Steven Spielberg’s The Post doesn’t
surprise anyone. One, it tells a famous, well-known story; two, it’s obvious
from moment one where it’s heading; and three, it’s not trying to pull a
Houdini and execute any startling narrative gymnastics. It also won’t surprise
anyone that The Post is excellent, occasionally thrilling,
and watching Meryl Streep, Tom Hanks, and Spielberg together is like watching a
goddamn symphony.
That’s perhaps the least shocking statement I’ve ever made.
After all, this is America’s kindly movie uncle doing what he does, making a
movie that’s effortlessly beautiful and graceful in a way that’s so difficult
to pull off but Spielberg makes look as easy as breathing.
This is Spielberg going to bat for freedom of the press in a
time when we sorely need it. The president of the United States is working to
dismantle and discredit the press, every day we learn that another vital news
outlet is being shuttered by corporate masters, and I’ve lost count of how many
entire newsrooms have been cleared, scorched-earth-style, and how many writers
have been laid off for daring to demand things like being paid, health
insurance, or a union to fight for their rights. It’s a dark period for
journalism, which makes The Post even more timely and
pressing.
The plot revolves around the publication of the Pentagon
Papers by The New York Times and The Washington
Post in 1971. These leaked government documents detailed the true
extent of the U.S.’s involvement in the Vietnam War, and the true extent to which
the government, across multiple administrations, lied to cover its ass.
Though the deceit spanned multiple presidencies, the Nixon
administration, true to form, attempted to suppress the media. The
Washington Post (along with the NYT, though their
role is minimized here) was at the center of this storm. Led by publisher Kay Graham
(Meryl Streep) and hard-charging editor Ben Bradlee (Tom Hanks), the story is relatively
simple: do they publish the papers or not? That simple question, of course,
leads to a tangle of legal, moral, ethical ramifications; it’s the government
trying to operate with impunity and the press trying to keep them in check; it’s
David and Goliath in a knock-down, drag-out brawl over the Constitution and the
soul of the nation.
But while there are massive, large-scale implications, the script
from Liz Hannah and Josh Singer gives Kay and Ben personal stakes as well. Both
have private interests that pull them in different directions.
Though the paper is her family business, Kay has always been
more a socialite than a publisher. Her father gave the paper to her husband to
run; she only took over the job after his suicide, making her the first female
newspaper publisher. Among her close friends, she counts Robert McNamara (Bruce
Greenwood), the architect of the Vietnam War, who, let’s just say, doesn’t come
off particularly well in the Pentagon Papers.
Kay also has her legacy, and her family’s legacy, to
consider. If she publishes, is that the end of the paper, the end of her
business, and the end of the only life she’s ever known? She’s complex and
conflicted, and living entirely in a world dominated by men—she’s often the
only woman in the room, and the men treat her as an outsider, even those who
work for her. Streep plays her as uncertain and torn, but also strong enough to
trust herself, her own conclusions, and though she considers the advice of
those around her, she makes her own choices.
A personal friend of JFK, who also doesn’t come off well in
the reveal, Ben faces similarly split allegiances. He bounces between his
duties as a newspaper man, his profession, and more personal obligations. Hanks
gives Ben a brashness and bravado, but also a softer, human streak. And it’s these
individual anchors with Kay and Ben that ground the story. We recognize the
scope and scale, but the intimate moments give it texture, make it relatable,
and provide emotional ties.
Because The Post is a Steven Spielberg
movie, and everyone wants to be in a Steven Spielberg movie, he assembled an
almost embarrassingly fancy cast. Practically every actor is at least
moderately famous. On occasion, this causes distractions—it feels like they’re
all just lounging around on screen, waiting for their one big shining moment.
For example, you notice Carrie Coons as witty Post writer
Meg Greenfield. She’s always around, but does little beyond that. She’s just
kind of there, until it’s time for her speech. The same goes
for Alison Brie, Bruce Greenwood, Bob Odenkirk, and countless others.
While Spielberg stacked the cast, this is the Streep and
Hanks show. No one else matters, and The Post is worth watching
for them alone. Spielberg is smart enough to stay out of their way and let them
have at it, and their sharp, weighty back and forth is the true joy of this
movie. And I can’t lie, I really enjoy watching Tom Hanks curse.
For the 28th time, Spielberg collaborates with co-conspirator
John Williams, and the score is just as good as we all expect from the master.
The sharp strings lend the already tense scenes the taut air of a suspense
thriller and push the momentum forward. In certain moments it unspools like an
espionage potboiler.
Set primarily in living rooms, offices, and boardrooms—not always
the most visually exciting locales—cinematographer Janusz Kaminski (yet another
Spielberg regular) manages to make them gorgeous. And with Spielberg’s knack
for intricate staging that appears so natural, each frame belies the breezy
precision of masters of their craft. Clear delineation of male and female
spaces—the dining room versus the parlor; the boardroom versus the kitchen—drives
home the gendered themes woven throughout.
The Post never bogs down and becomes a
familiar courtroom procedural—it veers in that direction, but rights the course
at the last moment. Though there are beats that land a bit too on the nose—as vital
a rallying cry as it is, it’s occasionally too self-aware of its own importance
and timeliness.
Tight, compact, and compelling throughout, The
Post may be a touch heavy-handed in places, and everything may wrap
up in an oh-so-tidy package. Still, it’s exhilarating, pressing, and gorgeous
in that natural, artless way only Spielberg can pull off.
[Grade: B+]
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