Category: Biography

Blossoms in the Dust (1941)

Sentimental and straight-forward biography that tells a simple, unlifting story

Director: Mervyn Le Roy

Cast: Greer Garson (Edna Kahly Gladney), Walter Pidgeon (Sam Gladney), Felix Bressart (Dr Max Breslar), Marsha Hunt (Charlotte Kahly), Fay Holden (Mrs Kahly), Samuel S Hinds (George Kahly), Kathleen Howard (Sarah Keats), George Lessey (Mr Keats), William Henry (Allan Keats), Henry O’Neill (Judge Hartford)

From the 19s0s, Edna Kahly Gladney (Greer Garson) was a Texas-based campaigner for the rights of orphans, pouring what money and time she and her husband Sam (Walter Pidgeon) had into the Texas Children’s Home and Aid Society, that dedicated itself to find homes for orphans. Even the death of her husband doesn’t stop Gladney from campaigning, lobbying to have the word illegitimate struck off birth certificates, since that was condemning children to a lifetime of frowns from Texas society.

The proceeds of Blossoms in the Dust went back into that Children’s Home so something good came from this sentimental, middlebrow biography. Made after an MGM publicist, who had adopted a child from Gladney, pitched the story to the studio, it became a cosy, box-office hit that helped cement Garson as the star-of-choice for the noble, suffering women’s film (the sort of role Norma Shearer would have grabbed five years earlier). It’s a slight, very safe and reassuring film that presents its march to inevitable triumph with an unchallenging hagiography-istic glow.

Of course, the real story of Edna was not quite tragic or satisfyingly neat enough, so the film invents several biographic details to beef up her motives. Now, the young Edna’s best friend (played with decency by Marsha Hunt) kills herself in shame, once her perspective fiancée’s heartless, posh family discovers her illegitimacy and unceremoniously tells her they don’t want her in their family, thank you very much. Secondly, Edna and Sam are given a fictional young son who exists purely to almost immediately die in a tragic sledge accident as a boy.

Of course, she will now care about illegitimacy and orphans – motivations established! Both events are so dramatically neat, it’s not a surprise they didn’t happen. Inserted, it seems, in case we objected that no one could care about the fate of children unless one happened to have lost one. The death of the boy is also so insistently sign-posted – repeated shots of his cuddly horse on its side leave us in no doubt he’s doomed the second he steps out of the door on a winter’s day – it’s impact for the viewer is almost washed away.

These tragic fictional events feel even more functional because, thanks to the film’s tendency towards sudden massive time jumps, by the time the next scene comes around years have flown by and any grief long-since shelved. No where is this more awkward than practically the next shot after the death of Gladley’s son, being Greer Garson laughingly pouring drinks at a society soiree. It continues thus: even the death of her husband Sam (Pidgeon exiting the film surprisingly at the half-way mark) is followed by a flash forward of Edna stoically but smilingly getting on with it. Blossoms in the Dust introduces tragedy throughout as a cheap motivation tool, but never once allows it to carry real, lasting impact.

Despite all these flaws, Greer Garson carries the film relatively well. Edna is the sort of part that requires middle-distance staring, mixed with can-do stiff-upper-lipness and a resolute determination to put the needs of others in front of her own (no matter how tempted she might be, in the case of orphan Tommy, to keep this child to herself rather than send him to a better home). Garson gets several barn-busting speeches at the injustices of the various systems set against the young and disadvantaged, which she delivers with aplomb. A particular fine moment is her railing – ever so politely of course – against the Texas Senate from the viewing gallery, announcing “there are no illegitimate children – there are only illegitimate parents!”. It’s fine, decent work that never stretches Garson, but is perfectly suited to her persona.

The story itself is fairly episodic. The Gladney’s wealth rises and falls, depending on the (dubious) business talent of her husband. There is a sweet moment, as they face bankruptcy, when thankful town residents buy from the auction of their goods a garish vase both Gladney’s were secretly glad to see the back of (“We’ll have to keep it now” a deeply touched Edna tells her husband). Orphans suffers various crises. A shallow single father falls over himself to hand his unwanted child over, and then takes Edna to court when he sniffs he can wrangle money out of the wealthier home the child has been sent to. No events really threaten the long-term, blissful sentimentality of the film and we are left in no doubt that Edna will ever choose herself over her work.

Blossoms in the Dust does have some rather uncomfortable racial politics. Every Black character in it is a faithful servant, deferring to their masters and happy in service. The Gladney’s servant Zeke is, of course, so thrilled to work with them he insists that he carries on doing so unpaid when they go bankrupt. A Black maid is so dim, she doesn’t realise washing a thermometer in hot water will affect its result. The Black characters are treated with the same paternal charity as the babies Edna cares for, which is of its time but still somehow a bit disappointing.

Aside from that though, this is a gentle, extremely sentimental – you might almost say icky – drama, shot with technicolour beauty by Karl Freund and decently directed by Mervyn LeRoy. However, it is also a purely functional, heart-string tugging crowd pleaser of a film, which desires to do nothing more than make us feel good about the fact the human race can still do decent things for other people without reward. Which is fine now and then, but not exactly challenging stuff.

The Pride of the Yankees (1942)

Cooper triumphs in this hagiographic but still endearing film, low on drama but high on sentiment

Director: Sam Wood

Cast: Gary Cooper (Lou Gehrig), Teresa Wright (Eleanor Twitchell Gehrig), Babe Ruth (Himself), Walter Brennan (Sam Blake), Dan Duryea (Hank Hanneman), Elsa Janssen (Mom Gehrig), Ludwig Stössel (Pop Gehrig), Virginia Gilmore (Myra), Bill Dickey (Himself), Ernie Adams (Miller Huggins), Pierre Watkin (Twitchell)

It was a story that touched an entire nation. Record breaking New York Yankees captain Lou Gehrig, hitter of home runs and holder of a consecutive games streak of over 2,000 games, suddenly retired and shortly after passed away after a shock diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, forever after known as “Lou Gehrig’s Disease”. The Pride of the Yankees is an unashamedly sentimental, feel-good and hagiographic staging of the life story of a man who was so decent, modest and honourable that not a single person seemed to have so much as a bad word to say about him.

As such, it’s not a surprise he is played by Gary Cooper, who was more or less the age Gehrig would have been when if he had survived (this does make it slightly harder to not frown a bit as the craggy looking Cooper plays Gehrig as a freshman student). There is no star in Hollywood who combined masculine strength and height, with such compelling vulnerability, tenderness and polite, gentle decency like Cooper. He’s perfect for the bashful, modest Gehrig, who struggles to talk to girls, treats his natural skills at baseball with an aw-shucks modesty, is devoted to his dotting (and slightly over-bearing) mom and head-over-heels with his witty, playful and endlessly supportive wife Eleanor (played with real charm by Teresa Wright).

