Cal (film) - Plot

Plot

Cal (John Lynch) is a young Catholic member of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) in 1970s Northern Ireland. He is used as a driver on a nighttime murder of a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC). The murder takes place at the victim's home in view of his family. The victim's dying words are a call for his wife, Marcella.

One year later, Cal learns that the victim's widow is a librarian, Marcella (Helen Mirren), a Catholic woman. Burdened with guilt over his role in the murder, Cal tries to leave the IRA, but is pressured to remain a member. He and his father live in the city, where they are threatened with loyalist gangs and Orange Order marches on their street. Wishing to atone in some way for assisting in the murder of Marcella's husband, Cal seeks work in her family's Protestant home. Initially he works as a hand on their farm, and later moves into a small cottage on their land. Marcella is not happy in her home, feeling trapped by her deceased husband's family. Over time, Cal and Marcella begin a love affair—with Marcella unaware of Cal's role in her husband's death.

Eventually, Cal is found by his IRA unit and is threatened with murder if he does not continue working as a driver. While he is Christmas shopping for Marcella and her child, he is abducted by the IRA. The car is stopped by a British Army checkpoint. In the ensuing gunfire, Cal escapes and makes his way to Marcella's home, where he confesses his role in the murder. Cal is pursued to the house by the RUC, and in the film's final scene both Cal and Marcella are seen in their respective "prisons"—Cal on his way to prison in a police van, and Marcella on her way back to her in-laws' home.

Read more about this topic:  Cal (film)

Famous quotes containing the word plot:

    Those blessed structures, plot and rhyme—
    why are they no help to me now
    I want to make
    something imagined, not recalled?
    Robert Lowell (1917–1977)

    The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come of it.
    Charles Dickens (1812–1870)