When a film title references the assassination of Caesar, viewers can’t expect lollipops and unicorns. The Ides of March, directed by George Clooney, is a film that strangles hope with its bare hands, throws it in the trunk, then dumps the body in the wilderness of political cynicism. Not to say the film isn’t expertly crafted; viewers familiar with Good Night and Good Luck know that Clooney understands the camera. Yet, for all the talent both in front of and behind the lens, it’s difficult to grapple with the film’s argument. I left the theatre feeling as jaded as the characters did; truth may be hard to swallow, but it shouldn’t leave such an awful aftertaste.
The tumultuous plot, based on the Beau Willimon play Farragut North, centres on Stephen Myers (Ryan Gosling), a senior-level staffer working on the Democratic Primary campaign of Mike Morris (Clooney). Myers, at first glance, appears easy to understand. He’s young, idealistic, and in it to win it. He spins the numbers and baits the media, but avoids dirtier tactics. When he talks about Morris, he slips into an emotional, husky drawl; the bro-crush would be embarrassing if half the United States hadn’t done the same thing in the lead-up to 2008.
He’s so focused—”married to the campaign”, as he claims—that during sex his eyes are on Morris’ televised address rather than on intern Molly Stearns (in a hypnotic turn by Evan Rachel Wood). Now, Clooney is a handsome man, but could Myers really not have turned up the jazz and turned off the TV?
He’s also joined at the hip with campaign manager Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman), and the two play the game of rhetoric and backroom deals against the rival candidate’s campaign manager, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti), whose own morals are questionable at best. “This isn’t about the democratic process,” he claims. “It’s about getting our guy elected!” Both Hoffman and Giamatti are on their game, especially the latter; Giamatti is so incredibly expressive, it’s as if every furrowed brow and forehead wrinkle is screaming, “I’m a slimeball!”
Accordingly, Duffy is the one who tips the first domino. A stroke of the ego, an unscrupulous offer, and Myers’ bright and admirable worldview topples like a precarious house of cards. Except harder, and more vehemently; it’s a resolute cascade of misery and consequence. Myers is left a mere husk of a man. The viewer can see it coming—in this day and age it is absurd to not expect a little cynicism in politics—but this screenplay steamrolls over optimism and spits on its corpse. A shame, since the film’s dialogue is smart, organic and imminently quotable, a feature that’s sorely missing from most contemporary fare.
The coup de grâce is the slow-zoom long shot towards the end, when Myers delivers his decisive act of retribution. It’s a stark contrast to the intimate, tight close-ups that cinematographer Phedon Papamichael consistently employed throughout. Gone are the scenes where soft lighting flows across enthusiastic faces. Instead, the brutal reality of politics is delivered in a black SUV parked in a grime-filled alleyway.
This film could be a sobering lesson on the scheming darkness behind the magnanimous rhetoric for some. For most, it should cause a breath of relief that Canadian politics, at their worst, are merely boring. As for the rest—brace yourself.