So perfect is Cooper for the role – and so brilliant at nailing this film’s version of Gehrig’s lump-in-throat inducing goodbye speech to a packed-out Yankee’s stadium – that it barely mattered he had virtually no interest in baseball at all. For year’s stories abounded Cooper was utterly unable to master Gehrig’s distinctive left-handed swing, requiring him to be filmed the wrong way round in a mirror-flipped shirt, so the editor could flip the film. That’s not completely true, but it certainly is true Cooper was frequently replaced by doubles and his baseball skills frequently look rudimentary at best. (It’s interesting watching today, to see how pudgy and unathletic these star baseball players – such as Babe Ruth playing himself – look. They’d be eaten alive by the streamlined athletes of today).

But The Pride of the Yankees knows that truly successful sports films are rarely actually about sports. Most of Gehrig’s career achievements are glossed over in a late montage that ends with a shot of a dresser in the Gehrig home groaning under a collection of medals and trophies. The film has more interest – perhaps rightly – in relatable personal anecdotes rather than the intricacies of the ball game. Our longest sequence of sustained play revolves around an unspoken competition between Ruth and Gehrig to hit the most home runs in honour of a bed-bound kid in hospital (there is, apparently, also a championship at stake). Other than that, baseball is largely background colour in this most beloved of baseball films, Wood and Sam Goldwyn trusting die-hard fans would get their kicks from seeing so many real-life hitters and catchers playing themselves in Yankee kits.

Instead, the film is largely a tribute to the decency of Gehrig, presenting his life in charmingly related chunks, largely devoid of conflict or obstacles. You could in fact marvel about how undramatic Pride of the Yankees frequently is. Gehrig getting into some fisticuffs with a bunch of frat boys after one crack too many about his fumbled attempts to woo a girl is about as conflict heavy it gets. That and a brief power struggle between Eleanor and Momma Gehrig for control of the Gehrig matrimonial home – never has wallpaper caused such discord on film – which is resolved thanks to an off-screen conversation, leaving everyone thereafter bathed in happy smiles.

It sort of doesn’t really matter that conflict is a stranger, and obstacles always fall away from Gehrig, because the film itself is very sweet, well-meaning and charming. Sometimes, it seems to argue, good thanks happen to good people. And Gehrig, in one of the definitive Cooper roles, is a stand-up guy bar none. In his quiet, bashful way he’s dedicated to becoming the engineer his mother dreams of – only taking up the game professionally to pay for her medical care. He sits patiently on the Yankees bench (and is loaned out to every team under the sun) for his chance to shine, without a single complaint. His mantra America incarnate: if you work hard, you can do anything.

Pride of the Yankees coats itself in hard-warming personal stories, filled out by an impressive cast. Elsa Janssen finds keeps a nice pinch of possessiveness in Momma Gehrig’s devotion of her son – Gehrig is very adept at reassuring her of his devotion – while being endearing as a parent who supports her son come what may. Ludwig Stössel is equally sweet as his hen-picked, but quietly wise and observant dad. Walter Brennan, as a fictionalised representation of a host of journalists who supported Gehrig, is perfect casting as an endlessly loyal advocate of Gehrig. Best of all, Teresa Wright’s playfulness – from teasing Gehrig at his first game in Chicago, to a marvellous comic skit she performs to distract him from illness – is very good, warm-hearted, adorable and genuinely moving as she deals with Gehrig’s diagnosis.

It’s a well-constructed, admirably assembled film by Wood, with some photography from Rudolph Maté that mixes documentary reconstruction with real-world footage pretty seamlessly (an Oscar for editing was deserved). The general lack of conflict or struggle can slow the pace – as does Gehrig and Eleanor’s visit to a Chicago cabaret night, which feels like an excuse to reel out a few variety acts on Goldwyn’s books – but when the tone of the film is purely aimed at heart-warming reassurance and tribute to a fallen hero you can let that go.

The film though is Cooper’s. From his awkward youth – Cooper was always adept at using his height to feel more uncomfortable, and he frequently looks worried that he’s sticking out too much – to the modest decency of his glory years, the subtle hints of fear on his face as he feels a loss of the control in his hands, it’s a perfectly judged performance. Above all, Cooper’s final closing speech – capped by a perfect shot that follows Gehrig walking from the centre circle into the darkness of the dressing room – is perfectly judged. Gehrig couldn’t have asked for more.

Madame Curie (1943)

Halting science biopic, that’s really an attempt to make a spiritual sequel to Mrs Miniver

Director: Mervyn LeRoy

Cast: Greer Garson (Marie Curie), Walter Pidgeon (Pierre Curie), Henry Travers (Eugene Curie), Albert Bassermann (Professor Jean Perot), Robert Walker (David le Gros), C. Aubrey Smith (Lord Kelvin), Dame May Whitty (Madame Eugene Curie), Victor Francen (University President), Reginald Owen (Dr Becquerel), Van Johnson (Reporter)

Marie Curie was one of History’s greatest scientists, her discoveries (partially alongside her husband Pierre) of radioactivity and a parade of elements, essentially laying the groundwork for many of the discoveries of the Twentieth Century (with two Nobel prizes along the way). Hers is an extraordinary life – something that doesn’t quite come into focus in this run-of-the-mill biopic, that re-focuses her life through the lens of her marriage to Pierre and skips lightly over the scientific import (and content) of her work. You could switch it off still not quite understanding what it was Marie Curie did.

What it was really about was repackaging Curie’s life into a thematic sequel to the previous year’s Oscar-winning hit Mrs Miniver. With the poster screaming “Mr and Mrs Miniver together again!”, the star-team of Garson and Pidgeon fitted their roles to match: Garson’s Marie Curie would be stoic, dependable, hiding her emotions under quiet restraint while calmly carrying on; Pidgeon’s Pierre was dry, decent, stiff-upper-lipped and patrician. Madame Curie covers the twelve years of their marriage as a Miniver-style package of struggle against adversity with Pierre’s death as a final act gut punch. Science (and history) is jettisoned when it doesn’t meet this model.

Not only Garson and Pidgeon, but Travers, Whitty, producer Sidney Franklin, cinematographer Joseph Ruttenberg, composer Herbert Stothard and editor Harold F Kress among others all returned and while Wyler wasn’t back to direct, Mervyn LeRoy, director of Garson’s other 1942 hit Random Harvest, was. Heck even the clumsily crafted voiceover was spoken by Miniver writer James Hilton. Of course, the Miniver model was a good one, so many parts of Madame Curie that replicate it work well. But it also points up the film’s lack of inspiration, not to mention that it’s hard to think either of the Curies were particularly like the versions of them we see here.

Much of the opening half of Madame Curie zeroes in on the relationship between the future husband-and-wife who, like all Hollywood scientists, are so dottily pre-occupied with their heavy-duty science-thinking they barely notice they are crazy for each other. Some endearing moments seep out of this: Pierre’s bashful gifting of a copy of his book to Marie (including clumsily pointing out a heartfelt inscription to her she fails to spot) or Pierre’s functional proposal, stressing the benefits to their scientific work. But this material constantly edges out any space for a real understanding of their work.

