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American director David Fincher is widely praised for many aspects of his work, but one quality that is not widely recognized is his sense of levity and good humor. Because of the themes and subjects that he explores in his films, this is understandable in some ways. Serial killers, obsessive entrepreneurs, and master manipulators of reality itself: these are serious issues, and their metaphysics is no less serious than their actions and words.
However, when it comes to manipulation, which was so deeply and mordantly explored in Fincher’s most recent feature film, 2014’s “Gone Girl,” it can be considered a form of play. Fincher’s mastery of film language can be seen as a form of play as well, as can his ability to manipulate the camera. When it comes to “Mank,” a new film about Hollywood in the 1930s and 1940s and about the screenwriter of a particularly famous and iconic work, I believe that the most productive way of looking at it is to see it as Fincher’s most playful work.
It’s right there in the presentation, for your convenience. Filmmaker David Fincher and his crew (including cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt, editor Kirk Baxter, sound supervisor Ren Klyce, production designer Donald Graham Burt, and many others) are using cutting-edge cinematic tools, with the majority of their work taking place in the digital domain. In addition to using these tools, Fincher restricts himself to working in black and white. In some frames, he even places small circles in the corners of frames to give the impression of old-time reel changes. And yet, despite all of this, the frame through which we see his version of the 1930s is a wide one rather than a nearly square one, adhering to the form first presented by CinemaScope, the wide-gauge celluloid format that was not introduced to audiences until 1953, the year in which the film’s title subject passed away at the age of 55. Aside from that, the black and white in this image is neither a sharp Gregg Toland black and white nor a deep-dark Stanley Cortez black and white. It is not a black-and-white situation when it comes to nitrate. It’s shot in a creamy, dreamy black-and-white that’s almost Lynchian at times.
In other words, “Mank,” which credits Fincher’s journalist/essayist father Jack Fincher as the screenwriter (although one of its producers, Eric Roth, who wrote Fincher’s 2008 “The Curious Story of Benjamin Button,” had a hand in scripting, if I read this movie’s attendant interviews correctly), is not attempting to recreate the feel of a movie that might have been made during the heyday, such as it was, of the man who was co-credited with writing the screen
So, what exactly is it doing?
I’ll be completely honest with you: after two viewings, I’m still not sure what I think.
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I do know that, with Gary Oldman in the title role and an outstanding supporting cast, Fincher has created an entertainment that is provocative, pointed, ruthlessly entertaining, and, at times, a little bit infuriating, particularly near the end.
Regardless of what it is, “Mank” is not, as some have claimed, a “love letter” to old Hollywood or to the movies themselves, and I cannot fathom why anyone would believe this. As depicted here, Los Angeles is the film capital of the United States, a place where almost no one is happy with their work, or even proud of it for that matter. Only one person comes to mind: mogul Louis B. Mayer, whose pleasure stems from his venality: “What he bought still belongs to the man who sold it,” Mayer (played by a very animated Arliss Howard, who is made up to look not just like Mayer, but like Mayer as a wizened homunculus) declares in reference to the individual moviegoer. Let no one tell you otherwise; that is the true magic of the movies,” says the author. He says this to Herman and his younger brother Joseph (Tom Pelphrey) as they walk with the mogul to a presentation where Mayer announces salary rollbacks to a group of employees he refers to as “family.” Mayer refers to this group of employees as “family.”
However, “Mank” is not entirely a poison pen letter in the traditional sense. In the scene depicting writer and Mankiewicz crony Charles Lederer’s introduction to Hollywood, Fincher’s usual mode of cinematic discourse is on admirable display: a closeup of the telegram, in Lederer’s hand, containing Mankiewicz’s invitation to Tinseltown (“Millions to be made here and your only competition is idiots,” which is exactly what Mankiewicz wrote to Ben Hecht, who, unlike Mank, practically did make millions). After that, the hand is lowered, and a painted backdrop on rollers moves from right to left across the lot’s street; the camera then moves up to reveal a large poster reproduction for a current Paramount production, which has been painted on a soundstage wall. This film captures the exhilarating rush of a bustling hive of commerce and, perhaps, art, with commendable cinematic dispatch and imagination.
In terms of the film’s title character, the writer Herman J. Mankiewicz, a New York journalist and wit who sought fortune in Hollywood, only to find dissolution there—until the prospect of authoring, or co-authoring, what some might call “The Great American Screenplay” offered a chance at redemption—”Mank” does not chronicle his descent into obscurity. The moment you meet him, you can tell he’s a lost soul.
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He is not a prophet, whether he has received or not received honor in Hollywood. His wife, whom he has nicknamed “Poor Sara,” overhears him proclaiming that “The Wizard of Oz” will “sink” MGM in a drunken fit of adoration in an early scene of drunken adoration. With an Algonquin Round Table-style audience in attendance, Mankiewicz places extravagant bets on coin flips while his poor brother Joe tries to work on dialogue with a stenographer who appears to have just returned from working as an extra at a burlesque show. When Mank and his merry men are summoned to the studio to pitch a story to studio executive David O. Selznick and director Josef Von Sternberg, they troll him with an improvised “Frankenstein” variant.
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“Kane” is about a man named Mankiewicz, a writer who recalls all of this and more while lying bedridden in a remote ranch house, dictating what would become the film to a soulful Englishwoman (Lily Collins) who has a husband serving in the war. While the writer is in the process of writing, she, a German housekeeper, and then-Mercury-Theater-overseer John Houseman (Sam Troughton) look after him. Houseman’s mission includes keeping the alcoholic writer dry. This is accomplished through the revelation of an unexpected gift from Orson Welles: a private stock of what appears to be whisky but is actually Seconal, which is to be administered at the end of each day’s work. That this film is unmistakably a work of fact-based fiction cannot be emphasized enough cannot be overstated. In this film of stretches, however, while the then-24-year-old Welles is repeatedly referred to as a “Wunderkind,” the notion that his expertise extended to the field of pharmacy is an especially ostentatious stretch in this film of stretches.
