Justice for All: JUROR #2

Clint Eastwood spent the first three decades of his career starring in movies about retributive justice, and the last three decades directing movies problematizing that notion. How beautifully consistent, the iconographic cowboy cop whose might made right aging into a thoughtful interrogator of the systems whose corruption supports such misguided notions, and the kinds of steady professional cooperation that can truly save the day. The distance between Dirty Harry—grizzled, violent, taciturn, impulsive—and Sully—warm, calm, communicative, expert—says all you need to know. He’s always been drawn to darker, more complicated figures, but in his older years, his films slowed down, grew melancholic and doubtful, cast about in the shadows and grays he brought to his images for glimmers of light and truth that still shine through despite the flaws. This receives a clean, clear, lovely, and maybe final, expression in Juror #2, a movie that in decades past would’ve been a basic studio programmer—a legal thriller with a great hook and few fine performances. Now, given the rarity of that form, and the credentials of its 94-year-old director, it gathers an old-fashioned sense of craft and consideration. It finds a juror (Nicholas Hoult) listening intently to the arguments in a murder case, tracking the back and forth between a prosecutor (Toni Collette) and defense attorney (Chris Messina) about the behavior and character of the accused (Gabriel Basso). As the juror hears the facts of a body found by the side of the road on a dark and stormy night some months prior, he begins to suspect the deer he thought he hit on that very day was in fact this victim. What follows in Jonathan Abrams’ script is a sturdy courtroom procedural of motions and objections and testimony and cross-examination and closing arguments and deliberations.

Eastwood makes it a subtle study of actors faces and gestures. And building off such a compelling moral quandary gives the genre’s standard moves a charge of genuine high-stakes philosophical inquiry. To come forward would save an innocent man’s life at the expense of his own. Will he make the right choice? As we learn more about Hoult’s home life and back story, as well as the defendant’s, the movie twists the lines of sympathy as we see the goodness and flaws of each. The right thing starts to feel not so clear cut. What Eastwood’s driving at here is that of faith in the justice system—watching attentively as it goes wrong in this extreme circumstance, and watching patiently to see if just enough will go right. How fitting for an American moment in which we wonder if we’ll ever see justice for what’s so clearly wrong. Eastwood earnestly believes in the goodness of people trying to do a good job, and trying to do what’s right. It may not be a perfect system, and we are certainly not perfect people. But it’s the best we’ve got, and we are all we have. Eastwood builds his case with methodical clarity, adjusting the characters and situation with low-key confidence in letting their complications energize a well-constructed concept. It’s a textured satisfaction as the movie finds its way to a close and lets the fullness of its implications linger in a final moment of harrowing uncertainty and pregnant silence. And yet, because he actually believes there is civic goodness in even a flawed system—he has us watch the jury duty promotional video with his characters, after all—we can, too.

Past Lives: WE LIVE IN TIME and HERE

Movies are uniquely situated to capture time. They’re built of finite moments, assembled with a definite end in mind. Unlike the open-endedness of television, the ephemerality of theater, the personalized pace of literature, or the stasis of paintings and sculptures, a movie is each moment in performance and photography and music temporally unified and held infinitely replayable. And yet to experience it in full is to move through time with its choices and for its ends. Its life-like qualities are also its greatest falseness—that we can return again to experience a life anew. It works on us by working it out through time. So when a movie leans into an idea about time, it’s meeting the medium at one of its great strengths.

This is the case with We Live in Time, which gets quite a boost by emphasizing clocks ticking and timers counting and calendars turning. It tells a pretty conventional tearful story about a couple who fall in love, have a kid, and live through illnesses. It swells with conventional sentiment. But it gets out of feeling cheap by embracing its centering of time. The story is told out of order, bouncing between high-emotion moments within the couple’s relationship. We get a wacky Meet Cute and a sober diagnosis, a wedding invitation and a pregnancy test, a career accomplishment and a medical setback. It adds to a sense of time slipping away, each discreet moment feeling so big and lasting in that moment, and yet so fleeting and short in the aggregate. The leads are played with lovely chemistry—sensual and sparkling with unforced intimacy and an easy flirtatiousness—by Florence Pugh and Andrew Garfield, who genuinely connect on screen with quiet teasing and fluttering sensitivity. They have eyes that water with unspoken fears and desires, and then run over when they’re finally spoken.

