Newspapers are meant to be black and white, both in print and in content, but True Story deals in all sorts of smudging shades of grey.
Ambivalence may be at the crux of the story, but it’s also what sinks the film, which ultimately can’t illuminate plot points or character motivation beyond a frustrating middle mark.
Mike Finkel (played by Jonah Hill), journalist for the New York Times, fudges some of the facts in his magazine cover story in order to create a more powerful piece. Questions are raised, but Mike doesn’t really see a problem. “I said write it up, not make it up,” scolds his editor (Auden Thornton).
And so after his 10th cover for the prestigious magazine Mike finds himself ejected from Manhattan and landing in Montana, where his wife Jill (Felicity Jones) has been keeping the home fires burning. He’s so busy licking his wounds and hustling for freelance assignments that he misses the news that a convicted killer has been picked up in Mexico. The alias he’s been using: Mike Finkel.
Mike is curious and a little flattered, but he’s most interested in a chance to get his disgraced name back in print, so he meets with Christian Longo (James Franco) in an Oregon penitentiary. Christian is awaiting charges for murdering his wife and three young children. Two of the children were thrown off a bridge while still alive; his wife and his three-year-old — who was also still breathing — were stuffed into separate suitcases and chucked in the sound.
“Did you do it?”
Interestingly, the question comes from Christian first, referring to Mike’s plagiarism, not from Mike, who might’ve asked Christian about his horrific crimes. The convict offers Mike exclusive access to his story in exchange for writing lessons, a deal too good for the writer to pass up.
The cast is saddled with lines like “everybody deserves to have their story heard,” “the truth always matters” and “it’s OK, tell him I’m from the New York Times” (the latter eliciting unintended giggles from the audience). Scenes go on too long, adding emphasis where there should be none. For example, Mike’s meeting with a detective (Robert John Burke) is so stilted it’s as if the film were shot by a foreign director new to the English language. (For the record, director Rupert Goold, before now a director of English theatre, speaks perfect English.)
Cliched language is the film’s first strike, but poor acting is the second. Hill’s big blue eyes stare blankly; he is not in the least convincing as a hard-nosed journalist, despite the serious glasses and perpetually untucked shirttail. Franco’s tone never changes, and neither does his stare, whether it’s meant to convey pain, guilt or deceit. The two actors have collaborated before and given memorable performances separately (Moneyball, Spring Breakers) but fail to connect and convince us of the “bromance” so crucial to the true story.
Jones, already miscast, wanders through the film offering up red herrings such as looking at ancient manuscripts. She provides the only scene with a heartbeat, when she confronts Christian. She is also at the centre of the film’s most stylish scene (thanks to cinematographer Masanobu Takayanagi) as she takes a prison phone call from Christian and wanders around her home closing and checking windows. It’s a glimpse of what the thriller might have been.
True Story opens Friday at International Village.
