J. Edgar
Biopic Uncovers Skeletons in Closet of Legendary FBI Director
J. Edgar
[2011]
Rated R for brief profanity.
Running time: 137 minutes
Distributor: Warner Brothers
Film Review by
Kam Williams
Very Good (3 stars)
J. Edgar Hoover (Leonardo DiCaprio) served as director of the FBI from its
founding in 1935 until his death in 1972. Over the course of that tenure, the
legendary G-Man singlehandedly built the agency into an intimidating espionage
and crime-fighting operation feared by gangsters and law-abiding citizens alike.
For, as his powers and spheres of influence expanded, he began directing his
agents to spy not only on crooks and racketeers but on anyone he considered
un-American, such as members of civil rights and anti-war organizations. And
armed with the fruit of a variety of arguably unconstitutional surveillance
techniques, he proceeded to stockpile a mammoth database of personal dirt to
employ for purposes of blackmail, embarrassment and the leveling of veiled
threats.
But while he had no problem exposing skeletons in other people’s closets, Hoover
apparently went to great lengths to hide his own clandestine relationship with
his constant companion of over 40 years, his Deputy Director, Clyde Tolson
(Armie Hammer). Successfully suppressing the occasional rumors that they might
be lovers, the couple was only outed posthumously by New York City socialite
Susan Rosenstiel.
Directed by Clint Eastwood, J. Edgar is a deliberately-paced biopic which
gradually finds support for the basic contention that Hoover was, indeed, a
sexually-repressed drag queen. The picture blames his latent tendencies on an
overbearing mother (Dame Judi Dench) who’d cruelly discouraged him as a
youngster from exploring his curiosity about cross-dressing by issuing dire
warnings like, "I’d rather have a dead son than a daffodil for a son."
This overambitious flashback flick unfolds against the backdrop of some of the
FBI’s most-celebrated cases, from the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby to the
bloody showdown with mobster John Dillinger to the monitoring of the movements
of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. However, of far more consequence here than any of
these touchstones in Hoover’s career is the shadowy specter of him and his life
mate secretly sharing stolen moments, whether holding hands in the back of a
limo, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, or enjoying makeup sex
after a heated argument.
Appropriately narrated in an almost confessional tone by the title character, J.
Edgar stands in sharp contrast to the dozens of previous screen portrayals of
Hoover which had studiously avoided the sexual preference question. Credit
iconoclastic Clint Eastwood for belatedly bringing a more balanced treatment to
the screen, even if the shocking truth about such a tortured soul is apt to make
audiences squirm in their seats.
Between the cross-dressing and pleas of "Please don’t leave me, Clyde!" brace
yourself to see the vulnerable underbelly, literally and figuratively, of an
anguished icon knocked off his pedestal.