It fits with the romanticism of the script, which pretty much starts with the word “She was poor, she was beautiful” and carries on in a similar vein from there (I lost count of the number of times Garson’s beauty was commented on, so much so I snorted when she says at one point she’s not used to hearing such compliments). Madame Curie has a mediocre script: it’s the sort of film where people constantly, clumsily, address each other by name (even Marie and Pierre) and info-dump things each of them already know at each other. Hilton’s voiceover pops up to vaguely explain some scientific points the script isn’t nimble enough to put into dialogue.

It would be intriguing to imagine how Madame Curie might have changes its science coverage if it had been made a few years later, after Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been eradicated by those following in Curie’s footsteps. Certainly, the film’s bare acknowledgment of the life-shortening doses of radiation the Curies were unwittingly absorbing during their work would have changed (a doctor does suggest those strange burns on Marie’s hands may be something to worry about). So naively unplayed is this, that it’s hard not to snort when Pierre comments after a post-radium discovery rest-trip “we didn’t realise how sick we were”. In actuality, Pierre’s tragic death in a traffic accident was more likely linked to his radiation-related ill health than his absent-minded professor qualities (Madame Curie highlights his distraction early on with him nearly being crushed under carriage wheel after walking Marie home).

Madame Curie does attempt to explore some of the sexism Marie faced – although it undermines this by constantly placing most of the rebuttal in the mouth of Pierre. Various fuddy-duddy academics sniff at the idea of a woman knowing of what she speaks, while both Pierre and his assistant (an engaging Robert Walker) assume before her arrival at his lab that she must be some twisted harridan and certainly will be no use with the test tubes. To be honest, it’s not helped by those constant references to Garson’s looks or (indeed) her fundamental mis-casting. Garson’s middle-distance starring and soft-spoken politeness never fits with anyone’s idea of what Marie Curie might have been like and a bolted-on description of her as stubborn doesn’t change that.

Walter Pidgeon, surprisingly, is better suited as Pierre, his mid-Atlantic stiffness rather well-suited to the film’s vision of the absent-minded Pierre and he’s genuinely rather sweet and funny when struggling to understand and express his emotions. There are strong turns from Travers and Whitty as his feuding parents, a sprightly cameo from C Aubrey Smith as Lord Kelvin and Albert Bassermann provides avuncular concern as Marie and Pierre’s mentor. The Oscar-nominated sets are also impressive.

But, for all Madame Curie is stuffed with lines like “our notion of the universe will be changed!” it struggles to make the viewer understand why we should care about the Curie’s work. Instead, it’s domestic drama in a laboratory, lacking any real inspiration in its desperation by its makers to pull off the Miniver trick once more. Failing to really do that, and failing to really cover the science, it ends up falling between both stools, destined to be far more forgettable than a film about one of history’s most important figures deserves to be.

Rustin (2023)

Solid biopic tells an inspiring story in a straightforward way with a Domingo star turn

Director: George C Wolfe

Cast: Colman Domingo (Bayard Rustin), Aml Ameen (Martin Luther King Jnr), Glynn Turman (A Philip Randolph), Chris Rock (Roy Wilkins), Gus Halper (Tom Kahn), Johnny Ramey (Elias Taylor), CCH Pounder (Dr Anna Hedgeman), Michael Potts (Cleve Robinson), Audra McDonald (Ella Baker), Jeffrey Wright (Adam Clayton Powell Jnr), Lilli Kay (Rachell), Jordan-Amanda Hall (Charlene), Bill Irwin (AJ Muste)

Bayard Rustin was on of crucial the civil rights activists in conceiving, planning and organising the 1963 March on Washington. A proponent of nonviolence and equal rights for all, regardless of race, gender or sexuality, he was a close friend and colleague of Martin Luther King and a key figure in innumerable campaigns. Rustin partly exists to bring his life more to public notice, focusing on the build-up to the March on Washington and exploring Rustin’s struggles as both a Black man and a gay man.

At its heart is Colman Domingo, who delivers a sensational performance as Rustin, bursting with energy and emotional compassion. Domingo brilliantly captures Rustin’s loud-and-proud nature, his overwhelming commitment to being who he is, and his passionate commitment to social justice. This is a force-of-nature turn dominating the movie, breathing passion and fire into Rustin’s compulsive desire to speak out.

Domingo matches this with a neat sense of comic timing (Rustin is frequently very funny) and a raw emotion. The emotional impact nearly all comes from Domingo. He’s genuinely moving when he misjudges the level of loyalty to him in the film’s opening act and has an offer of resignation accepted by the NAACP (after press reports suggesting he has seduced King). Even more so later in his emotional outpouring when the same NAACP members finally back him up. More focus on Rustin gaining full, unquestioning, acceptance from his colleagues could have offered a beating heart to the film.

Domingo’s performance elevates an otherwise, to be honest, fairly middle-of-the-road biopic that frequently wears its research heavily. It has an air of competent professionalism, with George C Wolfe’s direction lacking emotional or visual spark. Much of the dialogue – given a brush by Dustin Lance Black – frequently (and rather painfully) has the actors fill in historical context or clumsily shoehorns in real dialogue. There is very little spark to Rustin, as it dutifully ticks off events, building towards sign-posted emotional payoffs (and, admittedly, there are fewer payoffs more inspiring than a quarter of a million people gathering in Washington to cry for freedom).

This is not to say there aren’t fine moments and its recreation of the Washington March (some tight angles, well-chosen archive footage and subtle effects) works very well. There are some fine actors giving their all. Glynn Turman is a stand-out as the inspiring Randolph, savvy enough to play the game in a way Rustin isn’t. Aml Ameen’s capturing of King’s voice and mannerisms is perfect. Pounder, Rock, McDonald and others compellingly bring to life leading activists while Jeffrey Wright sportingly plays the closest thing to a heel as jealous congressman Clayton Powell.

However skilful reconstructions only take us so far. Often personal stakes are presented vaguely. The film avoids depicting Rustin encountering much personal homophobia – no member of the movement expresses negative views, with white pacifist campaigner AJ Muste (Bill Irwin) the only person to express openly homophobic opinions. The threat of someone discovering his past arrest (for a 1953 encounter with two men in Pasadena) is played as a core fear for Rustin, but the film is vague about the likely impact this revelation would have (since it seems to already be widely know). It’s astonishing that Rustin was so open when being so was a crime, but the film (aside from a brief moment when he considers a casual pick-up) risks underplaying the era’s prejudice and dangers.

To cover issues on homophobia and self-loathing guilt, the film invents a closeted reverend, well played with a tortured sense of shame and self-loathing by Johnny Ramey, who initiates a secretive relationship with Rustin. This fictional character absorbs all the fear and self-denial that many gay people felt at the time, allowing Rustin to show us what life was like for the many, many people who, for whatever reason, were not as outspoken as Rustin. But it does feel like somewhat of a compromise, and a character who feels a little too convenient, drifting to and from the story whenever it’s themes need a bit more of a personal touch.

