Kathryn Bigelow’s kill–bin Laden epic Zero Dark Thirty is the most neutral-seeming “America, Fuck Yeah!” picture ever made. In its narrative arc, it is barely distinct from a boneheaded right-wing revenge picture, but the vibe is cool, brisk, grown-up, packed with impressively real-sounding intel jargon. And the hero is no gun-toting macho man. She’s a CIA agent named Maya (Jessica Chastain), a woman in a world in which men call the shots, metaphorically and literally. Presented with the movie’s liberal-pleasing feminist overlay, you root for her to compel the men to do what men would do naturally if they weren’t so constrained by modern technological and bureaucratic and constitutional hurdles: find the motherfucker and blow his fucking head off. As a moral statement, Zero Dark Thirty is borderline fascistic. As a piece of cinema, it’s phenomenally gripping—an unholy masterwork.
The first masterstroke is the first thing you see—or, rather, don’t see. Under a black screen, the sounds of 9/11 build: a hubbub of confusion, reports of a plane hitting the World Trade Center, and then, most terribly, the voice of a woman crying out to a 911 operator who tries vainly to assure her she’ll be okay. She won’t be. That prologue looks like restraint—there are no sensationalistic images—but it’s cruel: The recordings are genuine. You want revenge so much it hurts, but you’ll have to live with the pain because the sonovabitch bastard Muslims who killed that poor woman are elusive, and when you catch them they won’t talk. The next scene, a brutal interrogation at a CIA “black site,” is unpleasant but not unwelcome. To paraphrase Dick Cheney, you sometimes have to go to the dark side, and the big, bearded Dan (Jason Clarke) has made the trip, telling a strung-up detainee, “When you lie to me, I hurt you,” and he does. Yeah, it sucks to have to torture people—sucks for them and sucks for us. (Waterboarding someone is no fun.) But as Dan explains to Maya, fresh off the plane from Washington, that terrorist “has to learn how helpless he is.”
There has been speculation that Maya was inspired by the same (covert) CIA agent as Claire Danes’s bipolar Carrie in Homeland. As Mr. Spock would say, “Fascinating.” The parts and actresses could hardly be more different. Danes is a skin actor. She’s soft: You read her pores. Chastain is a muscle and tendons actor: You read the tension in her body. Watching Dan douse a screaming terrorist, she folds her arms tightly across her chest, her gaze jerking away involuntarily. But Maya is with the program. By the midpoint, she looks like one of those college kids at exam time, sleepless and sunless, drooping under the weight of all the info she’s cramming into her head, her words rushing out as if one extra clause will make the difference between Osama’s capture and escape. And by the end of Zero Dark Thirty, Chastain’s Maya is in a different physical sphere. There’s no longer doubt in her. Friends have died, she says, adding, “I believe I was spared so I can finish the job.” Who spared her? God? For this female ascetic, killing bin Laden has become a religious quest—a counter-jihad.
Bigelow and screenwriter Mark Boal (The Hurt Locker) don’t give Maya or anyone else a backstory, which is part of the movie’s cool: The characters are only seen in the context of their jobs. But they’re not without personality. Aside from Chastain and Clarke, who are riveting, Jennifer Ehle is a treat as a high-spirited operative who seems to be based on Jennifer Matthews, Mark Strong makes a forceful agency butt-kicker, and James Gandolfini slyly underplays the CIA director. Boal is good at reproducing CIA jargon: Even when I didn’t know what the hell the characters were saying, I nodded along, thoroughly psyched out. This is top-secret intelligence—just being in the room is a privilege. Boal depicts much of Maya’s job as a series of pitches, not dissimilar to those in Hollywood. There is always another professionally skeptical CIA bureaucrat to be sold on the probable whereabouts of bin Laden’s courier—and then he’ll have to sell his superior, who’ll have to sell the commander-in-chief.