Director John Crowley (he might be best known for the lovely romantic Saoirse Ronan picture Brooklyn from about a decade ago) wisely frames the movie in warm tones and cozy close-ups, letting the performances breathe with natural interaction even as the high-gloss appearance and occasionally cliche moves tilt toward the conventional. There’s such depth of feeling to this acting duet. It adds up to quite a tear-jerking work-out, constantly teetering on the edge of melancholy even in the moments of satisfaction. It’s all those timers and tests and countdowns and waiting rooms and Save the Dates that end up important factors in so many scenes. We feel their time together slipping away. It made me acutely aware that we’re never truly cognizant of how little time we have with the ones we care about. How could we go on if we did? And how will those hundreds of little moments continue to resonate long after we’re gone?

That’s also the subject of Robert Zemeckis’ latest film: Here. In true Zemeckis fashion, it’s one of the more audacious visual experiences in recent multiplex memory. Would we expect any less from the guy who gave us Roger Rabbit’s believable hand-drawn cartoon co-stars, Forrest Gump’s proto-Deep Fakes, and three eye-boggling early motion-capture efforts? He’s been consistently pushing against the limits of popular cinema’s visual forms. This latest experiment, inspired by Richard McGuire’s graphic novel of the same name, tells the entire history of one particular spot. The camera doesn’t move. Its perspective is fixed at one angle, in one position, as everything from the dinosaurs’ extinction to the COVID pandemic plays out. It’s a simple observation, perhaps, but also a profound one, in its way, to recognize that through each and every spot on the planet the entirety of history runs. The movie draws this out by, from a flurry of images across all time, settling down into telling several stories in parallel, each with a small group of character who live here. We see: a prehistoric indigenous couple; a family in colonial America; a family in the early 20th century; a couple in the early 1940s; a family in the late-twenty-teens. Here is a home.

The film cuts freely between all of these stories, each told in chronological order, while the overall history of the place is suitably scrambled. A main storyline emerges telling the birth-to-elderly arc of one Baby Boomer (Tom Hanks) as he grows up in a childhood home that becomes his own in adulthood. He marries his high school sweetheart (Robin Wright) and then pulls a George Bailey trying to chase dreams that always lead him to stay. Life happens anyway. The cuts between the subplots and this main one tend to follow thematic threads—a man holds up his newborn so it can see the moon in one century, then another—or trace rhyming trajectories. Sometimes Zemeckis will draw a panel around one part of the frame, allowing it to stay frozen in time as the rest of the image moves, further exploiting these juxtapositions. Throughout are recurring motifs as we find the characters dealing with children, disease, technology, aging, money, work, dreaming, and despair. Same as it ever was.

The concept is so committed that I found myself tearing up at the sheer sentimental exercise of it all. (One could imagine a 60-second version repurposed for a life insurance commercial. See it and weep.) And yet the movie is also playing out at this formal distance, a tension between visual stillness and elaborate effects to age and de-age that location and its actors. Within these dense digital frames, the writing and performances are actually quite broad and theatrical, each story pretty obvious, each point triple-underlined in explicitly thematic dialogue. It’s presentational within the experimental frame. And yet I found myself so moved by its daring—crying more at the concept than the characters—that the uneven specifics’ sheer volume made up for any particular clanging miscalibration. At times Zemeckis and co-writer Eric Roth lean into their worst Gumpy tendencies, with a few scenes of cutesy cultural coincidence and a few fine ideas undone by their broadness. (Look at the scene with the grad students and wonder how those performers were possibly directed that way for the takes they used.) But the overall affect of the picture is one of visual playfulness and soft-hearted storytelling. Zemeckis is too charming a technician to take it all at face value—his roots in wacky comedies are here mixing it up with his prestige polish—and too much of a crowd-pleaser to risk letting his visual experimentation drown out the emotion. He pitches it all at such a heightened tone—even in blocking that cheats out toward the camera—that you can’t miss the overflow of human drama painted in primary colors. It’s a movie that works because of its big swings more than its small details. It just takes some time to adjust.