3.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity and brief strong violence
By Derrick Bang
A few iconic women have become
popular staples in Hollywood dramas; consider the number of actresses, over the
years, who’ve portrayed Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth I and Marilyn Monroe.
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| Having decided upon a lavish funeral procession that she feels will suitably honor her late husband, Jackie Kennedy (Natalie Portman) suddenly has last-minute doubts, which she shares with brother-in-law Bobby Kennedy (Peter Sarsgaard). |
And, more recently, Jacqueline
Bouvier Kennedy.
Previous Jackies have been played
by Blair Brown, Jacqueline Bisset and Katie Holmes, none of whom comes close to
the ferocious intensity and shattered vulnerability depicted here by Natalie
Portman. Her performance is so painfully raw that, more than once, we feel like
uncomfortable voyeurs, intruding on a grief-stricken woman’s privacy during the
worst few days of her life.
Portman’s starring role is by far
the best part of Jackie, which marks
the mainstream American debut of famed Chilean filmmaker Pablo Larraín. His
approach is known to be uncompromising, with a grim, take-no-prisoners approach
certain to raise eyebrows ... or, in some cases, unapologetically offend.
Many viewers will feel that he
has done the latter here.
Noah Oppenheim’s script is
unusual, even challenging, in its depiction of Jackie Kennedy during the
turbulent few days immediately following her husband’s death: specifically,
from the assassination on Nov. 22, 1963, to the massive funeral and procession
that took place the following Monday morning. The details in between unfold in
a blur of flashbacks and cross-cutting, Larraín and Oppenheim deftly conveying
the confusion and shock that followed this national tragedy.
Jackie essentially tells her own
story via a series of narrative devices: during a lengthy — and at times quite
brittle — interview with a never-named journalist (Billy Crudup), who does his
best to suss out the “real” Jackie; during a confessional conversation with a
priest (John Hurt) just prior to the state funeral; and during anguished
conversations with the only two people she trusts, U.S. Attorney General Bobby
Kennedy (Peter Sarsgaard) and White House social secretary Nancy Tuckerman
(Greta Gerwig).
These revelatory exchanges are
blended further with re-created clips from the TV special A Tour of the White House, with Mrs. John F. Kennedy, hosted by CBS
News correspondent Charles Collingwood, and broadcast on Feb. 14, 1962: the
first-ever First Lady-led, televised tour of the White House — Jackie recently
having renovated and restored the mansion — which was seen by 80 million
viewers in 50 countries.
The latter sequences — given
fuzzy, black-and-white authenticity by cinematographer Stépane Fontaine — show
an entirely different Jackie: nervous, stiff, camera shy but determined to
share (and justify) the $2 million spent to bring this presidential palace back
to its original luster.
It’s also the narrative touch
that establishes the film’s theme. Jackie clearly viewed that TV special as
emblematic of her legacy as First Lady, just as she obsesses over details —
immediately following the President’s assassination — in order to properly preserve his legacy.
Because, as she establishes early
in the film, nobody remembers U.S. presidents James Garfield or William
McKinley for anything beyond their own assassinations ... and Jackie wants to
make very sure that her late husband’s heritage doesn’t suffer a similar
single-note fate.
Such resolve leads to
increasingly angry conversations with Bobby and White House news liaison Jack
Valenti (Max Casella), as she gradually formulates plans for a state funeral
that would become the largest such gathering of presidents, prime ministers and
royalty since the 1910 funeral of Britain’s King Edward VII.
(As history has shown, she
needn’t have worried. But nobody could have anticipated, at that time, how
Kennedy would be revered today.)
Although demanding careful
attention, to know when and where we are in this narrative time stream, these
various interludes allow Portman to focus on distinct facets of Jackie’s
personality. The exchanges with Crudup are the most fun, Portman’s steely
resolve sharply deflecting the journalist’s numerous attempts to penetrate his
subject’s reserve, and to persuade her — with limited success — that opening up
even a little will make her seem more
accessible to his readers.
We feel for Crudup, his
expression increasingly resigned as each investigative thrust is met with one
of Jackie’s disapproving parries. The dynamic soon resembles that of an
authoritarian grade-school teacher frequently forced to reprimand a bright but
impertinent student.
In Hurt’s presence, by way of
contrast, Portman becomes uncertain, conflicted and riddled with doubt: Who is
she, to insist upon so much, during such a crisis? During these exchanges,
Jackie’s well-bred, Mid-Atlantic accent becomes even more pronounced (Portman
deftly nailing every upper-class syllable).
It’s perhaps ironic that
Portman’s most powerful — and heartbreaking — scenes occur in total silence:
when she’s able to be alone late at night, in the White House’s cavernous halls
and rooms, obsessively and pointlessly changing from one lavish outfit to
another, while trying to drown her sorrows in an alcoholic haze. These sequences
are heartbreaking, Portman conveying the silent anguish of a woman who —
despite fully comprehending that the nation has lost a president — wants
everybody to know, as well, that she has lost a beloved husband.
Sarsgaard is similarly strong as
Bobby Kennedy, his face a continual display of grief, fatigue and chagrin. We
intuitively understand, via Sarsgaard’s richly subtle performance, that Bobby understands
what has been lost, in terms of all the populist achievements that, now, never
will take place.
Gerwig walks an engaging fine
line as Tuckerman: on the one hand appropriately fussy over details, while
meticulously crafting Jackie’s public persona; on the other, a warmly
sympathetic friend whose selfless behavior arises from genuine devotion. Would
that we all could be blessed with a Nancy Tuckerman in our lives.
John Carroll Lynch’s shading of
Lyndon B. Johnson isn’t entirely flattering; there’s little doubt that he
regards the funeral details — and particularly Jackie’s participation in same —
as irritating distractions that are delaying his ascension to the throne. Beth
Grant’s beady-eyed Lady Bird Johnson is similarly unsympathetic; alongside
Portman’s refined Jackie, both look and behave like boorish hicks.
Richard E. Grant is memorably
kind and perceptively sympathetic in his brief appearances as William Walton,
the journalist and painter who became one of President Kennedy’s closest
friends and confidantes. And, finally, Caspar Phillipson is eerily on target as
John F. Kennedy himself.
The production design and set
decoration are superb, Jean Rabasse and Véronique Melery placing us inside the
White House — and amid the surrounding environs — with a degree of authenticity
that feels very much like an updated version of Jackie’s 1962 television
special.
Regrettably, all of this
behind-the-scenes finery — along with Portman’s masterful performance — are
eclipsed, ultimately, by Larraín’s misguided decision to rub our noses in every
gory detail of the actual assassination. During these few brief moments,
Larraín wallows in a level of unnecessarily exploitative gore-porn unseen since
the equally unpalatable flaying sequence in Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ.
The result isn’t merely
offensive; it’s shamefully disrespectful. And it distorts the entire film.
The rational is easy to guess:
Larraín and Oppenheim felt this was necessary, in order to depict the magnitude
of horror that Jackie confronted, on that early afternoon in Dallas. But to
resort to such needless excess betrays a lack of trust in Portman’s thespic
skill; I’m quite certain she could have conveyed the necessary shock and
chagrin all on her own, reacting to something off-camera, and just beyond our
vision. The gratuitous overkill is unwarranted.
Larraín’s film succeeds far
better during its moments of quiet irony, as with the many times that snatches
of the soundtrack album to Broadway’s production of Camelot are heard, with Richard Burton intoning the memorable
phrase: “Don’t let it be forgot ... that once there was a spot ... for one,
brief, shining moment ... that was known as Camelot.”
A shame, really, for so much fine
work to be undone by such a lurid splash of blood, bone and brain matter.
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