The Post
(2017)
(SPOILERS) The Post
might be Steven Spielberg’s most prestige-lite filmmaking endeavour yet, a
tick-box exercise that doesn’t do a whole lot wrong (until the last twenty
minutes, at any rate), but feels like it has no true reason to be, and no real inspiration
behind it (other than the evident boy-with-his-trains thrill of showing the
workings of a good old-fashioned printing floor). Spielberg can churn these
worthy, earnest based-on-real-events tales out, and they’ve been his bread and
butter in fishing for critical and peer approval since the mid-80s, but they’ve
only served to underline a mind that prioritises sentimental moralising over
insight, and spoon-feeding, and the entertainer’s instinct, over nuance and
shading (Bradley Whitford said of the director, “There’s a collision of showmanship with material that could otherwise
be very preachy and dry”; the dry part I can buy).
Which isn’t to say he doesn’t often get it nearly right, or
produce very competent, easily digestible pictures, even when hamstrung by his
own aspirations to be more incisive or just plain smarter than he actually is, but
it’s telling that his most successful biographical affairs have tended to foreground
his Peter Pan complex (Empire of the Sun)
or tilt towards the breezier, populist leanings from whence he started out (Catch Me If You Can). There are fine
moments in Munch, Lincoln and Bridge of Spies, but they’re none of them classics. And The Post, even by that straining-for-greatness-but-failing
standard, is merely a solid movie.
It’s one where you can see the Spielberg wheels turning in a
similar manner to his forthcoming remake of West
Side Story (because he’s always hankered after doing a musical, the opening
of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
– the best part of that movie – being as close as he’s got thus far). A movie
about investigative journalism really scratches that All the President’s Men itch (back then, he was content to deliver Jaws crowd-pleasers, and the better filmmaker
for it) and also means he can massage his (mildly) bleeding social conscience,
expressing his (mild-mannered) contempt for the Trump era of #fakenews (the
Washingon Post discussion of The Post is
a good example of assuming the legitimacy of press reports simply because you
don’t like who they’re aimed they’re aimed at; #realnews is effectively the
news you approve of). It also offers him the chance to throw his weight behind
the equality movement in his (mild-mannered) way, presenting Kay Graham (Meryl
Streep) as a feminist poster girl they didn’t know they had. Oh, and it means he gets to shoot Vietnam
footage (the only real good reason for the opening), in New York, because he
doesn’t get about much these days (very Kubrick; see also Kingdom of the Crystal Skull), so he can boast depicting the three big
gun 20th Century conflicts.
The ‘berg famously signed onto the screenplay by newcomer Liz
Hannah, subsequently honed and expanded with Josh Singer (his credits include The West Wing, Fringe, The Fifth Estate
and the far superior Spotlight – so
may be the latter was Tom McCarthy’s influence), and motored into production in
double-quick time (dropping The Kidnapping
of Edgardo Mortara due to an inability to find a suitable young lead), such
that it arrives before Ready Player One,
which he shot first. The story of the Pentagon Papers is sufficiently diverting, sufficiently
movie-worthy, but that’s all it is, at least, on the side of the telling its
director, Singer and Hannah have come down. It could only be a pale shadow, a distant
runner-up, to the big event of Watergate and its peerless dramatization in All
the President’s Men, such that Spielberg essentially invites you to move
onto the main event following the coda, an admission of defeat, if ever there
was one, that this is, at best, an appetiser.
The Post, despite
Spielberg’s protestations to the contrary, is a heavily nostalgic affair, yet it
does occasionally show a glimmer of the potential to be something more than a
paean. While hearkening to a time when telling, and breaking, news really stood
for something, and even instructed change, there is tacit acknowledgement that
the media has always been tied hand
and foot with politics, rubbing shoulders with the seats of power, as the schmoozy
parties held by Kay Graham (Meryl Streep) and the hobnobbing by Ben Bradlee
(Tom Hanks) with Jack and Jackie evidence; it’s an area that might have been
explored further, since it rather leaves one with the impression it was only
this brief window - the glorious ‘70s – where
journalism really stood for anything, before making a sharp retreat.
Had his desire to comment on fake news, and powerfully
corrupt figures in the Oval Office due an imminent ousting – Steven, in his
naivety, counts only the powerfully corrupt figures in the Oval Office as a
problem if they’re Republicans, which is why he’d have been very happy for the
powerfully corrupt Democratic candidate to enter the Whitehouse – not overwhelmed
him, a truly formidable account of the Pentagon Papers might have been forthcoming.
