Good Night, and Good Luck
by Chris Dashiell

Edward R. Murrow has long been the idol of old-school reporters who fondly remember the days when radio and television journalism was just starting. I suppose much of this nostalgia is a direct reaction to the gradual degradation of news into the ugly spectacle of simple-minded distortion and sensationalist "entertainment" we see today. The truth is that commercial and government interests have always co-opted the press to some degree--it's just gotten much worse in the last few decades, since monopolies have consolidated their grip on the media.

Good Night, and Good Luck tells the story of Murrow's brave 1953 decision to attack Senator Joseph McCarthy on his prime-time news show, See It Now. George Clooney directed the film, and co-wrote the script with Grant Heslov. He has chosen an interesting and, I think, rather effective method. The picture is shot in black and white (Robert Elswit, best known for his work with P.T. Anderson, is the DP) with a very high-contrast sheen that approximates the feel of 1950s TV, and dovetails beautifully with Clooney's extensive use of period footage. The movie's "look" is quite striking--the clothing, the hair, the omnipresent cigarette smoke, all of it brings back the era through little visual touches and emphases. But the best decision was to focus almost exclusively on the work environment at CBS News. There are no exterior shots--almost every scene takes place at the network offices and studios--and with the exception of a wispy subplot involving Patricia Clarkson and Robert Downey, Jr., we are shown nothing of Murrow's or anyone else's private life. Although this makes the film seem a bit hermetic and unreal, the alternative of trying to fill in all the back story might well have resulted in a hopeless mess. As it is, this is an admirably focused, tightly controlled bit of work, far more impressive than Clooney's slapdash first effort, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. The only major misstep, in my view, is to punctuate the film with songs by Dianne Reeves, playing an unnamed jazz singer recording in one of the CBS studios. It's an attempt to create intervals between the dramatic scenes with musical atmosphere, but it dilutes the tension.

David Strathairn plays Murrow, and it's an inspired performance. He's got the mannerisms down, the dry stoicism and clipped speaking style, the odd combination of dignity and toughness. The movie doesn't dress Murrow up with a lot of sentiment--there's something a little sour and off-putting about him despite his occasional funny lines. The nobility of his effort is brought home to us mainly through the interactions with his loyal staff, and his genial producer Fred Friendly, played without glamour by Clooney himself. Frank Langella is suitably imposing in the role of network chief William Paley, who clashes with Murrow, but lets him go ahead with his controversial anti-McCarthy shows despite the pull-out of the program's corporate sponsor.

McCarthy is only seen in the actual footage of the senator from the time. It's the right decision--who could possibly play that man more effectively than McCarthy himself? The movie goes light on historical background. The long and tortured history of the postwar anti-Communist witch hunts, the role of HUAC, the blacklisting, and so forth, are only sketched lightly through incidental details. What we do see is the fear--the well-justified fear that if you spoke out against McCarthy or his supporters you would be branded a Communist, that some past association, however slight, would be dug up and used against you.

There's nothing mysterious in this movie being produced at this particular time. It is easy for audiences to make the connections between a time when dissent could mean being branded as a traitor, and our present time, when terrorism has become the excuse for a concerted campaign to eradicate our liberties and when protesters have been accused of aiding the enemy. But it's even more evident that the picture represents a shot across the bow of the fourth estate. Television news is now so compromised by its closeness to power, and its parroting of official "talking points," that it no longer resembles actual news. Good Night, and Good Luck reminds us that journalism, at its best, could speak for the public interest, and for ordinary people, against the powerful. I can't imagine many in the business nowadays who could watch this film without experiencing shame.

Not every good film is good in the same way. Japanese director Jun Ichikawa is wise enough to avoid attempting an epic work when a graceful visual poem would serve him better. His latest film is called Tony Takitani, adapted from one of the shortest of famed author Haruki Murakami's short stories.

A soft-spoken narrator tells of the title character's birth at the end of World War II, his father a wandering jazz musician who hid out in Shanghai during the conflict. His mother dies giving him birth, and his eccentric dad gives his son the non-Japanese first name Tony, on the suggestion of an American army friend. The name causes others to feel suspicious of Tony, and he learns to spend most of his time alone, drawing pictures. Eventually he becomes an affluent illustrator, always quiet and solitary, until he becomes a captivated by a younger woman in his office. They get married, and are perfectly compatible, but for one peculiar detail. She loves beautiful clothes so much that she can't stop buying new outfits, and soon an entire room in their house starts to fill up with dresses, coats, and shoes. This shopping addiction may bring a little chuckle to the audience, but the picture's overall mood is wistful, mysterious, and lonely. Indeed, what happens next brings us to the film's central thought--we are ultimately alone, yet we long for connection.

Ichikawa's style is unusual. He presents the story not dramatically, but as if we were witnessing it in a trance. During the first half many of the scenes are shot with a slow lateral pan--new scenes, often new time periods, unfolding as the camera tracks from left to right. The narration tells us most of the action, while the visuals really just paint the story's inner feelings. Sometimes the narrator's sentences are finished by the characters. There's little to hold on to here. Even the premonition of loss and death has a muted quality.