★ ★ ★ ★ ½
I feel bad for Hayden Christensen. In recent months, four of his Star Wars prequel alumni have bathed luxuriously in the critical spotlight while his IMdB credentials continue to yield nothing but occasional straight-to-DVD fluff: Liam Neeson for Martin Scorsese’s Silence (his robe, ponytail and religious struggle a hair’s breadth from Qui-Gon Jinn), Ewan McGregor for the return of Renton in Danny Boyle’s long-awaited T2 Trainspotting, Joel Edgerton for Loving, and Natalie Portman for her immaculate turn in Pablo Larrain’s latest.
Less all-enveloping biopic and more crucial component, Jackie explores the personal and political frictions faced by first lady Jacqueline Kennedy from the instant her husband is shot to just after the funeral (one could imagine Oliver Stone’s JFK happening somewhere behind the scenes). Detailed by Mrs. Kennedy to an unnamed reporter (Billy Cruddup), it plays out over three acts: aftermath, furore and reconciliation. Many biopics need certain liberties to create a cinematic narrative, but – as far as I can tell, at least – this story inherently forms into a filmic mould. The great turning point from the first to second act comes when an unrecognisable Richard E. Grant (playing JFK’s confidant, Bill Walton) interrupts Jackie’s tsunami of hopes and wishes for her husband’s burial to impress upon the first lady that it isn’t just the world that’s changed, it’s her world.
Not that the audience needs reminding: in its construction, Jackie is the closest that arthouse American cinema has (and possibly ever will) come to Son of Saul. The constricted 1.66:1 ratio maintains an unprecedented level of intimacy, as does a near-refusal to allow anyone else within the frame. With Portman commanding the screen as she does, there’s little need. It’s a poised, sculptured performance that, by necessity, feels affected but never stilted. A few moments of adjustment are needed, but once rapport between the reporter and Jackie is established, it’s cinema-sized ASMR that cannot fail to attract awards buzz, and rightly so.
Motivations, fears and dreams are communicated to others (mostly Peter Sarsgaard as an increasingly frustrated and powerless Bobby Kennedy) as Shakespearean-style monologues, topped-up by a Mica Levi score that simulates an undiscovered Beethoven symphony. Some will hate it, finding it intrusive and obnoxious and far too loud, but – and this is possibly the most pretentious thing I’ve ever typed – if you accept the operatic nature of the film, it serves only to enhance the drama.
So focused is Larrain on character and emotion that the usual checklist of ‘true story’ signifiers is thoroughly barred. Don’t go looking for date stamps, location markers, obvious hard cuts to archive footage or fawning over who wore which dress on what day. There’s not even a “Ooh, look, it’s the Oval Office!” shot: the historic dwelling may as well be a labyrinth, a prison of memories. In one lengthy vignette, Jackie trawls the White House with a vodka bottle in one hand and her billionth cigarette in the other, pausing to rifle through the wardrobe in a rainbow of nostalgic depression. Not to indulge too much further in the Star Wars allusions, but it’s hard not to think of Queen Amidala, draped in opulence even as her palace is seized.
The assassination itself (possibly the most studied event in human history) is withheld until the last possible moment. But when it arrives, it’s the build-up, not the graphic nature that grips. For 90 minutes we’ve heard Jackie describe the moment in disturbing detail, seen her try to wash blood from her hair and confess to a priest (a brilliantly sombre John Hurt) her wish that she’d been taken instead. The toughest moment isn’t as Jackie attempts to hold her dying husband’s head together, but when she finally has to explain to her children why their father isn’t coming home, reflecting the parental responsibility she feels for the entire nation.
If there is a flaw in Larrain’s opus, it’s the finale. A distinguishable crescendo is reached with extraordinary grace and power…but the film continues for a further few minutes, losing a little impact as it goes. With just the smallest of restructures, Jackie could be an absolute masterpiece. Even so, it’s an infinitesimal near-miss, and no amount of narrative muddle could harm such a gloriously intimate, raw and politically pertinent film as this.