We are, after all, due a rousing story of whistle-blowers blowing whistles for
the greater good, post-Snowden (Oliver Stone’s dreck biopic certainly wasn’t
that), and I was instantly engaged by Matthew Rhys’ performance – I haven’t
seen The Americans, so his was a
refreshingly blank slate – as RAND man Daniel Ellsberg (aided by Anthony Russo,
played here by Sonny Valicenti but very much an incidental presence), found
working as a military analyst for the State Department during the opening Nam
scenes.
Ellsberg’s journey, from PhD graduate with an influential paper
on decision theory to Road to Damascus conversion in respect of the government’s
activity, to coming forward publically following a two-week manhunt and his
subsequent trial, would surely make something more dramatically meaty than the
stew Spielberg et al have cooked up. Ellsberg faced up to 115 years in prison
under the 1917 Espionage Act, but in a signal of further repercussions to come,
the case was declared a mistrial on the grounds that the government had
illegally spied on the whistle-blower (well that
wouldn’t happen today; today they’d legally
spy on the whistle-blower, along with everyone else, and no one would care
either way), breaking into his shrink’s office to try and get some goods on him
and wiretapping him without a court order. There was even a plan by White House
Plumbers to incapacitate Ellsberg at a public rally, dosing him with LSD to
make him look like a hopeless druggie. I guess Snowden figures are passé now, though
(there was a 2009 documentary about Ellsberg, who remains an active activist,
but a recent and thorough doc has never stopped a feature before; right, Bob
Zemeckis?)
Alternatively, the New York Times side of the affair, of the
first impinging of a newspaper’s freedom since Lincoln’s presidency, referenced
in the picture, is also a strong one, but since this project originated with
the desire to showcase Graham’s achievement, and the detail of the Papers came
later, the makers were rather stuck with the less glorious publication but the
more noteworthy characters. Of which, there’s the recognition factor of riding
on All the President’s Men’s
40-year-old coat tails, complete with a new Bradlee in the personable form of
Hanks this time, with the added bonus of the publisher we never got to see that
time.
Except that Hanks, as likeable as he is – and gruff, but
mostly likeable – can’t banish the spectre of the formidable Jason Robards. And
Streep, professional as she is (she can even professionally claim never to have
had an inkling about Harvey’s heinous acts, which is some straight face),
offers a performance alternatively resonant of the scattiness of Florence
Foster Jenkins and the composure of Maggie, suggesting her bag of tricks isn’t,
in fact, limitless (still, that’s no impediment to the Academy recognising her
for the umpteenth time).
Spielberg, despite his continuing professional relationship
with Hanks (five features and counting), and the greater fame of Ben Bradlee,
is respectful enough to Hannah’s intent to position The Post as hinging on Graham’s go ahead to publish the Pentagon
Papers, and this boardroom side of the business probably looked on paper like distinction
enough from that other Washington Post film. Unfortunately, he and his writers rather
blow it.
Not entirely, but following the first time we see Kay
entering an all-male board meeting and being tongue-tied before the gender-biased
(but not nepotism-begrudging) directors. The scene is effective and
squirm-inducing, and tells you all you need to know about the uphill struggle
she faces. So what goes wrong? Kay endures a learning curve that finds her
deferring to trusted chairman Fritz Beebe (Tracy Letts, an excellent piece of
“Now where have I seen him?” casting) before finding her own voice, but Spielberg
then undoes that good work by repeatedly succumbing to the hurdle of “show,
don’t tell” in the sloppiest, soppiest affirmative manner imaginable.
Tony Pinchot Bradlee (Sarah Paulson) delivers an impassioned
sermon to Ben concerning Katharine’s bravery (Tony should know, as this is the
first time in the picture she’s been called upon to do anything but serve
coffee and sandwiches). If we hadn’t already received and understood the
message of ingrained patriarchy and sexism firmly and clearly during that board
meeting, and successively every time Arthur Parsons (Bradley Whitford,
unstinting with the condescension) opens his mouth, Kay follows it up with a
mawkish speech to her daughter (Alison Brie) in the very next scene. After this
point, any moment where Kay stands up to her bullying board members is characterised
as a “You go, girl” moment of the cheapest kind, as if everyone involved has
lost any level of self-respect for the material and the character. It doesn’t
stop there, as Coral Peña’s law intern (for the
prosecuting council, no less) tells Kay how inspirational she is and how proud
she is of all that she has done, and that she should carrying on sticking it to
the man, or rather, to the men. As Kay emerges victorious on to the steps of
the Supreme Court Building, she is met by a throng of women, symbolically
venerating her for her achievement even though they haven’t the faintest idea
who she is. At which point, I was extremely ill. If you treat your audience
patronisingly, like children, then you don’t deserve applause… but I guess you
do merit Best Picture nominations.
