Claustrophobia. I remember having this intense feeling, occasionally, growing up. At the bottom of a ruck in a schoolboy rugby game; the time my brother shut me in my wardrobe which only had a handle on the outside; once when some friends put me in the boot of their car as part of making a short film. It was feeling of being smothered, of not being able to escape, of being confronted with a situation outside of my ability to control. This very real feeling is what filmmaker Lodge Kerrigan evokes, slowly but surely, in his latest directorial effort, Keane.

In a haze of grey day and murky night shots we are confronted, almost continually for the first 40 minutes of the film, with total frame close-ups of eponymous lead, William Keane. Without turning away from the screen, we cannot escape his face, all rough stubble and stifled expressions. He seems unable to completely lose himself in rage, confusion, relief, or fear – though he visits all these places over and over again – and we, the viewer, are forced to live these moments along with him, a little too up close and personal for comfort.

The overwhelming claustrophobic feeling creeps up slowly. At first it is a slightly irritating feeling of discomfiture which moves on to a more conscious feeling of almost unwanted connection. A number of audience members were unable to stick this out and left the theatre well before the narrative really got going. You see, this escalation of emotional atmospherics is all played out while Kerrigan background’s the character for us.

Keane is a distraught father whose reason seems a little shaken by the loss of his 7-year-old daughter some time ago. No wait, he’s an obsessively concerned parent brought over the edges of mental illness by his loss. Actually he’s definitely suffering from acute mental illness – paranoid schizophrenia at the very least – and may have suffered the loss of a child. Perhaps, in his ill state he has taken on someone else’s experience. Who knows – I’m confused!

Englishman, Damian Lewis, portrays this off-balance soul with consummate nervousness. His schizophrenic self-talk put me in mind of Emily Watson’s brilliant turn as her own voice from God in Lar von Triers’ Breaking the Waves. To my non-American ear he never gives a sniff of an English accent to distract form his performance but settles recognisably, if not easily, into his grim inner city surroundings. With Kerrigan there to frame his madness for us – to borrow the festival branding – the picture is made complete.

Ultimately it’s not the actual ‘truth’ of the situation that is the point, Kerrigan doesn’t sate our need for closure, but the exploration of a mind derailed and a heart torn open. I’d be surprised if you could not see something of your darker ID lurking somewhere in this picture. I certainly did, and in this position it is harder to become the judge of the central character as he throws every related prejudice you might hold into stark relief. Watching Keane certainly made me wonder about the stories of some of the poor unfortunates I have encountered, cursing unseen evils as they roam through the streets of our cities.

With Keane, Kerrigan manages take you on the journey with the central character, as opposed to just watching action unfold; you’ll find yourself feeling like you’re skirting the edges of madness. We are offered rare insight into an experience you certainly wouldn’t wish upon yourself.—Jacob Powell