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Jackie. Starring Natalie Portman and Billy Crudup. Directed by Pablo Larrain. Running time: 99 minutes. MPAA rating: R.
When considering Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, I remember Priam's line from The Iliad: "I have gone through what no other mortal on earth has gone through; / I put my lips to the hands of the man who has killed my children." Jackie was not the first First Lady to be widowed, but surely the first to be so publicly widowed, her agony magnified and reflected back to her by the media. Once the Zapruder footage was made accessible, there she was, spattered and panicked, forced to move through the motions of abrupt bereavement over and over for the edification of conspiracy theorists everywhere for all time ("Back and to the left ... back and to the left"). She did not have to put her lips to the hands of Oswald (or whoever pulled the trigger), but she did, I think, endure what no other mortal woman had endured, at least on that scale.
Jackie is the latest attempt to dramatize the 20th century's most famous widow's experiences, anchored by an uncanny vocal impersonation by Natalie Portman, whose Jackie is appropriately brittle and confounded. Towards the finish, the movie administers a couple spoonfuls of sugar to make the existential medicine go down -- John Hurt appears as a priest to explain to Jackie and us why Jackie, and we, go on in a world without meaning, and there's a bit too much dewy-eyed romanticization of Camelot. (I swear I could hear old Gore Vidal snorting in disdain from wherever he is.) But most of the film is a delicate, trickily structured poem of sadness, the kind of sadness that recalls Aeschylus' "He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
That structure, by way of screenwriter Noah Oppenheim and director Pablo Larrain, flips back and forth as Jackie talks. She talks to the country while giving a tour of the White House and her revamp of same; she talks to the aforementioned priest; she talks to presidential chronicler Theodore H. White (Billy Crudup). So the woman rendered hysterically silent by that Zapruder footage is given a chance to speak copiously for herself, even if she engages in conscious mystification. (More than once, she tells White that something she's just said is off the record or that she didn't say it at all.) Again and again, Jackie explains herself in plain English. Past a certain point, though, words are inadequate. Her husband is gone. Her two (surviving) children no longer have a father. This experience has been shared by millions, famous and not, but the details distinguish Jackie's unique suffering.
With the aid of Mica Levi's boldly emotive score, Larrain distills tragedy down to a few potent drops. (Larrain has said he dislikes biopics, but he's got two out this season -- this one and the upcoming Neruda.) He pretty much hands the movie to Portman, who finds volumes of variations on Jackie's poised and sometimes archaic speech ("I'd rather them at home," she says of her children at one point, in the sort of syntax one seldom hears any more). The editing, by Sebastian Sepuldeva, stitches it all together firmly enough but is occasionally too fancy -- there's a cut from Jackie angrily trying to remove her wedding ring to Jackie swallowing a pill, and it took me out of the movie for a second ("Wait, did she just swallow her ring?").
For the most part, though, Jackie keeps things clear and preserves its subject's sadness in amber. Some people forget she had a whole other marriage and life after JFK; for them, she is forever defined by her first marriage and its brutal end. Portman brings the icon of widowhood to sharp, sometimes prickly life -- her Jackie will control how her story is told, thank you very much. After a while, we see how the pieces fit together. The reporter, the priest, the TV tour of the White House conducted by Charles Collingwood (father confessors all) -- it all speaks of a woman who did everything a mid-20th-century woman was supposed to do: married well, made a beautiful house for herself and her family, but then lost it all. Like a lot of women in the '60s, she then had to find meaning without all those things to define her, and she did, though beyond the movie's purview.
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