Editor’s Notes: Sully is currently out in wide theatrical release.
Gran Torino, an ill-advised sympathy play for its lead veteran, a man content at home in a crockpot of post-war racism, who exits said stew to become his Hmong neighbors’ white savior, a role depicted as necessary for their general well-being. American Sniper, a potential analysis of PTSD, military sensationalism, and the relationship between both that instead vilifies criticism, dangerously lauding the American soldier as a hero without faults and the American bullet as one of equal stature. Clint Eastwood directed both of these, as we know, and now he’s bringing us Sully, a retelling of questions and media coverage surrounding the famous “Miracle on the Hudson” that would seem like the perfect project for Clint: Here we have an undeniable hero, an investigation challenging said heroism, practically zero opportunities for political perspectives (or recent political comments) to dominate the frame… Fits like a glove, right? Well, as life proves with the consistency of the sunrise, perfection’s often just a fantasy.
Tom Hanks does fantastic things in a role that begs both admiration and worry in equal measure . . .
If Sully is anything, it’s a great biopic gone awry. Tom Hanks does fantastic things in a role that begs both admiration and worry in equal measure, while Eastwood’s criminally efficient direction actually complements genuine subtlety for more than ten minutes. Problems arise when we understand, with thirty minutes left, that the twenty in which we’ve seen this marriage occur are all we’ll see of Eastwood mingling with his material meaningfully. This stops being a film about something the moment we undergo our second flashback, no matter how hard it tries. Until then, there’s a real, sweeping observation being made here about the cracks made in the abilities of humans and machines simply due to their coexistence, and how one can be forced into responsibilities and scrutinies designed for the other simply because those cracks grow and shatter at random. Hanks’ portrayal of Sully experiences nightmares and hallucinations, not of the crash itself, but what would have happened if he had hit a building and lost every passenger. This alternate outcome, something a machine (not a human) would dwell on in the face of success, is regurgitated toward him at every turn of the investigation he’s put through. So under that burden of steel, he crumbles.
This feels empty, most of all, and letting the eye wander for a moment just makes it feel emptier . . .
Except Eastwood doesn’t know where to take this, or what clear thesis to draw, so it’s abandoned once the first flashback concludes. Suddenly, Sully is a film about a wonderful pilot who’s very humble, very well-spoken, and a great man. That’s it. Sully goes for a jog, has a flashback to decades prior in which we take a moment to watch him land a smaller plane than the jet he’s famous for, and jogs back to his hotel room. All that’s spoken to us there is, “Sully’s good at flying planes, remember?” Then, he’s told that landing in the Hudson was a risky move, he says it was the right one. We watch a flashback to Sully’s water landing, then someone giddily congratulates him. These scenarios play out in a scattered arrangement, repeatedly, until we come to the most embarrassing courtroom finale to ever grace an IMAX screen (webcam footage of flight simulators serves as the sole climactic device), and what we’re left with is a 73rd declaration of the statement, “Sully Sullenberger is an American hero.” Worse yet, the intelligent observations made earlier on have mutated into a passive-aggressive, half-baked PSA reciting, “Humans are reliable, technology isn’t, and Sully Sullenberger is an American hero.”
We know Sully Sullenberger is an American hero, we do. Telling us that (and only that) for the bulk of ninety minutes, however, makes for a hollow experience, and teasing us with deeper insight only to pursue something shallower makes that experience a betrayal. This man did a great thing, but we’re all flawed, even if just psychologically. Bowing down to your subject and pretending they aren’t is cause for a documentary or a TV special, not a $60 million dollar Hollywood production. Even with that figure and years of experience under his belt, Eastwood takes maybe three risks throughout, seemingly afraid to depict anything that could be misconstrued as a real, human imperfection, forcing Hanks to take matters into his own hands. This feels empty, most of all, and letting the eye wander for a moment just makes it feel emptier; the only people of color with speaking roles either drive Sully around or stand behind a store counter, and any rescue teams assisting passengers after his water landing are pretty apparently all-white.
This seems to be Clint Eastwood’s vision of a New York unified in the face of disaster. If so, Sully is truly his vision of unfettered heroism: Sleek, white, perfect. And, maybe he didn’t get the memo, but perfection’s often just a fantasy.
This seems to be Clint Eastwood’s vision of a New York unified in the face of disaster. If so, Sully is truly his vision of unfettered heroism: Sleek, white, perfect. And, maybe he didn’t get the memo, but perfection’s often just a fantasy.
