The Pledge; Thirteen Days

The Pledge  

Beginning way back in 1931 with Fritz Lang's M, the child-murderer has provided an ultimate problem for filmmakers, who look at that most repulsive of criminals for some image of ourselves. Sean Penn's new effort, I'm surprised but delighted to report, can share a megaplex with the great German film any time. Of course, since it is based on a novel by the Swiss Friedrich Dürrenmatt, it has a Germanic connection. The connection between two of Madonna's husbands—her ex, Penn, and her current, Ritchie—both having films released in the same week, I'll leave for someone else to analyze (especially since Ritchie's film has a title which may or may not be appropriate for our family-friendly freenet, but since he is Mr. Madonna, it probably isn't.)

While the earlier film focused on the murderer (spookily played by Peter Lorre), the current film not only keeps Detective Jerry Black, the policeman-protagonist (Jack Nicholson) under scrutiny, it tears deeply into his mind and soul as he faces and deals with the murder of a little girl. Black does not believe that the chief suspect (Benicio Del Toro), who confesses to the crime, is the murderer.

As Black delays his retirement to investigate this last case (Seven, anyone?), he makes an almost allegorical quest among bruised and broken folks played by some very impressive actors (Helen Mirren, Vanessa Redgrave, Mickey Rourke, and Dean Stanton). Then, with the appearance of a waitress and young mother (Robin Wright Penn), we seem to be able to breathe fresh air again, well, to take one breath, before Nicholson and director Penn, drag us further along their obsessive way.

This is a film that I want to rave and rave about, but, frankly, I'm having to slap myself on the wrists even as I type this (quite a challenge) to make sure that I have not given away one detail too many. One detail that I can give away is that this is Nicholson's film from beginning to end, and it records possibly the greatest performance he has ever given, as he tears out territory on the edge of sanity and salvation, despair and damnation, that not even he has ever explored. This is not a film for everyone, please be assured, but it is a film that will, I hope, be with us for a long time. And, speaking of a long time, this is one film that justifies itself every minute of its runtime, unlike... hmm....

Thirteen Days  

It's hard to create much suspense when we already know what happened. And, I assume, most of the audience knows that the United States and the Soviet Union did not go to war in October 1962; the Eastern Seaboard is not in ruins. So, that's the first problem with Thirteen Days. Oh, and it is also hard to sustain suspense across two and a half-hours, but, hey, this is a Kevin (Waterworld) Costner project.

While we in the audience feel no suspense, the film does create the moods and tensions of the country and the White House during the two-week standoff between the United States and the Soviet Union. Mainly, the tension boils down to the question of how the United States would or could respond to the presence of Soviet missiles in Cuba. Too mild a response, and the Soviets could make the first strike; too strong, and they might invade Berlin.

That sort of either/or issue wears thin long before the film lets it go. Perhaps the most intriguing part of the film is in the behind-the-scenes dealing and wheeling with the Soviet Union, so that all the people involved could save face... and, while they were at it, save Western civilization as we know it.

Costner plays—so the film focuses on—O'Donnell, a relatively minor Kennedy friend and advisor. Making that character the center of attention sometimes puts the events a little out of kilter. Who gets the blame for the excruciating length of this project—Costner as producer or Donaldson as director—I don't know, but there is plenty of blame and time for blame for both. There is too much padding, with file footage and awkward bits with O'Donnell's family.

I ultimately judge a film on a rather elusive quality that I call "movieness."  I may not be able to tell you what that is, but I surely know what it isn't, and there isn't anything very movie-ish about this movie. I had trouble keeping up with all the white boys in dark suits and bad haircuts, finally trying to tell them apart by remembering which one drank coffee and which whiskey. The flat, trying-to-be taut style feels more like a documentary—right down to the characters’ names being shown on the screen when they first appear—or even an Oliver Stone reject than a very big budget film.