Herman also recalls a strange tangle of relationships that he encountered while working. The film is divided into two parts: one with Mayer and another with media magnate William Randolph Hearst (Charles Dance, in an energetic sketch of magisterial rot) and his mistress Marion Davies (Amanda Seyfried, who is the only actor in the film who could be said to have some affection for an Old Hollywood type), a fine film comedienne who Hearst wished to transform into a dramatic diva. It is through his entertainment of these powerful people that he develops a bond with Davies that veers toward intimacy but never quite achieves it. The author also recalls how Mayer and Hearst conspired to sabotage the 1934 gubernatorial campaign of Upton Sinclair, the brilliant muckraking author whose socialist ideals both disgusted and frightened Hollywood’s most powerful business leaders. The movie is at its most engrossing and credible when it alternates between these remnants of the past and Mankiewicz’s creative efforts—which are eventually accelerated to an inspired completion by a smuggled box of real booze and include a famous bit in “Kane” that is an outstanding highlight of what Mank will recognize as his best work—when it alternates between these remnants of the past and Mankiewicz’s creative efforts. In addition to themes from “Chinatown” and “Shampoo,” its tendrils have echoes of Wim Wenders’ “Hammett,” which is a story about a detective writer who works on a case of his own, according to the director.
Because of Mankiewicz’s isolation (which is accentuated by, among other things, a moving music score by Fincher regulars Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor), Fincher is able to construct discrete narrative modules in which Mankiewicz is visited by various characters who implore him to abandon his foolishness in the final third of the film. Hearst is still a powerful man who has the ability to bring him down. Mankiewicz, on the other hand, appears to believe that he cannot be ruined any further than he already has been. And now, in fact, he wishes to be known for this particular body of work.
This ultimately leads to his final confrontation with Welles in the film. As long as “Mank” is able to keep the legendary filmmaker at arm’s length, the film is on solid ground. However, when Welles takes center stage and refuses to give Mankiewicz credit for his work, the film does not shine brighter than usual. It is true that Welles’ lawyer included a “for hire” clause in his initial contract with Mercury, stipulating that the writer would receive no credit for his work. They are sufficiently dry that they would not make for compelling “drama” if they were based on the real-life negotiations that earned the writer the credit we see in the titles for “Citizen Kane.” As a result, we are treated to a violent Welles reaction.
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The problem isn’t with actor Tom Burke, who gives a more-than-accurate portrayal of Welles during that period. The issue is the insignificant material with which he is forced to contend. There are certainly enough real-life examples of Welles becoming enraged and/or truculent to have provided the filmmakers with good models; however, what they come up with here is woefully lacking in quality. (This holds true for the motivations of the characters working for Welles.) “Don’t be fooled, he’s a showman, busker, reveling in sleight of hand,” Houseman, who is played extra fussily by Troughton, says of his boss at one point. Come on, you can’t be serious. This is similar to the skit on “SCTV” where John Candy plays Welles in a parody of the “Merv Griffin Show,” saying that in showbiz you need something to fall back on—”fortunately, I have magic.”
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And, as a result of the richness of “Kane,” turning over the argumentation of this particular scenario about a portion of its production (the movie proper ends before the first scene of Welles’ film is shot, after all) reveals some interesting quirks. Isn’t it reasonable to assume that, if you’re a man whose ideals and sense of social justice have been crushed by dark forces led by a ruthless media tycoon, and you concoct a way to get some form of retribution by writing a movie about that tycoon, you’ll include the relevant precipitating incident in that movie? There is no depiction of Charles Foster Kane crushing the socialist candidate for governor; rather, the film shows him losing his own gubernatorial bid despite running on what we can infer was a progressive platform due to his own personal indulgences and some accompanying political blackmail. And because he has the financial means to do so, Kane will not accept any humiliation that may result as a result of this series of events. Some of the pieces of this film’s puzzle don’t quite fit together in the most comfortable way.
Nonetheless, when the movie takes a turn, it drags you along with it. During Hearst’s travels on a massive camera dolly, overseeing a Davies picture, Herman and Hearst engage in a walk and talk as part of their introduction to one another. We are aware that we are witnessing crummy people doing crummy things, but the staging, shooting, and editing in this film represent Fincher at his most inspired, creating an undercurrent of exhilaration even as we are aware that we are witnessing crummy people doing crummy things.
My thoughts on “Mank” were brought back to me by a 2016 essay by film critic and filmmaker Kent Jones for Film Comment, titled “The Marginalization of Cinema.” To be more specific, the following is its opening: “About a year ago, a director I know invited me to a screening of a film on one of the old Hollywood lots. I accepted the invitation. On our way to the screening room, we passed a small group of elegant business-casual types seated at makeshift outdoor tables, casually listening to one of their number deliver a casual speech. And, as we passed by, we overheard the following remark: ‘We have a little saying around here: “F*ck the director,”‘ says one. As the casual audience laughs quietly, there is a soft sound of knowing laughter. My friend was taken aback for a brief moment, but soon recovered his composure. It was more or less the same as before. “In a way, yes.”
In many ways, this story is a reflection of the “Mank” film’s portrayal of the same-as-ever Hollywood ecosystem, only this time it’s more of a chain. The bosses treat the director poorly, and the director treats the writer poorly, to put it mildly. Some sort of “love letter,” once more.
In anticipation of the film’s Netflix premiere on November 6, this review was originally published on November 6th and is being republished today.
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