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The main takeaway of The Trial of the Chicago 7 (now streaming on Netflix) is
that the trial against eight (later seven) leaders of left-wing activist groups
never should have happened. Indeed, that's also the main takeaway of the case's
judicial history, but still, the trial did occur. The country had to grapple
with it at the time, and we still have to grapple with it now. Maybe we'd be in
a better position now, if only people had done a better job learning the obvious
lessons of the trial at the time.
Writer/director Aaron Sorkin certainly wants to make a point with this
film—several points, in fact, about the freedoms of speech and assembly,
government overreach to stifle those rights, how certain government officials
will use or abuse their power to silence those with whom they disagree or who
appear a threat to that power, and some obvious flaws in the judicial system. At
its heart, perhaps, is the long-standing (and still ongoing) fear of leftist
politics that espouse real change, more in line with the promise and theoretical
foundation of this country, which makes certain people very uncomfortable for an
assortment of political, ideological, and some far less rational reasons
(racism, sexism, xenophobia, etc.).
Some will look at this film as political grandstanding on Sorkin's part, and
that's certainly true. What other approach, though, could he possibly take with
this material? It's intrinsically political. It's inherently about
grandstanding—from the various activists with their distinct approaches to
politics, from a newly elected President and his recently appointed officials
with an agenda and some personal grudges in mind, from the attorneys with their
knowledge of how the law should work and frustration with seeing it molested so
publicly, and even from the judge with an obviously prejudicial perspective and
the willingness to act upon it.
The actual trial, we see repeatedly throughout the film, became an act of
political theater. Sorkin's screenplay dives into and fully embraces that
idea—while actually somewhat diminishing that quality from the real trial, lest
anyone accuse him of heightening the atmosphere, the stakes, and the conflict of
this story.
The scene stealer of the trial-as-a-show, perhaps, was Abbie Hoffman, the rather
radical co-leader of the Youth International Party, nicknamed the "Yippies."
Here, he's played by Sacha Baron Cohen, just one of the big names in this
pristinely cast ensemble, performing their roles with equal parts sincerity and
gusto. At one point, the judge (played by Frank Langella, in a scathing,
frightening portrayal of a dangerous combination of judicial malfeasance and
possible senility) interrupts the government prosecutor's opening statement to
point out that, while they may share the same surname, he has no familial
relationship to the defendant. In response, Hoffman certainly did call out, as
the character does in the film, "Dad, have you forsaken me?"
The real Hoffman—the defendant—also stated that the other Hoffman—the
judge—"would have served Hitler better." That's not in the film, but the moment
when Abbie and Yippie co-founder Jerry Rubin (Jeremy Strong) wear judge's robes
over Chicago police uniforms also happened in reality. It was a show trial, so
why shouldn't these guys reveal it to be such in performative ways?
The major defendants in the trial, following the protests/riots/uprising during
the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago and the election of Richard
Nixon, include other activist leaders against the war in Vietnam: Tom Hayden
(Eddie Redmayne), Rennie Davis (Alex Sharp), David Dellinger (John Carroll
Lynch), and Bobby Seale (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II), co-founder of the Black
Panthers, who had no connection to any of the other defendants. Along with two
others (whom the government tried to be acquitted, making it easier for the jury
to convict the others), the Chicago Eight, as they were initially called, were
charged with federal crimes of conspiracy and crossing state lines in order to
incite a riot.
After a brief but breezily thorough introduction to the major players and the
enlistment of Richard Schultz (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) to prosecute an overtly
political case for the government, Sorkin begins the story proper with the trial
and keeps that proceeding in the narrative's present tense. That decision is
simply and subtly ingenious. We watch the trial, alternately amused and stunned
by its various and respective outbursts and abuses, with only limited
information of what actually happened during the protests and the riots that
eventually erupted.
In this way, Sorkin maintains the focus on the theater of the trial, as the
humorous interjections from Abbie and Jerry gradually evolve, over the course of
five months, into infuriating instances of un-Constitutional horror. Bobby's
attorney remains absent, following surgery (Mark Rylance plays the lead attorney
for the others). Even so, the judge insists that the case against him proceed.
At the height of this legally prejudicial and racially discriminatory abuse, the
judge orders Bobby to be taken from the courtroom and be treated "as he should
be." The result is shocking (In the film, the issue is addressed immediately,
but in reality, it wasn't rectified for days, which makes it even more
maddening), and for a terrifying piece of trivia, the judge's actions are
technically part of still-standing legal precedent.
With the trial serving as the story's central focus (featuring plenty of twists
and turns, as well as surprise witness/cameo in the person of Michael Keaton),
Sorkin allows the events leading up to and of the protests and riots to play out
as a kind of mystery. Testimonies, on the stand (from a lot of undercover police
officers and federal agents, leading Jerry half-jokingly to ponder if the seven
of them were leading 10,000 cops) and in the "conspiracy headquarters" and the
stage (Abbie continues to do presentations at colleges at night), and flashbacks
incrementally fill in the blanks of what happened. Sorkin comes to a distinct
conclusion on the causes and culprits of the violence, but his case, unlike the
government's in the story and history, is backed up with actual evidence.
The Trial of the Chicago 7 clearly and convincingly presents all of its
arguments, its political debates, and, above all else, its outrage. The film is
exactly what it needs to be—an assertive and impassioned piece of political
theater.
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