Darkest Hour
(2017)
(SPOILERS) Watching Joe Wright’s return to the rarefied
plane of prestige – and heritage to boot – filmmaking following the execrable
folly of the panned Pan, I was struck
by the difference an engaged director, one who cares about his characters,
makes to material. Only last week, Ridley Scott’s serviceable All the Money in the World made for a pointed
illustration of strong material in the hands of someone with no such
investment, unless they’re androids. Wright’s dedication to a relatable Winston
Churchill ensures that, for the first hour-plus, Darkest Hour is a first-rate affair, a piece of myth-making that barely
puts a foot wrong. It has that much in common with Wright’s earlier Word War II
tale, Atonement. But then, like Atonement, it comes unstuck.
Wright’s greatest successes have resulted from his
excursions into British history or literature, his gift to them being a rare
visual acumen and disinclination towards starchy reverence. This can be his
undoing – the stage trappings he inflicted on Anna Karenina – but with a story as talky and potentially hidebound
as Darkest Hour, it’s a godsend. The
first act and a half of the film crackle with energy, and the screenplay from
Anthony McCarten (The Theory of
Everything and, er, Worzel Gummidge
Down Under) excels at positioning Churchill as the reluctantly requested
underdog, disliked by his party and regent and only ushered into office because
he’s the sole Tory the Labour party, offering a coalition under the
understanding of the threat of a greater foe, will accept.
So we get to know a difficult man through those he impacts most
upon, each skilfully sketched such that you know just where they do or don’t
stand in relation to our protagonist, how they will help or hinder his mountain
to climb. Even Lily James’ predictable audience-identification figure,
secretary Elizabeth Layton, offers a degree of variation – a scene in which Churchill
shows her the Map Room and she is overcome at the sight of pins representing
the brave boys in France looks on the face of it like unearned emoting, until a
later exchange reveals that she has lost a brother there – and her reactions
form agreeable comic interludes, be it Churchill announcing he is leaving the
bathroom “in a state of nature” or her
instructing him on the meaning of his Victory sign as initially presented – although
she inevitably slips into the status of bystander once all eyes are on her
boss.
Kristin Scott Thomas, who it’s still impossible to see and
countenance that Hugh Grant went with Andie McDowall in Four Weddings and a Funeral, colours in a hugely affectionate image
of Mr and Mrs Churchill’s domestic life, one of heavy drinking and near bankruptcy.
And then there’s Churchill’s opposition, in the form of
Viscount Halifax (Stephen Dillane), initially hot favourite to replace Neville
Chamberlain (a marvellous Ronald Pickup, who took the role when John Hurt was forced to drop out),
both dead set on a suing for peace and supported in said goal by King George VI
(in contrast to everything else I’ve ever seen him in, I didn’t even realise it
was Ben Mendelsohn until afterwards).
This is, of course, propaganda filmmaking at its most pronounced,
the purpose being to underpin the war PM’s iconic status. To that end, Darkest Hour only underscores
Chamberlain the appeaser – some have reappraised his tactics as effectively fighting
for time while Britain’s military strength was rebuilt, while perhaps the most
notable legacy of the Munich Agreement is the subsequent appropriation of the
spectre of appeasement to justify various unjustifiable interventions and
campaigns “lest there are similar tyrannical consequences” – feeding into the
unfortunate broad strokes of the last third of the picture. It also makes it
crucially clear that Chamberlain failed in an area his successor excelled: at
rhetoric (it’s pretty much the last thing Halifax, who is portrayed as biding
his time to make the right usurping move, begrudgingly admits after the famous “We shall fight on the beaches” address).
The picture addresses Churchill’s flaws as foibles that maketh
the man, be they his drinking (“Practice”
he responds, when the King asks how he manages to partake during the day), or
being out of depth in face of new military tactics and advances (and noting but
not dwelling on his previous military campaign failures), in particular during
a meeting with the French Prime Minister, but willing to make the hard
decisions when others wilt (the Siege of Calais). He’s a constant wit, even on
the job (“Tell the lord privy seal I am
sealed in my privy, and can only take one shit at a time”), but burdened by
the inexorable pressure of the job (blackness surrounds the isolated premier deep
beneath Whitehall, pushing in from either side; the claustrophobia is palpable
as he calls Roosevelt, begging for a bone) and the ticking clock of mounting
casualties across the Channel (a visual coup from Wright, occasionally prone to
overdoing his CGI-assisted overhead shots, sees a German bombing run,
decimating the landscape, dissolve into the prone body of a soldier).
