Presumed Innocent: Proven Awesome
*the following review discusses spoilers for the series, book, and movie*
Presumed Innocent, the new AppleTV+ miniseries produced by J.J. Abrams and starring Jake Gyllenhaal, is getting a lot of attention. Adapted from the bestselling Scott Turow legal thriller (also a 1990 film with Harrison Ford), the series had a lot to live up to, and it distinguishes itself impressively.
The series’ source material is Scott Turow’s novel, which is the story of a prosecutor who finds himself on trial for the murder of his colleague, with whom he’d been having an affair. The novel is complex, and the presentation of the backstory, discussion of the evidence, the accused’s search for the real killer, and depiction of the trial are a lot to squeeze into a two-hour movie, so the work was an ideal choice for a deep exploration via miniseries.
A little more plot detail: Rozat “Rusty” Sabich is the main character. He’s a longtime prosecutor, a family man, and by most accounts, a good person. The rub is that he has been having an affair with fellow prosecutor Carolyn Polhemus. Having learned of the relationship, his wife Barbara chooses to stay by his side. The story begins after Carolyn has been found murdered. Rusty is given the case amidst a contentious primary election that will determine whether his mentor, Raymond Horgan, gets to keep his job as state’s attorney, or whether the younger (somewhat slimy) Nico Della Guardia will usurp the nomination, and in turn, give Rusty’s job as chief deputy prosecutor to Nico’s (definitely slimy) right-hand man, Tommy Molto. Rusty attempts to walk the tightrope of investigating the death of his former lover and rescuing the campaign of his mentor, all while hiding the affair. Rusty fails. Horgan loses the election, Della Guardia gives Rusty’s job to Molto, and the truth of the relationship comes out. Not only that, but evidence bit by bit points to Rusty as Carolyn’s killer. Suddenly it appears like Rusty obstructed the investigation and tampered with evidence to point away from himself. Molto, who has always had a professional dislike of Rusty, jumps on this and pursues him as the sole suspect. It isn’t long before Rusty is arrested and put on trial for the murder of his former lover.
All of the above is consistent between the book/movie and the new miniseries. But the details within are very different:
In both iterations Rusty is searching for a plausible alternative to him as the killer. In the book/movie he focuses on a bribery case that Carolyn was investigating that seems to involve prominent players in the legal community. In the series, he fixates on a convicted killer who vowed revenge against Carolyn and whose crime strongly resembles the circumstances of her death. By removing the complex and somewhat slow bribery case, the series keeps the focus on the more salacious and engaging violent crime.
While Rusty is steadfast in his innocence in both versions, the book/movie insists he is being framed. A glass with his fingerprints was found at the scene, though he had not been there in months, and sperm consistent with his blood type were found in the victim, although the affair was long over. This leads to a puzzled Rusty who fights behind the scenes to uncover an obvious conspiracy with a not-so-obvious orchestrator. The series goes a completely different way—Rusty was there that night, and the affair was more or less ongoing. The circumstantial evidence points to him, and the prosecutor is curiously hesitant to seek any other suspects, but there is nothing overt to suggest a frame job.
Rusty is a family man. But in the book/movie he has one young son who is not very consequential to the story, beyond being a weak alibi. In the series, Rusty and Barbara have two teenage children, both of whom are actively involved in the case. Their desire to stay informed versus their dismay at the depth of their father’s betrayal is a key plot point.
In both versions Rusty’s mentor Raymond Horgan is disturbed to find out his protégé has been having a problematic affair with a coworker under his nose. In the book/movie he internalizes that betrayal and becomes a witness for the prosecution, distorting events into a damning narrative. The series goes the opposite way—Horgan stands by his friend and acts as his defense attorney. This complete 180 was one of the ways I knew that the series was willing to take risks, and that just because I had read the book didn’t mean I had any idea of what was to come.
Not only are the changes used to good effect to make the story stronger, they also keep the audience on their toes. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the eventual killer reveal.
