The Bishop on Good Night, and Good Luck
It is perhaps difficult for those who were not around—or present—at the time to appreciate an America in the grip of two red terrors—communism, in the form of the Soviet Bloc, and conservatism, in the form of Republican senator Joseph McCarthy. Among those too young to understand fully that time and place the Bishop must include himself—and, unfortunately, still must after taking in Good Night, and Good Luck.
There is an obvious parallel between George Clooney—who directs, co-wrote, and appears in Good Night, and Good Luck—and Robert Redford, who, though he tends not to appear in his own films, followed a strikingly similar star-cum-filmmaker path. In this case—beyond the duo’s similar good looks and public appeal—the parallel is well drawn. As with Redford in his better films—Ordinary People, Quiz Show—Clooney shows no lack of cadence with the camera; but, like Redford, he reveals no particular gift with it, either. As one might expect if, say, the works of Checkov were literally filmed—and in somewhat similar style to Clooney’s own acting—there is a charismatic directness to his choices: not understatement, but simply statement. Yet, unlike Checkov, his simplicity of presentation has no core; it is not in the service of the unexpected depths of life.
His writing (with Grant Heslov) is, again, agreeable, but without vigour. It is also—and this is the root of the problem—unfocused. As we enter the film, we spend perhaps two minutes circling—sans dialogue—a gathering of broadcast journalists—but the scene does little more than tell us that we are watching a film, and that the people there are having, more or less, a good time. From there we cut—via a speech by the picture’s central figure, journalist Edward R. Murrow—into the meat of the film; but here, again, there does not seem to be a story to follow.
The situation: Joe McCarthy, the Junior Senator for Wisconsin* is reaching the height of his anti-communist Senate hearings. Murrow, a journalist whose principles would normally eschew editorialising, is compelled to act when he believes the Senator has gone too far. Yet despite his own decision to step carefully over the journalistic Maginot Line, his straight-faced journalistic approach behooves him to simply present the facts, and let McCarthy damn himself. As commentary on modern-day broadcast news practice, the point is quietly clear—and well-taken—and one can’t help but hark back to a day when a newsman (and a senator) would quote Shakespeare—as well as enjoying that most civilized of recreations, a smoke—on camera. And yet we garner little understanding of these men—Murrow or McCarthy (playing himself via original footage)—their cut-and-thrust, or what it was like to be there at the time. Clooney should be praised for—like Murrow—refusing to editorialise, or invent drama, but surely there must have been some drama there to be found. Even if it is only there to say, as is more often than not the case, that sometimes the result is a draw, and that’s what happened here.
The players are all sufficient, which is all they can be—though the Bishop passes up no opportunity to praise the underrated Jeff Daniels and will do so again here. David Strathairn, as Murrow, is as authentic as the real McCarthy, but he is not properly a character and this is not properly a performance. Just two pieces of casting—and their related sub-plots—deserve comment. Ray Wise plays Don Hollenbeck, a journalist accused of communist sympathies who, under the stress, kills himself. Wise plays the role intimately, with an almost effeminate nervousness, but his fear seems, as must surely not have been the case, to come out of nowhere. Once again, there is no A-to-B, no invitation to discover why. And a romantic diversion involving the marriage of Joe and Shirley Wershba (Robert Downey Jr and Patricia Clarkson) seems mostly to have been left on the cutting room floor. There is nothing wrong with their performances, but given their scenes seem to have been included to take the running time from eighty to eighty-six minutes, perhaps Clooney might simply have dispensed with the whole thing.
*This full title is used repeatedly throughout the film, and presumably in Murrow’s original broadcasts. The Bishop wonders if Murrow, and now Clooney, were making one small nod to rhetoric in continuing to note—legitimately, if unnecessarily—McCarthy’s non-senior status.
There is an obvious parallel between George Clooney—who directs, co-wrote, and appears in Good Night, and Good Luck—and Robert Redford, who, though he tends not to appear in his own films, followed a strikingly similar star-cum-filmmaker path. In this case—beyond the duo’s similar good looks and public appeal—the parallel is well drawn. As with Redford in his better films—Ordinary People, Quiz Show—Clooney shows no lack of cadence with the camera; but, like Redford, he reveals no particular gift with it, either. As one might expect if, say, the works of Checkov were literally filmed—and in somewhat similar style to Clooney’s own acting—there is a charismatic directness to his choices: not understatement, but simply statement. Yet, unlike Checkov, his simplicity of presentation has no core; it is not in the service of the unexpected depths of life.
His writing (with Grant Heslov) is, again, agreeable, but without vigour. It is also—and this is the root of the problem—unfocused. As we enter the film, we spend perhaps two minutes circling—sans dialogue—a gathering of broadcast journalists—but the scene does little more than tell us that we are watching a film, and that the people there are having, more or less, a good time. From there we cut—via a speech by the picture’s central figure, journalist Edward R. Murrow—into the meat of the film; but here, again, there does not seem to be a story to follow.
The situation: Joe McCarthy, the Junior Senator for Wisconsin* is reaching the height of his anti-communist Senate hearings. Murrow, a journalist whose principles would normally eschew editorialising, is compelled to act when he believes the Senator has gone too far. Yet despite his own decision to step carefully over the journalistic Maginot Line, his straight-faced journalistic approach behooves him to simply present the facts, and let McCarthy damn himself. As commentary on modern-day broadcast news practice, the point is quietly clear—and well-taken—and one can’t help but hark back to a day when a newsman (and a senator) would quote Shakespeare—as well as enjoying that most civilized of recreations, a smoke—on camera. And yet we garner little understanding of these men—Murrow or McCarthy (playing himself via original footage)—their cut-and-thrust, or what it was like to be there at the time. Clooney should be praised for—like Murrow—refusing to editorialise, or invent drama, but surely there must have been some drama there to be found. Even if it is only there to say, as is more often than not the case, that sometimes the result is a draw, and that’s what happened here.
The players are all sufficient, which is all they can be—though the Bishop passes up no opportunity to praise the underrated Jeff Daniels and will do so again here. David Strathairn, as Murrow, is as authentic as the real McCarthy, but he is not properly a character and this is not properly a performance. Just two pieces of casting—and their related sub-plots—deserve comment. Ray Wise plays Don Hollenbeck, a journalist accused of communist sympathies who, under the stress, kills himself. Wise plays the role intimately, with an almost effeminate nervousness, but his fear seems, as must surely not have been the case, to come out of nowhere. Once again, there is no A-to-B, no invitation to discover why. And a romantic diversion involving the marriage of Joe and Shirley Wershba (Robert Downey Jr and Patricia Clarkson) seems mostly to have been left on the cutting room floor. There is nothing wrong with their performances, but given their scenes seem to have been included to take the running time from eighty to eighty-six minutes, perhaps Clooney might simply have dispensed with the whole thing.
*This full title is used repeatedly throughout the film, and presumably in Murrow’s original broadcasts. The Bishop wonders if Murrow, and now Clooney, were making one small nod to rhetoric in continuing to note—legitimately, if unnecessarily—McCarthy’s non-senior status.
posted by Salisbury at 3:44 pm
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