 The Verdict (1982) Galvin is at a crossroad in his life where things are either about to turn around, or settle at rock bottom with no hope of getting back. He's a boozer, a loser, and a scavenging lawyer, and has to muster up the conviction to work himself back up to simple, decent humanity. It's not one of those movies where the guy attains greatness. He'll settle for average. Newman plays it with subtle gravity, allowing the viewer to really grasp how crucial this case is to Galvin as a man (more than as an attorney)—his entire sense of worth is on the line. This helps make what is otherwise a routine court case riveting to watch—you're not so much rooting for someone to win (as with most other legal dramas), but for someone to get right. The great James Mason is in total command as the unbeatable defense attorney who uses everything in his impressive arsenal to subvert Newman's efforts. That guy could do more with his eyes than most actors can do with their entire body plus a roomful of costumes and props. He's basically doing John Houseman from The Paper Chase, but more Satanic. The cast is fleshed out by top-notch character actors held over from the 70s—Charlotte Rampling, Jack Warden, Lindsay Crouse—who are great but give the film a distinctly dated vibe, and I mean dated even when it was released in '82. It really may be the final "70s" film ever made; the slow-yet-not-boring pace contributes to that. As with all of Lumet's best films, this one works up to an ending so beautifully anticlimactic that it's like a slap in the face from a devoted lover who's trying to sober you up. I wish people had the balls to end movies with a complete failure to resolve things. The Verdict cuts to its end credits with unanswered questions hanging in the air like a Morton Feldman tone poem—and thank fucking God for that.
Review by La Fée |