Few Americans have led lives as influential or controversial as the longtime director of the F.B.I, J. Edgar Hoover.  Why is it then that no one can seem to make a decent movie about the man?

Clint Eastwood is the latest director to try, and his ambitious biography (written by Dustin Lance Black, who penned Milk a few years ago) at least isn’t as sleazy as earlier pictures.  Lensed in a monochromatic color scheme that instantly dates the film as a time capsule, J. Edgar is like a “greatest hits” chronology of the lawman’s most notorious exploits.  Ultimately, though, the film fails because it lacks a strong perspective about the man and his deeds.  Sometimes Hoover is heroic; sometimes he is monstrous.  That dichotomy should make J. Edgar Hoover a larger-than-life character, but in this story he seems trapped by his own frailties.  The film seems afraid to take a stand on him, and critical judgment (perspective), either good or bad, is absolutely necessary in this case.  David Lean knew how to present a central enigma and still elicit feelings about him (see Lawrence of Arabia as proof of this), but Eastwood shrouds his central character in dime store psychology, old age makeup and critical disinterest.

Leonardo DiCaprio is often quite effective as Hoover, especially in Hoover’s early years.  As Hoover ages and the makeup thickens, so does the melodrama.  The film does not shy away from Hoover’s secretive private life, but it cannot be explicit because Hoover was so secretive.  Extrapolations can certainly be made, but no one really knows who or what the lonely man really loved.

J. Edgar isn’t a bad film, but it is curiously uninspired.  It’s a movie about a very public figure that acknowledges that figure’s importance but creates no real emotion about him.  Other than DiCaprio’s performance, there is nothing to recommend about it, and that’s a shame.  ✰ ✰.  29 Nov. 2011.