by Andrea Bellavita
The imperfect relationship between truth and justice is a constant in Eastwood’s cinema, from True Crime to Richard Jewell, though it’s somehow present in all his films (Unforgiven).
Over the years—more than fifty since his directorial debut—Eastwood’s work has mirrored the crises, self-criticism, and disillusionment of American society through film. He has managed to clarify (or perhaps arrest) the distance between his directorial vision and the ideologies within it. His personal life matters very little, if at all. He has increasingly defined himself as a moral being rather than a moralist.
Up until Cry Macho, he maintained a straightforward worldview: on one side, those who are right; on the other, those who are wrong.
This vision has been clear since William Munny stood against Sheriff Little Bill Dagget in Unforgiven, and since Butch Haynes drew the FBI across Texas. The gentleman thief Luther Whitney (Absolute Power), who dared to challenge the President, was right. So was the recovering alcoholic journalist Steve Everett (True Crime), and the coach Frankie Dunn (Million Dollar Baby). Naturally, Walt Kowalski (Gran Torino), Earl Stone (The Mule), and Mike Milo (Cry Macho), who smuggled drugs to fund his niece’s education, were also right. The same goes for Chesley Sully Sullenberger, the three soldiers in The 15:17 to Paris, Richard Jewell, and even Chris Kyle, the American Sniper.
To potentially close his career (though we hope otherwise), Eastwood has taken a subtle step sideways, directly questioning the judicial system that “may not be perfect, but it’s the best we have.”
A little short on images, Eastwood relies on words to tell the story, comfortably operating within the rigid boundaries of the inherently declarative genre of the legal drama. These words carry weight: in the arguments, in the striking mottos used as captions (“In God we trust”…and in little else), and in the exchanges between characters.
Justice isn’t always truth, and truth isn’t always justice.
Especially when a young man with a troubled past of alcoholism is given a second chance in journalism—a chance he can’t afford to lose. He has a wife to keep (and not lose) and a daughter on the way whom he can’t disappoint, not so soon. It’s easy to see in Nicholas Hoult’s portrayal of Justin Kemp a younger version of Steve Everett from True Crime—someone still trapped by his mistakes and doubts—along with many other Eastwoodian characters.
This is an easy yet compelling parallel, especially when considering how Mike Milo in Cry Macho (Eastwood’s last acting role) didn’t just evolve the narrative and existential themes of Million Dollar Baby, Gran Torino, and The Mule, but directly referenced—and reversed—the car scene from A Perfect World, suggesting a possible reversal or redemption passed from father to son.
But unlike Steve, Justin doesn’t uncover a judicial error to correct; he is the error, the misstep, the misunderstanding, the unfortunate accident. Selected for jury duty, he begins to suspect that he might be the murderer.
If that’s true, then the defendant might actually be innocent, and his verdict could be incorrect—or disastrous.
If James Sythe is found guilty, Justin Kemp is safe. If Sythe is found innocent, someone might start looking for the real culprit. Maybe a Steve Everett-type journalist covering the case. Or perhaps Clint Eastwood himself, watching over America’s justice and morality since the 1970s.
This is the dilemma, but it’s also in the film’s trailer. It’s the essence of a solid legal drama, but the resolution or outcome is not the primary concern.
Because Eastwood—who, as usual, didn’t write the film (Jonathan A. Abrams as the screenwriter feels like no more than a typist)—introduces a new term into the truth-justice dynamic. A term largely absent from his previous works, making it all the more extraordinary, surprising, and painful, especially now, at the end of his career.
He introduces “reason.” Not in the sense of rationality, but as the “reason why”—the motivation, the driving force.
Everyone has a good reason to convict Sythe.
Kemp, who could return to his second chance at happiness, his career as a local lifestyle journalist, a recovering alcoholic clutching his sobriety chip (so easy to drop). Finally a father, after his wife’s miscarriage, and above all, the beloved husband of a fantastic woman. Though we know how tormenting Eastwood’s “fantastic women” can be—from The Beguiled to Unforgiven to Gran Torino—their understanding and faithfulness only highlight the male’s deep-seated inadequacy.
