Back in early 2010, when the trailers and ads for "True Grit" were being released, I started developing mixed feelings as to what we could expect. On one hand, I was very interested, for even though "True Grit" had been put on-screen once before, and quite successfully, it was a story worth retelling. Because new approaches could be taken, new moods could be attempted, new styles could be applied. The 1969 version of "True Grit" is a minor classic in its own right, but it's not an impeccable masterpiece like "Vertigo" or "Casablanca" where a remake would only leave you spreading your hands wondering: why did they even bother? So I had some high hopes. The black cloud I saw, however, was spinning over the head of the movie's much-hyped young star, Hailee Steinfeld, playing a precocious teenager who recruits a one-eyed marshal to track down her father's murderer in the old west. I was not about to judge her from clips in trailers, but Steinfeld struck me as out of place and bewildered, not familiar with the camera enough to pull the job off well.
Ten months later, the movie left me disappointed. But not for the reason I feared. By contrast, I was kicking myself for my predictions before, as Steinfeld's performance was not only good, it was exceptional, and one of the few watchable elements in this pretentiously longwinded western. "True Grit" was directed by Joel and Ethan Coen, two admittedly talented directors from Minnesota, who have become loved and drooled over by just about every movie-lover except me. For me, "True Grit" contains just about everything I've liked and disliked about their previous endeavors. What I liked: strong craftsmanship and endless ambition. What I disliked: bloated pacing, inanely longwinded and talky dialogue, and dead air as filler between scenes.
Hence why I have seldom liked their movies. To deny that these two men have instincts with staging their camera would be foolish, but I've repeatedly questioned those who have written them off as profound commentators of American mythology and morals. The Coen brothers do not just tell stories, they attempt to bury subtext and symbolic commentary into their narrative. In the case of "True Grit," violence in the old west and how, beginning with the dime novels, you might say, most Americans got it all wrong. That it was not a glorious, fun-filled time. This is a movie filled with unpredictable characters, anti-heroes, and villains who are more stupid and half-drunk than diabolical. That's certainly a good ambition. But by the end of it all, I never felt any big resonance about what the movie had been saying, and, frankly, that Clint Eastwood had handled the same subject matter so much better in, ironically, another western called "Unforgiven." "True Grit" is not as haunting as it would like to be.
The reason? It all goes to the screenplay. The talky, ostentatious, and dulled-out screenplay. As with previous Coen brothers movies, the script for "True Grit" is utterly in love with the sound of its voice. Dialogue stretches on and on for unendurable lengths of time, wearing out all attempted profundity or attempted humor, and leaving me wondering just what was all the fuss and commotion about. Take, for example, the courtroom scene where Jeff Bridges, as the one-eyed marshal, defends his decision to shoot two people dead during an arrest. The scene is played partially for laughs and partially to hint that bad times are ahead. But the pacing has feet of clay, it staggers slowly: in other words, it feels like a real courtroom event. The actor playing the defense lawyer, overacting as though in a kabuki theater, poses longwinded questions and Jeff Bridges mumbles back in a tone so low you can hardly understand him.
And that's the overall tone of the movie. What the characters talk about is not so interesting that it deserves so much attention. Chats around campfires, and there are so many of them, maintain that drag-and-dribble motif. Crucial moments whisk by without registering an appropriate impact, and unimportant stuff, such as the longwinded dialogue in the courtroom or that insanely bad and unfunny scene with a 'doctor' wearing a bear coat, takes its time in leaving the screen. And the dialogue, quite frankly, is a near self-parody. Since when would an uneducated, dumb-punk cowboy say something as articulate as "I must think over my position and how I may improve it." Or, would a smart little twerp of a girl trapped in the wilderness really say to her rescuer: "Oh, Mr. La Beouf, how did you happen to come by here?"
Usually, the Coen brothers can boast about good acting in their films. Not this time around. Steinfeld is very good. The other exception is the underrated Barry Pepper, playing the leader of an outlaw gang. As for the rest of the cast: Josh Brolin gives an uncharacteristically dull performance, playing the punk-cowboy as though he had autism, and making him seem like a self-parody as opposed to a dangerously drunken idiot. Matt Damon, also normally a reliable actor, is completely lost and misguided in this type of film. He lacks the physique and completely lacks the charisma. He's not interesting in the role of a Texas Ranger. But worst—and most shocking of all—is the awful performance by Jeff Bridges. Bridges, who is a wonderful actor and did an outstanding job playing Wild Bill Hickock in 1995, resorts here to mumbling behind a stone-faced expression with no concentration. It does not come across as an unpredictable man who could snap at any second, it comes across as Jeff Bridges hamming his way through a movie. The only thing consistent about his role is the way he reminds us how much better John Wayne played the same part in 1969. Yes, John Wayne was just playing John Wayne, but that was a performance in and of itself. And it was interesting. This was not.
