real evidence of her certainty (with the requisite evidence of the priest’s guilt that that would entail), but merely on a theatrical appearance of it.

For clarifying contrast here, consider the classic 1957 film 12 Angry Men,8 in which the central character, like Sister Aloysius, talks and acts as though he is unshakably certain—but who, unlike Sister Aloysius, is actually shown to have earned his certainty. Both films deal with the unresolved question of a man’s guilt or innocence; both involve lone protagonists standing firm against the hostility of those who disagree with them and who beg them to just “drop” their crusades; and both portray a situation in which there is insufficient evidence to corroborate the guilt of the accused beyond a “reasonable doubt.” But the reasonable doubt upheld as the standard for acquittal in 12 Angry Men is radically different from the cosmic, existential “doubt” rendered by Doubt.

In 12 Angry Men, Juror #8 (played by Henry Fonda) is certain of what he should do in light of the fact that there is insufficient evidence to prove that a young defendant is guilty of murder: He must push for the young man’s acquittal. With the kind of serene independence and somber conviction that characterizes Sister Aloysius in her most seemingly certain moments, the lone juror overcomes the emotional appeals and personal prejudices of his fellow jurors by systematically examining the facts of the case.

“Reasonable doubt,” in this case, is the longstanding legal standard by which a verdict may be established: It is founded on the principle that a man is to be regarded as innocent until proven guilty, that the burden of proof is properly on those who would send him to the gallows. This principle testifies to the fact that the consequences of acting on a false certainty, no less than the consequences of not acting on real certainty, can be devastating. The events of 12 Angry Men illustrate both. A man’s life hangs on the jury’s verdict; the decision they reach, Juror #8 observes, will have grave consequences, and they had therefore better make certain that their verdict is correct. After mulling over the facts and considering all the available evidence, he is certain that there is reasonable doubt. So certain is he that he is willing to persevere for hours in a sweltering deliberation room despite the rabid dissent of the eleven other jurors, who would rather just submit a “guilty” verdict and get on with their day.

How does he convince his fellow jurors of his position? He convinces them by a rigorous display and scrutiny of the evidence. He does not just cry out, “I have my certainty!” Nor does he insist that it must be true because he feels it to be. Instead, he sets aside his emotions and calmly appeals to the facts. Most of the other jurors, by contrast, are swayed by one emotion or another toward condemning the young man to his death. Their emotions range from the thinly veiled hatred of foreigners and “delinquents,” in one juror’s case, to the repressed anger and guilt that plagues the last and loudest protestor. Each man resists admitting that his objectivity is obscured by emotion and unexamined prejudices, until the facts stare him in the face so hard that he can no longer bring himself to deny it. Juror #8 consistently sticks to the facts, and nothing but the facts, until the other jurors—and the viewer—cannot help but see those facts for themselves.

This is the true face of certainty. It is not the face of a craven dogmatist who refuses to entertain contrary evidence for fear that it would uproot his blindly held prejudices, nor of a woman who firmly believes she is right despite the lack of conclusive evidence and then crumbles when her pretense of certainty finally gives way to her lurking doubts. True certainty, with regard to such complex moral matters as those presented in Doubt and 12 Angry Men, is not a “resting place” as Shanley maintains, but a complex achievement resulting from a conscientious focus on the facts through sustained cognitive effort. By bringing to light the realistic requirements of certainty, 12 Angry Men affirms ourcapacity to achieve it. Our ability to see the evidence for ourselves, and to reach Juror #8’s warranted conclusions in step with him, enables us to reach our own sound conclusion about his mental state—and to judge his actions in light of it. This kind of mental process, in turn, is rewarded by the confidence, manifested in spades by Juror #8, of knowing that we are right.

Shanley’s disbelief in the possibility of certainty, and his audience’s susceptibility to his message, may stem from warranted contempt for the widespread religious dogma that often passes for “certainty” today. Pitted against the “certainty” of the Crusaders, or of the zealots who flew planes into the twin towers on 9/11, such skepticism seems preferable. But unlike the passive posturing of the dogmatist, whose beliefs lack any basis in fact and thus can only lead him further and further astray of the truth, the rational investigation of evidence brings the truth entirely within reach.

Although Shanley states that the theme of his “Parable” is “the cognitive importance of doubt,” his film actually demonstrates the cognitively crippling effect of false certainty. In stark contrast, 12 Angry Men upholds the importance of attaining genuine certainty—achieved through a rigorous, objective assessment of the facts—and then acting accordingly.

About Veronica Ryan

Veronica Ryan (a pen name) earned her PhD in clinical psychology at the University of Virginia. She received her BS in psychology and philosophy from Tufts University, and subsequently worked for two years as a clinical interviewer and research assistant in the Massachusetts General Hospital psychiatry department. She has served as a contributor and editor for The Undercurrent, a national campus publication. She is a two-time winner of the Ayn Rand Institute's Fountainhead Essay Contest and a graduate of the Institute's four-year academic program.

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