George Clooney

by Mark Browning

  The choice to film in black-and-white references Lumet’s version and also alludes to the early days of television drama, underlined in Walter Cronkite’s address to camera, a figure associated with truth and the documenting of modern political history. Lumet used negative footage for some of brief cutaways of military action, primarily because he could not find the stock footage he wanted. In the remake, Frears cuts to stock 16 mm footage to show the jets falling into the sea or the launch of the Russian missiles, which seems particularly odd in juxtaposition with the black-and-white body of the film, and he also imports letter-boxing from cinema (not in TV from the ’60s). At the same time as talking up the edginess of performing live, there is also a countermovement, minimizing risk by using double-mikes to make sure no sound is missed, and the film was pulled out of the sweeps period, ostensibly to give time to make the production as good as possible but also to reduce pressure on whether it was perceived as a success or failure.

  It is noteworthy that apart from guest appearances in ER, Fail Safe is the only example of TV that Clooney has agreed to star in post-ER. It reflects his attachment to the original film as well as interest in helping to deliver a live TV project in the role of producer. It is also the first of a series of films featuring content that is explicitly political, leading on to Confessions, Good Night, and Good Luck, Syriana, and Michael Clayton. After having some experience with live TV on ER and having grown up in the world of live TV, Clooney is able to blend an attachment and possibly nostalgia for one particular film with the medium of his childhood viewing of TV. The attraction of Frears as director also reflects Clooney’s glowing clout as a producer and his ability to draw a big-name cast, both factors that would allow him to persuade studios to finance projects over the coming decade.

  Good night, and Good Luck (George Clooney, 2005)

  This is a story about five episodes of TV.

  —George Clooney1

  Clooney’s second experience of directing was always going to be slightly controversial, focusing on the specific battle between broadcaster Edward R. Murrow and the junior senator from Wisconsin, Joseph McCarthy, who created an atmosphere of panic and fear in America in the early 1950s by his increasingly strident crusade against those he deemed to be subversive elements in American society, particularly those seen as Communist sympathizers. For Clooney, the film is a chance to pay tribute to one of his own personal heroes, as well as a tribute to his own father who impressed on him the value of Murrow and of individuals like him, prepared to make a stand over key principles. It also allows him to contribute something to the ongoing debate about personal freedom, particularly in the wake of 9/11, and leave behind a statement of belief in liberal ideas. The frame story underlines this idea of a tribute, which is literally a dinner in Murrow’s honor. However, a lighthearted evening turns more somber as Murrow characterizes the television of that era as designed to “distract, delude, amuse and insulate,” which he partly blames on the producers, i.e., his own industry, but also audiences with their “built-in allergy to unpleasant or disturbing information.”

  The opening sequence shows the ongoing tension between what is real and what is fictional. Cowriter Heslov (present on set as studio director Don Hewitt, who would go on to create the iconic 60 Minutes) and Clooney filmed the main cast and extras while in costume for about an hour without their being aware of it, catching some natural exchanges over dinner table chatter, which are then edited together to convey a sense of spontaneity. As in The Deer Hunter (Michael Cimino, 1978), the effect is to introduce the characters en masse before we get to know them better, and the sequence also emphasizes the collegial nature of the workplace, with willing teamwork valued over egos. It is the views of such chattering classes that are at stake in the battle between Murrow and McCarthy. Stylistically, it sets the tone with Dianne Reeves singing “When I Fall in Love,” long lenses picking out some details in sharp focus and others left blurred, a key way in which our attention is directed through the course of the film, and the ensemble nature of the piece with Clooney only gradually emerging as one face among several in the pose for a group photo.

  Clooney’s first choice for cinematographer, Newton Thomas Sigel, with whom he worked on Three Kings and Confessions, had a clash of schedules, so he opted for Robert Elswit, with whom he had worked on Syriana. Like Soderbergh would later do in The Good German, Clooney tried to acquire old equipment used on films that had the look he was aiming for (here Jean-Luc Godard’s 1960 A` bout de souffle), but after testing a number of different combinations of cameras, lenses, and film stocks, he opted to shoot with color film (black-and-white would need many more lights, which would not work with the amount of reflective surfaces in the main set) in 35 mm with long lenses to try and re-create the documentary feel of Robert Drew’s Primary (1960) and Crisis (1963). This mostly works, but it is hard to make the office sets for Paley (Frank Langella) seem imposing in black-and-white without recourse to the kind of expressionist devices (wide-angle lenses, distorted sets, and specific lighting devices as in Orson Welles’s 1939 Citizen Kane) that the naturalistic set and the limitations on lighting created by using so much glass all effectively rule out.

  Music producer Allen Sviridoff helped Clooney select Dianne Reeves as the singer, whose voice sporadically punctuates the narrative, establishing the mood of the time and lyrically commenting on the main action. Via a long take, we follow a couple of minor characters walking around and through the CBS studios, introducing us to the fictional world of the narrative, as we hear and then finally see Reeves singing “TV Is the Thing This Year,” motivating the sound when we reach her performing live. Later she sings “I’ve Got My Eyes on You” after Murrow’s open attack on McCarthy, not just reflecting the course of the plot but allowing time for the audience to dwell on it and to provide respite between the dense speeches of Murrow as well as giving a useful sense of the space within the studio (since she is singing live in the scenes where she appears).

