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Steven Spielberg Uses Ben Bradlee to Teach Us About the Free Press
Watching ‘The Post’ in Trump-America.
“Without a free press there can be no free society. That is axiomatic. However, freedom of the press is not an end in itself but a means to the end of a free society.”— Felix Frankfurter, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court (1939–1963), a founder of the American Civil Liberties Union.
“The FAKE NEWS media… is the enemy of the American People!”
— Donald J. Trump, 45th President of the United States.
Steven Spielberg’s The Post (2017) has an interesting place in cinema in that it tells the story of the White House’s battle with the media in 1971, in the midst of another White House’s contemporary war with the press. The Post refers to The Washington Post, the venerable newspaper credited with taking down Richard Nixon’s presidency after breaking the Watergate scandal.
Contemporary film audiences got to see principled reporters like Ben Bradlee (Tom Hanks) take on the Goliath-like Nixon administration in the face of censure, litigation, even arrest… and prevail. Spielberg’s film is fable of sorts, one that has the good guys (the reporters) and the bad guys (the White House) and audiences get a civic lesson in the importance of a free press.
But The Post operates on many levels. Primarily, it’s a Valentine to the freedom of the press, but it’s also liberal wish-fulfilment, released in a time when liberal creatives like Spielberg were in despair and fear. Drawing parallels between the Nixon government and the Trump administration, The Post isn’t just an engaging and well-drawn depiction of an important moment in journalism history, but also as a reminder to the fragility and necessity of a press that’s free to keep a check and balance on those in power.
Because The Post is told by Spielberg, there are preconceived expectations which all are seemingly met. He’s an imaginative, innovative, and masterful storyteller. But also a very old-fashioned one, despite his history with large-scale epics. Some could say that Spielberg can be corny, sometimes, or hokey in his approach to Hollywood. He harkens back to the kind of filmmaking of Frank Capra or Walt Disney. Though a risk-taker in how he presents a story, he still sports a sincerity in his films — a desire to inspire audiences (or manipulate them?) — and The Post is certainly another work in his filmography that tells an “important” story with layers of Hollywood gloss.
The story of The Post is about the bravery of men and women willing to risk their careers to tell the truth. Ben Bradlee, Editor of The Washington Post, is chafing because of the White House’s hostility towards the press, particularly his own paper. The owner of the publication, Katharine Graham (Meryl Streep), is a tentative, oft-unsure figure who’s repeatedly dismissed because of her gender, as well as because of the reason behind her lofty position — that her father owned the Post but left it to her husband who killed himself.
Tired of seeing other papers — specifically, The New York Times — continuously provide quality, hard-hitting stories, Bradlee’s elated when the Post is essentially handed a story about the Pentagon Papers — a government study exposing the US government’s decades-long involvement in Vietnam which underscores how much of what the government presented to the media, public, even the Congress, were lies. Graham, on the advice of her paternalistic shareholders, hems and haws, unsure of how to move forward. So Bradlee’s faced with a number of obstacles — namely, a guarded White House, a jumpy Graham, and a raft of stakeholders, including lawyers — who want to protect the Post’s interest at the expense of truth.
Spielberg’s avatar for truth and justice is his version of Bradlee. Played by the ultimate everyman, Tom Hanks, the historical figure fits into the role of hero beautifully. The screenplay by Liz Hannah and Josh Singer has ample opportunity for the camera to settle on Bradlee so he can deliver a well-acted rant or sermon on the importance of a free press. It’s an interesting choice to cast Hanks, an actor often compared to James Stewart when it comes to having screen persona that’s likeable and trustworthy.
The Stewart comparison can be teased out a bit more when looking at another political drama that undoubtedly influenced The Post, Frank Capra’s masterpiece Mr Smith Goes to Washington (1939). In Capra’s political tale, we get the story of Jefferson Smith (embodied by James Stewart), a naïve scout leader appointed to the Senate by a calculating governor who’s banking on Smith’s genial nature to score points with voters as well as to make him malleable.
What The Post took from Mr Smith Goes to Washington is the inherent importance in morality. When Smith’s forced to defend himself against spurious charges that he was ill-equipped to swat away earlier in the film, he launches into a filibuster that lasts over a day. Exhausted, bedraggled, but persistent, Smith soldiers on, citing the Declaration of Independence and saying:
“There’s no compromise with truth. That’s all I got up on this floor to say…Get up there with that lady that’s up on top of this Capitol dome, that lady that stands for liberty. Take a look at this country through her eyes if you really want to see something. And you won’t just see scenery: you’ll see the whole parade of what Man’s carved out for himself, after centuries of fighting. Fighting for something better than just jungle law, fighting so’s he can stand on his own two feet, free and decent, like he was created, no matter what his race, color, or creed. That’s what you’d see. There’s no place out there for graft, or greed, or lies, or compromise with human liberties.”
