J. Edgar: Cliched & Tampered Genius

Biopics have always been addictive affairs for me. And, magnitudes of such maverick proportions are rarely depicted with such audacity. Forte, remains magnetic. Class, oozes envy and a legend survives the most dramatic chapters in American history with quantum poise and touch of evil debonair. Perhaps, Nixon’s final words describe the powerhouse of a man J. Edgar Hoover was.

We can debate, ponder and remain at awe to merely flash through the exploits of Edgar (as his mom likes to call him) as he spectacularly weaves the web around the then little known bureau of investigation. I could easily throw hoodlums to enface the indispensable-like facet of Mr. Hoover – without a hugely submissive yet pierced Tolston or the vivacious yet intelligent Miss Gandy, I for a moment of periodicity that mangles the test of times, could ignore a titanic with bruised icebergs.

The radical movement, the primitive ways of dealing criminology in an environment of rarity and growing emulation of torrid communist fallacies – it was a tailor made featherbed for the young and immensely inquisitive Edgar to get himself stamped all over in the leaflets of the attorney general in the Justice department. A monopoly of guts, severance and marque observations, Mr. Hoover held sway in a department of classy lounges and over the moon officers. When he gets appointed as the acting director of the bureau, few could sense the vigour of an imperious renaissance. Rest, as they say, is history.

Post 1935, emerged FBI and still amongst the most notorious talent, Edgar romped home with the savouries of America’s most privileged and eminent with consummate ease. He bought stories, re-developed scripts, maintained files that spit fatality and treated the Roosevelts + Kennedys + Nixon with paranoid stigma. Rather, they disdainfully adored him to make themselves poorly comfortable.

Clint Eastwood is the ‘Master’ but disappoints in technical arenas. The make up and the face recognition could have been so much better, at times felt like watching a comic strip from a faded sequel of a dud. At times, individuals looked glued to their masks and it severely tarnished the hindsight of an otherwise ensemble cast with brilliant performances.

Naomi Watts as Helen Gandy was as effective as it could have ever been imagined. Tolston (little known to me though) does a superman like effort and runs himself in to a greatest ally that I have admired in the recent past. DiCaprio, I have to salute you for being the perfect Edgar, almost. His histrionics and rendered body language with a cheese of cult is stuff that mammoths are made of. An enactment of a lifetime, he surpasses his ‘Aviator’ act with miles to squander and plethora to bask in glory.

In all, a massive effort with colossal performance and basic spoilers take the sheen off from a crafted artisan.

Published by lifeoholic

Flamboyance meets me, and I could be contagiously luring. It kind of comes off in my writing, as my stories of passion and indulgence unfold.

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