In both the Scott Turow novel and the 1990 movie, the audience is as shocked as Rusty to learn that it was Barbara Sabich who killed Carolyn Polhemus. She struck her husband’s lover over the head, placed the glass with Rusty’s fingerprints, injected her husband’s semen into the victim, and staged the scene to look like a sex crime. Her intent was never to have Rusty go down for the murder—her placement of the evidence was a convoluted strategy to communicate to Rusty (as the person in charge of the investigation) that she was the killer, all while ensuring that he would “lose” the evidence and let the case linger unsolved. Though Barbara’s actions seem a bit confusing, the explanation at least fits the evidence well. This is the one thing I think the novel/movie does better than the series. (Side note: There’s an easter egg for fans of the film—the unique tool that film-Barbara used for the murder is hanging in Rusty’s garage in the final episode of the series.)
At different points the series hints that the killer could be: Carolyn’s estranged son Michael (or Michael’s father, Carolyn’s ex-husband), Rusty’s son Kyle, Rusty’s wife Barbara, Rusty himself (in an episode he blocked from his conscious mind), Brian Ratzer—a random man who may be related to the prior crime that Carolyn’s murder resembles, or even prosecutor Tommy Molto. They keep us guessing with vague insinuations and weak motives, all while keeping the focus firmly on Rusty. The audience simultaneously believes it can’t be him and yet it must be him. And it isn’t until the final episode that we’re given more than a whiff of alternative explanation.
The killer in the Presumed Innocent series is just as shocking as in the film. In a rather awkward info dump mere minutes before the conclusion, the killer is revealed to be Rusty’s daughter Jaden, one of the few characters that we’re never given reason to suspect. Upon realizing that her father was repeatedly going back to Carolyn, Jaden goes to speak with her. In a moment of rage after being told that Carolyn was pregnant with her father’s child, Jaden grabs the fire poker and strikes. The lack of any hint pointing toward Jaden throughout the series seems to have been done to keep the reveal shocking, but it means the conclusion comes off as a little cheap and unearned. In the best mysteries the solution feels both shocking and inevitable—we see looking back that the pieces were there are all along. This isn’t the case here. In this instance the audience can’t do much more than shrug and say “okay, I guess so.” It even strains credulity. The traumatized girl, who must have gotten blood on her during the frenzied attack, somehow manages to clean her mother’s car so thoroughly that a forensic team doesn’t turn up a single speck of blood? And clean her clothes so effectively (or dispose of them so inconspicuously) that the police find no evidence in the household that connects to the crime?
The series also incorporates a second twist, which gets points for creativity, but which also raises questions. Apparently Rusty returned to Carolyn’s house later on the night of the murder. Finding Carolyn dead and believing that the only person who could have killed her was his wife Barbara, Rusty binds the corpse in the manner of the prior victim, hoping to point to a revenge killing and thus protect his wife from a crime for which he feels ultimately responsible. Noble, but problematic. The two main questions are the rope, and the knots. A significant length of rope was required to bind the body as depicted—did Rusty conveniently find said rope at Carolyn’s house? Or magically have it with him in his car? And the knots were quite elaborate. Did he have such a good memory of the prior case and such well-developed sequential thinking skills that he could replicate the knots off the top of his head? And just as with Jaden, Rusty must have gotten bloody during his task. How did he clean himself, his car, and his clothes so perfectly?
I reluctantly say that the Presumed Innocent series prioritizes shock value in the resolution over logic or realism, but there is another way it leans on shock to the detriment of quality storytelling: Each episode ends on a cliffhanger (you can almost hear the dun-dun-dun as the credits roll). Episode one concludes with news of Carolyn’s pregnancy, episode two with the “you were there I saw you” text, episode three with photos of Kyle outside Carolyn’s house, episode four with Rusty mid-violent assault, episode six with Raymond’s collapse, and episode seven with the discovery of the murder weapon. The only exception is episode five which concludes with a compelling prosecutorial opening statement and Rusty’s shock and worry that the trial may not be as easy as he was hoping (which is by far the strongest episode conclusion in my opinion). The cliffhangers are a contrived and lazy attempt to ensure viewers tune in for the next episode, and it’s a gimmick that is largely unnecessary. The story itself should—and does—hook viewers without resorting to some dramatic unresolved event. Each of these cliffhangers are presented as if they were momentous and story-altering, and while they do become future plot points, in each case the drama of the surprise is resolved fairly uneventfully at the outset of the subsequent episode.