Then there’s Faith (in God we trust) Killebrew (Toni Collette), the prosecutor who, by winning this femicide case, could secure her election as District Attorney and help countless women through her zero-tolerance policy on toxic masculinity.
We also have a white, bourgeois woman who loves trials (this is her third jury stint) and hopes to bring home a definitive verdict to impress her husband (her first two were annulled, frustratingly). A Black volunteer who lost his brother to the defendant’s drug gang. A Black bus driver who just wants to get back to her kids. A vacuous white woman eager to return to shopping for shoes and bags. And a middle-aged white housewife who loves TV true crime.
By the way, what exactly is true crime? From a philosophical category in legal theory, to a defining feature of Eastwood’s filmography (it’s the original title of True Crime), to a product of factual entertainment, and ultimately, an inextricable dilemma.
There’s also a peculiar character, brilliantly portrayed by J.K. Simmons, who, with a perfectly suited face like all the others, plays Harold—a former cop with a no-nonsense demeanor (a bit like Harry Callahan), now a florist (like Earl Stone in The Mule). He seems driven by an inscrutable sense of justice but soon reveals himself, stepping out of the jury and the story, to be just a retiree looking for distraction, trying to play a role in a film that belongs to an old, classic cinema.
Or there’s the flashy lawyer (Kiefer Sutherland), a former alcoholic and a familiar presence in the support groups for those who’ve hit rock bottom. He’s committed to a pristine cynicism (“Give me a dollar, and attorney-client privilege kicks in…”).
If the film takes half an hour to meticulously describe Georgia’s judicial system and jury selection rules, it’s not out of a pedantic impulse but to embed the ethical dilemma within individual peculiarity—and individualism.
To those who might question the believability of a trial held in a small community where juror #2, before taking the assignment and getting caught up in the drama, knew nothing, the answer is simple: one can be a journalist uninterested in the news, a police officer who doesn’t care about investigations, or a prosecutor who never examines the evidence.
This isn’t just the film’s (debatable) story; it’s History.
“Has anyone here had any contact with the defendant before today?” the judge asks.
“He was a passenger on my bus,” a juror replies.
That’s it. Nothing more.
Until Richard Jewell, there was always a strong polarity between good and evil, between individual action and political power (the world is also divided between the State and the “jerks who work for the State”). Here, the tension lies between individuals acting within or around the construction of a community—judicial, social, and political.
Eastwood isn’t Hobbes; he doesn’t theorize but simply practices. Yet Juror #2 is a final parable on individualism as an alternative to truth and justice, the driving force of America’s socio-cultural system. Even more troubling, it shows how an individual can be dehumanized by the random aggregation (the jury, a collision of centrifugal trajectories) of other equally valid individuals.
Whether this film’s release is a condemnation, a gift, or a testament depends on the perspective you choose to take.
The direction is minimal, even a bit weary, stripped down to the basic rules of classical transparency. Yet, it captures an entropic obsession with the sterile back-and-forth of interior debates. There’s no looking outward or beyond, except in a few transitional shots of natural landscapes and urban architecture, reminiscent of sit-com transitions.
For the previous two films, I described Eastwood’s approach with a cinephile (perhaps infatuated) phrase: the urgency of storytelling outweighs the staging. Eastwood would probably despise such condescension.
Cry Macho, his final acting role, ended with Clint finally reuniting with all his characters, finding peace in a spatial, historical, and relational elsewhere. A sense of tranquility.
Juror #2, after posing perhaps his most destabilizing dilemma yet, closes with the perfect resolution.
If this truly is Eastwood’s last film, it would mark the greatest artistic conclusion in cinema history. I’m not alone in feeling this; many shared the same shiver in the theater. Filippo Mazzarella mentioned it to me first. Since critics are essentially jurors randomly drawn from the cinema audience, I must give him the first vote.
What is the relationship between truth and justice?
What is the relationship between truth, justice, and the individual?
Shot.
Reverse shot.
Black.
Cineforum, November 14, 2024
