There's something decadently ironic about a film that so earnestly champions uncovering the truth at all costs taking such flagrant liberties in passing off its primarily fictional, cheeseball propaganda as solemn fact. Still, The FBI Story toots its paradox horn with cheery pride. It's a clumsily transparent ideological recruitment video under the guise of a police procedural/action thriller/social drama, but too ambitious to linger, let alone excel, as any of the above. But, as a slice of nostalgia from the era where 'G-Men' conjured more awe than costumed superheroes, Mervyn LeRoy's love letter to J. Edgar Hoover carries its fair share of charm, even as a canonical text in helping foster the era of media disinformation that would only continue to stew and contort in the decades to follow.
If the film's episodic composition was a canny means of capitalizing on the growing phenomenon of television, it's spot on, as the series of disconnected FBI escapades plays more as miniseries than movie. Unfortunately, with an elephantine run time of two and a half hours that distinctly do not whiz by, awkwardly segmented by ungainly editing lurches and the dry contrivance of a lecture framing device, sitting through the film becomes such a ponderous slog it'll make you yearn for commercial breaks. It's a shame, as many of the interludes are fantastic, gripping fun: the FBI taking down the Dillinger gang is classic gangster camp, an incursion into a KKK uprising is unnervingly chilling, and the opening sequence airline bombing virtually quivers with Hitchcockian suspense, all excellently accompanied by Max Steiner's jaunty march of a score.
Unfortunately, these bursts of plot slump into increasing staleness over time, particularly as the entrenched ideology cockily struts into view and spreads its eagle wings. Expanses of story become increasingly strong-armed into heavy-handed gun lobbying, militaristic enlistment, commie witch hunt jingoism, and alarmingly brazen WWII historical revisionism, too morally coercive to even enjoy the camp potential in their propagandistic excesses. Those familiar with Steven Spielberg's Bridge of Spies will recognize the climactic pursuit of a soviet spy smuggling microfilm in a coin, but it's a brash contender for the slowest chase scene in cinema history here. If anything, it's one of the film's few incursions into realism - surveillance work is, well, pretty dull - but it sure isn't a riveting close for audiences who have already likely been spending the last hour fidgeting in their seats.
But don't worry: if you're here for a chuckle, there's plenty to sink your teeth into. For one, there's the screenwriters' curious conceit of intercutting FBI assignments with finding a new, weird, idiosyncratic fixation for Jimmy Stewart to grump about at home (laments for dropped pickles, missing tissue paper, and purloined shaving lotion all occupy more dialogue than any real character development). And speaking of fixations: never before has a script literalized the idiom of 'starving writer' to such an extent, as more attention is devoted to fawning over the characters' meals than any actual detecting throughout (I guess if 'you are what you eat,' we have an excellent sense of Stewart's character). Any welling emotion conjured from an untimely character death is quickly dashed by one of the most hilariously cringeworthy eulogies in cinema history ("I didn't know him I just know he died"), while "shrimp and ice cream" is immortalized as a hilarious non-sequitur of a wink-wink-nod-nod to pregnancy. And finally: a tinkling cover of 'Yankee Doodle' played over panning shots of the Lincoln Memorial and a WWII monument? The film couldn't have ended with more deliriously soppy patriotism if Uncle Sam himself had loped onto the screen and open-mouth kissed J. Edgar Hoover under an American flag. And you thought the Montage propaganda of them pesky enemy Reds was shameless.
The film as a whole is unabashedly anchored on James Stewart's all-American star power. But, although his legendarily earnest, 'aww-shucks' charisma remains unquenchably colossal, he's too resigned to autopilot and cantankerous, bossy blustering to sufficiently command the hearts and minds of the country's youths. Vera Miles is similarly pleasantly bland, spouting some peppery outbursts of righteous indignation when given the chance, but too confined to her 'housewife waiting at the proverbial lighthouse' archetype to make much of an impression. Finally, Murray Hamilton neatly inverts the iconic sleaziness of his mayor from Jaws as Stewart's slick, more gung-ho fellow G-Man, but he's too underused to generate more than blips of enjoyment.
If the FBI prides itself on its efficiency, intelligence, and ingenuity, its filmic Story here could hardly be less representative. Still, clumsy, bizarrely tangential, and ideologically brutish as it can be, it's a largely harmless, pleasantly charming affair, and ultimately fairly disarming and entertaining in its hokey jingoism. Nonetheless, in the modern day epidemic of 'alternate facts' politics, The FBI Story remains a pristine testament to doing what it says rather than does, and taking appropriate measures to research, detect, and unearth the whole truth, rather than drawing conclusions simply because Jimmy Stewart's voice-over said so. Unless he's simply recommending the best local shrimp joint, that is. Better enjoyed sans ice cream, though. Unless...
