12 Angry
Men
(1957)
Sidney
Lumet’s seminal jury drama, initially broadcast as a TV play, then adapted to
stage, and only then to the movies, was a box office disappointment, as many a classic
has been. Henry Fonda’s angelically-suited architect gradually chips away at an
otherwise unanimous guilty verdict, to the particular annoyance of Lee J Cobb’s
combustible businessman.
It would be
difficult to argue that Reginald Rose’s screenplay isn’t on the schematic side,
a parade of conveniently placed insights, speculations and turns of persuasion,
but, crucially, it is dramatically satisfying for all that; vital, impassioned
and fundamentally sincere in professing to the profound duty and responsibility
of those involved, who observe varying degrees of diligence towards their
appointed task. Each character is expertly etched in broad strokes, and leaves
a tangible impression.
Still,
there are moments along the way where you do
begin to share the frustration of Cobb’s Juror 3 at this bunch of (mostly) easily-swayed
sheep, whose facility to change opinion is really at the behest of the
strongest alpha male, rather than deep-seated conviction. Even the unmoved Cobb
is revealed to be as rigid as he is in his views due to personal investment
rather than certitude over the facts (his position is merely down to
disappointment with his son). It might have been a more challenging piece if
there had been a sincere opinion opposing Fonda’s that carried (E.G. Marshall’s
Juror 4 almost succeeds at this, stumbling at the logic of wearing one’s eyeglasses
to bed).
Indeed, one
comes away with the nagging suspicion that any given case might be dissected this
way, by amateur sleuths or personally uninvested parties, such that it is
entirely feasible to break down a subjective reality when examined partially
under the spotlight. Of course, that may be part of the point; the approach
taken by Fonda and his fellow doubters would apparently have led to a mistrial
in a real life situation, and one might, on the basis of his attitude, apply
reasonable doubt in almost any trial. Which, when the death penalty is in the
offing, might be seen as entirely reasonable.
This is Lumet
at his best, a cracking chamber piece populated by fine actors who look like
actual people rather than movie stars (including Jack Warden, Martin Balsam, and
Ed Begley), sweaty men butting heads and trying to make sense of their
microcosm. At times the theatricality of gestures speaks to its era (Juror 10’s
bigoted outburst leading to the jurors removing themselves to carefully marked
positons about the room), but the sheer vibrancy, passion and energy of the proceedings
make it remarkably timeless (one wonders if Spielberg had the espoused purity
of motive in mind when making Bridge of
Spies). This was Lumet’s first big screen picture, and it remains one of
his best, although it’s also well worth checking out his later court-based
picture The Verdict.
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