Miniseries are one of my favorite story formats because in addition to allowing for more in-depth exploration of complex stories, they also provide the unique opportunity to be both episodic and serial. They are a fully realized narrative, conceived and written in their entirety before any filming begins, unlike traditional television. The writers know both where the story is going and how it will get there, which allows it to avoid unnecessary meandering along the way—every detail is meaningful. At the same time though, it is not just a seven-hour movie, it is presented episode-by-episode, which gives the storytellers the opportunity to make each a fully-realized story unto itself. The very best miniseries explore something unique or have a specific angle for each installment, resulting in a miniature narrative with its own emotional payout. Unfortunately, Presumed Innocent doesn’t even attempt this. Each episode is basically a simple chronological telling of the events, and they blur together, so much that I had to rewatch the series to recall what happened in which. Perhaps I am putting too great an expectation on the show, recalling my favorites that do this masterfully (I’m looking at you, Mike Flanagan), I just felt a little let down, dreaming of what might have been.
That is not to say I disliked the writing, and I would hate to leave anyone with that impression. Several things were extremely well done.
The presentation of Rusty as an unreliable narrator is terrific (which is also due to good directing and editing). He is unwavering in his assertion of his innocence, but the show still gets us to doubt him. It presents images of past events via thoughts and dreams which are possibly true depictions of events, possibly distorted memories tinged by guilt, and possibly complete fantasies. And we’re rarely told which is which. We’re shown Rusty lying in bed intercut with a scene of him in the pool with Carolyn where he appears to pull and hold her under the water, and we’re left to guess whether this is a memory while he’s trying to fall asleep, or if he’s asleep and this is a dream—the fantasy of a troubled mind. There are also instances where he seems to question himself. Going over his interaction with Carolyn the night of the murder the audience is shown conflicting images (some hostile, some gentle and loving) while he struggles to summarize the events to his defense counsel. He even admits “I don’t really remember much from the bar. I guess I had a few things to drink.” But then later when his daughter brings up the idea of dissociation, how the mind can shield itself from actions that are at odds with how a person perceives themself, he confidently declares “my memory is fine.” This constant feeling of did he or didn’t he keeps the audience on edge and eager to find out what will happen next (an exact reason the cliffhangers are unnecessary).
Another thing that keeps me referring to Presumed Innocent as an exceptional series despite the critiques above is the nuanced exploration of the ideals that underlie the U.S. legal system. Always the intent is to get to the truth, and to see that justice is done. But truth and justice are murky concepts that often end up divorced from the system in practice. In episode three, Rusty lays out for his family the persuasive evidence against him: He was there that night, the last known person to see her alive. Thirty texts on the night she was killed speaks to the level of his obsession. She was pregnant with his child. She was tied up like a victim in a prior case of his, information not generally available to the public. In response, his son asks if he has considered a guilty plea. Rusty indignantly responds “why would I take a plea for something that I did not do?” But as a prosecutor he should know that in the adversarial system of justice what is true is rarely relevant; everything hinges on what can be proven. Guilty pleas are a utilitarian device—if the evidence is overwhelming, innocent people will plead guilty simply because it is the best available choice. But Rusty is an idealist, someone who actually believes in the system, believes in law, believes in justice. And to him, truth and justice (he sees them as one and the same) are more important than the potential consequences. He will not say he killed her because it is not the truth. He will not accept a sentence for her murder because that is not justice. He will not plead guilty because he is innocent.
Guilt is another theme that is impressively examined, specifically the distinction between guilt and culpability. Rusty is right—he is not guilty of murder. He was not the one who crushed Carolyn’s skull. But he is absolutely responsible for her death. It was his bad choices that put his daughter in the situation that escalated out of control. He set the events into motion. Rusty accepts and admits that, both by his actions in staging the crime scene and silently enduring a murder trial, and by his words: telling his daughter explicitly that it was his fault, not hers.