If there’s a problem of tone and directorial overkill with
the feminist theme, there are other structural issues that also dampen The Post’s effectiveness. Spielberg
being Spielberg, he cannot resist the lure of coddling the story in the “heartfelt”.
All the President’s Men is so good in
part because it is so honed, so fixed in its’ gaze. The Post has no attention span. Spielberg wants to take it all in,
not least the distinctive domestic arrangements of Graham and Bradlee. After
all, how else do you humanise them? You certainly can’t achieve that by just focussing
on them doing their jobs effectively. Not unless you’re a really good writer or
director, anyway. The consequence is that The
Post dips in and out of focus. Individual scenes are sharp and engaged, and
then we drift off again. The highly talented ensemble cast frequently get short
shrift. Why on earth would you cast the brilliant Carrie Coon and give her
absolutely nothing to do (apart from the thankless task of reeling off the
Supreme Court verdict)? David Cross makes an impression simply by being David
Cross (and making it look like he’s let himself go), while Michael Stuhlbarg is
only noteworthy for having shockingly distractingly-dyed hair. They’re largely
wasted.
A few performers here are given a chance to breathe,
however. Bruce Greenwood continues to deliver the goods flawlessly no matter
what, almost – almost – succeeding in humanising Robert McNamara (in contrast to the depiction here, McNamara had dinner with a NYT columnist the day after the
first publication, telling him he thought they should continue publishing).
Jessie Plemons, ever Matt-Damon-like, is marvellous as the frustrated legal
advisor trying to stave off the Post’s imminent destruction at the hands of an
injunction-happy Government.
And Bob Odenkirk has, in a weaker year, and with a bit more
attention to his subplot, a Best Supporting Actor worthy nomination in the bag
as Ben Bagdikian, embodying shoe leather journalism par excellence as he tracks down Ellsberg and is
tasked with the challenge of bringing two boxes full of documents back to
Washington by air. The makers clearly missed a trick here (again, spreading
yourself too wide, so leaving out the real juicy bits), as Bagdikian, worried
about doing his back in, had to search about for a rope to secure his
materials, had to check the second box as hold luggage, and even – in a moment
the director felt was unbelievable, but surely no less so than beating us
senseless with his inanely amped up progressive message – had a chance meeting with a journo due to
join his team, Stanley Karnow, who wanted to sit next to Ben on the plane and
realised the goldmine he was carrying when Ben’s reluctance became clear (“Got what, Stanley?”) Odenkirk makes the
most of every moment he’s given regardless, be it dropping his change in his
would-be-covert attempts at contacting Ellsberg at a rank of payphones or
attempting to deflect Plemons’ insistent battery of objections.
Spielberg’s at his best dealing with the graft, so he
probably should have stuck more closely to that side. He’s in his element when
the team are pouring over out of order papers (the papers were also incomplete or illegible). In contrast, he rather fumbles the challenge of presenting The
Post as going it alone. They were only ever in second place (Ellsberg leaked
documents to thirteen other newspapers, and Spielberg shows Ben producing supportive
headlines from a brown paper bag on the very same day The Post goes to press, rather
undermining the movie trying to make this look like an achievement of equal
stature to their subsequent Watergate reportage; the Boston Globe published
four days after the Post, duly receiving its own injunction, and the day after that
The Chicago-Sun Times began publishing without Justice Department action, the
day after that further newspapers
followed suit). Other elements, such as the threat posed to the flotation by
Graham’s decision and the actual Nixon tapes providing period punctuation,
don’t feel as if they’ve been integrated with sufficient acumen.
Some of these decisions are evidently made in consciously trying
not to be another All the President’s Men, but the problem
of focussing this story on the same paper and leading figure means that it can’t
help but be compared in the same breath. The
Post is as watchable as you’d expect from Spielberg (ironically, it’s his
popcorn fare that has come a cropper of late; see Indy 4 and The BFG, or
rather, don’t), but his Achilles heel is more pronounced than ever, be it the distraction
of family life sucking the momentum out of the (news) room or the attempts to be
relevant and socially and politically aware coming across as if he’s pleased as
punch at having handed in his school essay project on time, compete with the
thrust of his argument emboldened in red highlighter (further highlighted by
John Williams – my God, that emotive, tinkly piano. Please, make it stop, John).
Spotlight made the case for the
continued relevance of conscientious investigative journalism much more
effectively in a low-key, reserved manner a couple of years ago and won a Best
Picture Oscar for its pains. The only surprise with The Post shouldn’t be that it stands a chance of winning (it
doesn’t) but that it was nominated at all.
Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.
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