The Hearts of Men

A few years ago in the Toronto area, there was a particularly grisly and sordid series of murders. Paul Bernardo was a rapist. He and his girlfriend (later, wife) Karla Holmolka, kidnapped and tortured several girls. There was a publication ban over the proceedings, there were videotapes, which fed the public fascination with the case. Karla made a sweetheart deal with the Crown and only got 12 years. She was recently released. The whole thing was recently made into a movie called "Deadly." Deadly (which I won't link to, but you can find it) was supposed to open the Montreal World Film Fest but was pulled after pressure from the corporate sponsors.

I think from the beginning this case has had elements of human tragedy wrapped in uncomfortable tendrils of state censorship. There's no doubt that the case fascinates and horrifies Canadians still.

I've been thinking about that case a lot this week, and people and the press's psychological reactions to it. Not on its own, and certainly not because of the movie, but because of the hint of violence that's touched my world, ever so slightly.

A Toronto-based actor (who I knew only vaguely) shot his girlfriend on Monday. He killed himself in a park Tuesday. These are the facts.

This actor was an affable, gregarious chap. He posted frequently and voluminously to some message boards I've frequented on and off. He was a relentless self-promoter, and in that strange, internet-y way, he had lots of people out there who thought he was kind of the bee's knees. I didn't always think that his style was the best way to promote his career or projects. I might have even written that at some point. I have a vague memory of him slagging me for it. I mention it only because I don't want anyone to think that I'm writing this to...I don't know...speak ill of the dead or something. In any case: the last thing I read of this actor was a play he did here in T.O. for which he got good notices. I was glad to read of that.

I say all this, all the above, as prologue to this: what we do in the wake of tragedies like this, what people naturally do, is distance themselves. They start looking for the otherness of the person. It happened with Paul and Karla -- everyone talked of how they were monsters. The word monster gets bandied about a lot in the wake of things like this. In Columbine, they focused on the parents. The intimation was what did you do wrong to create your monster children? It's going to happen on the message boards where this actor posted: people, struggling to make sense of it, will inevitably start pointing out the otherness of the person. People will look for clues, proof, sift the past all to construct the alternate narrative that minimizes the common humanity of the subject, and maximizes the elements that could have taken them so horribly astray.

I started doing this myself yesterday, while enjoying a quiet drink with friends. I mentioned that I always thought there was something off about this chap. My friends agreed. It's natural.

But as writers, we can't do that. EVER. The monster in the closet is, and must always be, US. To deny people who do bad things their humanity is perfectly understandable from the perspective of self-preservation, and making sense of the universe. But it does nothing to further either the psychological understanding of our shared humanity or the truth that we try to pursue through the creation of fictional, dramatic worlds.

There is evil in each of us. It is our shared heritage, as much as whatever nobility we carry. And as much as we want to say that people who do bad things are not us, could never be us, as writers we must be bolder. We must look into the abyss and realize that the abyss stares back at us - forever unblinking, with no easy answers, and no way to marginalize, spit out, or deny the humanity of people who do bad things.

I remember seeing him do Shakespeare in the Park years ago. He was good. The words came trippingly off the tongue.

May he rest in peace. May we all.