Smith’s speech, written by Sidney Buchman, is important because it highlights a hard-fought belief in ideals — something repeatedly laced throughout The Post. Like Stewart’s Jefferson Smith, Hanks’ Bradlee has a number of show-stopping moments in which he praises the necessity of an honest media. Capra’s film is the kind shown in social studies classes to assure students that, despite the seemingly baked-in corruption in the government, goodness does exist.
And Spielberg — a seeming disciple of Capra — does much the same kind of work with his film. Though none of the speeches are as hopelessly earnest as Smith’s — although Graham gets a corker of a soliloquy underscored by the plump strains of John Williams’ score (more on that in a bit) — Bradlee still operates as a force of good, knocking his head against barriers. The way he works his way over these hurdles is by the sustained belief in his morality and his righteousness, which manifests in profound dialogue.
Like Mr Smith, Bradlee gets a “come to Jesus” speech, though this one’s self-referential, too. As a credit to the film, though Bradlee’s is almost idealised, enough of his own ties and desire to Washington power gives the character important shading. Much of Graham’s initial protests over the story is Bradlee’s urging that she use her personal friendship with Robert McNamara, former Secretary of Defence, to get her hands on a copy of the Pentagon Papers. Graham balks at this notion, finding it disloyal. Bradlee seems to understand and shares a thoughtful anecdote with his boss:
“Jack Kennedy. The night he was assassinated, (my wife) and I were down at the Naval Hospital so we could be there to meet Jackie when she landed. She was bringing Jack’s body back on the plane from Dallas and she walked into the room. She was still wearing that pink suit, with Jack’s blood all over it. She fell into (my wife’s) arms and they held each other for quite a long time. And then Jackie looked at me and said, ‘None of this. None of what you see. None of what I say is ever going to be in your newspaper, Ben.’
And that just about broke my heart. I never, never though of Jack as a source. I thought of him as a friend. And that was my mistake. And it was something that Jack knew all along. We can’t be both. We have to choose. And that’s the point. The days of us smoking cigars together on Pennsylvania Avenue were over.”
The speech was delivered to highlight how media and politics couldn’t mix. It’s a profound passage because, up until then, Bradlee had a vision of himself — as a hero — and he looked at Graham’s social connections and socialite ways with some contempt. It was only when she challenged him in an earlier scene that some introspection takes place. That’s the thing about heroes, especially heroes in modern fiction — they can be as virtuous and idealised as Spielberg’s Ben Bradlee is, but they can’t be perfect. They have to learn lessons along the way, just as much as those who they’re leading: Graham’s lessons about the uneasy, oil-and-water marriage of media and politics is simultaneously a humbling and an ascension, because Bradlee guides her into becoming a hero, too.
Spielberg tells his story in a fairly conventional way. The film’s an engrossing and thoughtful drama, and its stakes are high, but much of the film’s emotional power comes from the context in which it’s watched: Trump-era America. The relationship between the media and the President during Trump’s ascent from reality TV star to Presidential hopeful, to Republican nominee, to POTUS, was fraught with the kind of sick co-dependent, mutually beneficial relationship which Bradlee rails against.
Throughout the primaries, Trump was afforded an oversized and oft-bemused media coverage, disproportional to his suitability as a serious presidential candidate. He was a popular guest on late night talk shows, even hosting an episode of Saturday Night Live, further blurring the line between politician, media figure, and media subject. It became increasingly unclear to know if we were watching Trump the popular TV personality, or Trump the improbably viable candidate for high political office.
When Trump became the Republican nominee and eventually Commander-in-Chief, that relationship soured into a dangerously septic cocktail of distrust, contempt, and frequently violent confrontations. It’s this moment in our contemporary history that Spielberg’s speaking to with The Post. When Bradlee’s repeatedly stymied by the querulous Nixon White House, it’s an allegory to the many times President Trump dismissed members of the press who posed difficult questions. Nixon’s dogged attempts at controlling the media coverage of him, his administration, even his family (one of the petty moments covered in The Post is Nixon’s offence at Judith Martin’s catty description of Trish Nixon as an ice cream cone), are shown as dangerous because Bradlee’s repeated mantra is that the press works as checks-and-balances on the government. The Pentagon Papers show that previous governments were able to forge ahead with military campaigns on the basis of flawed intelligence with little oversight because the public — as well as lawmakers — were kept in the dark.
