Though I found myself surprised by how affected I was by "War Horse," Steven Spielberg's last live-action film, it received harsh and, in retrospect, justified criticism for playing like a "Spielberg's greatest hits," a movie packed with everything from meticulously-staged and period-accurate battle scenes to twilight silhouettes of a hero against a bright orange sky, all buried under what could be composer John Williams' most emotionally manipulative and dramatically intrusive score. So how does the most commercially successful director in the history of film follow that up? With the stunning "Lincoln," a film that on paper would seem like another in a line of obvious Spielberg choices but one that surprises in almost every aspect imaginable. In fact, just about anything you can think of as a classic Spielbergian film maneuver is approached in a fresh and arresting way. It is a talky film from a master of action. A war film that shows little war. A panoramic story that zooms in to such a small amount of time that it is unexpected and even shocking.
Aided by thorough research, fresh approaches to directorial choices and transcendent performances, "Lincoln" belongs in the Spielberg firmament and is easily his best work since "Munich."
I decided not to read much about "Lincoln" before attending an advance screening of the film, so I suspect that one of the things that surprised me most about it won't be a surprise to most audiences once the film is released, particularly not if you are about to read the next few sentences. But I entered the film not knowing specifically what Spielberg's scope would be in terms of storytelling. I figured the movie would only cover his presidency and nothing of his life before that time. I was wrong. It's even more narrow than that.
In what I now consider a stroke of genius, Spielberg zooms in on only one month of Lincoln's presidency - January, 1865 - for two hours of the film's 2:25 running time, its final 20 minutes covering Feb. 1 through to his assassination on April 15. In doing so, "Lincoln" essentially covers only one issue of the Lincoln presidency: the fight to pass the 13th Amendment guaranteeing the freedom of all slaves.
The film's plot reveals a genuine Catch 22 before that phrase existed. Should Lincoln follow through with a potential peace deal with the Confederacy before the amendment to the Constitution goes to a vote, or should the amendment get passed before an end to the war is brokered, even if it means a high number of additional casualties? Does success in one of these endeavors kill prospects in the other if they are executed in the wrong order? In "Lincoln," we watch the president work through this problem, and Spielberg uses Lincoln's decision-making process on this one issue as a microcosm for his entire presidency and, in fact, his very character.
The film's script, filled with elaborately-crafted orations by Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Tony Kushner, maneuvers between three ongoing snapshots of our 16th president: Lincoln's personal decision making and power brokering, the debate in the House of Representatives over the proposed amendment, and Lincoln's personal relationships with his family.
The scenes in the House chambers, while certainly lacking in physical action, are quite possibly the film's most entertaining moments, and often the most explosive.This has a lot to do with the fiery spirit of abolitionist Thaddeus Stevens, played with such conviction and ferocity by Tommy Lee Jones that he nearly steals the picture from a mind-blowing performance (but one that is muted by comparison) by Daniel Day-Lewis as the president. Jones has such a way with Kushner's sometimes verbose theatricality that you start to miss him when he's off-screen.
In the House chambers, Stevens squares off against Fernando Wood (Lee Pace) and those who are trying to kill the 13th Amendment in the House (which had already passed in the Senate). Meanwhile, Lincoln is shown working with members of his cabinet to devise a plan to win over enough votes. His chief confidante and critic is Secretary of State William Seward (David Strathairn), and he balances Seward's concerns with a request by Francis Preston Blair (Hal Holbrook), a former cabinet member for Andrew Jackson and father of one of Lincoln's cabinet members with a strong opinion about how to end the war.
Some of the film's most powerful scenes are the ones that happen away from its political war games, and they are both economical and effective in helping viewers to understand more about Lincoln, the man. Sally Field plays First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln in that slightly over-the-top Sally Field kind of way, but it works here (it really, really works!) because Mary famously ends up going mad and Field lays that groundwork nicely, referencing the early death of one of their boys. Their oldest, Robert (Joseph Gordon-Levitt in a stoic but relatively thankless role), wants to enlist but his parents cannot bear the thought of losing another son. And some of the film's most touching moments involve quiet exchanges between Lincoln and his youngest, Tad (Gulliver McGrath). I was particularly reminded of the baptism scene in "The Godfather" as Lincoln is seen reading a book with Tad in the White House while the fateful vote is being taken at the Capitol building.
Both Stevens and Lincoln are seen in candid moments where they appear to be compromising their beliefs and values, though these apparent lapses in judgment are truthfully no more than political moves that seem to be necessary to achieve a much larger, noble goal. Lincoln, for example, is a man of the highest moral character in the minds of most of us students of American history, but in "Lincoln" we find him assembling a team of fly-by-night and relatively reckless lobbyists (played with zeal by John Hawkes, Tim Blake Nelson, and a seemingly "True Grit"-inspired turn by James Spader) who are charged with securing the last remaining votes necessary to pass the Amendment, and appear to do so by any means necessary with Lincoln's turn-a-blind-eye permission. Stevens, meanwhile, finds himself needing to strategize his use of words at the potential expense of both his beliefs and his image to achieve a greater good.