It’s hard not to think the film could have gained more interest from exploring Rustin’s relationship with Tom Kahn (Gus Halper) – or even being clearer on the very nature of this relationship. An initial familiar intimacy indicates an established romantic relationship, but later scenes suggest instead a more casual flatmates-with-benefits set-up. Then we suddenly hit the inevitable moment when Kahn walks in on Rustin and Elias kissing and reacts like a betrayed partner. It finally decides Kahn is in love with Rustin, but Rustin hasn’t time for a relationship with so much work to be done. Despite this thought, the film wants to also say Rustin and Elias are profoundly in love, tragically only kept apart by social pressures. It’s trying to have its cake and eat it too. The cost to your personal life of being fully committed to a cause, or the awful pressures of loving someone in the face of prejudice, are both powerful stories. Settling on one and exploring it fully would have been more emotionally rewarding.

Rustin is a solid, well-handled, decent biopic. Bringing the life of a lesser-known civil rights activist to a bigger audience is a worthy aim, and Black and queer audiences (historically underserved) deserve to see films that centre their stories. It’s also refreshing to see a film zero in on the importance of logistics for major events (what other film has a scene where the fillings of thousands of sandwiches to be kept in the warm sunshine becomes a heated debate?) and its focus on the work recruiting attendees, buses and resources for the March is great.

But the real success in this sometimes workmanlike film is Domingo, who lifts the entire thing with an emotionally committed performance that is perhaps better than it deserves.

The House of Rothschild (1934)

Old-fashioned historical melodrama with a well-meaning, earnest political message

Director: Alfred L Werker

Cast: George Arliss (Nathan Rothschild/Mayer Rothschild), Boris Karloff (Count Ledrantz), Loretta Young (Julie Rothschild), Robert Young (Captain Fitztoy), C. Aubrey Smith (Duke of Wellington), Arthur Byron (Baring), Helen Westley (Gudula Rothschild), Reginald Owen (JC Herries), Florence Arliss (Hannah Rothschild), Alan Mowbray (Prince Metternich), Holmes Herbert (Roweth)

It’s 1814 and things are looking tight for the international banking house of Rothschild. With the Napoleonic Wars over, partly thanks to Rothshild financial support of Wellington’s armies, Nathan Rothschild (George Arliss) is pitching to underwrite the loans to help restore France. Problem is, now the merde is out of the European fan, many of the Powers-That-Be don’t want to continue working with a Jewish bank. Led by scowling antisemitic Prussian Count Ledrantz (Boris Karloff), the Rothschilds bid is unjustly rejected. Rothschild outmanoeuvres his enemies to win the contract back, but it leads to a series of revenge pogroms in Prussia. Things change though, when Napoleon escapes from Elba. As all roads lead to Waterloo, will Rothschild back the Allied powers or throw in his lot with Napoleon?

The House of Rothschild is a very well-meaning, old-fashioned historical melodrama, that takes a strong stance against antisemitism. It clearly has more than half-an-eye on events in Germany in the 1930s. As the film’s Prussia of 1814 sinks into mobs hurling stones through windows, smashing up shops and chanting for the expulsion of Jewish people, while families flee across the body leaving their possessions behind (all while the self-satisfied, archly cold Ledrantz pushes his agents to provoke the people to yet more outbursts), surely many people would have seen parallels with Hitler’s Germany.

Throughout the film, the accusations of antisemites are pointedly broken down and strongly rebutted or placed into context. Why do the Rothschilds work in money? Because they are literally banned from any other profession. And money is the only tool they have to defend themselves against 2000 years of persecution; persecution that has made the Rothschilds feel a true affinity for their fellow Jewish people. Indeed, Nathan Rothschild feels a duty to stand firm and do anything he can to help his people: and if that means a bit of financial chicanery or applying heavy pressure to the European powers, then so be it. There is a greater good here when lives are at stake.

The scourge of racism is strongly displayed throughout the film. It opens with a prologue as Nathan’s father Mayer (George Arliss pulling double duty, under a pile of make-up and a wig) struggles to hide his justly-earned fortune from being stolen by corrupt tax collectors who call him ‘Jew’ and smugly tell him the amount he owes to the government is whatever they say it is. It’s a ferocious piece of open antisemitism, but it has genteel echoes when Nathan is later snubbed for an invite to a ball to celebrate Wellington’s victory (a victory he largely paid for) since Jewish people aren’t welcome at such events.

The House of Rothschild places its laudable anti-persecution aim into a very traditional, old-fashioned, costume drama that wouldn’t look out of place on the Victorian stage. It was a passion project of George Arliss’ (who cared deeply about its message), but also fit wonderfully well inside his wheelhouse. You can see its deep similarities to Arliss’ Oscar-winning vehicle Disraeli. Just as there, he plays a twinkly elder statesman, with a touch of the rogue but overflowing with decency and honour. Despite being seen as a suspicious outsider, he out-plays his rivals in an international conspiracy while casting an avuncular eye over a love affair in the family: in this case between his daughter (Loretta Young) and gentile British cavalry officer Captain Fitzroy (a fairly wooden Robert Young). Both films end with our hero celebrated by royalty at a grand ball, while cementing a loving marriage with his wife (played again by Arliss’ wife Florence).

Arliss is, of course, very good in a role tailor made for his mix of playful charm and speechifying. Much of the film is essentially dominated by Arliss, who delivers with his customary skill (even if his performance as Mayer is more than a little ripe) and if his performance feels more than a little like Disraeli #2, his comfort in front of the camera and the naturalness he brings to the role help enormously. Under the playful exterior, Arliss also finds a strength and determination, powered by a real moral fury at the injustices, slights and (eventual) violence perpetuated upon his people.

Few other actors get much to play with here. House of Rothschild is heavily fictionalised, from its invented nemesis in Count Ledrantz (Karloff is good value as the scowling racist) to the build-up to the Waterloo campaign. However, for history buffs like me, there is a fair bit of delight in seeing a parade of great European statesmen pop up in cameos. From Tallyrand to Metternich to Lord Liverpool, these powerhouses of politics fill out the margins, even if they barely come to life as characters. If there is an exception, it’s the customary gruff no-nonsense military bearing C. Aubrey Smith gives Wellington (here a man firmly on the side of decency and honour).

The romantic sub-plot is very disposable, despite the best efforts of all involved. It briefly overlaps with the film’s main themes – Rothschild is less than happy with his daughter marrying a gentile, while he suffers a parade of humiliations from Fitzroy’s compatriots – but otherwise provides little real drama. The various conspiracies are largely resolved through some ingenious Rothschild speeches. The film’s main success is always the creeping dread of antisemitic violence, a candle it keeps alive throughout its old-school, costume-drama melodrama, with just small drops of directorial and cinematic invention. It’s the main reason for remembering a film that’s entertaining enough, in a gentle, classic Hollywood biopic way. It never reinvents the wheel, but it’s passionate about the people who find themselves ground beneath it.

Note: Considering all that, it’s particularly sickening to note that footage from The House of Rothschild of Arliss in full Mayer Rothschild make-up was pinched and repurposed for Joseph Goebbels’ vile antisemitic epic, The Eternal Jew.

