Frost/Nixon (2008)

In 1974, Richard Nixon, mired in scandal and disrepute after Watergate, resigned the Presidency of the United States-the only chief executive to do so. He suffered no legal penalty, he did not explicitly apologize, and after his successor Gerald Ford pardoned him (only months later, no doubt just to be done with the whole mess), the American people were left feeling betrayed an deprived of real closure. Nixon, after a brief stay in the hospital (can you blame him?) retreated to California to contemplate writing his memoirs and to duck jokes and angry journalists. Until Nixon's book, it seemed, there would be no "last word" from the ex-president on Watergate and his behavior in office.

Enter David Frost, a low-wattage international celebrity, best known for hosting talk shows in Britain and Australia, and for romancing pretty women. He is not a heavy-hitter. He tells opening jokes and guest-hosts adventure specials. But Frost sees something in the person of Richard Nixon: ratings. An interview with the most controversial politician of the day is sure to capture public attention, and Frost craves that attention. The trouble is, networks and advertisers do not. The American public largely hates Nixon (whom it sees as an unrepentant scoundrel), and the broadcasting establishment largely distrusts Frost (whom it views as a European outsider with no real credentials). And yet, largely through favors, loans, and his own money, Frost scores the interview and the airtime. For four days in 1977, the smiling British talk show host and the grumbly American ex-president sit together to discuss Nixon's time at the head of the U. S. government. For most of the time, Frost soft-pedals and Nixon bloviates. But then, on the last day, something remarkable happens. David Frost gets from Richard Nixon what no one had seen before: real contrition, in close-up. It was incredible, it was totally unexpected, and it made Frost's career.

It also forms the central story of Ron Howard's film Frost/Nixon, based on Peter Morgan's play of the same name, a movie that proves yet again that truth is often stranger and more compelling than fiction. The interviews themselves--long sit-downs between Frost (Michael Sheen) and Nixon (Frank Langella)--are the centerpiece of the film, but we also get let in on the steps leading up to the talks, as well as a coda about their aftermath. Along the way, Frost and Nixon both argue with their staffs about how to best conduct the interviews and share a tipsy late-night phone call, off the record (or so the screenplay, also penned by Morgan, would have us believe). There is no flash or bang here. Howard directs smoothly and efficiently, keeping visual trickery and silly edits to a minimum, and wisely letting the strange story unfold and draw us in all on its own. There are enough stylistic flourishes to remind us that this is not a documentary (close-ups of particular actions, for example, or the slyly ubiquitous presence of monitors and other TV equipment), but nothing too distracting. Given that his current on-screen offering is basically a big-budget episode of "Scooby-Doo" starring Tom Hanks, it's nice to be reminded that Howard can really make movies when he wants to.

The acting is top-notch. Both Sheen and Langella originated their parts onstage, and the experience and expertise shows. Sheen plays Frost as a man smart enough to embrace his public image without always believing it (he lets fans misquote him to his face). Journalists helping him prepare are aghast when Frost's producer describes him as "a performer," but this is exactly right. Frost is not a journalist, but an entertainer, with a savvy eye for what makes good television. Sheen, who has perhaps the most charming wolfish grin in movies, plays Frost with just enough fluff to be disarming and just enough depth to be a believable businessman without tipping his hand too far either way. Langella has the harder task. Richard Nixon is widely and easily caricatured (almost everyone has a head-shaking, V-sign-waving, "Iamnotacrook" to pull out at parties), and Langella rightly decides to sidestep the impression. He looks nothing like the real Nixon, anyway. But what he gives us is the essence of Nixon in presence and mannerism. Nixon, too, was a performer, and Langella, rather than performing "a Nixon," performs the way Nixon performed. It's a shrewd bit of acting-a version of Nixon we haven't usually seen-and it got Langella an Oscar nod.

Sheen and Langella have a fine supporting cast, with Kevin Bacon in Nixon's corner as his no-nonsense top aide, and Oliver Platt and Sam Rockwell in Frost's corner as, respectively, a radio journalist and a political historian who help the host prepare his questions. Platt and Rockwell also provide most of the comic relief (it's Platt who gets to do the inevitable jowly Nixon riff as a pre-show stand-in).

Still, the real fascination is the story, which Morgan's script compresses but leaves largely intact (I haven't researched it, but I suspect the late-night call is more an excuse for a Langella monologue than a bit of history). The writing does set up the interviews as a "contest" between the two men (my wife pointed out that it's structured very like a boxing movie, where the opponents meet, bout, and return to their corners for critique and pep-talks), but the confrontation aspect isn't overdone. Frost is not a "good guy" and Nixon a "bad guy" here. Instead, the movie leaves room to ponder the nature of things like guilt and reputation, and also the role of media in government and society. The film shows how Frost and Nixon operate on a different level than their respective "handlers." Frost's team wants an expose; he simply wants a good interview. Nixon's aides want a political affirmation; Nixon wants a personal one. Frost's people think he's "losing" and doesn't understand politics (they're so single-minded that when Frost invites everyone to a "celebratory" dinner, the Platt character immediately sneers, "What is there to celebrate?" Frost's reply: "My birthday."). What Frost does understand, however, is the intimacy of television, and the celebrity ego. He really did want to interview Nixon, the man, and perhaps beneath his bluster, Nixon, lonely and tired of the banquet-hall lecture circuit, sensed that. The film does not let us believe that Frost somehow "plays" or "outsmarts" Nixon. Instead, he gives Nixon the room to outsmart himself. It's not a trap, just an opening that the beleaguered ex-president can't pass up. For a man who loves to talk, a good listener may in fact be more dangerous than a good questioner. Frost's journalist consultants didn't get that. Frost did, and so he got Nixon.

It's worth noting that the story is strangely prescient. Today, when politicians line up to talk to the likes of David Letterman and Jon Stewart, and when texting and twittering make slips of the virtual tongue an everyday occurrence, what Frost accomplished sadly seems rather ordinary. We cringe these days as the lines between politics and performance blur and cross, but Frost/Nixon chronicles a moment when that blurriness worked, and, ironically, helped clear the air. At the time, a breakthrough like Frost got, in the forum he got it, was extraordinary--especially with a veteran evader like Nixon. It was unusually good TV because it was an unusually compelling story. The same goes for the movie.