There's no way
I can be objective about Steven Spielberg's new biopic.
At its center
is my favorite actor of all-time, a gifted character bard (Daniel
Day-Lewis) who I'd be ecstatic to play the role of a jar of mustard.
Surrounded by an ensemble featuring standouts from some of my
favorite films in recent memory (Tommy Lee Jones-No Country for
Old Men, Jackie Earle Haley-Watchmen, Joseph
Gordon-Levitt-Inception, David Straitharn-Good Night, and
Good Luck, Hal Holbrook-That Evening Sun, Time Blake
Nelson-O Brother, Where art Thou?, Michael Stuhlbarg-A
Serious Man, and the incomparable James Spader), and its promise
of casting a more personal light on arguably America's most mythic
true-to-life character, and there was really no way this movie could
fail. I'd have been pleased, if as Aaron Sorkin suggested he'd do
with his Steve Jobs biopic earlier this week, we'd had Day-Lewis'
Lincoln eating short ribs in the White House kitchen for two and a
half hours.
But Spielberg
knocked my socks off.
Those wanting a
sprawling portrait of the man will be discouraged. For the most part,
Lincoln confines itself to one tumultuous month in American
history. As the film opens, Lincoln has just been re-elected in 1865.
The country remains very much in the throes of the Civil War. Yet
Lincoln's Republican Party (with Holbrook and Jones in major
positions of authority) has just roundly defeated their Democrat
rivals in the chaotic House of Representatives. What unfolds during
the film's lengthy run-time (perhaps my only compliant) is Lincoln's
personal struggle to get the Thirteenth Amendment abolishing slavery
passed through a deeply divided, lame-duck House as the Civil War
limps toward its conclusion. Aside from two chaotic scenes, one at
the beginning of the film and the aftermath of the Petersburg,
Virginia, battle, the war takes a backseat to a display of Lincoln's
political acumen, and his meandering thoughts during the month the
amendment is under discussion in the House.
And that's the
best way to describe Day-Lewis' Lincoln. He is a meandering
intellectual, often draped in a blanket and stooped in thought.
Spielberg shows a particular enthusiasm for a shot directly over
Day-Lewis shoulder, peering into the gaze of those addressing the
president with the familiar stove hat and chin whiskers framing the
shot. This achieves both a narrative and cinematic significance.
Lincoln often appears aloof (so much so that one of his advisers
storms out of the room during a particularly lengthy aside), and by
framing the shot so Spielberg plays up this side of Lincoln's
character. It also allows him to play up the myth of Lincoln while
simultaneously displaying a complex human side in other scenes,
heretofore ignored on the big screen. This seamless transition, from
concerned father to backwoods Kentucky boy to shrewd politician, is
deftly maneuvered by Day-Lewis, who once again puts himself into
Oscar contention with this performance.
Like the man
himself, much of the rest of the film orbits around Lincoln. This is
a political intrigue film, and while the pay-off screams Hollywood
drama to the point of almost becoming a caricature, the craftsmanship
of those that surround Day-Lewis keep the story from going off the
deep end. Straitharn once again plays the wizened compatriot to a
tee, occupying the difficult role of Secretary of State and confidant
William Seward with ease and comfort. Perhaps the brightest surprise
in this cast is James Spader's turn as political consultant/oaf W.N.
Bilbo, replete with grand moustache and political cynicism that keeps
the proceedings light, even as the audience is aware the film is
headed toward a less-than-spectacular end.
Which is where
my main gripe springs forth. Lincoln attempts to do many brave things
with a story that is told in second-grade classrooms nationwide. We
all know what's going to happen. How we get there is intellectually
stimulating (for a politics nerd) and even shocking (a heated scene
between Sally Field's Mary Todd Lincoln and Day-Lewis, scolding her
for a discent into madness that Lincoln, the president, can't succumb
to in order to keep up appearances is perhaps the most tension-filled
and bold decision Spielberg and screenwriter Tony Kushner make in
Lincoln). But the final 20 minutes of the film feel tacked
on.
There are four
or five good ways for the film to end before the well-tread territory
of Ford's Theater. And the decision of how to treat the shooting
involves some sleight-of-hand that isn't apparent to the audience
until after the infamous deed takes place. The decision to jump
around in time, completely in service of providing the expected scene
of Lincoln's death yet also ending on an up-note with the president's
address following the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment, is
jarring, odd and unnecessary in an otherwise thoughtful and intimate
portrait of our most mythic president. For much of the film, it seems
as though Spielberg is trying to tear down that wall of fame that
separates us from a man who, as Field's first lady tells us, is
defined by the challenges he had to face in office and his dramatic
assassination. Instead of leaving us with an enduring image of
Lincoln the man, we are given one final image of Lincoln the god as
the credits roll. It's a small nit to pick in a film that bravely
charts a course into well-trod territory, tying together themes and
ideas we thought understood and put to bed 150 years ago.
Verdict: 4.5/5
stars
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