Truth (2015)

True-story films about political journalism fall into two categories: insightful historical documents and shallow propaganda. On that continuum, then, Truth falls somewhere right of center – which it would detest to be labeled, I am sure – by falling closer to political agenda than historic insight.

Cate Blanchett stars as Mary Mapes, the 60 Minutes producer who oversaw the controversial story about George Bush’s alleged abandonment of duty during his 1970s stint with the National Guard. Robert Redford co-leads as Dan Rather, the doomed anchor whose commitment to the story (spoilers for real life?) ends up costing him his job. Truth covers the timeline from the story’s pitch in the summer of 2004 through Bush’s re-election in November.

The problems with the film are severalfold. First, to be pedantic, the title. Titles are important, as we know, and to label a story “Truth” is to take on an immense responsibility, a terrific burden. But in the promotional materials, Mapes herself describes the film as “my truth” – a critical difference from the truth, which the film purports to be. Worse, the film trades a great deal in equivocation and shouting down objections – a fine rhetorical strategy, I suppose, were it not for a monologue in which Blanchett decries that same technique.

A similarly false note is rung in that same monologue when Blanchett’s closing speech – which has all the self-congratulation of an Aaron Sorkin screenplay but less of the snappy prose – sneers at the allegations of conspiracy theorists and those who pander to them. Those of us in the audience ought to recognize what Truth does not – it’s speaking about itself in that moment, because it comes on the heels of a soliloquy by Topher Grace in which he alleges that his employer’s parent company Viacom is colluding against Congress with the Bush cabinet to protect its assets, while the film also spins a web of circumlocution around the origin of the documents in question.

Actually, the political stuff, which the filmmakers foreground, is for my money the least interesting material in Truth. I’d have much rather the film teased out more the way Mapes regards Rather as a kind of surrogate father (a Freudian slip near the film’s conclusion, mercifully, isn’t beaten to death), but the film leaves Mapes and Redford apart for a fair amount of their screen time. It’s likely the exigencies of real life at play, Rather having covered other newsworthy events like a hurricane at the time, but it’s evidence that there is more interesting material in the story than the film allows.

Rhetorically, then, Truth somewhat fails to live up to its own title. As a piece of film, though? It’s a little more successful aesthetically, though it’s far from perfect. It’s director James Vanderbilt’s debut, having cut his teeth on scripts for the Amazing Spider-Man reboots, Zodiac, and White House Down – a mixed bag if ever we saw one. Blanchett is, as ever, solid and enjoyable to watch, and the supporting cast (including Grace, Elisabeth Moss, and Dennis Quaid) does a fine job filling out the script. Disappointingly, Redford never quite convinces the audience that he’s Dan Rather; there are moments when he seems to have nailed Rather’s signature drawl, but otherwise it’s hard not to see Redford playing a version of himself – a complaint I didn’t have, incidentally, with Redford in last year’s much more delightful yet equally political Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

In short, I came away from Truth somewhat disappointed by its blatant political stance – a Fox News truck shows up with all the cinematic techniques you’d expect to see accompanying Jack the Ripper’s screen debut – and its attention to more aesthetic matters like its intriguing subplots. But rather than critique the film for what it wasn’t, what I would have preferred it to be, I’ll say that what we got wasn’t the award-season material its producers likely wanted.

Truth is rated R for “language and a brief nude photo.” There are about a dozen F-bombs in the film, as well as a pixelated image from Abu Ghraib.

W. (2008)

W, Oliver Stone's so-called biopic of the 43rd President of the United States, is a bit like a veggie burger - it's somewhat enjoyable, but it's brutally unable to convince you that it's the real deal despite its distracting claims to authenticity.

Plot summary of a biographical film always seems a bit awkward, more like an attempt to tell you who plays who. Suffice it to say that it's the story of George W. Bush (Josh Brolin), from his college years to the final days of his presidency with all the sordid details in between (seemingly exaggerated for effect). There's a running conflict with his father George H.W. Bush (James Cromwell, who's not acting so much as he is standing around being tall) as well as the headbutting between V-P Dick Cheney (Richard Dreyfuss) and Secretary of State Colin Powell (Jeffrey Wright) over issues of the Iraq invasion.

First, the good news. Brolin is entertaining and turns in a plausible performance as Dubya, oscillating between pages from the books of Will Ferrell and Dennis Quaid (thanks, Dad!) but with the credibility of a more seasoned and serious actor. I'd heard Dreyfuss was "scary good" as Cheney, and while he's not a doppleganger for Cheney where voice is concerned he certainly looks the part and does a good job at being what this movie needs him to be - namely, a Vader-esque villain. As Karl Rove, the diminutive Toby Jones makes me giggle but only because I really enjoy his career choices, and Thandie Newton looks a heck of a lot like Condi Rice, even if she doesn't do much in the film other than frown.

That's the bad news - like Condi, I frowned a lot during this movie. Though Brolin delivers the famous "Bushisms" well ("Is our children learning?" or "Fool me once..."), eliciting chuckles when they crop up, they're out of place, forced, and decontextualized in order to more adequately lampoon the president. And so the film plays out a lot more like a Saturday Night Live sketch (love him or leave him, is the pretzel-choking incident really that significant in Dubya's life?) than a serious biopic; that the film tries to fob itself off as "the true story" is downright clownery. What's also patently offensive is its unequivocal partisanship, ladled on like so much maple syrup on a stack of pancakes; "POWELL SAINT!" the movie cries like Al Franken-stein's monster, stitched together in a lab somewhere near Flint, Michigan; "CHENEY DEVIL! DUBYA DUMMY!" Please, Mr. Stone; 1981's Caveman, starring Ringo Starr, was subtler.

Subtle? Certainly not. Entertaining? You could do a lot worse, but Stone's done better films. At least JFK had the dignity to present itself as merely a collection of theories. W, on the other hand, professes to straighten up and fly right, but - as Nat King Cole once sang - "Your story's so touching but it sounds just like a lie."
The MPAA rated W "PG-13 for language including sexual references, some alcohol abuse, smoking and brief disturbing war images." The sexual references weren't anything that I really picked up on, though the war images did indeed disturb when they appeared near the end of the film. As for substance abuse, get over it; the film depicts alcohol abuse as enough of a negative for me not to want to indulge myself without a rating box telling me what to think. Sorry, almost went off on a rant there.