The Smashing Machine (2025)

Johnson goes for Oscar in a mediocre film that arguably shows his limits as an actor not his depth

Director: Ben Safdie

Cast: Dwayne Johnson (Mark Kerr), Emily Blunt (Dawn Staples), Ryan Bader (Mark Coleman), Bas Rutten (Himself), Oleksandr Usyk (Igor Vovchanchyn), Lyndsey Gavin (Elizabeth Coleman), Satoshi Ishii (Enson Inoue), James Moontasti (Akira Shoji)

Mixed Martial Arts is big business today. The Smashing Machine makes a point of stating its stars are internationally known, earning millions of dollars. Making them not too dissimilar from The Smashing Machine’s star (and guiding light) Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, who achieved both these in MMA’s ‘scripted’ sibling Professional Wrestling. It’s a knowledge the film is banking on, as Johnson plays Mark Kerr a leading MMA fighter from that period in the late 90s when men were willing to have several layers of shit kicked-and-punched out of them for a few thousand dollars and a dream.

Kerr is one of the big draws of MMA, an affable six-foot mountain of muscle who (when not brutally beating others in the ring) is a hulk of likeability. But he’s got problems – for starters a growing reliance on opioid painkillers and a relationship that’s two thirds self-destructive to one-third mutually dependent with girlfriend Dawn (Emily Blunt). The Smashing Machine covers Kerr’s getting clean, the break-up and return of his volatile relationship and his shot at 2000 MMA title in Japan in 2000 that could land him $200k.

The Smashing Machine covers all this in a deliberately distanced, low-key style. It nominally follows sports film structure (triumph, failure, re-build, some level of success), trudging along the Rocky template. But Safdie avoids exploiting the genre’s strengths (the highs and joys and it’s emotional release) in a way that is both admirable and makes The Smashing Machine a less engaging or interesting film than you keep expecting it to be. It’s almost a point-of-pride that the film avoids the obvious, but instead languidly leaves things unsaid, or skims lightly over key plot developments, as it spools out accompanied by an incessant jazz soundtrack. But it’s not always a strength.

What it fails to do is find something sufficiently interesting or compelling to take their place. It has all the surface appearance of raw, true-life drama: the jerky camera-work, jazzy score, muted colours, roughed-up actors – but is constantly too distanced and cautious to be truly raw. It (perhaps admirably) doesn’t want to be seen to exploit Kerr, but by playing down his struggles (or rather, boiling them down into neat little scenes ripe for “For your consideration” Oscar clips), it also makes them frequently feel like not that much of a deal. On top of this, the underlying desperation that could have been there in a film where people submit themselves (effectively) to ruleless cage fights like wage-slave gladiators never gets an airing.

It doesn’t even really explore the dark nature of the ‘romance’ at its heart, a relationship which seems categorically a ‘bad thing’ for both people (a coda reveals they married shortly after reuniting after the ballistic, emotion-packed row that is their final moments here – and separated within six years). This is a relationship where the two are never on an equinox. When Mark is in the depth of addiction, Dawn is both afraid of his drugged-out distance and enjoys his small-boy-like need for her affection. When he’s clean, Mark sermonises sanctimoniously while Dawn doubles down on drinking and pill-popping in front of him (“that’s not nice” Mark chides her, sounding like a disappointed child).

But, despite the disapproval hinted out from all the other characters in the film, The Smashing Machine shies away from really addressing this dangerous relationship, making it feel more like a formulaic awkward-love-story, rather than being braver with a harsh truth. In fact, that passionate heated romance, ends up feeling like somewhere between a rather forced series of contrived, manipulative moments (that have no real pay-off) and a firey acting exercise between two performers who trust each other.

Lack of bravery soaks through the whole film, a muted awkward affair where you feel different hands pulling in different directions (an on-the-nose commentator explains all the MMA action to us, as if a producer watching a late-cut was worried it would otherwise make no sense). It’s part a quiet, off-the-wall, yanging-when-it-could-ying serious character study (the Safdie side perhaps), part an Oscar bait slice of true-life heroism (the Johnson side).

Ah yes, the Oscar bait. Much play was made of how far Johnson was willing to move out of his comfort zone and cast aside the action that made him a star. However, for me, what The Smashing Machine reveals is the limits Johnson is willing to go too as an actor. The Rock doesn’t do vulnerability even when playing a beaten-up drug-addict in a borderline-mutually-abusive relationship (all the head-in-his-hands scenes weeping can’t change this, and Johnson delivers these moments like acting assignments rather than with true emotion). Johnson won’t sacrifice his strength of character to play a truly weak man: Johnson might punch a door apart, he never feels comfortable embodying a man who was at time selfish, self-destructive or foolish. Johnson prefers a Kerr who is always, in some degree, strong (even when whining at a loss, he does it with real commitment).

His partnership with Emily Blunt doesn’t help him: Blunt is far more skilled at creating a nuanced character, someone who weeps with pain at Kerr’s drug use and then later performatively rages at him for being boring when he’s clean. She’s not afraid to explore the darker, less flattering areas in the way Johnson doesn’t want to. Johnson makes the mistake of many in thinking real acting is starring soulfully and having a cry. What he doesn’t do is really commit to transforming his soul and persona: for all the wig, this always feel like a performance as in-control and carefully studied as Johnson himself is. The Smashing Machine shows that even a piece of against-type Oscar-bait is still fundamentally part of the same Johnson-branding exercise, another brick in the persona wall of a determined, charming high-achiever.

You can’t say as much for the film. An average film, lacking spark, energy or interest that can’t make up its mind about whether it wants to be low-key tragedy or a heroic tale of redemption. It says a lot that its most powerful and affecting moments are its closing ones, as we watch the real Kerr shopping in 2025, utterly anonymous, chatting pleasantly with staff who don’t know who he is before he breaks the fourth wall to wave us goodbye. In these minutes, the film clicks with a force nothing else in it manages. Shame you need to wait two hours for it.

Reversal of Fortune (1990)

Irons Oscar-winning turn is the stand-out of an otherwise dry picture lacking in energy

Director: Barbet Schroeder

Cast: Glenn Close (Sunny von Bülow), Jeremy Irons (Claus von Bülow), Ron Silver (Alan Dershowitz), Annabella Sciorra (Sarah), Fisher Stevens (David Marriott), Uta Hagen (Maria), Jack Gilpin (Peter MacIntosh), Christine Baranski (Andrea Reynolds), Stephen Mailer (Elon Dershowitz), Felicity Huffman (Minnie)

It was a trial that engrossed America in the early 80s. Did Claus von Bülow (Jeremy Irons), second husband of millionaire Sunny von Bülow (Glenn Close), pump her full of insulin and leave her on the floor of their ensuite to die? Sunny von Bülow, in a permanent vegetative state, narrates this tale Joe-Gillis-style from her coma as Claus is convicted of her attempted murder and hires law professor Alan Dershowitz (Ron Silver) to appeal. But did Claus do it, or is he the victim of public perception?

Of course, no one can know (Sunny even tells us in voiceover, if we want the answer, we’re going to have to wait until we see her wherever she happens to be now). Answers are not on the cards for Reversal of Fortune, which struggles to find something engaging enough to take their place. With some decent lines and striking moments, it focuses on a long breakdown of the might-have-beens, disputed facts and point-of-views of those involved, leaving it up to you to decide if Claus is just a European eccentric with an unfortunate manner and sense of humour or a cold-hearted killer who twice attempted to murder his wife for her money.