Of course, we not only know of the consequences of an untethered, morally corrupt POTUS today, but we’re also given a clue of what will happen if Nixon was allowed to go unchecked and unchallenged. We get a victorious ending in which Graham, Bradlee, and The Washington Post are vindicated: the White House tries to force The Post (as well as The Times) to suspend publication of classified material but are swatted down by the Supreme Court — which finds in The Post’s favour. But as if to set up a potential sequel, the film ends with a sequence in which we witness the Watergate break in.
Spielberg is nothing if not a product of American cinema of the past 50 years. Of course, when we see the murky scenes of Frank Wills, the security guard who interrupts the break in, we are reminded of Alan J. Pakula’s All the President’s Men (1976), a spiritual prequel to The Post.
Like Spielberg’s film, Pakula’s work was also engaging with the current political climate with his film. The film has a much more immediate, first-hand source for its story, as it was based on the book written by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, two Post reporters investigating Watergate. The film came out a mere two years after Nixon’s resignation, and was part of a larger movement in New Hollywood; a movement that steered away from the carefully-manicured studio system. The 1970s was also a period in cinema that reflected much of the mistrust that the American public had with the government. Films like All the President’s Men, Sydney Pollack’s Three Days of the Condor (1975), or James Bridges’ The China Syndrome (1979), spoke to the simmering unease that American audiences had with institutions like the United States government.
Unlike Spielberg or Capra, Pakula wasn’t interested in spinning a yard of good vs evil, nor was he interested in creating Hollywood magic with his story. As a result, the tone of All the President’s Men matches the general anxious mood of the 1970s — and, more importantly, the paranoid and distrustful air. It’s telling that while Spielberg’s film is an engrossing drama, Pakula crafted a tight and tense thriller. The shadowy figure of Deep Throat, lurking in the smoky darkness of a parking garage, divulging information that implicates the White House in a cover up, all creates an atmosphere of fear and danger.
Spielberg’s The Post doesn’t try to frighten us in the same way. Instead, it works to appeal to our morality, our sense of right and wrong. And Spielberg makes sure that we know who is right — when we see Bradlee and (later) Graham prevail, they’re framed in a closeup, often their speech is lifted by the extradiegetic score. In fact, it’s in these moments, that Spielberg indulges in his most shameless moments of flag waving. It’s also in these moments, when Spielberg gets to show the good guys winning. They’re effective — if predictably and manipulative — but they do work. In two specific moments in the film, we’re treated to the sight of good vanquishing evil, which is the liberal wish fulfilment I wrote about earlier.
The first scene works explicitly as a civics and history lesson. Post writer Meg Greenfield (Carrie Coon) is on the phone announcing to The Post bullpen that the Supreme Court voted in their favour. She then recites Justice Hugo Black’s opinion:
“The Founding Fathers gave the free press the protection it must have. To fulfil its essential role in our democracy. The press was to serve the governed, not the governors.”
As Williams’ score swells, Greenfield is on a rotary phone, surrounded by her colleagues, all huddled around, the camera slowly moves closer to Greenfield, we see the assembled Post workers, exhausted and exulted by the good news. As we get closer to Greenfield, she is no longer solely speaking to her coworkers, but she’s speaking to us, the audience now. She becomes that civics teacher who has to remind us of the importance of the freedom of the press. Her recitation is met with applause.
The other scene features Graham, near the end of the film after winning her case. She’s no longer the timid dilettante, but a freedom fighter and an inspiration for women. She’s watching with interest as the type is being set for the next issue. Seeing Bradlee, she goes over to him with a sense of purpose and says,
You know what my husband said about the news? He called it the first, rough draft of history. That’s good, isn’t it? Oh, well, we don’t always get it right, you know, we’re not always perfect, but I think if we keep on it, you know, that’s the job, isn’t it?
Her short speech, amongst the gentle hum of the machinery, is met with a pondering Bradlee who answers to himself as much as to her, “yes it is.” The change in the two characters is somewhat complete: in victory, Bradlee earns a new respect for his boss (as we can see with the way he looks at her, his eyes squinted and his lips pursed in admiration), while Graham is removed from her tony mansion-setting, and we get to see her at work. Because that’s what goodness does in Spielberg’s hands: it makes good people better.
Of course, all of this could be dismissed as Hollywood hokum. And some of the criticism is warranted. After all, Spielberg does end his film with a nice bow, with a knowing wink to the audience who know that Watergate is coming, and that the nefarious Nixon will be politically vanquished. But it’s clear that in the midst of 2017, Spielberg wanted a win for the “good” side, which is why he spun this inspirational tale from history. Not only to education but to inspire.
