Mank (David Fincher, 2020)

The through line in many of the reviews of David Fincher's new film Mank, a biopic of Herman J. Mankiewicz, the co-author with Orson Welles of the screenplay for Citizen Kane, is that we should not rely on Mank as a historical record, that it must be analyzed for its drama and not its accuracy. Fine. So then I'll try to make this short. 

Fincher locates the genesis of the Kane screenplay in Mankiewicz's despair over Upton Sinclair's loss in the 1934 gubernatorial election. In Fincher's telling, the campaign against Sinclair included newsreels produced by Irving Thalberg at MGM (where Mankiewicz was employed at the time) and funded by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst. Mankiewicz never forgave Hearst and thus jumped at the opportunity to lambaste him as Charles Foster Kane in Welles' film. 

The problem with this narrative gambit is that Fincher bit off more than he could chew. He flits back and forth between the 1934 election and the writing of Kane in 1940 in a hopeless attempt to emulate Kane's jumbled temporal structure and thus, he gives short shrift to dramatizing each event. For a good 45 minutes, the film isn't even all that comprehensible. And while I'll grant that these early scenes have a gulping energy (coupled with the attempts to make it feel like the viewer is watching a classical Hollywood film, e.g., echoing sound, cigarette burns at the top right of the frame, black-and-white photography, etc.), they come off more confusing than anything. The rhythms calm down some after that. But throw in a de facto Algonquin Room of writers (Ben Hecht, George S. Kaufman, etc.), a few parties at San Simeon, and some chats with Marion Davies and you have a mess.

Not a godawful one, mind. The two lengthy conversations between Mank (Gary Oldman) and Davies (Amanda Seyfried) evince rare moments of grace when the staircase wit stops and people converse with one another like adults. But those are balanced by an interminable, dramatically inert scene in which Mank harangues party goers at Hearst's estate with both Hearst and Louis B. Mayer improbably (oops - sorry for bringing accuracy in) sitting back and allowing him to ramble on (and puke on the floor for a coda). A decent film could have resulted from all of this in the hands of a director who approaches this kind of middlebrow peroject with a sense of economy, say, Stephen Frears. Instead, we get another bloated biopic on its way to Oscar glory.

And now if you'll excuse me, back to my Welles (and Josef Von Sternberg) Criterions (Criteria?). 

Grade: B-minus

3 A.M. (Gary Graver [as Robert McCallum], 1975)

According to They'll Love Me When I'm Dead (Morgan Neville, 2018), the documentary about the making of Orson Welles' The Other Side of the Wind, Welles helped Gary Graver edit the scene in 3 A.M. where Georgina Spelvin (Kate) and Judith Hamilton (an unnamed hippie chick) have shower sex so that Graver could return to his work as cinematographer on Welles' film. History has not recorded Welles' exact contributions. But it's worth noting that it's easily the steamiest sex scene in the film. It's also worth noting that the scene in which Kate makes dinner for her nephew Ronnie (Charles Hooper, adorbs) mirrors a similar moment in The Magnificent Ambersons when Aunt Fanny (Agnes Moorehead) serves strawberry shortcake to George Minafer (Tim Holt).

I mention the Welles connection not to rope classical Hollywood dorks into watching a porno but to proclaim that 3 A.M. is every bit the match of The Other Side of the Wind in terms of commitment and formal pizazz and hence would make a dynamite double feature. A tale of murder, incest, and privileged ennui, 3 A.M. benefits from fantastic performances, especially Spelvin as a faux spinster, and Graver's painterly eye. This is truly a cinematographer's film which means subsequent viewings will have to determine the structural role played by the deft dollies, unmotivated fish-eye lenses, and Ozu-like pillow shots. For now, they're absolutely gorgeous to behold/ponder.

3 A.M. is also a sonic marvel. As befits the upper-middle-class milieu, the drama here results from the ways in which sound invades well-cultivated privacy. The first sex scene is tape recorded. So is a climactic murder confession. Family members are heard crying and fucking through the walls. Ronnie self-actualizes through his love of classical music. One delicate sequence has him taking steps towards losing his virginity by bringing over records to sexy neighbor Vicki's (Sharon Thorpe) house. ("Do you like good music?" Yeah, I like good music." "I mean, really good music.") The last sex scene is scored to Pierre Henry and Michel Colombier's electro-psych-rock frug "Too Fortiche." And the very last sound we hear, as the final credits come to a close, is three grandfather-clock chimes, an elegant time stamp acknowledging the precise moment the narrative kicks into gear.

Astonishing from the git, 3 A.M. is one of the finest adult films I've ever seen. The Graver obsession starts here.

Grade: A

Check out Robbie's nifty tennis sweater

Robbie likes classical but Vicki prefers Buffalo Springfield

Foxy Rob Rose as Morgan