Indeed, if "Lincoln" could be boiled down to one word, that word would be "compromise." In a post-screening interview, Spielberg told the audience that he did not intend to make "Lincoln" as a statement on our government's current inability to work across the aisle together, adding that the first draft of this script began in 1999 after he met "Team of Rivals" author Doris Kearns Goodwin and expressed interest in the movie rights to her book. But it's hard to watch "Lincoln" and not see the writing on these otherwise dark walls. Hey, boys and girls, let me tell you a story of a time when men who disagreed figured out how to compromise because it was imperative that they did so. In that sense, "Lincoln" is dripping with irony and in-this-moment relevance and almost makes you more angry about what we're dealing with now.
Spielberg called "Lincoln" his "most performance-based movie ever," and I had to think about that for a minute because I can't think of a film of his without wonderful performances in it. But the success of "Lincoln" lies solely with its actors because with the exception of the film's opening battle sequence, the movie lacks the element of movement that is traditional in mainstream film narrative, and that which is certainly standard in Spielberg films. There is no question that audiences who don't enjoy listening to speeches and relishing acting performances will think less of this movie that I did, but if acting's your thing, I challenge you to find a performance of any consequence to the plot of this film that isn't worthy of an Oscar nomination.
Naturally, the greatest performance of them all is courtesy of Day-Lewis as the president. Of course, it's hard to think of a bad Daniel Day-Lewis performance, but wait until you see this. He is President Lincoln. The transformation is unbelievable, and the names of Spielberg's makeup team might as well be engraved on an Oscar statue right now. But Day-Lewis's physical transformation is as much under his own power as it is the technical team's. He captures Lincoln's poor posture, arms too long and heavy for his frame, and shuffle of a walk. And though the voice he chose is drawing some criticism, I thought it felt right. Based on their research, Spielberg and Day-Lewis choose to avoid what Spielberg refers to as the "Epcot version" of Lincoln, opting instead for a reedy and higher-pitched mid-western tenor. Though we've never heard a recording of Abe's voice, this acting choice simply works.
As I've mentioned a few times, one of the reasons why I am so moved and blown away by "Lincoln" is because here is the work of a director with 26 previous feature-length films to his credit who has a true auteur's style of approaching his craft, and in my mind, if he doesn't abandon it here, he largely dismisses it. He not only preferences talk over action and lasers in on a narrow narrative scope when grand storytelling is his typical approach, but he uses other members of his famous creative team in fresh and effective ways.
Most noticeable to me was the restraint of John Williams' music. It's as if Spielberg is reacting directly here to the criticism surrounding "War Horse," because Williams' work here often lays quite low in the sound mix and is frequently reduced to simple piano work, returning the score to supporting status when perhaps it last had a leading role. It is understated and wholly effective.
So, too, is the dark palate of mastermind cinematographer, the great Janusz Kaminski, who lends to the film's meticulous period authenticity with oil lamp and candle-lit interiors, emphasizing drab blues and browns. Combined with Spielberg's surprisingly claustrophobic and frequently tight shot framing, Kaminski rarely allows the audience a panoramic view of any interior room of the White House. Instead, even as light pours outside its windows, Lincoln is seen huddling over a dim light source in darkened interiors in his attempts to read. Both Spielberg and Kaminski dramatically reduce the grandeur of Washington's most famous buildings, and in doing so intimately put the focus on the men inhabiting them. It is a brilliant move, because only Lincoln himself emerges with that level of grandeur because of it.
I could go on at length about the various decisions Spielberg made, dissecting them and comparing and contrasting them to his earlier works. But I've already gone on too long and said too much, though I promise that I cannot ruin the viewing experience for you, as this is a movie you truly must see for yourself. As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to watching "Lincoln" again when it hits theatres to see if Spielberg made any last-minute alterations to the cut I saw. I also want to more deeply focus on the film's subtleties, such as the way he uses the black actors in the film, relegated to the wings but constantly a presence, gentle reminders to Lincoln of what he is fighting for.
If "Lincoln" has an agenda, it is one that most audiences will agree with. But Spielberg avoids the sentimentality typically associated with his films and, in his expert hands, navigates the story's inevitable conclusion in an appropriate manner.
I have spent days now thinking about how "Lincoln" appears on the surface to be a classic Spielberg project. It's one of his "histories." (Like Shakespeare, Spielberg works can be divided into categories, sharing histories and adding action/thrillers and science fiction/fantasy as his other major genres.) It is as well-researched and authentic as any historical film he's ever made, down to the details of portraying the president as a perpetual storyteller, sometimes even attempting a laugh or garnering the impatience of his audience. But in so many more ways, I'm constantly reminded of how "Lincoln" is different from a typical Spielberg film. And for a director more than 40 years in to film making, my stove pipe hat is off to him.
★ ★ ★ ★
