All the King's Men
We all have our suspicions. We have all found situations in which we think, “Something’s not quite right here.” And very often, we are correct. Many times it turns out that we have been lied to, taken advantage of, duped and deceived.
Jack Burden, the narrator of All the King’s Men, describes that feeling as a nagging distraction, “the way an offstage noise bothers you.” He speaks, I think, as an actor, one trying to concentrate on the role he’s been given to play, one distracted by on offstage movement that destroys “being in the moment.” Just for a second, that noise takes you away from your performance, reminding you of what’s real, and what’s just a fantasy.
There’s a lot of fantasy filling up writer-director Steve Zaillian’s film, the second adapted from Robert Penn Warren’s classic novel. First there are the fantasies that we, as an audience, bring to stories about politicians, myths of corruption and power plays. Then there are the fantasies that Burden harbors about his idyllic past, about his mother, his stepfather, his best friend, and his lost love. There’s the fantasies that Willie Stark appears to entertain about the role he’s been given to play in the tale—the populist hero Governor sent from podunkville to the state capitol in order to teach the state of Louisiana a lesson or two.
Trying to figure out where Stark loses track of his fantasy provides the narrative tension for the film. Our first impression of Stark comes during a nighttime road trip to put pressure on an influential retired judge. Even at this point, we can see clearly that Burden is not enamored of the Governor’s tactics (though we don’t know yet exactly why); nor is Burden overly enthusiastic about his role as one of Stark’s “sweet talkers.” From here, we flashback to former reporter Burden’s lily-white recollections of his first encounter with Stark; we learn about Stark’s small-town political failures and his improbable rise to statewide prominence; we come again to that nighttime road trip, as Stark struggles to make good on his campaign promises of reform; and we witness Burden’s take on Stark’s eventual demise. And along the way—a very enjoyable way, if we like about films that take exceptional care in the crafting of their words, the composition of their images, and the portrayal of their characters—we find that a lot of our suspicions are unfounded. We find out that a lot of the time, we are wrong.
What we also find is that we, too, are culpable, not just those we suspect.
Two impulses, Zaillian reveals to us, allow us to reach the wrong conclusions about our suspicions. One tells us not to get involved; it’s the lazy one that tells us, “I’d rather sit here and watch.” Sure, we suspect that something is not right; but figuring that out and correcting it is someone else’s job. Think of Darfur. Think of New Orleans, for God’s sake. Think of a certain September day five years ago.
The second impulse is the one that tells us the truth cannot be known. But Zaillian doesn’t let us off the hook. More than one of characters is wise to the fact that “The only way to not know is not wanting to know.”
Yes, the truth is always out there. But do we really want to know it? Maybe not, and maybe that’s because we’re aware that knowing the truth makes us responsible.
Isn’t it so much easier to shrug it all off? Isn’t it easier to just pin the blame on someone else, to be satisfied with mere suspicion and innuendo?
Jack Burden, the narrator of All the King’s Men, describes that feeling as a nagging distraction, “the way an offstage noise bothers you.” He speaks, I think, as an actor, one trying to concentrate on the role he’s been given to play, one distracted by on offstage movement that destroys “being in the moment.” Just for a second, that noise takes you away from your performance, reminding you of what’s real, and what’s just a fantasy.
There’s a lot of fantasy filling up writer-director Steve Zaillian’s film, the second adapted from Robert Penn Warren’s classic novel. First there are the fantasies that we, as an audience, bring to stories about politicians, myths of corruption and power plays. Then there are the fantasies that Burden harbors about his idyllic past, about his mother, his stepfather, his best friend, and his lost love. There’s the fantasies that Willie Stark appears to entertain about the role he’s been given to play in the tale—the populist hero Governor sent from podunkville to the state capitol in order to teach the state of Louisiana a lesson or two.
Trying to figure out where Stark loses track of his fantasy provides the narrative tension for the film. Our first impression of Stark comes during a nighttime road trip to put pressure on an influential retired judge. Even at this point, we can see clearly that Burden is not enamored of the Governor’s tactics (though we don’t know yet exactly why); nor is Burden overly enthusiastic about his role as one of Stark’s “sweet talkers.” From here, we flashback to former reporter Burden’s lily-white recollections of his first encounter with Stark; we learn about Stark’s small-town political failures and his improbable rise to statewide prominence; we come again to that nighttime road trip, as Stark struggles to make good on his campaign promises of reform; and we witness Burden’s take on Stark’s eventual demise. And along the way—a very enjoyable way, if we like about films that take exceptional care in the crafting of their words, the composition of their images, and the portrayal of their characters—we find that a lot of our suspicions are unfounded. We find out that a lot of the time, we are wrong.
What we also find is that we, too, are culpable, not just those we suspect.
Two impulses, Zaillian reveals to us, allow us to reach the wrong conclusions about our suspicions. One tells us not to get involved; it’s the lazy one that tells us, “I’d rather sit here and watch.” Sure, we suspect that something is not right; but figuring that out and correcting it is someone else’s job. Think of Darfur. Think of New Orleans, for God’s sake. Think of a certain September day five years ago.
The second impulse is the one that tells us the truth cannot be known. But Zaillian doesn’t let us off the hook. More than one of characters is wise to the fact that “The only way to not know is not wanting to know.”
Yes, the truth is always out there. But do we really want to know it? Maybe not, and maybe that’s because we’re aware that knowing the truth makes us responsible.
Isn’t it so much easier to shrug it all off? Isn’t it easier to just pin the blame on someone else, to be satisfied with mere suspicion and innuendo?
posted by Greg Wright at 11:51 AM
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