Your interest in this will be roughly proportional with how engaging you would find a true crime podcasts without any expert debate. As a rundown of the core facts, it often settles for a series of rather dry scenes of Dershowitz’s legal team reading to each other the various ins-and-outs of the prosecution case, poking holes where needed. There is a singular lack of energy about this, despite the film’s, in many ways admirable, decision to focus on the nitty gritty of cases being built instead of showpiece court confrontations. What Reversal of Fortune fails to do is make this collection of facts and arguments compelling. There are very few scenes of questioning witnesses, consulting experts or uncovering evidence – no investigative energy so crucial to making this sort of film work.

On top of this, it’s hard not to take the film with a pinch of salt, since it takes its entire perspective from Dershowitz, a lawyer who (for all his work for those on Death Row) has shown himself more-and-more as being at least as interested in self-promotion as he is in justice, taking on any case if it brings media prominence. After all, he rolled from von Bülow to representing OJ Simpson, Harvey Weinstein and Jeffrey Epstein. The biggest argument against Bülow’s innocence today might be to say “take a look at that client list”.

Reversal of Fortune walks a fine line between acknowledging Dershowitz’s ambition, while stressing his moral unease. Ron Silver is very good at Dershowitz’s showmanship, self-conscious scruffiness and room-controlling charisma. He has slightly less scope to explore Dershowitz’s moral flexibility: Reversal of Fortune argues it’s important to protect the civil rights of rich people, to prevent precedents hurting the rights of those who can’t afford a houseful of lawyers to pick holes in their cases. Reversal of Fortune further weights the deck to make us see Dershowitz heroically by fictionalising an actual a Death Row case he’s worked on alongside the investigation, representing two young men who broke their criminal father out of prison (who later went on to kill someone). In the film several facts about this case are changed from reality to make them more noble and sympathetic, most crucially changing the race of those involved from white to Black and radically reducing the number of murders involved (as well as not mentioning they also broke another convicted murderer out of prison).

The real strength of Reversal of Fortune is the Oscar-winning performance of Jeremy Irons as Bülow. This was a perfectly fitting, gift of a part for Irons – did they tell him to be as Jeremy Irons as possible? His performance is sly and darkly witty. Bülow is forever making poor taste puns about his possible crimes that Irons’ savours like mouthfuls of the richest caviar. It’s a performance of arch strangeness, Irons playing Bülow as a man so unreadable, taking such a naughty delight in the side benefits of being accused of a crime (he jubilantly states at one point he never before got such good tables in restaurants), so full of elegant European-gentility, he just looks naturally guilty to the parade of straight-shooting American citizens with the power of life and death over him.

Irons’ is also masterful at suggesting this unflappable, dark humour and quirk is actually a desperate front for a man deeply scared but used to hiding his real feelings. Irons suggests Bulow is genuinely using this facade to control his fears and keep him in fighting. The key to the character is nerve: it’s what he describes backgammon as being about, poo-poohing the idea that it’s down to luck, saying winners hold their guts in place. It’s the key to his whole character, the same gambling guts what he’s banking on to get him through this (someone actually guilty would never behave like this right?), and Irons simultaneously plays this front and keeps the frightened man underneath constantly present.

It’s a fascinating, funny, hugely enjoyable performance that lifts the entire film which struggles and slackens the second Irons leaves the screen. Aside from him – and Glenn Close’s arch narration (her agent did fine work nailing her top billing for this) – Reversal of Fortune is a surprisingly dry, rather slowly paced film which, while it is mercifully light on speculation, is also unfortunately light on drama.

A Complete Unknown (2024)

Engaging but traditional biopic, very well-made and full of knock out performances

Director: James Mangold

Cast: Timothée Chalamet (Bob Dylan), Edward Norton (Pete Seeger), Elle Fanning (Sylvie Russo), Monica Barbaro (Joan Baez), Boyd Holbrook (Johnny Cash), Scoot McNairy (Woody Guthrie), Dan Fogler (Albert Grossman), Norbert Leo Butz (Alan Lomax), PJ Byrne (Harold Leventhal), Will Harrison (Bob Neuwirth), Eriko Hatsune (Toshi Seeger), Charlie Tahan (Al Kooper)

In 1961 Bob Dylan seemed to emerge from nowhere – or, if you like, from being A Complete Unknown – to become the big star of American music and the centre of a battle for the soul of American folk music. On one side, were the traditionalists – they loved Dylan’s thoughtful, lyrical ballads and use of guitar, harpsichord and other instruments. They believed Dylan could lead a whole new generation to traditional American music. On the other side were the modernists, inspired by rock and roll, and the new (electric) sound. A Complete Unknown is about Dylan’s – inevitable – journey towards exploring new music sounds, culminating in his strum-heard-around-the-world as he played an electric set at the Newport Folk Festival (to a mixed reaction to say the least).

That’s the meat of James Mangold’s traditional, but very well-made and enjoyable musical biography, a spiritual sequel to Walk the Line (with a decent, but drink-addled Cash here played by Boyd Holbrook). Much like that film, this tweaks and amends some historical facts, but manages to get close to the spirit of its subject all within a familiar biography set-up of early success, mid-way struggles and triumphant (of a sort) resolution. There is nothing in A Complete Unknown to surprise you but it’s still a highly enjoyable, very professionally assembled journey.

Its main success is the depth and insight with which it penetrates Dylan’s character. A Complete Unknown embraces Dylan’s enigmatic quality, not to mention his stubborn, relentless and obsessive focus on his music and the austere distance he can treat the world. This all comes across beautifully in Timothée Chalamet’s superb performance – not only a pin-point physical and vocal and impersonation, but also a soulful rendering of a poet who constantly pushed against being classified and categorised, bristling against ideas he should play certain songs certain ways.

The roots of the culture clash that will dominate the film are clear from the start when Dylan and Pete Seeger (Edward Norton) drive from visiting visited Dylan’s hospitalised idol Woody Guthrie (Scoot McNairy) and Dylan flicks through radio channels. Dylan finds interest in all the different music they encounter; Seeger smiles pleasantly and nods his head, but clearly can’t hide his patient disregard for the electric beats of rock and roll. It’s the platform for the surly discontent Chalamet so perfectly embodies as Dylan is expected to pigeon hole himself as a folk singer, who (as he puts it) stands with his acoustic guitar at a mic and sings Blowin’ In the Wind for the rest of his life. A Complete Unknown falls in love with Dylan’s passionate self-expression, his search for his own sound.

That search frequently makes Dylan a difficult person to spend time with. Awkward and hesitant with other people – Chalamet’s Dylan is constantly cautious about exposing too much of his inner thoughts and feelings – the poetic writer mumbles in monosyllables and responds to fame with a grudging disdain that seems him rarely remove his sunglass shield between him and the world. He has no interest in fame and is positively alarmed at adulation from strangers (there is a neat line when he is unrecognised by a street vendor and asked if he has kids to which he wearily replies ‘Yeah, thousands’). Match that with his ruthless determination to put his artistic calling above anything else, and you’ve got a man who verges on using other people.

