Fear of Fear: I Don't Fight the Dark as well as I Used To

(2023)

Paige Anderson and Michael Donato

In Aidan Cronin’s remarkable 11 minute short I Don’t Fight the Dark as Well as I Used To, an older man, Frank, is trying to make his young granddaughter get over her fear of the dark, insisting that she turn the lamp off in her room at night, but her fear seems to be inherited from him. Frank (Michael Donato), is not only raising his granddaughter, but is the sole caregiver for his wife Felicity (Paige Anderson), who has advanced Parkinson’s. Their humble residence is converted from an old railroad car, in an isolated, rural location.

Anderson gives a remarkably detailed, precise performance, capturing perfectly the facial, vocal, and body mannerisms of a person with Parkinson’s. Frank has to help his wife with every possible bodily need. His extremely gentle, tender way of helping her reveals not only how much he loves her, but his innately compassionate nature, also evident in his relationship with his granddaughter. Finding the girl’s crayon picture of mountains, he puts it on the refrigerator door, with obvious pride and pleasure.

The details of furniture and clothing have alerted us that the film is set in the late 1960s, and we see Frank watching on TV as astronaut Neil Armstrong becomes the first person to set foot on the moon. The rail car Frank lives in isn’t going anywhere; it’s rooted to the spot, just as his wife’s condition imprisons her in her immobilized body, and Frank is bound tight to his role as caregiver by his love and his commitment to his wife and his granddaughter. Yet, somewhere, mankind has broken free of the ties that bind him to the earth. The moment is a philosophical one for him, and he goes outside to lie down and stare at the night sky, contemplating the mysterious vastness of the universe. (I remember feeling quite philosophical at that event myself, even though I was only 8 years old.) Still, he takes his lantern with him when he goes outside, not willing to enter the darkness without its comfort.

This lovely, poetic film offers a window into a man’s fears as well as his devoted attachments. Images of darkness function as a universal metaphor for our fears of the unknown, of the voids of death and of the vastness of space, outside of our earthly home. The lamp in the girl’s bedroom, like the lamp in the bedroom Frank shares with his wife, serve to provide a sense of companionship, a comforting sense that one is not alone in the vastness of existence. Likewise, the moon and stars provide a sense that the universe is not entirely cold and empty, but contains a few friendly faces. Conquering the fear of darkness is an essential part of growing up, Frank believes, of learning how to keep going and doing what must be done, despite the terrifying unknowns of our lives. He’s doing a decent job, it seems, as he makes sandwiches for the girl’s school lunch, and sets out his wife’s medications, so he can help her to swallow them. Still, the fear of the unknown is an intrinsic part of the human condition, and learning to overcome the fear is a process. The fear can be managed, but not vanquished. We have good days and bad days.

In this carefully crafted slice-of-life film, no dramatic events occur, notwithstanding the moon landing. Cronin is able to shade every shot and every detail with poetic overtones, so that the film’s events add up to much more than simple portraiture. It’s a glance into the core mystery of being human, the contrast between our mortal, bodily existence and the evident infinity of creation. This level of visual poetry requires extremely fine artistic control and sensitivity, and Cronin possesses both in abundance.

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