Bigelow doesn’t need narrative clarity to generate terrific suspense. She’s a wizard at mixing streaky, middle-of-the-mêlée frames with stark establishing shots to give you your bearings. She saves the bravura stuff for the climax, when the Navy SEALs finally make their entrance. Their choppers glide through the dark mountains toward the sprinkling of buildings in Islamabad. Alexandre Desplat’s chord progressions are mysterious, suffused with awe. Night-vision goggles turn the silent compound green: The camera follows the seals through doors and up stairs, the only sound the bouncing of heavy equipment, the bleating of sheep, and then, after the firing begins, the sobbing of children. The carnage is quick and conclusive.
Did the SEALs need to shoot the woman who threw herself on top of her husband’s body? (Is she going for his gun or trying to shield him? Not clear.) Did they have to pump extra shots into her when she was down—or, for that matter, into bin Laden? Bigelow isn’t heartless. She gives you glimpses of those orphaned kids, but no one will be circulating petitions on their behalf. Nor will anyone on the basis of Zero Dark Thirty alone feel compelled to decry “enhanced interrogation.” The torture is efficient and gets results. The outcry alluded to over abuses at Abu Ghraib screws up intelligence-gathering. The anti-torture stance of President Obama—who made the hunt for bin Laden a priority after Rumsfeld’s military let him slip out of Tora Bora, and gave the go-ahead to proceed with a mission that could have brought him down the way the catastrophic Iran rescue mission felled Jimmy Carter—is presented (via a TV interview) as an impediment. Dan the ace torturer tells Maya, “You don’t want to be the last one holding a dog collar when the oversight committee comes.” Crap: There go the dog collars.
The best theory I’ve heard for the movie’s vantage is that Boal fell in love with his CIA sources and embraced their perspective wholeheartedly. Admittedly, that’s one reason the film is so effective—much like 24, with its army of ACLU types poised to swoop down on agents trying to save us from all those ticking time bombs. I’m more sympathetic to Alex Gibney’s view in his Oscar-winning Taxi to the Dark Side, in which former FBI agent Jack Cloonan cites evidence that sensory deprivation, waterboarding, etc. make people psychotic in less than 72 hours and elicit bogus confessions. At a Q&A last week, Bigelow and Boal shrugged off the movie’s politics. They’re just reporters reporting what happened, they said. And after all, we got the motherfucker who took down the Trade Center. Maya is the pretty little lady whose certainty compelled American men to overcome their wishy-washy caution. Zero Dark Thirty gives the dark side a woman’s blessing; a woman director has made the best damn unsavory thriller in years.
How nice it would be to weigh in on Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit without having to lament its newfangled double-speed 3-D 48-frames-per-second projection rate, which must be seen to be disbelieved. The immediacy of the actors is startling, but the background is weirdly foreshortened, the fakeness of the sets and makeup an endless distraction. Staginess does nothing for a fantasy-film epic. The dislocation caused me to miss great gobs of exposition in the first half-hour, which is all exposition, the grandeur of the Lord of the Rings trilogy having been replaced by something that resembles tatty summer-stock theater.
The Hobbit probably plays better at the normal frame rate, but how much better? Hard to say. Signs of bloat are everywhere. The relatively breezy Rings prelude—one book—doesn’t need to be stretched out to three long installments: The fractious team of dwarves looking to regain their homeland after many years of exile could have traveled the Great East Road, fought the requisite orcs and dragons, and still had time for a song or two in one movie. Martin Freeman as the young hobbit Bilbo mugs his way through the first half (the invasion of his home by dwarves and Ian McKellen’s Gandalf is like the Marx Brothers stateroom sequence stretched out to an hour), but he wins you over in the one stupendous scene: a potentially lethal contest of riddles with Gollum, once again embodied by Andy Serkis plus CGI. Gollum is more chilling this time, his Uriah Heep obsequiousness yet to come, a violent flesh-eating psychopath with voices in his head telling him to kill.
The duel with Gollum, set in a cave, is like a one-act play, and makes me think this technology would work for, say, filmed theater and opera, where the uncanny presence of the performers would be something to treasure and the artificiality wouldn’t matter. Meanwhile, we have the prospect of two more Hobbit pictures, which are sure to be less exciting than discussions of pixel resolution, scan lines, and refresh rates.