It feeds into Dylan’s relationships. At his request, his girlfriend Suzie Rotolo is very-lightly disguised as Sylvie Russo, played with an emotional richness by Elle Fanning. The film skips the more difficult parts of their break-up – Dylan stated the only song he regrated was one he wrote about Rotolo’s abortion, calling himself a shmuck for doing so. But in doing so, the film steams off Rotolo’s contribution to Dylan’s writing and much of her own dynamic and interesting qualities. The original Rotolo, an artist, was an important sounding board: we don’t see a jot of that here, as she is repackaged into offering Dylan much-needed stability and security, dealing with movie-girlfriend insecurity about Dylan’s attraction to collaborator Joan Baez.

Dylan returns to Russo when he needs comfort at times of stress (from dropping in on her apartment – and waking her new boyfriend – late at night, to bringing her with him to the folk festival when he intends to turn electric) but Chalamet’s simmering self-focus makes clear Dylan at this stage can’t settle into a mutual relationship. It also comes between him and Joan Baez, played with dynamic charisma by Monica Barbaro, Despite their attraction and musical synchronicity, Dylan never sees her as a true artistic partner, even calling round one night for a booty call followed by private song writing using her guitar (she throws him out). On tour together, Dylan archly points out he writes the song and he leaves Baez hanging at a concert when he flat-out refuses to play the advertised favourites. The chemistry however is still there, within when it tips into aggression.

Dylan goes his own way, and if that means turning against surrogate fathers Peter Seeger and Woody Guthrie, then he will. A Complete Unknown features one of Edward Norton’s finest performances as a warm, tender and heartbreaking Pete Seeger (matched with a wonderful performance from Eriko Hatsune as Pete’s wife Toshi). Norton is brilliant at making Seeger – an environmentalist and gentle, accommodating advocate of folk music – a portrait of inevitable disappointment-in-waiting. There is a heart-rending moment where Norton beams as if all his dreams have come true as Dylan plays his first Newport festival: heart-breaking because we know Dylan’s next performance (where a guilty Dylan brusquely shrugs off Seeger’s gentle pleading to stay acoustic for just one more day) will see these dreams left in shattered pieces.

A Complete Unknown is a handsome, very well-mounted film from James Mangold, who has proved time-and-again that he can explore classic Americana with a freshness and energy few other directors can match. The film is perhaps overlong – probably due to the innumerable recreations of performances from Dylan, Seeger and Baez, all excellent but there are far too many – and it’s biopic approach is relentless traditional. But it’s filled with a parade of rich performances (with Chalamet outstanding), rolls along with energy, carries an emotional impact and will leave you engaged and entertained throughout.

Cry Freedom (1987)

Highly earnest, well-meaning, but tragically mis-focused biopic that doesn’t have the impact it wants

Director: Richard Attenborough

Cast: Kevin Kline (Donald Woods), Denzel Washington (Steve Biko), Penelope Wilton (Wendy Woods), Alec McCowen (High Commissioner David Aubrey Scott), Kevin McNally (Ken Robertson), Ian Richardson (State Prosecutor), John Thaw (Jimmy Kruger), Timothy West (Captain De Wet), Josette Simon (Dr Mamphela Ramphele), John Hargreaves (Bruce Haigh), Zakes Mokae (Father Kani), John Matsikiza (Mapetla), Julian Glover (Don Card)

Steve Biko (Denzel Washington) was a leading anti-Apartheid campaigner, driving the Black Consciousness Movement in the repressive racist state of South Africa. Biko called for Black people to organise themselves and rejected the paternalistic concern of hand-wringing white liberals. Biko was ‘banned’ in 1970s by South Africa’s (in)justice department (meaning he could not be in physical proximity with more than one other person at a time) but didn’t let this stop him campaigning – until he was eventually arrested and murdered in custody in August 1977. His story came to international attention with the reporting Donald Woods (Kevin Kline), the white liberal newspaper editor who befriended Biko, later also banned and eventually fled in disguise from South Africa.

All of this makes very ripe ground for Richard Attenborough to make another socially conscious, unreservedly liberal film, very much in the style of Gandhi. Unfortunately, while Gandhi combined epic sweep and drama with its schoolboy history, Cry Freedom is a deathly serious film, straight-jacketed by recreating events as reverentially as possible and focuses itself in all the wrong places. Cry Freedom is the Biko biography in which Biko becomes a supporting character to exactly the sort of white liberal he rejected having African stories filtered through. Admirable as Donald Woods’ efforts to find justice for Biko was, does it feel like he deserved the focus of over half the film? It’s as if Attenborough had decided to frame Gandhi solely from the perspective of Martin Sheen’s journalist rather than the Father of India himself.

Following the trend of many films of the 80s and 90s, Cry Freedom believes that the only way the regular cinemagoer can relate to a minority group is through the filter of a complacent white person having their eyes opened to how unjust everything is. In carefully following this cliché, Cry Freedom does do a decent job. Woods is patronisingly certain of his liberal views, even while he sometimes fails to even acknowledge his live-in Black maid who unquestioningly calls him ‘master’.

Back-slapping himself on writing the odd sympathetic editorial and convinced one of the big problems of South Africa is the danger of anti-white racism, he’s exactly the sort of hero you get in this genre: the guy who assumes, because the system has always worked for him, it will work for everyone. When he resolves to support Biko, he immediately assumes a friendly pow-wow with Justice Minister Jimmy Kruger (a terrifyingly amorally, avuncular John Thaw) will sweep away all the problems (it, of course, makes things immeasurably worse for everyone).

Cry Freedom largely re-creates the oppressive policies of South Africa, through seeing a white character become a victim of the very persecution, bullying and terrorising the Black community has spent its whole life suffering. (With the big exception that Donald Woods never seems to be in danger of being dragged off the streets and beaten to death in a police cell). It feels like a tone-deaf way of exploring these issues. Particularly as Donald Woods’ eventual escape from South Africa is staged and filmed with a singular lack of energy over nearly an hour of screen time, with interest slowly drained out as Attenborough uninventively turns it into an identikit version of any number of bog-standard behind-the-lines Great Escape shenanigans you’ve seen done a million times better before.

Attenborough, to be fair, saves his energy for the re-staging of the brutal repression inflicted on the Black community. Cry Freedom’s opening and closing sequences – a brutal slum clearance in East London and a restaging of the shockingly violent crushing of the 16 June 1976 Soweto uprising (where indiscriminate police automatic weapons fire killed and injured hundreds of children) – are shot with exactly the sort of humanitarian outrage and cold-eyed recognition of the horrors of conflict that Attenborough bought to Gandhi and A Bridge too Far.

