A Trip Into Dan White's Heart Of Darkness

Halfway through "Execution of Justice," the new Showtime movie about Dan White's assassination of San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and gay city Supervisor Harvey Milk, my hands were sweating. And I'm not even a man.

Although TV spots might lead you to think of it as a courtroom drama, "Execution of Justice," which airs Saturday at 8 p.m., actually is one deep trip into the heart of darkness. The heart explored - in an approach sure to stir mixed reaction - is White's.

White was a former supervisor who entered Moscone's City Hall office on Nov. 27, 1978, ostensibly to ask for his job back. Whatever else happened, he ended up pumping five bullets into the city's top official. He then found Milk and murdered him, too.

White subsequently was found guilty only of voluntary manslaughter in a verdict that further rocked a turbulent city. The assassinations and trial became a political turning point for San Francisco's gay population and turned Milk into a revered martyr.

Yet even then, despite the textbook cliches surrounding Milk and White - the liberal homosexual vs. the conservative jock - it was obvious White's act had less to do with homophobia than with the considerable inner demons arising from his sense of failure as a man.

Based on the play by Emily Mann and imaginatively adapted to the screen by director Leon Ichaso and writer Nicholas Butler, "Execution of Justice" dares to tackle those demons. What emerges is a story more universal than you might expect, for this Dan White is a virtual summary of the angry bewilderment many straight white males felt as American society changed from the 1960s onward.

It is not, however, a sympathetic portrayal. Co-producer and star Tim Daly ("Wings," "Object of My Affection") quickly pointed that out when discussing the hour-and-45-minute film earlier this year.

"I certainly identify with (White) on a lot of very human levels. I think most of us know what it's like to have a lot of pressure - to not feel we are meeting our own expectations," Daly told critics. "Yet we don't go out and commit heinous crimes."

Judging by "Execution of Justice," which draws heavily on White's taped confession and trial transcripts, the most heinous thing besides White's murders was White's life.

The son of a firefighter, White grew up in San Francisco's insular Irish-Catholic world - a once-powerful world losing influence just as he reached maturity. White seems to have had a hero complex; he tried being a cop, then a fireman, as a means to fulfill this inner image. Neither occupation was satisfying or paid enough.

Finally and unsuitably, he entered politics as an elected supervisor after running on a vague platform of representation for like-minded working stiffs beginning to feel shoved aside in "their" city.

White's tenure was a personal disaster. He had to give up his firefighter's job. Desperate for cash, he sold out to real estate interests in exchange for favors and still ended up working - as did his wife, an unbearable humiliation - behind a fast-food counter to supplement his supervisor's income. He resigned, then wanted his supervisor job back.

Eventually, he alienated himself from everyone: political allies, voters, friends, even family. The scenes between White and his wife Marianne (Amy Van Nostrand, who is Daly's real-life wife) are mesmerizingly painful. The final chapter of his life completes an appalling circle of hell.

Daly, Van Nostrand and Peter Coyote as Harvey Milk do superb work in the key roles. Among the supporting cast, Frank Pellegrino as Dan White's mentor Frank Falzon, Shannon Hile as Dianne Feinstein and Lisa Rhoden as White's loyal assistant Denise are standouts.

Filmed in pseudo-documentary style, "Execution of Justice" employs some unusual story-telling devices. Three commentators - actors playing well-known San Franciscans - appear in separate cameos to give the story needed context. Less successful is the intrusion of Sister Boom Boom (Khalil Kain), whose garish finger-wagging jars the movie's otherwise impeccably maintained tension.

Kay McFadden's TV column runs Mondays and Thursdays in Scene. She can be reached at 206-382-8888, or at kmcfadden@seattletimes.com