  As a modernized version of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible (1953), the film acts as a useful introduction to the perils of McCarthyism, particularly to younger generations unaware of the ease with which civil liberties can be eroded. Both Murrow and Clooney show the power of using the personal to exemplify the general, focusing on Milo Radulovich, a lieutenant in the air force, who was deemed guilty by association with his father, who himself was labeled a Communist by McCarthy for subscribing to a Communist-sympathizing Serbian newspaper.

  The performance of David Strathairn (whose participation was not actually confirmed until only a few days before shooting) is also attributable in part to Clooney’s direction, a role paralleled in his position behind the scenes as Fred Friendly. Originally written with Clooney himself in mind, it was surely the correct decision to stand aside as Clooney has found in all four of his directing roles so far; directing oneself as the star of a picture threatens to destabilize the overview that a director needs as well as compromising the quality of performance he or she can give. The weariness that he exuded for Solaris might have worked in that instance, where the circumstances were personal and emotional, but part of Strathairn’s power is to suggest a careworn demeanor at the erosion of ideas and principles that he holds dear. Despite being a nonsmoker himself, he is seen (like much of the cast) smoking throughout and does so believably. In part to assuage feelings of guilt about making smoking look attractive, Clooney included the Kent commercial, which seems incredibly dated in its exhortation to buy a product, increasingly deemed antisocial.

  Clooney’s belief that actors should not play famous people leads to the use of real film of McCarthy. This belief seems to suggest that an actor might make him too engaging and thereby risk shifting the emotional identification away from where a director wishes it to be focused or that it represents a manufacturing of reality to suit a given political agenda. The film uses McCarthy’s own words (even if judicious editing greatly affects their meaning) and reflects Murrow’s own technique of focusing pre
cisely on this in order to undermine the senator’s approach. Clooney’s argument might also dictate that Murrow should not be played by an actor, but at the time perhaps Murrow was known as much as a voice on radio as a face on television. Furthermore, for the film to work we have to identify strongly with Murrow’s character, which Strathairn achieves by small gestures to show the strain he is under. Clooney’s character Friendly is made more pleasant in his playing of it. The real Friendly, physically much more imposing than Clooney, and generally remembered as more aggressive and bombastic, is the kind of director figure that Clooney has striven to avoid (both becoming himself or working with), particularly after his experience with Russell on Three Kings.

  Murrow used the case of Radulovich in a broadcast of his flagship current affairs program See It Now on October 20, 1953, to focus the minds of viewers on wider issues of the suppression of civil liberties. In the relatively new medium of television, using a focus on individual stories and edited compilations of actual testimony, punctuated by commentary from Murrow, created a potent mix. Clooney follows a similar strategy. The decision to focus on a specific moment in Murrow’s life allowed the flashpoint with McCarthy to act as a microcosm for the country as a whole and also made the narrative more dramatically focused.

  Like the good journalist that his father was and that he trained to be for a brief period, Clooney did attempt to double-source everything. Even light banter is based on accounts from those present.2 As Strathairn notes about Clooney, “He’s really the Edward R. Murrow of this production and Grant is the Fred Friendly,” and the pair did follow in the footsteps of their fictional characters by pursuing painstaking research.3 However, once little tweaks appear (such as adding a comment about Murrow’s work on migrant workers, despite the fact that his key work on the topic, “Harvests of Shame,” did not appear until two years after the night of the speech), perhaps assertions about complete historical objectivity are harder to maintain.

  The script was originally written as a TV movie, possibly even to be performed live, like Fail Safe, and was closer to a more conventional bio-pic format. At the time (around 1998–99, according to Heslov), Clooney did not really have the industry clout to get such a heavyweight project made but his interest continued, and by the time he came back to the project, having converted Heslov as well by this point, the two of them knew more about the subject and had worked on more projects together, including Unscripted and K Street (both 2003). K Street, although it ran for only one season of 10 episodes, is an interesting experiment, including up-to-the-minute script changes to reflect the political mood of a given week and a consequently more flexible improvised way of working. Clooney, also credited as cameraman, could indulge his interest in the workings of Washington, with live TV and comedy. Since both Heslov and Clooney are also actors as well as producers and directors, they can bring an extra dimension to how they talk to actors and explain what they want from them.

  The issue of balance arises directly in the film when Sig Mickelson (Jeff Daniels) accuses Murrow of “editorializing,” in that he is departing from standard CBS practice and not showing two sides to an issue. Murrow’s defense, that in this example there is no credible opposing case, raises the question of whether striving after constant balance only legitimizes the indefensible and produces bland programs in the name of objectivity. There is a constant game being played over cooperation, with Friendly claiming that footage the two military officers want to see is not yet available and they trying to intimidate him, casting Radulovich as a security risk. Friendly’s direct challenge to them to name who knows the exact charges against Radulovich, and whether they were elected or accountable, is precisely the kind of scene that Clooney-the-leading-man might be expected to have, but with this isolated example, Friendly’s political credentials are underlined without stealing the limelight from Murrow.

