J. Edgar
Directed by Clint Eastwood
Without question, Clint Eastwood and Leonardo DiCaprio are extremely talented filmmakers on- and off-screen. That is why the sprawling biopic J. Edgar is a scratch-your-header.
I'm a fan of the original C.S.I. and because of that I was more than interested to see Eastwood's multi-era take on the public and private life of the first director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation J. Edgar Hoover (DiCaprio).
The film’s irony is contained in the idea that the person who modernized crime-fighting and made it his job to know, legally or illegally, by fair or foul methods, the deepest secrets of almost everyone in America, also had secrets of his own which he intended to keep. That the guy who put the “eye” in Investigation was guilty of keeping his own skeletons in the proverbial closet.
Writer Dustin Lance Black’s (writer of Milk) screenplay uses J. Edgar’s own perspective as he narrates his beginnings and eventual end as director of the FBI. The film jumps through history from the 1920s to the 1970s, back and forth, as a young and old J. Edgar narrates the most famous events that marked his career (such as his appointment as acting director of the Bureau at age 29, his wars with the gangsters in the 1930s and the radicals and communists till his death in 1972.)
His methods and complete devotion to his work and rank made him more enemies than allies, but throughout his life there were two persons who never left his side: his secretary Ms. Gandy (unassumingly played by the pleasant Naomi Watts) and his rumoured lover and lifetime companion and Assistant FBI Director Clyde Tolson (more than adequately played by Armie Hammer.)
I couldn’t help but compare it to Brokeback Mountain, that surprise of a heartbreaker from Ang Lee, even if that’s unfair. The issues are not about the apparent surprise sexual orientation of the lead characters of J. Edgar (I trust the audience to understand that part, like they did with Brokeback), but on matters of filmmaking.
The first issue has to do with the off-putting narration using Leo’s voice (as J. Edgar) and terribly executed ageing in make-up. As the film jumps time-lines, we hear the same age in the voice of J. Edgar as if the voice never aged. There’s no lock on the person on- and off-screen.
Eastwood is a venerated filmmaker, whose best works (Unforgiven, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Mystic River and Grand Torino) are among those I admire. But this is the first time that I found his film not compelling despite an epic effort from DiCaprio and Naomi Watts (as Hoover’s long-time secretary Ms. Gandy.) Is Hoover so infamous that his biopic, despite historically significant achievements, doesn’t feel it should matter? Or is it because this love story is emotionally distant, just like the title character himself, that the payoff is neither convincing nor rewarding?
There are poignant moments — a few scenes like the ultimate confession with Tolson and the final scene as he watches the Presidential parade from his office balcony — but those will barely linger in our minds as the credits begin to roll. The epilogue text just reads like a joke.
Brokeback D.C. with bad make-up, in an Eastwood film. How, how can that happen?
