REVIEW: J. Edgar (Clint Eastwood, 2011)

I will proudly admit to chuckling at my own summary of the Man with No Name’s directorial career. I like to say, “Watching an Eastwood is like chewing cardboard, while someone stands over you, teeth gritted, demanding, ‘Don’t that cardboard taste good, boy?’” Well, if this newest portrait of uncompromising leadership is cardboard, its frail edges are frayed, dry and crumbling away. Yet, somehow, I find myself peeling back these withered layers and uncovering something worth enduring on the whole.

Like so many other biopics, “J. Edgar” covers expected key events and aspects surrounding its subject’s legacy and mystique, often honing in on parental influence while interlocking timelines (occasionally via useless editing tricks) to create thematic flow. Also expectedly, it is prone to straight-forwardly ramble in tones akin to those of an introductory university course. At least it does well to remain in Hoover’s inner atmosphere as opposed to branching out to the realms of his adversaries, which lends a defining irrational paranoia to the man’s sole determination to exterminate unseen – thereby practically nonexistent – enemies.

I feel I always turn to certain core personal favorites for comparison, but in this case the resemblance to Oliver Stone’s “Alexander” is distinctly remarkable. “J. Edgar” is told in clunky frame by an aged man whose versions of stories may be more glorifying than they were in actuality – in this case perhaps for the purpose of propaganda – about a controversial, pansexual figure so rapt in his quest to influence that his decisions become wildly divisive. Both films often take more or less objective stances, allowing the nature of their respective subjects’ decrees – be they to immerse with less civilized societies while forging tirelessly eastward, or to enforce strict conformity to the point of unintentionally mimicking the Communist foe while exploiting judicial loopholes – to remain ambiguous and up, subjectively, to the viewer to either support or disdain. Some of the most powerful moments in “Alexander” take place behind closed doors, when the great king feels permitted to be himself. Such is indeed the case with “J. Edgar”, as well, as when the bureau director is privately with his intimately close best friend – his Hephaestion, if you will – we learn the most about him as, finally, a real person.

What I’m unsure of is exactly what Eastwood is attempting to say by detailing the times of John Edgar Hoover. Is it an ode to American free enterprise, and subsequently a humble undermining of the very antiheroic legacy of Hollywood (and beyond) Eastwood himself has so iconically contributed to? Is he heralding purity while tearing down the essence of liberty? Is it really to be read as all that objective? Though in recognition of what could be considered psychoses, Eastwood appears to argue in Hoover’s favor, even regarding the infamous wiretaps and resulting collection of high-level politician secrets.

If one thing is for sure, it’s that “J. Edgar” is often unintentionally comical to detrimental extent, with its awkwardly melodramatic timing and key highlighting of lifeless makeup work. These age masks – reminiscent of your lazy neighbor’s $10 Halloween costume from the gag gift section of Party City – induce knee-jerk laughter upon their reveals moreso than biopic veteran Leonardo DiCaprio’s uncharacteristically stilted narration which, to be fair, might have sounded better had Hoover’s innate stutter been further discussed sooner, or had Billy Crudup not so precisely nailed the spit out of his Hoover rendition in his sadly brief supporting appearances in Michael Mann’s “Public Enemies”. And if anything is particularly positive about the film’s 2-and-a-half hour runtime, it’s that it allows ample opportunity to grow accustomed to all the accidental humor.

The real star in this case is Armie Hammer – perhaps still best known as the twins from “The Social Network” (at least that’s how I recognized him) and hopefully soon(ish) to be known as the Lone Ranger – the only actor to make me believe the unmoving prosthetics and makeup during his autumn scenes, to the point that I once actually wondered if another, authentically older performer had been swapped out beneath the façade. Along with seemingly randomly selected bit players such as Stephen Root, Josh Lucas, Ken Howard and Ed Westwick, most non-billed performers seem to take cue from DiCaprio and put forth less character and more caricature. For example, Jeffrey Donovan’s Robert F. Kennedy sounds like a Saturday morning cartoon version of the real thing. Ioan Gruffudd’s Tony Blair from Stone’s “W.” is politely rotating in his grave (the one I dug for him, that is, in my imaginary cemetery for portrayals of true life individuals I only wish I could forget).

Obviously my reaction to Eastwood’s desaturated “J. Edgar” has been a funny one. I could hardly point out anything but radical negatives during my viewing, yet in the end I left satisfied and feeling rewarded. At worst, the picture is a procedural prequel to, well, procedurals, a la television’s “CSI”, or, in a certain way of thinking, the future innovations in “Minority Report”. At best, it is an eventually compelling companion piece to the aforementioned “Public Enemies” and a crash course on an inarguably interesting life.