Film review Bridge of Spies

Spielberg’s latest film, Bridge of Spies ends up being about exactly that. A bridge in Berlin where captured spies are swapped from east to west. And the hero of the piece, played by Tom Hanks, is the one good American who will win the day and save the participants. And that is where my least favourite trope of a Spielberg film comes out.

There’s no denying that Spielberg is a good filmmaker and a master storyteller. I just wish that he wouldn’t allow his sentimentality to subvert the real subjects of his movies. What Bridge of Spies should be about, and briefly is, are the two contrasting spies in this mostly true story.

The film opens with Soviet spy Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance) being captured. It’s made clear that there is no question of his guilt. The government doesn’t want anything to do with the defense, so attorney James B. Donovan (Tom Hanks) is randomly assigned to the case. Its then that you get to see the performance of Rylance dominate in his sessions with Donovan. Seemingly non-plussed, Abel doesn’t seem to care about his fate and Rylance brings a real sense of eccentricity and intelligence to his character. The trial is stacked against him, with zero chance of an acquittal and that’s when the film started to lose my interest. Minutes are devoted to the actual trial and the viewer is left to wonder about the nature of the evidence and the drama of the case. I hoped to learn more about the psychology of spydom, and Rylance has the nuance to reveal it. Ultimately, the character remains an unknowable cipher. But it’s deemed unimportant because Spielberg has bigger fish to fry. Namely, after the conviction, the suggestion by Donovan that in lieu of sentencing, Abel may be used as a trade for an American spy being held by the Soviets.

This turns out to be U.S. air pilot Francis Gary Powers, shot down over Soviet air space while on a reconnaissance mission. His guilt isn’t in question either, but unlike Abel, we don’t get to know too much about Powers other than the fact that he is young and handsome. His instructions were to blow up his plane and commit suicide if he is captured, neither of which he does. It’s difficult to care about his fate, particularly with his actions remaining unquestioned. He seems more pawn than spy. So the trade seems unbalanced.

The second half of the movie shifts the focus almost completely to Donovan and his mission to make the spy swap in Berlin. We get an hour or so of stereotypical, and in some cases ridiculous agents and diplomats of the East German and Soviet variety. And this is where Spielberg really shows his hand. He uses Hanks for his Jimmy Stewart quality as an aw shucks, righteous man who not only manages the swap, but gets an extra prisoner, an American student held in East Berlin. We’ve been prepared for this since the start with scenes that show what a good husband and father he is, a sympathetic and kind lawyer, and, it seems, the only character with a pure agenda. So by the end, the film becomes a flag waving tribute to the decency of a simple, honest man. Forrest Gump does détente.

Driver's Ed

Today's flashback. Sixteen and taking driver's ed. Driving a Kcar. The instructor was Dutch with a heavy accent. Difficult to understand. He would take us out on the 401 and yell "Flur it!". Driving in a town called Ingersoll. My twin brother and a girl called Chris Mooney in the back seat. I'm making a wide left turn at a city intersection. The instructor thinks I'm too wide and grabs the wheel. For whatever reason, I "flur it" with the gas pedal. We veer and head across the lawn of the Catholic Church. I manage to take out the glass and steel sign with the lettering. I mean out of the ground. Then I hit the corner of the church. Bang. We are all okay, but the car is wrecked. First words? Chris Mooney in the back seat saying "holy shit" over and over. They never let me forget that one at school.

playing cards seriously

My Mom came from a very large family in Cape Breton. They were particularly enamored of two things. Liquor and playing card games. We learned early. As soon as we could hold a full hand, we were in the game. But Mom insisted that you gamble with your own money. And if you tried to reneg on a card, the hand came down swiftly. Also, if you started saying something inappropriate, there was a quick kick to your shin delivered under the table. One time, she went to deliver one of those to me. She struck out. And my ten year old cousin Wayne yelled out "Ow!". She then began to laugh hysterically, until she put her head on the table and peed herself a little.

Mom

My mom loved to dance. She said that my dad was such an expert partner and they danced to real orchestras, with Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Guy Lombardo. I took dance lessons when I was young. Tap, latin american and ballroom. By the time that I was in my late teens, my father had stopped going to any event. So I remember a wedding of a family friend. Of course, I didn't want to dance with my mom. That was embarrassing. But I could see her tapping her toe, and dying to dance. So I sucked it up, and we went out on the floor and did a cha-cha and a waltz. The floor cleared. She followed my lead perfectly. And we got such a round of applause. And for the first time, I saw a shining 18 year old girl, excited and proud. I never regretted that.

Accidental Me

Next. I'm 16 and I desperately want to be one of the cool kids. So I go to the night devoted to our school at the local ski resort. On the lifts, my cool friends give me drinks from a flask. The irony is that I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SKI. I just find myself speeding on sticks straight down the runs. So far, so good. But a blizzard comes up and the resort turns out the lights to indicate that it is closing. I take my last run in the dark. I don't know how to turn. And somehow, between the cut off, I hit a ski jump. I'm 40 feet in the air. I land on my face, breaking my nose, my left ski jams into the icy crust, but I keep rolling. Instant tortion break of my tibia. I'm unconscious for a while. I wake up in a deep, dark valley and realize that I'm in trouble. My face is bloody and my leg is at a really peculiar angle and there is a bulge in my leg with a bone sticking out. After about 20 minutes, convinced that I would die, the ski patrol arrives. They access the situation. They give we a bar with rubber to hold and bite and tell me that they are going to set my leg. They pull down and twist with my foot. Put it in a splint. Excruciating. Get down to the lodge and find out that the ambulance can't make it for at least an hour in the storm. Not good enough for my mom who was drinking hot toddies in the lodge. She can drive through anything. So she takes me on a 40 minute drive to the hospital. Once they cut off my pants. I see the bone sticking out and I pass out. Stitches and a hip cast. I spend the night under a dryer tent for the plaster cast. Mom deals.

The summer of 1973 was a rough one. I had been mauled by a leopard and severely injured. My family took me up to our place in Grand Bend after the hospital to cheer me up. There were amusement rides for kids on the beach. I rode a little boat around a circle. A rainstorm came and everyone ran into the arcade. The operator turned off the ride, and the kids all jumped out. I couldn't, because my leg was heavily bandaged. I remember just floating in a circle and seeing everyone staring at me in the arcade. And that, my friends, was the birth of my ennui.