It’s not hard to wonder if this is more the sort of film Attenborough wanted to make, but that funding demanded a white lead so as not to panic mainstream cinema audiences. It makes large parts of the film feel like a missed opportunity. A real immersion in the actual day-to-day lives of Black South Africans – not just the beatings, but the unending, casual racism and oppression – would have created a film of even more power. (The fact the film suddenly ends with a flashback to Soweto – an event not central to the plot at all – makes you wonder if Attenborough suddenly realised that, without it, Cry Freedom would have barely shown a Black face for its last twenty minutes).

But too much of the rest of Cry Freedom feels too dry, reserved and lifeless. Even Biko himself falls into this trap. Denzel Washington delivers a very fine performance, full of the sort of effortless charisma and magnetic leadership that makes you believe that so many would follow him and using wit and moral certainty to stand up to the various bullying policeman he encounters. But too much of Biko’s dialogue with Woods is full of the sort of dialogue designed to inform and educate the audience, rather than create good story-telling. Too many scenes in Cry Freedom’s opening hour feel like a South African politics seminar, no matter how much energy Washington gives the dialogue.

It’s part of the feeling the whole film carries: a very serious political ethics class, mixed with an all-too familiar story of a white man learning first hand just how tough his Black friends have had it for years. Attenborough so clearly means well, it feels almost cruel to knock him and his film: but Cry Freedom feels like a film with a lot of blood, sweat and tears invested in it, which then fails to have the emotional heft it really needs and spends a lot of time telling the wrong person’s story.

The Apprentice (2024)

Heavy-handed anti-Trump message is made to almost work by two excellent performances

Director: Ali Abbasi

Cast: Sebastian Stan (Donald Trump), Jeremy Strong (Roy Cohn), Maria Bakalova (Ivana Trump), Martin Donovan (Fred Trump Snr), Catherine McNally (Mary Anne Trump), Charlie Carrick (Fred Trump Jnr), Ben Sullivan (Russell Eldridge), Mark Rendall (Roger Stone), Bruce Beaton (Andy Warhol)

No one has dominated recent global discussion more than Donald Trump. The Apprentice aims to expose how he was formed – inevitably, you can’t move for reviews referring to it as a Supervillain Origin Story – but really, it’s being sung for the choir and I’m not sure it really adds anything to the international conversation. I can’t imagine this film shifting the dial at all (which indeed it didn’t): if you hate Trump (and I am not a fan), it’s gonna confirm everything you think already and then some. If you are a supporter you’ll probably think it’s a shrill hatchet job. Both sides might well agree Abbasi’s film is a little hectoring.

Picking up in the late 70s, and running through the all-consuming Greed-is-Good Reaganite America, The Apprentice charts the friendship between up-and-coming would-be-property-mogul Trump (Sebastian Stan) and ruthless McCarthyite legend lawyer Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong). Cohn takes Trump under this wing, teaching him his three rules for success (always attack, never apologise, always claim victory no matter what). Under this guidance, Trump becomes the figure of bombastic, selfish egotism we see today – while Cohn, afflicted with AIDS, shrinks under his protégé’s shadow.

Watching The Apprentice I was reminded of Oliver Stone’s Nixon – and not in a good way. Stone is no supporter of Nixon, but his film is a surprisingly generous Greek Tragedy which plays fair with the 37^th President, acknowledging his strengths as well as his chronic character flaws. The Apprentice abandons any attempt to do the same by the halfway point. Part of that may well be that Trump is an infinitely more shallow, less complex, less accomplished figure than Nixon. But if The Apprentice had dared to find anything a little deeper in Trump (his complex relationship with his family would have been good for this) it might have had more impact.

Instead, it’s a Faust story where the power balance shifts from Mephistopheles to Faust. At first Cohn is all powerful, tempting Trump with the power and influence to transform him from two-bit rent collector to king of the world. But the more confidence Trump gains, the more he dwarves Cohn. And the more Cohn is slowly eaten away by weakening powers and the AIDS he refuses to acknowledge he has, the smaller and more desperate he seems. It’s almost a succubus tale, with Trump draining Cohn so much he ends the film passing off his mentor’s mantras as his own invention.

The film’s most interesting section by far is it’s opening hour. It’s the only part that presents us with a Trump we don’t know already. In an excellent, Oscar-nominated, performance Sebastian Stan not only captures Trump’s mannerisms he also searches under the man’s shallow surface. Stan makes the young Trump bashful, eager-to-please, over-awed by power and nervous in high society. Seeing a naïve, fragile, uncertain Trump whose father doesn’t love him is genuinely interesting – especially since we all know the cast-iron certainty he has today. It could have done with more of this, trusting us to lay our knowledge of the man today on top.

The main factor that really lifts The Apprentice our two leads. Both Stan and Strong find an emotional depth and insight in their characters (while never absolving them) that makes them more three-dimensional than Abassi’s film wants to make them. Jeremy Strong is particularly superb (and also Oscar-nominated) as Cohn. Whipper-thin, tanned, his head aggressively jutting forward he resembles a sort of angry ferret. Strong brilliantly captures the vicious contradictions in Cohn – the Jewish antisemite, the gay homophobe – and his demonic, but Strong brilliantly unpeels Cohn’s weakness. Trump absorbs all Cohn’s vices (and then some), but none of his few virtues – personal loyalty, patriotism. Strong never makes Cohn sympathetic, but also displays his pain, unhappiness and possibly even guilt, as he realises this uncaring monster will even consume his creator. (Strong’s final scene of the dying Cohn confronting Trump’s indifference one last time is superbly played).

Abbasi’s film is well-made – the photography frequently degraded to appear like grainy camcorder footage – and its filmed with a handheld, pacey immediacy. It captures the excess Trump lives in, with its golden surfaces and more-is-more bling. All of this is aimed at exposing the future President as overwhelmingly self-occupied, amoral and cruel, interested only in himself and seeing morals. None of that is a major surprise and Abbasi is a little too delighted with pricking Trump’s fragile ego, portraying him as impotent, sniggering at his hair loss and weight gain (although this allows a neat gag, with Trump telling a doctor the body has a limited amount of energy so exercise is actually bad for you – something he refuses to accept is not true).

Trump’s treatment of Cohn is the tip of the iceberg of the depths of Trump’s personal behaviour the film gleefully shows. Trump’s penchant for self-aggrandising speeches, his kneejerk homophobia about AIDS (his fear of catching it by touch leads to him fumigating items Cohn has touched), his indifference about relationships (swindling his father and dropping his alcoholic brother) all get ample coverage. He pursues Ivana (a very good Maria Bakalova) with a passion then, having got her, treats her only as something he can brag about (particularly her ‘improved’ breasts), becomes jealous of her growing fame. It overplays its hand by dramatising the disputed rape of Ivana by Trump – a crime so serious you feel it should be beyond question and not be treated as part of a parade of personal faults, never to be referenced again.

But that’s because The Apprentice never knows when to stop. If it had the courage to expand its opening hour, to explore the malign effect of Cohn on this ambitious young man, with a coda showing the fall of Cohn in the shadow of the Trump we recognise – it would have been a more interesting film. Instead, it seems designed to hammer home a political agenda rather than provide drama or insight making it more heavy-handed and obvious than it needed to be. Aside from the two marvellous performances from Stan and Strong, there is actually very little really here.