Ten months later, the movie left me disappointed. But not for the reason I feared. By contrast, I was kicking myself for my predictions before, as Steinfeld's performance was not only good, it was exceptional, and one of the few watchable elements in this pretentiously longwinded western. "True Grit" was directed by Joel and Ethan Coen, two admittedly talented directors from Minnesota, who have become loved and drooled over by just about every movie-lover except me. For me, "True Grit" contains just about everything I've liked and disliked about their previous endeavors. What I liked: strong craftsmanship and endless ambition. What I disliked: bloated pacing, inanely longwinded and talky dialogue, and dead air as filler between scenes.
Hence why I have seldom liked their movies. To deny that these two men have instincts with staging their camera would be foolish, but I've repeatedly questioned those who have written them off as profound commentators of American mythology and morals. The Coen brothers do not just tell stories, they attempt to bury subtext and symbolic commentary into their narrative. In the case of "True Grit," violence in the old west and how, beginning with the dime novels, you might say, most Americans got it all wrong. That it was not a glorious, fun-filled time. This is a movie filled with unpredictable characters, anti-heroes, and villains who are more stupid and half-drunk than diabolical. That's certainly a good ambition. But by the end of it all, I never felt any big resonance about what the movie had been saying, and, frankly, that Clint Eastwood had handled the same subject matter so much better in, ironically, another western called "Unforgiven." "True Grit" is not as haunting as it would like to be.
The reason? It all goes to the screenplay. The talky, ostentatious, and dulled-out screenplay. As with previous Coen brothers movies, the script for "True Grit" is utterly in love with the sound of its voice. Dialogue stretches on and on for unendurable lengths of time, wearing out all attempted profundity or attempted humor, and leaving me wondering just what was all the fuss and commotion about. Take, for example, the courtroom scene where Jeff Bridges, as the one-eyed marshal, defends his decision to shoot two people dead during an arrest. The scene is played partially for laughs and partially to hint that bad times are ahead. But the pacing has feet of clay, it staggers slowly: in other words, it feels like a real courtroom event. The actor playing the defense lawyer, overacting as though in a kabuki theater, poses longwinded questions and Jeff Bridges mumbles back in a tone so low you can hardly understand him.
And that's the overall tone of the movie. What the characters talk about is not so interesting that it deserves so much attention. Chats around campfires, and there are so many of them, maintain that drag-and-dribble motif. Crucial moments whisk by without registering an appropriate impact, and unimportant stuff, such as the longwinded dialogue in the courtroom or that insanely bad and unfunny scene with a 'doctor' wearing a bear coat, takes its time in leaving the screen. And the dialogue, quite frankly, is a near self-parody. Since when would an uneducated, dumb-punk cowboy say something as articulate as "I must think over my position and how I may improve it." Or, would a smart little twerp of a girl trapped in the wilderness really say to her rescuer: "Oh, Mr. La Beouf, how did you happen to come by here?"
Usually, the Coen brothers can boast about good acting in their films. Not this time around. Steinfeld is very good. The other exception is the underrated Barry Pepper, playing the leader of an outlaw gang. As for the rest of the cast: Josh Brolin gives an uncharacteristically dull performance, playing the punk-cowboy as though he had autism, and making him seem like a self-parody as opposed to a dangerously drunken idiot. Matt Damon, also normally a reliable actor, is completely lost and misguided in this type of film. He lacks the physique and completely lacks the charisma. He's not interesting in the role of a Texas Ranger. But worst—and most shocking of all—is the awful performance by Jeff Bridges. Bridges, who is a wonderful actor and did an outstanding job playing Wild Bill Hickock in 1995, resorts here to mumbling behind a stone-faced expression with no concentration. It does not come across as an unpredictable man who could snap at any second, it comes across as Jeff Bridges hamming his way through a movie. The only thing consistent about his role is the way he reminds us how much better John Wayne played the same part in 1969. Yes, John Wayne was just playing John Wayne, but that was a performance in and of itself. And it was interesting. This was not.