Rusty’s repeated selfish choices—to engage in the initial extramarital sexual act, to choose to continue that as an affair, to revive the affair even after his wife found out and forgave him—despite having a good life and wonderful family with a woman he loves very much, are one of the most curious and frustrating aspects of this story. His obsession with Carolyn is eventually described as an addiction. “Love isn’t what people tell you that it is. In my experience it’s just something that grows until one day you just find yourself needing someone,” Rusty admits. “She woke something up inside me. Something that I thought was dead.” The idea of addiction also circles back to the question of responsibility. The American Psychological Association’s definition of addiction uses the words “dependence” and “compulsion.” A dependence is something we need; a compulsion is something we can’t control. So if Rusty was addicted to Carolyn, did he actually have a choice? And if he didn’t have a choice, can he really be responsible? It’s a fascinating, complex philosophical question, which the series skillfully explores.
The other thing that marks Presumed Innocent as one of the best series in recent years is the incredible performances delivered by a deep and talented cast. Jake Gyllenhaal has proven to be one of the best actors of his generation, and his skill is on full display here. As Rusty Sabich he is called upon to deliver every possible emotion—fear, anger, passion, despair, confusion, tortured anguish—and he does so impressively. His closing argument scene alone, in which he quivers and tears up at the mention of the betrayal of his family, cements his role as Emmy-worthy.
But Gyllenhaal is far from a solo act here; Bill Camp and Peter Sarsgaard in particular turn in career-best performances. Bill Camp as Raymond Horgan is given some of the best lines in the show, both humorous and heartfelt, and he delivers them with authority. He made me laugh out loud when admonished by Sarsgaard’s Molto that quibbling at the victim’s funeral is beneath them and he spits “Nothing’s beneath me, I once f*cked an ottoman.” Camp’s Horgan also gets to be a selfless and noble foil to the egocentric Rusty, and in one particular instance he completely steals the scene from the Oscar-nominated Gyllenhaal: “I have seen a lot of guilt and shame in this business,” Horgan says. “Shame is something that you put on yourself. It’s self-absorbed. Self-centered. Guilt is more about owning and feeling the pain you cause others.” Then, after an incredible pregnant pause: “I don’t doubt that you feel shame.”
Sarsgaard on the other hand gets to find and deliver the humanity in a smarmy character that we’re intended to distrust, a character who is described by his best friend as having both a persecution complex and a narcissistic complex. Tommy Molto in the movie version is a relatively uninspired, one-dimensional bad guy. But Sarsgaard gives us a Molto who we aren’t sure from moment to moment whether he’s a misguided public servant striving for justice on behalf of a good friend, or a power-hungry creep who’s seeking to take down a former boss that he both disliked and envied for his relationship with a woman he himself desired. Sarsgaard’s layered performance elevates the character and injects drama into the showdowns with Rusty via his acting acumen and ability to go toe-to-toe with Gyllenhaal.
Noteworthy also is the Norwegian actress Renate Reinsve as Carolyn Polhemus. A role that was fairly limited in the film, Reinsve has a lot of heavy-lifting to do despite being dead for the entirety of the series. One particularly memorable moment had Carolyn rehearsing a closing argument for Rusty, after which she asks him what he thinks. “I think you’re amazing,” he answers, conveying his fixation on her rather than any useful evaluation of her trial prep. Reinsve’s reaction, a subtle dropping of her features, giving her an almost sick look, communicates Carolyn’s concern and discomfort so effectively.
Ruth Negga, and the young Chase Infiniti and Kingston Rumi Southwick as Barbara, Jaden, and Kyle Sabich also deserve shoutouts. Negga gives so much with her facial expressions, easily presenting a deeply conflicted character without much dialogue at all. Infiniti and Southwick also do a lot with a little, and they skillfully portray teens who are having difficulty navigating uncomfortable and worrying events. So much of the show hinges on the familial situation, and it couldn’t have been as impactful without the performances of these three.
Presumed Innocent is a skillful adaptation of a complex novel, deeply exploring nuanced themes, drawing the audience into an intriguing case, and keeping everyone guessing. And best of all, it isn’t afraid to diverge from the source material, so in the end it is very much its own story. All episodes of Presumed Innocent are available to stream now on AppleTV+.
