All rise: this cultural round-up is now in session.
Perhaps one of the reasons courtroom dramas are so reliable is that, much like a court case, these films follow a time-honoured protocol. Whether they’re plaintiffs or defendants, we’re on the side of a plucky upstart protagonist who needs the help of studied legal hand to fight an injustice.
When we get into the courtroom, we see all the establishment machinery that we’re going to have to fight: bastard judge, bastard main prosecutor in a very fancy suit, arcane procedure and, most importantly, the assumptions of the jury – and, the implication runs, you too.
You know how it tends to go. After much shouting, surprise witnesses and unexpected revelations on the stand, the bastard judge and the bastard main prosecutor grudgingly come to accept that, whatever the law says, the Plucky Protagonist was in the right all along.
It says something that if you watch a representation of a British trial then you feel short-changed if nobody bangs a gavel (purely an American thing), calls the judge “your honour” (in nearly every instance it’s ‘sir’, ‘madam’, ‘my lord’, or ‘my lady’) or starts screaming about objections in the middle of the other side’s case (just doesn’t happen).
It’s not just the characters being put on trial either. It’s the establishment, the system, a whole country, and me and you watching on.
Anyway, here we go: I swear by Sidney Lumet that I will faithfully try these films and give a true verdict according to the evidence.
The Trial of the Chicago 7 (2020)
Aaron Sorkin knows his way around a rat-a-tat walk-and-talk drama, and his new one for Netflix opens with perhaps the most rat-a-tat walk-and-talk sequence he’s yet attempted. This is the story of how seven anti-Vietnam protestors (plus Black Panthers founder Bobby Seale, who was cut out part-way through the trial) were tried for conspiracy and inciting riots at the 1968 Democratic National Convention. In Sorkin’s hands, the trial becomes a locus of arguments about the very fundamentals of America. Who gets to protest, and how? Can you reform broken systems? And should you compromise your principles with pragmatism?
The Trial of the Chicago 7 is in cinemas from 1 October and on Netflix from 16 October
Just Mercy (2019)
Michael B Jordan is young Harvard grad Bryan Stevenson, who heads to Alabama to give ordinary people a chance to represent themselves properly in court. The case of Walter McMillian (Jamie Foxx) soon gives him exactly the cause he was looking for: McMillian is on Death Row based on the shakiest of evidence. On taking up the cast, though, Stevenson finds himself subjected to all of the white establishment’s darkest arts of dissuasion. Based on a true story, this is urgent stuff.
Amma Asante’s mid-Georgian period piece is a fictionalised slice of the life of Dido Lindsay (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), daughter of an enslaved African woman in the West Indies and a white Royal Navy officer. As she grows up she becomes an heiress and slightly uneasy society staple. She learns about an atrocity at sea in which enslaved people were thrown from a ship and left to drown in the Atlantic, and sets about making sure some measure of justice comes to the men responsible.
Bridge of Spies (2015)
In his late period, Steven Spielberg’s pretty conclusively shifted gears into assured and quietly impressive political dramas. Between Lincoln and The Post came Bridge of Spies, about the 1957 trial of alleged Russian spy Rudolf Abel. Tom Hanks does his Tom Hanks thing as the folksy small-time insurance lawyer trying to stoutly defend a man most in America thought utterly indefensible, but really this was all about Mark Rylance’s Hollywood coming out party as Abel. On top of the skilfully evoked Cold War paranoia, it’s got the style and panache of Catch Me if You Can, plus – with Ethan and Joel Cohen contributing to the script – wit to spare.
An under-seen gem. When noted Holocaust denier David Irving was called a Holocaust denier by historian Deborah Lipstadt, Irving retaliated by suing her for libel. Libel laws being what they are in the UK, the only way Lipstadt and her team could win was to prove that not only are Irving’s claims false, but that he’s maliciously manipulated evidence to speak how he wants it to. With the distressing rise news that two thirds of young adult Americans don’t know six million Jewish people died in the Holocaust, Denial is perhaps even more pertinent now than it was four years ago.
Another frustratingly under-appreciated film, this time following a case in the early career of the later Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall, here played by a magisterial Chadwick Boseman. In 1940, Marshall was an NAACP lawyer helping Black defendants wrongly accused of crimes by an institutionally racist police and justice system. Joseph Spell, a chauffeur accused of rape by his white employer, is his next case, and the one has electrified the press and public.
A Few Good Men (1993)
Sorkin’s first bravura legal drama is about abuse and secrecy at Guantanamo Bay leading to a young soldier’s unlawful death, but, really, it’s almost completely about Jack Nicholson’s turn as Screamin’ Colonel Jessup, so here’s an anecdote.
While warming up to film that endlessly parodied “You can’t handle the truth!” moment, director Rob Reiner was getting some single shots of Tom Cruise doing his side of the argument. Take after take, Nicholson kept launching himself into a full-blooded rendition of his big rant, despite not actually being on camera. Reiner suggested he chill out and save it for the real take.
“Rob, you don’t understand,” Nicholson told Reiner. “I love to act.”
12 Angry Men (1957)
Still as endlessly rewatchable and relevant as it ever was, Sidney Lumet’s dissection of how the flaws, biases and uncertainty inherent in a trial by jury are both its weakness and its strength is an essential part of the 20th century canon. Lumet’s direction is at once exacting and almost imperceptibly light-fingered, allowing each of the dozen clashing personality and perspectives to stand apart before coalescing into a microcosm of postwar America.
The dozy dozen of the title are all sure that a young man has killed his father and are ready to send him to the electric chair – well, nearly all of them. Henry Fonda leverages all of his good guy aura (check the all-white suit) to show that doubt isn’t necessarily an admission of weakness.
Liar Liar (1997)
No, look, honestly. I'm not saying this is a great film. If you like Jim Carrey, it's probably in or around your top five Jim Carrey films. No, what I'm saying – if you'd just listen – is that the glossiest of Carrey's films from his stupid-tit-about era climaxes in a genuinely very, very well put-together bit of legal showmanship. He’s not going to Atticus Finch you out of any era-defining civil rights cases, true, but the man knows his way around the technicalities of divorce law. His kid’s made a birthday wish that stops him lying, you see, which means he’s a bit hamstrung as a lawyer and as a general gadabout. Doesn’t explain all the screaming and gurning though. Maybe the kid got another wish.
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