We live in a world that is very often mired in tragedy, one in which there is often a concerted effort from certain people to hurt each other, whether it be through war or individual attacks. Since the dawn of time, artists have been using their craft to tell stories of the human condition, which inevitably evolved to look at various unspeakable tragedies throughout history. Whether taking the form of epic-scale, elaborate productions that seek to convey the enormous suffering caused by the greed and egomaniacal ambitions of certain psychopathic individuals, or smaller, more intimate stories of tragedy, cinema has run the gamut when it comes to portraying the horrors of mankind. Some of them take place amongst hundreds or thousands of people on the battlefield (whether literal or metaphorical), while others focus on four people in a single room, discussing a tragedy that occurred nearly a decade before, excavating their trauma to try and find a resolution to the grief that has been plaguing them all these years. This is the starting point for Mass, the striking directorial debut of Fran Kranz, who looks at an issue that is extraordinarily prescient in contemporary society, that of mass murders and school shooters – but instead of looking at the specific event itself, the film takes place a few years into the future, focusing on the aftermath as two sets of parents – the parents of the perpetrator and of one of the victims – meet to discuss what happened, in an effort to work through their grief and find the resolution that they have been seeking for years, but have always known would be difficult to find.

Mass is a work of vital importance, and we can immediately tell that this is a film with enormous gravity to it. Whether the viewer has an idea of what the story is about, or if we are going in without any knowledge of the plot (since marketing around the film very effectively doesn’t reveal the specific nature of the story), we can automatically tell that this is something of great importance, with the generally sober but evocative tone conveying the sense of melancholy and tragedy, even before the two sets of parents begin their extensive conversation. Kranz, who has previously been known for his work as an actor, did not seem to be the kind of artist who would choose such a story, nor this particular narrative approach, as his directorial debut – in a period where the major of actor-turned-directors often start with something more personal to them, whether a film that is semi-autobiographical or drawn from their own experiences, Kranz opted to steer directly into one of the most pressing issues facing the world today. In the process, he produces something exceptionally simple in scope, but incredibly powerful in the small details that we encounter throughout it. It may appear like an extremely simple film at first, with the idea of a small group of individuals gathering in a single room and discussing the past evoking the idea of the numerous stage adaptations that we often encounter, and which seem to be dismissed as minor efforts – yet, Mass is an original work, and one that is profoundly moving, purposefully making use of a limited space in order to plumb the emotional depths of two families grieving in their various ways, placing them in direct opposition, both literally and theoretically, as they take the terrifying steps forward to find the answers that have evaded them for years.

It becomes increasingly clear to the viewer that the director approaches his work from a place of profound empathy, and his efforts to explore a tragic social phenomenon that somehow remains a contentious issue within the United States, not through a lengthy exploration of the legal and cultural debate, but rather through the lens of the very people who are most impacted in the aftermath, the families that are left to grieve and wonder why their loved ones were placed in such a position where they had to lose their lives to someone whose decision to arbitrarily destroy their fellow man drove them to commit a heinous tragedy. The film is logically not interested in rationalizing the perpetrator’s decision, but it does seek to explore the circumstances leading up to his actions, as told through the dual focus of the media, which tends to use such tragedies as an opportunity to dig deep into the past of criminals to determine what factors led them to this awful situation, and through the perspective of his parents, who have been forced into the position of villains by proxy, the living representatives of an abhorrent individual who took his own life as a result of his actions, and who inevitably become the people both those affected by the tragedy, as well as the horrified onlookers (whether those who directly witnessed the tragedy, more the multitudes of people who experienced the frenzy around it, via the media). Ultimately, all of this factors into the fabric of the film, which accounts for these conversations, but it becomes less about the outside world, and more about the fact that these are simply four individuals gathered to work through their own experiences and understanding of a tragic event only further allows the film to touch on themes much deeper than those we see in similar stories.