-6/10
If the film's episodic composition was a canny means of capitalizing on the growing phenomenon of television, it's spot on, as the series of disconnected FBI escapades plays more as miniseries than movie. Unfortunately, with an elephantine run time of two and a half hours that distinctly do not whiz by, awkwardly segmented by ungainly editing lurches and the dry contrivance of a lecture framing device, sitting through the film becomes such a ponderous slog it'll make you yearn for commercial breaks. It's a shame, as many of the interludes are fantastic, gripping fun: the FBI taking down the Dillinger gang is classic gangster camp, an incursion into a KKK uprising is unnervingly chilling, and the opening sequence airline bombing virtually quivers with Hitchcockian suspense, all excellently accompanied by Max Steiner's jaunty march of a score.
Unfortunately, these bursts of plot slump into increasing staleness over time, particularly as the entrenched ideology cockily struts into view and spreads its eagle wings. Expanses of story become increasingly strong-armed into heavy-handed gun lobbying, militaristic enlistment, commie witch hunt jingoism, and alarmingly brazen WWII historical revisionism, too morally coercive to even enjoy the camp potential in their propagandistic excesses. Those familiar with Steven Spielberg's Bridge of Spies will recognize the climactic pursuit of a soviet spy smuggling microfilm in a coin, but it's a brash contender for the slowest chase scene in cinema history here. If anything, it's one of the film's few incursions into realism - surveillance work is, well, pretty dull - but it sure isn't a riveting close for audiences who have already likely been spending the last hour fidgeting in their seats.
But don't worry: if you're here for a chuckle, there's plenty to sink your teeth into. For one, there's the screenwriters' curious conceit of intercutting FBI assignments with finding a new, weird, idiosyncratic fixation for Jimmy Stewart to grump about at home (laments for dropped pickles, missing tissue paper, and purloined shaving lotion all occupy more dialogue than any real character development). And speaking of fixations: never before has a script literalized the idiom of 'starving writer' to such an extent, as more attention is devoted to fawning over the characters' meals than any actual detecting throughout (I guess if 'you are what you eat,' we have an excellent sense of Stewart's character). Any welling emotion conjured from an untimely character death is quickly dashed by one of the most hilariously cringeworthy eulogies in cinema history ("I didn't know him I just know he died"), while "shrimp and ice cream" is immortalized as a hilarious non-sequitur of a wink-wink-nod-nod to pregnancy. And finally: a tinkling cover of 'Yankee Doodle' played over panning shots of the Lincoln Memorial and a WWII monument? The film couldn't have ended with more deliriously soppy patriotism if Uncle Sam himself had loped onto the screen and open-mouth kissed J. Edgar Hoover under an American flag. And you thought the Montage propaganda of them pesky enemy Reds was shameless.
The film as a whole is unabashedly anchored on James Stewart's all-American star power. But, although his legendarily earnest, 'aww-shucks' charisma remains unquenchably colossal, he's too resigned to autopilot and cantankerous, bossy blustering to sufficiently command the hearts and minds of the country's youths. Vera Miles is similarly pleasantly bland, spouting some peppery outbursts of righteous indignation when given the chance, but too confined to her 'housewife waiting at the proverbial lighthouse' archetype to make much of an impression. Finally, Murray Hamilton neatly inverts the iconic sleaziness of his mayor from Jaws as Stewart's slick, more gung-ho fellow G-Man, but he's too underused to generate more than blips of enjoyment.
If the FBI prides itself on its efficiency, intelligence, and ingenuity, its filmic Story here could hardly be less representative. Still, clumsy, bizarrely tangential, and ideologically brutish as it can be, it's a largely harmless, pleasantly charming affair, and ultimately fairly disarming and entertaining in its hokey jingoism. Nonetheless, in the modern day epidemic of 'alternate facts' politics, The FBI Story remains a pristine testament to doing what it says rather than does, and taking appropriate measures to research, detect, and unearth the whole truth, rather than drawing conclusions simply because Jimmy Stewart's voice-over said so. Unless he's simply recommending the best local shrimp joint, that is. Better enjoyed sans ice cream, though. Unless...
-6/10