J. Edgar, the Man, Was as Pissy as J. Edgar, the Film, Is Passionless and Plot-Starved

You might be better off spying on neighbors than Clint Eastwood’s unforgivable squandering of a great opportunity

Unable or unwilling to expose the elements that made him really interesting (Mr. Eastwood has ill-advisedly declared Hoover’s private life “none of my business”), the film plods along timidly without the courage of its own convictions. Remaining annoyingly passive about a diabolically conflicted despot while retaining an air of ambivalence is one of the major flaws in a film that compiles a lot of research with no dramatic payoff. Without a clear narrative arc, the script and direction lead us astray in a series of endless distractions. In the form of notes dictated for a memoir that was never published, the different periods in Hoover’s reign are framed in episodes connected with an unwieldy and less-than-unifying precision, giving Mr. DiCaprio myriad chances for double facials, young and old. His beginnings are illustrated by his deportation of liberal Jewish political dissident Emma Goldman (Jessica Hecht). Under the guise of protecting apple pie and the “American way,” his motto was “Knowledge is power,” but after the Depression, when the world changed, he didn’t change with it. Instead, he started spying on his enemies without benefit of search warrants, collecting harmful personal information on people of fame and influence, including Eleanor Roosevelt for being a lesbian, and going so far as to eventually threaten and intimidate Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy with rumors of his brother Jack’s Hollywood sexcapades. As early as 1932, before the official organization of the F.B.I., he feasted on personal publicity from the kidnapping of the baby of Charles Lindbergh (Josh Lucas), although he had no jurisdiction over the case, posing for photos kissing Shirley Temple, schmoozing with Ginger Rogers at the Stork Club, and creating a feeding frenzy in the press that led to the execution of immigrant Bruno Hauptmann (whom he falsely claimed to have captured bare-handed) without concrete proof of his guilt. His phony bravura did, to be truthful, result in the eventual passing of the “Lindbergh law,” making kidnapping a federal offense punishable by death. This is one of the persistent contradictions in the life of J. Edgar—every transgression was followed by a triumph. Unfortunately, all of these facts are crudely assembled with the rudimentary casualness of a school play. It is fascinating to learn that Hoover never personally made a single arrest, perjuring himself in Congress by taking credit for all of them. Hooked on amphetamine injections, he ended his career a graying, miserable wreck, still craving the affection of the American people, who instead have now all but forgotten him. Was he ever happy? Even in the end, as two sick, doddering old men, Hoover and Tolson were never able to admit their love. When J. Edgar died, newly inaugurated president Richard Nixon went apoplectic. “Seal off his office, change the locks, do what you have to do—I want those fucking files!” he ordered. But they were gone. The only two people who saw through him were his secret lover Clyde, who inherited his home, job and everything he owned, and his longtime private secretary, Helen Gandy (a wasted Naomi Watts), who stood by him through every trumped-up triumph and every embellished claim to achievement, and is last seen after his death shredding all of his files before Nixon could get to them, thus averting a bigger scandal than Watergate.

As a colorful chapter in American infamy, it’s a story worth telling in a better, more suspenseful film, but J. Edgar does not hang together. Mr. DiCaprio’s King of the G-Men is no new-age, old-school rough guy like Elliot Ness. He’s something of a sawed-off pipsqueak with a mean-spirited and ruthless pursuit of personal glory at everyone else’s expense. I expected more from a movie about the most feared man in America for half a century. Whatever else you think about him, in retrospect, he had balls of brass—an essential quality replaced in J. Edgar by dull indifference.



Running Time 137 minutes

Written by Dustin Lance Black

Directed by Clint Eastwood

Starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Armie Hammer and Naomi Watts


J. Edgar, the Man, Was as Pissy as J. Edgar, the Film, Is Passionless and Plot-Starved