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Public Enemies (15)

Dazzling visuals can’t disguise a lack of character in this 1930s crime flick

A worry for the maker of any period film is that audiences may struggle to relate to the tribulations of a past era. In Michael Mann’s Public Enemies, set in 1930s Chicago, that concern is actually inverted: the film has so many modern echoes that it risks resembling too strongly the here-and-now, only with vintage Buicks instead of SUVs, Tommy guns rather than AK-47s.

The story is set in the middle of the Depression. Banks are commonly believed to have betrayed their customers. Jobs and homes have become luxuries. During a “war on crime” launched to thwart the prolific bank robber John Dillinger (Johnny Depp), the government sanctions “vigorous interrogation” – otherwise known as torture. Telephone lines are tapped, with conversations put literally on the record: the stylus accumulates furry curlicues of vinyl as it bites into the rotating disc. When the FBI agent Melvin Purvis (Christian Bale) tries to trace Dillinger through the type of coat he wears (32 per cent wool, salt-and-pepper weave, since you ask), we could be watching CSI: Chicago, circa 1933.

But it is the high-definition digital photography, rather than parallels with current events, that gives Public Enemies the untidy informality of tomorrow’s reportage. It doesn’t look like other films, or much like a film at all. (You would compare it to a home movie, if that didn’t imply amateurism and long takes of Auntie Beryl doing the hokey-cokey.) Mann’s camera produces zingy, wide-awake images, and achieves an intimacy with the actors that renders the term “close-up” inadequate. Admirers of Depp in particular will be thrilled to make the acquaintance of the actor’s ear lobe.

While the camerawork is up close and personal, the rest of the movie feels muted – a consequence, perhaps, of prioritising detail over drama. Restraint to the point of detachment has long been a Mann characteristic, though it would be less jarring if his visual sensibility hadn’t suddenly gone haywire.

As it stands, Public Enemies is something like the opposite of A Clockwork Orange. Whereas Kubrick’s picture let loose its anarchic hero within a rigid aesthetic framework, the characters in Mann’s film feel mostly remote and unknowable, despite the coaxing of the camera, and a lively score that ranges from Delta blues to negro spirituals.

Interestingly, it is Purvis rather than Dillinger who is the greater enigma. We learn nothing of the lawman’s extra-curricular life, and little about him at all beyond his first scene, in which his mixture of patience and marksmanship renders “Pretty Boy” Floyd significantly less pretty.

Dillinger himself has woken up to the idea of settling down, and believes a coat-check girl named Billie Frechette (Marion Cotillard) might be the moll of his dreams. Over a romantic dinner, he confesses he’s a bank robber. By the time he has assaulted one of her customers, it’s love. Depp and Cotillard are an engaging couple, but it would have been helpful to have had more scenes of them together to explain why Billie devotes her not-unexciting life to waiting around doing . . . well, what exactly? The emphasis on her importance to Dillinger can seem disingenuous when the film can’t work up much curiosity about her in his absence.

It is typical of Mann to keep his characters estranged. In Heat, his adversarial heroes encountered one another twice in the course of three hours; the effect was like a macho Sleepless in Seattle. Public Enemies goes one better, or one worse, by having Dillinger and Purvis meet only once, in the briefest of scenes. Goading his pursuer over the memory of a murdered FBI colleague, Dillinger smirks: “That’ll keep you up nights.” It reflects poorly on the film that this is played as cockiness rather than the gloating malice it clearly is.

Any horror in the film at the crimes of Dillinger’s gang is transferred on to the sociopathic Baby Face Nelson, played by Stephen Graham, who provides a jolt of nervous energy missing from the rest of the cast. (When he kills someone, you can see how alive it makes him feel.)

Not that Mann can’t pull off some agonising suspense when the occasion demands. In the tensest scene, Dillinger sneaks out of prison in a stolen car, only to have his getaway impeded by the world’s slowest traffic lights. Few of us who see Public Enemies will be able to resist pretending to be Dillinger the next time we hit a stubborn red signal, even if we’re only on the school run or popping out for HobNobs.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 06 July 2009 issue of the New Statesman, HOWZAT!

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Do you have to look like someone to play them in a film?

Physical resemblance between an actor and the real-life figure they are portraying is highly prized, but there’s much more to a successful biopic than the right face under a good wig.

The Program is a film in search of a hero. It never really finds one. On one hand it has the crusading journalist David Walsh, played by Chris O’Dowd, who risks the derision of his colleagues and the scorn of the cycling industry to expose Lance Armstrong as a drugs cheat. On the other, it has Armstrong himself (Ben Foster), propelling himself to multiple Tour de France victories and into the hearts of his countrymen by foul means, not fair. It feels hard to root for Walsh: he’s on the side of truth, but he never comes to life as a character, and the movie hits a slump whenever we’re back in the newsroom with him. Then again, we know we shouldn’t get behind the cyclist. But if the film is conflicted over whose story it’s telling, there is at least one element about which there can be no argument: Ben Foster’s resemblance to Armstrong.