  The drama of live television creates a great sense of theater. There may be a script, written by Murrow himself, but no autocue as yet, just a piece delivered straight to camera, directly into people’s homes. We see Murrow, sitting, foot tapping, suggesting a rare bout of nerves, steeling himself for his follow-up attack on McCarthy. Friendly’s position below the desk motivates the low-angle shots of Murrow, whom we see partly through Friendly’s perspective here. Political and personal moments coalesce and it feels a little like the child at the feet of a parent, possibly Clooney himself playing in studios as his father, the local anchorman, got ready to deliver the news. Like the musicians who accompany Reeves, including Matt Catingub who produced Rosemary Clooney’s last album, there are a number of small but significant personal touches to the production, climaxing in Clooney’s choice to premiere the film in his hometown of Maysville, Kentucky.

  The film is a rare example of a narrative where ideas and words predominate. The film takes place almost exclusively in the CBS studios. There is no action in the sense of chase sequences, only a suppressed romance between a married couple, and the resolution, though complete in terms of starting to bring McCarthy to account, is still relatively downbeat in Murrow’s bleak warning about the future of television. The narrative dramatizes a standing up for principle, knowing the potential risk but not the audience reaction, until the phones start ringing, showing the support of the public. As Murrow says, “It occurs to me that we might not get away with this one.” The close of Murrow’s program on McCarthy ends with rapturous applause from the control room, reflecting a sense of euphoria, relief, and also the sense that this is very much a theatrical performance on the part of Murrow.

  The film celebrates a different kind of heroism: a quiet, articulate kind rather than the usual variety we are offered. The idea, as expressed by Murrow that he and Friendly would be prepared to split the cost of a commercial between them in order for a controversial broadcast to go ahead, would be hard to imagine today. It is also a film that keeps things back: obvious outpourings of emotion, unnecessary exchanges of dialogue, even whole scenes. We never learn exactly what Paley says to Friendly when he asks him to stay behind (it is reported a few seconds later as a desire to lay some people off) or exactly what the lawyers say to Palmer Williams (Tom McCarthy) except that he is subdued after meeting with them.

  William Paley represents the commercial and political pressures on a TV station, stressing (through Mickelson) that they are reliant on sponsors, who may have military contracts. He does, however, warn Murrow about the tactics McCarthy will use (personal attacks on individuals rather than what they are saying) and promises that the corporate interests of the company will not interfere with editorial ones. He also warns Murrow that “we don’t make the news, we report the news,” suggesting he is uncomfortable with CBS’s reporting becoming the story itself. The film touches not just on the moral responsibility of the media but also on its power to influence viewers and listeners. Even the Kent cigarette commercial is prefaced by some flattery of the average viewer of Person to Person as not easily persuaded by advertisers, before the program proceeds to try and do so. An idea of Langella’s, we see Paley walk into a darkened and empty studio, shortly after McCarthy’s rebuttal, possibly suggesting that he may have to say goodbye to his empire shortly. Structurally, the fates of Murrow and McCarthy run parallel. McCarthy stays in the Senate but like Murrow is somewhat put out to pasture, moved away from the center to the periphery of things. Paley’s final exchange with Murrow and Friendly underlines how their professional relationship has shifted, so that Murrow is offered only a five-episode series on Sunday afternoons.

  The slide into celebrity culture is already signposted in Murrow’s own banal interviews on Person to Person with figures like Liberace. Clooney has some fun (as with the clip from The Newlywed Game in Confessions) using some material, which now seems absurd, as Liberace talks about settling down and showing some romantic interest in Princess Margaret. The compliment from a member of the studio crew “Good show” is met by a withering look from Murrow and silence as he remains sitting as the studio light
s gradually go out—he knows exactly the kind of program he is being forced to make. Later, he is seen sneaking glances at 45 degrees to his interviewee (Gina Lollobrigida) of McCarthy being subjected to the same kind of questioning that he forced on others. At the same time, the film accepts the commercial reality of television, not just for the channel but for the individuals concerned. Murrow has to admit to Paley that the patronage of CBS helped him put his children through school and on balance has allowed him to do many things that rival channels might well have refused. For his part, despite being old friends through the war, Paley seems unhappy that his star has been eclipsed by Murrow’s notoriety.

  We also see in Don Hollenbeck (Ray Wise) a parallel for Murrow, someone who might share and support the same principles but does not have the personal strength, or perhaps luck (his wife has just left him), to stick to them without paying a price. The fixed grin that Hollenbeck sports through most of his scenes, twitching slightly in the bar later as Shirley reads the critical reviews, only serves to underline its opposite: that here is a man near breaking point. The pressure from critical journalists like the unseen Jack O’Brian had been present for several years on the real character, who found it increasingly hard to bear. Words can be used to speak the truth as in Murrow’s campaign but they can also injure and at extremes even kill.