Selma
(2014)
Selma feels like it has garnered more attention for omissions of
recognition than its actual content, such that the big the Oscar conversation
was how it got Best Picture nominated (and original Song, which it won) but no attention
elsewhere, in particular for director Ava DuVernay. As these things go, it’s
fairly easy to understand why, as for the most part Selma is sturdy but unexceptional biopic fare. Less so in the
context of a ceremony that makes a habit of awarding average or inferior
biographical pictures as some kind of badge of pride (see fellow nominees The Imitation Game and The Theory of Everything).
Part of Selma’s
problem is in the nature of the biopic; the necessary adherence to a linear
agenda and a dogmatic respectfulness to persons and period. Even limiting
itself to such a specific timeframe as herein (the 1965 voting-rights marches
from Selma to Montgomery) cannot loosen the trappings of worthiness that prevent
it from becoming its own thing; it usually takes distance, invention, or a
lateral approach to make such films soar (Amadeus,
for example).
Selma is constricted on a number of levels,
most particularly budgetary, some of which it makes virtues. DuVernay’s
direction is subdued and unremarkable for the most part, until it becomes
necessary to shock the picture into confrontation; the enactments of scenes of
state troopers attacking the marchers, or the shocking opening with the Klan
bomb in the 16th Street Baptist Church, are vital and galvanising.
Elsewhere, the writing shows flair through
having to make not-Martin Luther King Jr’s words sound like MLK’s words (his
estate wasn’t even contacted due to the rights minefield that would need to be
navigated), although this is equally down to David Oyelowo’s superb performance
(less showy than, but equally deserving of recognition as, Eddie Redmayne’s
Stephen Hawking). Also well-sustained is the device whereby the events
surrounding Selma are verified by FBI surveillance reports, emphasising the
complicity in undermining (or removing from the scene entirely) any players who
dare to threaten the status quo. And in terms of due balance, the thorny issue
of MLK’s extra-marital affairs and their impact on his presence at the march,
and his choices in respect of the same, are tackled head-on, rather than
painting him as a saint.
But the nuts and bolts of the telling
aren’t fresh, they’re very familiar, and it leads the picture generally into
that arena of being damned with faint praise. It’s so laudable, even Martin
Sheen, acting patron saint of worthy causes, shows up for a scene (and Oprah
too, don’t forget Oprah). The soundtrack also drips with rousing and emotive
gospel, the least original choice. Familiar faces in supporting roles, doing
their part to get behind the message (also including Tim Roth to Cuba Gooding,
Jr) are less noteworthy than those grasping a small character and making it
resonate (Wendell Pierce and Stephen Root). The tactic of populating a movie
with name actors can be a godsend to a dense script or one difficult to market,
but here it feels less urgent and more distracting.
An average of two-to-three Best Picture
nominations each year are biographical to some degree, a reflection of how
quick the Academy is to reward easy emotional uplift and social or political
awareness regardless of merit. This is a ceremony eager to garland something as
crudely fashioned as A Beautiful Mind with
the top award. Since the beginning of this century the only picture to really
make something distinct of the biopic is the combination of David Fincher and Aaron
Sorkin on The Social Network (at a
pinch I might include The Wolf of Wall
Street, but much of that comes from the subject matter rather than the
screenplay). Selma is a well-made
picture that essays a pivotal moment in the civil rights movement with economy
and occasional power, but it’s no unfairly ignored masterpiece.
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