Perfect case of best
intentions, and short results. “The
Butler” aspires for Oscar glory and to do nothing less than tell the story of
African-Americans and their plight to obtain true equality in America through
the eyes of one White House butler (Forrest Whitaker) and his family (Oprah
Winfrey as an alcoholic wife, and David Oyelloyo as an activist son).
The titular
butler is Cecil Gaines -– based ever so loosely by a thin thread on real-life figure Eugene Allen -– and his prideful job and moral millstone is to play silent witness to the
terrible and great moments of the 20th century Civil Rights movement
as he serves tea and roast beef to a line of succeeding American presidents.
Naturally, or so the film wants us to believe, each POTUS is won over to see
the light of love and racial equality by Gaines’ stoic silence and dedication
to the job, making sure the butter knife is just perfectly set so.
Look, Whitaker knocks
the part out, no surprise. He’s been a favorite actor of mine since “Platoon,” and
his quiet anger and love shine through in scene after scene. But he’s still
standing still for 99 percent of the film, like an end table. Mouth shut. It is Winfrey who near owns the film. Her rounded performance captures
illness, anger, love, and jealous hate of the attention Cecil gives Jackie
Kennedy, and is the sharp. The wife, though, barely leaves the house. That’s a
mixed-bag. See, Daniels’ staging of those at-home scenes with Whitaker and
Winfrey shine and sting as we finally see the American story through the hearts
of our nation’s most belittled people. This is no “Leave it to Beaver” American
Dream lie sold by conservative Tea Party drones.
But, damn, “Butler,” is a
mess. We get an eye-rolling list of Hollywood big names as those presidents,
each one more miscast than the last: Robin Williams as a fuddy-duddy Ike, John
Cusack as an “SNL” version of Nixon, and -– worst move ever -– Alan Rickman as a
Reagan so piss-ant dreary, one wonders if anyone here ever saw film of the real
man. Reagan dripped charisma. Love him or hate him, you know the man practically sparkled. Rickman? Not at all. Sorry. These cameos stop the film and had
the audience snickering.
As well, spread out for five decades and hitting every
historical race marker like some warped liberal version of “Forrest Gump” -– that
feels racist to say, but it’s true -– “Butler” plays like a road trip with a rush-rush-rush
pop racing the family car down I-95, yelling to the children in the back,
“There’s New York, there’s Philadelphia, there’s Washington, we’ll make Orlando
by noon,” never stopping to see Independence
Hall.
This history is too important for such treatment. The scenes of black protesters at lunch counters being molested and tortured are soul-crushing, and this is not ancient history. This story would have made an
amazing television series on HBO, with room to truly explore what it means to
work in a marble building that represents the highest office in all the world,
but have absolutely no power of one’s own, unable to even safe your own child
from death or a policeman’s billy club. Mr. Allen’s life seems to have played
more quieter than the story here. I want to see that life. Not a stand-in
quietly serving Hans Gruber supper. B-
