Jackie

photo courtesy of film-book.com

     Jackie is the latest film from Chilean director Pablo Larraín. It tells the events of the assassination of John F. Kennedy and the following weeks from the perspective of his wife, then Jackie Kennedy. The assassination and its fallout is recounted through the interview with Jackie conducted by Time magazine’s Theodore H. White. Upon its release, the film has received widespread critical acclaim, and for good reason; Jackie is a masterful, stirring portrait of one of history’s most intriguing figures.

     Jackie is an example of storytelling prowess, which is remarkable considering that most everyone already knows each of its plot beats in great detail. Larraín is in complete narrative control; the direction is supremely confident. The film goes where it wants, lingers as long as it needs to, and accomplishes its goals with undeniable panache. Moreover, Jackie doesn’t belabor the plot-points of the story, but instead focuses on providing a compelling look into its main character’s life and point of view. The result is that the story frame is not a limitation, but a vessel for deeper examination.

photo courtesy of nytimes.com

     The movie focuses on loss, obviously. It explores the meaning of loss and having loved. But there’s more to it than that. It also discusses questions about the meaning of history, and the very act of perception in remembering history. The heart of the film, however, is invested in vanity, pride, and the unthinkable blend of selfishness and sorrow that accompanies loneliness. That heart is not immediately visible at the outset, but the film coaxes it out artfully over time. It would seem perhaps fitting for the movie to center around the loss of JFK, which of course it does, in name, but in secret the film is not about JFK at all (he actually barely appears); it’s about Jackie through and through.

     Jackie is the definition of intimate. It follows the title character so closely that it rarely (if ever) leaves her side. It’s not just the choice of scene—though many of these are provocative, small moments that would otherwise easily escape notice. It’s that it allows Jackie’s personality to drive every instant. The movie follows her through flashes of memory, unconcerned with chronology, and pauses where it can bring to light a new facet of her experience as a character.

photo courtesy of harpersbazaar.com

     What this deeply intimate scale means is that Jackie lives or dies by the strength of its main actress. Thanks to Natalie Portman’s immense talent, the result is a resounding success. Natalie Portman is at the top of her game, proving why she’s one of the most skilled actors of this generation, and perhaps earning her second Academy Award in the process. She demonstrates a subtle, nuanced portrayal that balances the necessary intricacies while characterizing Jackie Kennedy with freakish precision.

     Larraín evidently trusts Portman, because he spends much of his time lending her the entire frame. The film invests heavily in Portman’s performance with close up after close up, depending on her to carry the full weight of the character. His trust is evidently well-founded, because in those tense, powerful moments, Portman commands the screen.

photo courtesy of ferdyonfilms.com

    The sum experience from such a close, confronting approach is that the movie becomes so immersive as to be nearly overwhelming. It is, in a way, exhausting, and yet it continues to draw the viewer deeper. It’s risky (and unusual) to remain by Jackie’s side, invested in her experience without interruption. The gamble, fortunately, pays off; Jackie earns its gravitas, with Portman ensuring that it reaps the full benefit from its narrow focus. To stray from the character would make Jackie another film and a different story than the one Larraín is telling.

     The Jackie Kennedy that Portman presents is an impregnable (and yet mysteriously also shattered) fortress. She’s jaded. She plays everything close to the vest. She delights in frivolities, but then manages to wield the power of her position mercilessly. The very force of her personality is on display from the beginning of the film, and that frail and inscrutable human being is the focus of its entire run time. It is a haunting interpretation of the First Lady. If it is revisionist or prying, that is no matter (historical accuracy is not necessarily the purview or goal of any film). What matters is that it is a triumph.

photo courtesy of tomandlorenzo.com

     The only other real standout among the cast is John Hurt, who plays Father Richard McSorley, the priest in whom Jackie confides. He delivers a delightful and meaningful performance. Importantly, the role is well-written; the depiction of the priest (and his faith tradition) is sympathetic, well-reasoned, and shrewd—an unfortunately rare occurrence in today’s climate.

     It should also be noted that the film boasts a lovely and haunting visual world, with a distinct aesthetic. It’s a vivid blue of life, dazzling bliss, and intense sorrow.  The palate complements and deepens the story, accentuating both the pageantry and the horror found therein. Well-executed sound design also contributes to the illusion.

photo courtesy of lacinesalon.com

     The final piece of the puzzle is the score, composed by Mica Levi (known as Micachu). Her work is wonderfully disturbing. It forebodes great danger and expresses inexpressible longing. It does not merely overlay the film or reiterate what’s already on screen—it dares to add something substantial to the mix.

     Jackie is one of the best films of the year and one of Portman’s finest performances. It’s a must-see in the theater, where it’s intended to be viewed, and where its complexities are most openly appreciated. 

photo courtesy of entertainment.ie