Changeling

What is it with Clint Eastwood?

Just as I am ready to coronate him and ascend him into the "Pantheon of Great American Filmmakers" he always turns on me, makes something as god-awful as Mystic River and challenges my faithful decision.

It has happened again and again.

This phenomenon began with my adoration of Bird in 1988, fueled by my appreciation of his previous work with Pale Rider, Honkytonk Man and The Outlaw Josey Wales. Eastwood then decides to bitchslap me with the execrable The Rookie.

He rebounds and wins back my affections with the masterful Unforgiven in 1992 and we are as right as rain once more.

Always fickle, this one, Clint dashes my warm feelings on the rocks of schmaltz with The Bridges of Madison County.

He counters with a glimmer of hope in 1997 with a flawed yet presentable version of John Berendt's excellent novel, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Then proceeds with a tripartite spate of unrepentant malice with True Crime, Space Cowboys and Blood Work.

I have been forsaken.

Eastwood unleashes another triad of overrated baggage called Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby and Flags of Our Fathers. Each one of these sagging atrocities speaks volumes about the kind of low-grade, dumbed-down entertainments that pass for high cinematic art amongst the broken rabble of rubes that are American film critics and audiences.

The bastard does it to me all over again with the magnificence of Letters from Iwo Jima, a grim, gray, muted masterpiece of anti-war genius right up there with Ichikawa, Milestone, Renoir and Kubrick.

Gasp, I think I love him.

So, naturally, going into Changeling, I had my trepidations. I was waiting for my abusive, split-personality lover to morph into his Hyde and commence hitting me with his ugly cinema stick. It did not happen. Well, at least not until the end of the picture.

For Changeling, in its initial 110 minutes is a vastly enjoyable film. Filled with good performances (particularly Angelina Jolie's), a creepy premise, maternal angst and a nose for political corruption.

Eastwood's 1928 Los Angeles (some 5-10 years before Chinatown's setting) is a bit more drab and sepia than Polanski's vision and has slightly less rot beneath the veneer than Robert Towne exposed. It is a big town on the verge of transformation, a psycho-sexual upheaval away from turning into the glitzy, corruption-soaked playground of The City of Angels. It is directly on that brink.

The LAPD is riddled with scandals. Policemen are acting as hired guns for political purposes. People are being incarcerated and institutionalized for no reason other than to discredit those who would tarnish the department's reputation. Children are disappearing from the streets. Jolie's young boy is one of them.

In order to stem the rising tide of bad press and calls for investigations, a ruse is concocted by the Department wherein an anonymous lad is posed as Jolie's missing son. The idea is that the grieving mother is so bereft of her senses and in need of comfort, she will take the boy as her own, no questions asked. And, of course, pose for press photos with the Chief of Police acknowledging a job well done in finding her boy.

She does not play along.

The remainder of the film (up to the dreaded 110 minute mark) is filled with outrages and injustices. Eastwood admirably explores the systemic sexism of the period, a time where men actually believed a woman could be so hysterical from worry she would not recognize her own child. Or be at least meek enough not to make a fuss even if she understood their deception.  

A haunting sense of loss underlines Jolie's maternal nightmare and when a serial child-killer and the bones of his victims are discovered on a farm outside the city, her unimaginable grief appears to find some closure.

But Eastwood and screenwriter J. Michael Straczynski get too enthusiastic and long-winded with their wrap up. The story's deliberate pacing, effective for so long, becomes a flurry of courtroom triumphs and jailhouse confessions. Silly theatrics in an otherwise quiet, chilling film.

So, I will give Changeling a pass in my overall assessment of Eastwood's oeuvre. It is a well intended effort- crafted, for the most part, with flair.

However, as I screened Gran Torino last night, my Eastwood "trilogy of terror" theory is right back on track. A heavy-handed, maudlin piece of shit that banged out more tired clichés than a small town political incumbent. A film that deals with stereotypes and generational differences by employing the lamest examples of those very things. His performance borders on the farcical. A growling, grunting, grimacing cartoon of intolerance who walks around most of the film with the facial expression of someone who just got kicked in the nuts or is suffering from severe constipation. If only there was some misunderstood minority child who could warm his stoney heart... but wait!!!

Clint's got a film on Dave Brubeck coming up next so, who knows, maybe the curse will be broken and my flagging respect will be reversed once more.

May the jazz unite us.

Comments

[Christine]

Well, at least you gave Unforgiven praise. I swear that is one of my favorite flicks, and it's not because I won the Academy Award pool that year.

[jjmitch21]

Sorry to disagree Chip!

I enjoyed this movie because I was unaware this really happened. I can believe it happened, though.

It was interesting and thought provoking.

JM