Where the picture goes wrong is in rebuilding the man after
his hour of crisis. There’s serious doubt that Churchill vacillated in the
manner depicted over the prospect of making peace, thrust upon him by Halifax
and Chamberlain, who calculated a point-blank refusal would force him out of
office. In narrative terms, however, it’s a necessary manoeuvre, designed to humanise
the leader and reveal openness and empathy as an antidote to the image of the remote
politician, out of touch with the people and doing his own bloody thing with
wanton disregard. So he gets on the Tube and listens to the common people, and
has his instincts reinforced as he rediscovers his right stuff. Hurrah.
Except that this conceit, “a fictionalisation of an ‘emotional truth’” as Wright puts it,
entirely lets the air out of the room, from which the picture never really recovers.
It comes on the heels of an oddly positioned – in that it should bolster Churchill’s
confidence enough that he doesn’t need an additional boost from going walkabout
with the proletariat – visit from George VIII, whose change of allegiance is
insufficiently motivated and, more damagingly, brandishes the apparently
baseless assertion that Hitler is afraid of the PM.
The underground scene plays shamelessly as ennobling the
character, venerating his expansive, inclusive insight and heroism in a way
that’s entirely ill-fitting and unearned; the scene is rote and trite,
undermining everything that has come before. Wright admitted “you have to be very careful with all that
stuff” and he wasn’t wrong. You can still make your point with a
conflicting portrait of someone who does positive things as well as being fundamentally
flawed, without resorting to abject misrepresentation. It certainly helps if
you want to maintain a modicum of self-respect. The revisionism of this
sequence invites the opening of a can of worms Darkest Hour might otherwise have avoided through keeping its
ambitions close to its chest.
Churchill is thus re-characterised as liberal and
progressive, and in so doing Wright and McCarten insult their audience; this
isn’t a piece of fluff like The Greatest
Showman, where no one was going to mistake – or shouldn’t have – a musical
about PT Barnum as an accurate representation of the real thing. Its
particularly galling that Wright goes to such lengths to have the picture’s
solitary black character move into frame to take up the PM’s vacated seat, hanging
adoringly just out of focus on his every word and receiving admiring approval
for completing his quotation.
It’s an elementary level attempt to salve a man who, after all, enjoyed his role in “a lot of jolly
little wars against barbarous peoples”, who considered that “the Aryan stock is bound to triumph”,
was strongly in favour of using poison gas on uncivilised tribes, considered
Indians “a beastly people with a beastly religion” and whose doctor opined,
in respect of his views of other races “Winston
thinks only of the colour of their skin”. No, you can’t expect a fictional
account to pay the staunchest fidelity to facts, but the scene, quite besides
being abject in its sentimentalising and manipulation, begs a stern “Well,
actually…” for brazenly attempting to palm off a completely antithetical
viewpoint.
Darkest Hour’s
intention subsequently is to lift Churchill aloft on a wave of affirmative
decisions, his rallying speech to his peers preceding his crucial one to
parliament regarding the Dunkirk retreat, but Wright uncharacteristically lets
both fall flat. Where the earlier scene, in which Chamberlain initiates a
frosty reception to the first speech of the new PM, is electric with tension, this
one, soaring on uplifting strings and receiving rapturous applause, flounders
leadenly.
The picture also stumbles in its attentiveness to the veil
of propaganda its lead character draws across the country. Darkest Hour is a propaganda piece about a leader already raised to
iconic stature subsequently – not least through speeches re-recorded in the
‘50s that have been commonly mistaken for the real thing – one that implicitly
endorses the use of “just” propaganda, and it simply isn’t sharp enough to address
those multiple levels. There’s no sense of a serious debate over whether you
should lie to the people – Clementine merely has to persuade her doubtful husband
it’s necessary, while Chamberlain and Halifax are simply spineless appeasers
– and the admission that oratory will always
win the day isn’t enough to claim a successful exploration of the theme. Or, to
put it another way, it’s about as successful as the filmmakers questioning their
own fabrications in the service of further mythologising this figure.
The figure himself, though. It’s a magnificent performance
from Gary Oldman, under shrouds of prosthetics that don’t remotely disguise him,
but which never seem less than “authentic”. It’s undoubtedly a gift, as showy
roles go, one where he gets to run the gamut of emotions, and thus sits understandably
at the Lincoln end of the awards-baiting spectrum (for my money I continue to
favour his George Smiley, and if he wins on March 4, Churchill may well be the “career
achievement” one they say in hindsight was deserved but not the most deserved). Of course, he needs to
avoid having his personal life and statements damagingly headlined between now
and then. Casey Affleck snuck through unscathed last year, leading to Oscar sort-of
glory, while James Franco is already scuppered this. I expect Oldman’s personal spin machine is currently running
overtime.
Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.
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