J. Edgar falls short of its aims

When a film that plays so transparently to Academy voters falls short of its aims, it’s hard to muster up much in the way of sympathy. Starring Leonardo DiCaprio and helmed by screen icon and veteran director Clint Eastwood, J. Edgar might be the most compelling cautionary tale in recent years to warn of the potential pitfalls of unchecked Oscar aspirations.

J. Edgar tells a story about — not to be confused with “the story of” — J. Edgar Hoover, longtime head of the Bureau of Investigation, the agency he shaped into the FBI we know today. His obsession with national security was legendary and his disregard for privacy — notorious.

Academy Award-winner Dustin Lance Black’s script certainly invites criticism for the apparently gratuitous license Black takes in selectively incorporating verifiable fact and simple, if pervasive, speculation; Hoover’s public life and (ironically) well-documented accomplishments didn’t inspire J. Edgar nearly as much as did the more salacious rumors surrounding the man’s personal life. Much of the story concerns intimate details of Hoover’s relationships with his mother Annie (Judi Dench) and his right-hand man in the bureau, Clyde Tolson (Armie Hammer).

The portrait Black paints unambiguously insinuates that Hoover was a conflicted mama’s boy who, for fear of disappointing his mother, kept his true sexual orientation secret his entire life. As a character, J. Edgar Hoover offers an actor a tremendous opportunity to explore restrained emotionality and repressed feelings, and even as experienced an actor as DiCaprio would be warranted in feeling intimidated by the challenge of unpacking Hoover’s complex psychology.

Audiences learn details of Hoover’s early career and about the growth of the bureau through a structured frame story, initiating a number of engaging stories, many of which seemed to fall by the wayside as the film became increasingly focused on Hoover’s relationship with his second in command, Tolson.

The young Hoover of 1919 to whom we’re introduced is forever changed by the ineffectual forensic handling of a Bolshevik bombing, occurring in a time when collecting evidence took a back seat to sweeping up and hosing down the crime scene.

The scenes at once set up Hoover’s career-spanning paranoia over threats to national security as well as his meticulous attention to detail and scientific-mindedness — under Hoover, the FBI completely revolutionized crime scene evidence collection, a matter that was only addressed superficially as it took a back seat to Hoover and Tolson’s relationship.

J. Edgar leaves a few questions unanswered, although none related to unresolved story issues. The question of why it was decided that four-inch-thick facial prosthetics that left DiCaprio’s and Hammer’s faces every bit as lifeless as any Madame Tussaud creation was a good idea isn’t the most troubling of these questions, but it’s certainly the most distracting.

A better question might include how could any filmmaker so grossly underutilize talented actresses, such as Naomi Watts, who plays Hoover’s trusted secretary of nearly half a century Helen Gandy, as well as that great Dame, Judi Dench, who, despite having one dramatically charged conversation with her son late in the film, is lamentably one-note throughout.

Another question might relate to how Hoover’s penchant for illegal wiretapping was not figured more centrally in the film — after all, extraordinary surveillance practically defines Hoover’s legacy.

But it’s unfair to judge a film for something it isn’t, or things it didn’t set out to do. Black, who also wrote 2008’s Milk, was inarguably fixated on Hoover’s relationships, however, so one glaring oversight stands out as particularly inexcusable.

For a movie that purports to offer a psychological exploration of J. Edgar Hoover (it certainly makes no pretense of being a historical record), failing to explain how Hoover managed to inspire the curious levels of commitment and loyalty he did in others is a significant oversight.

Pay no attention to the fact that Eastwood’s vision of the ’20s aesthetically resembles the stylized stillness of a Frank Miller graphic novel adaptation, or the fact that DiCaprio goes through more accents in J. Edgar than Kristen Wiig in a typical taping of Saturday Night Live.

Overall, J. Edgar is a beautifully shot period drama that won’t be forgotten come awards season. But considering the veritable constellation of stars involved with the project behind and in front of the camera, audiences wouldn’t be in the wrong for expecting better.