In bringing this story to life, Kranz constructs a cast of four of the greatest character actors working today. Whether in theatre, television or film, the actors tasked with portraying these characters are uniformly gifted, professional individuals who have turned in numerous incredible performances over the course of their careers. Mass contains some of their best work, which is quite an achievement, considering how complex this film is, requiring them all to be extremely attentive to all the small details. Martha Plimpton and Jason Isaacs play the parents of the victim, two people struggling to come to terms with the fact that they are meeting with the people who gave birth to the child that killed theirs, with the other set of parents played by Ann Dowd and Reed Birney. The problem with a film like Mass is that choosing a standout is nearly impossible – the actors exist in service of one another, and none of them are better than the other. The entire film is constructed out of their incredible ability to work together in a form of symbiosis, and they are each given moments in which to stand in the spotlight, and others where they are merely listening to the others. This film is a true ensemble effort, and whether furious or contrite (or even both, which is entirely possible at certain points), the cast of this film is absolutely extraordinary, each one delivering spirited work that relies on their own strengths as actors, as well as their scene partners’ ability to bring out their own set of bespoke emotions that make Mass such a powerful piece of acting. Undeniably, the most affecting work does come from Plimpton’s grieving Gail and Dowd’s deeply remorseful Linda, two mothers who know that this situation can never be healed to the point where the pain goes away – it’s what makes their final scene, where they finally embrace each other in a moment of pure catharsis that ties the entire film together.

Mass is a film that touches on many incredibly deep and disconcerting ideas, and as a result, there are countless ideas swirling throughout the film. The most important question the audience needs to ask through the process of seeing this conversation unfold is around the specific intention of such a painful process. This conversation is one that is neither about blaming or attacking the parents of the perpetrator, nor is it about rationalizing the events to the parents of one of the victims as a way of soothing their nerves and explaining the details – neither of these are constructive or necessary, since as much as they would all want to change it, these events have been committed to history, a tragic moment in the horrifying past. Ultimately, Mass is a film about two sets of parents that are grieving the loss of their sons – they may be divided by the specific circumstances that led to their respective child’s demise, but the film focuses on grief in two very different forms – and like the majority of works centred on trauma, it begins to be less about revisiting the past as a way of keeping the conversation active, but rather a means to gain perhaps the most difficult but important gift that can be given to those who are grieving: closure. The film doesn’t interest itself in getting too invested in the details (even though, by nature of its story, it needed to at least discuss them in a substantial way, in order to give the viewer context – after all, we are privy only to the aftermath of the event, so all we know comes through in the conversation), and over the course of these two hours, we watch as these families seek the resolution – whether it comes in the form of a sincere apology, or the realization that the past cannot be changed. The wounds of the past will never go away, but they can be healed to the point where they are not a continuous source of excruciating pain – and a simple statement like “I forgive you” can do so much to help those going through these enormously challenging situations.

It’s often said that a great story can be told with a few actors in a bare room, and this film proves that adage to be nothing if not true. Grounded by a quartet of incredible performances (although not to discount the lovely Breeda Wool, who has a small role, but one that anchors the film, serving as a slightly upbeat bookend to this harrowing story of two families processing their grief, and told with the kind of fervent compassion that can only come from a story that understands the limits of the form, and respects the audience enough to allow us the time and space to decode the information for ourselves, Mass is one of the most beautifully evocative and hauntingly poignant films in recent years. It takes a constructive look at tragedy, the kind that feels like it is actually aiming to make a difference rather than just existing for the sake of eliciting a reaction, and it gradually (and without any hesitation), manages to make some profoundly important statements, not only on the nature of the specific tragedy around which this film orbits, but the often challenging experience that comes when one has to process their grief in the aftermath. Complex, poignant and truly unsettling in a way that feels active, the film is an extraordinary achievement, one in which the audience is encouraged to peer into this conversation, acting as passive observers to a discussion between four individuals, which has a continuous ebb and flow between measured despair and apoplectic fury – and it is consistently powerful, even when it is at its most emotionally scarring, leading to a film that understands that the most difficult conversations are those that we have to start ourselves.