It is not a prerequisite that an actor playing a real figure must be able to swap places with them unnoticed in an identity parade, but Foster could certainly pass that test if it were. Both men have their features crammed into the centre of their faces, lending them a concentrated intensity. And Foster has captured the intentness of Armstrong’s expressions – that taut downward curve in the mouth that looks like an exaggerated frown as drawn by a child.

For the biopic performer, there are several options when it comes to physical accuracy. There is the simple, almost effortless mimicry – a classic example being Ben Kingsley in Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi. (There have been occasions on which newspapers have printed pictures of Kingsley to accompany a story about the real Gandhi. Let’s blame that on the actor’s persuasive ability to inhabit the part, rather than any laziness in the media.)


Where there is no overwhelming natural similarity, this can be helped along by a recognisable accoutrement or physical characteristic. I wouldn’t swear that Robert Downey Jnr was the spit of Charlie Chaplin (in another Attenborough film, Chaplin).


Or that you couldn’t tell Salma Hayek from Frida Kahlo (in Frida) but it certainly helped that the former had that universally familiar toothbrush-moustache to trick our eyes, and the latter sported a convincing unibrow.


Even once the physical side is in the bag, there is the matter of poise and demeanour to consider. Did Helen Mirren look like Elizabeth II in The Queen (another Frears) or on stage in The Audience? Not especially. But then the bit that isn’t covered by hair, make-up, wardrobe and physiognomy is called “acting”. It should, if all goes according to plan, render cosmetic objections irrelevant. Look at Gary Oldman with the black porcupine spikes and milky-white pallor of Sid Vicious in Sid & Nancy. We can see that’s a fancy-dress Sid. But Oldman’s self-belief pushes him, and us, over the line. We buy it. His Joe Orton (Frears yet again: Prick Up Your Ears) is even better, perhaps because he shares with the playwright a natural knowingness that lights them both up from within.

My own favourite sorts of biopic actors are those that succeed through sheer force of will. They don’t look like the people they’re playing, and only the most cursory attempts have been made to convince us they do, but their own internal conviction overrides any complaint. Anthony Hopkins did a fine job of playing the lead in Surviving Picasso but I prefer him in two movies where he had to take more of a running jump: Nixon in Nixon and Hitchcock in Hitchcock. No one ever said about Richard Nixon and Anthony Hopkins: “Isn’t it funny how you never see them in the same room?” But there was something in the slightly delusional casting that made sense in a film about Nixon – never a man, after all, to face the truth when he thought a bald lie would do the job just as well. And by the end of Oliver Stone’s impressively controlled movie, Hopkins had done it. He had strong-armed the audience and bent the whole endeavour to his will. The same was true in Hitchcock: he expanded into a part as though it were an oversized suit he was convinced he could fill. It was a confidence trick. Doesn’t that go for most acting?

It doesn’t always work. Philip Seymour Hoffman as Capote? The physical disparity is so great (compare it to Toby Jones, far better-suited to the role, in Infamous, which opened around the same time) that it seems to make the effort visible. Sean Penn as Harvey Milk in Gus Van Sant’s Milk? Just about. The bubbly enthusiasm of the performance is very winning, just as Milk himself was; it’s a charm offensive, a campaign. Like Hopkins as Nixon, it suits the part. Denzel Washington as Malcolm X in the Spike Lee film of the same name? Yes: he has the looks and the charisma. Josh Brolin as George W Bush in (Stone again) W? Remarkably, yes, even though he’s too bulky. His physicality is reduced magically by the character’s small-mindedness and inexperience. Forest Whitaker as Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland is good but he’s too actorly and not terrifying enough – unlike Yaphet Kotto in the same role in Raid on Entebbe.

Awards season is upon us, so there will be more games of compare-and-contrast: Johnny Depp as the criminal James “Whitey” Bulger in Black Mass, Michael Fassbender in Steve Jobs. Don’t talk to me about Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Phillipe Petit in The Walk. Good film but why have they tinkered digitally with the actor’s imploring eyes? He looks like a motion-capture version of himself at times. But no one can seize the Complete Lack of Physical Resemblance prize from Benedict Cumberbatch, who seems not to even believe in himself as Julian Assange in The Fifth Estate.

Though with his elfin eyes and silver mane, Cumberbatch is a shoo-in if they ever make Legolas: The Later Years.

“The Program” is released 16 October.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.