At this point, we're all too used to watching beloved public figures fall from grace in ugly and shocking ways. The first scandal I remember in great detail happened to iconic golfer Tiger Woods, who was caught in a web of sexual affairs after a major car crash. But in retrospect, Woods' infidelities seem so minor. When their heinous behaviors were finally brought to light, 2017 saw the fall of a number of famous men, including Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey, thanks to the strength and bravery of the #MeToo movement. In a way, the exposure of institutional sexual assault and complicity at Penn State University was a pre-cursor to what happened last year. While such a disgusting culture seems so believable now, it was profoundly shocking in 2011, especially when you consider the legacy of Joe Paterno. Penn State's football coach was a beloved, grandfatherly figure, the last person you'd expect to be covering for a pedophile. And yet, that's exactly what he did. Along with top university officials, Paterno ignored the sexual crimes of his former assistant, Jerry Sandusky, opting to keep the program running smoothly. In late 2011, Paterno paid the price.
In the span of a week, Penn State football went from being an esteemed program with a rich history to the center of a criminal investigation that nearly destroyed the reputation of its school. Despite student support in the form of riots and demonstrations, Paterno went from being a legend to a disgrace. I remember it all very well. The initial reports, the shocking firing, the riots, Paterno's death- it all happened in the span of just a few months. Barry Levinson's Paterno (which premiered on HBO on April 7) is essentially a vivid recreation of those events, partially framed as the frantic thoughts of the dying coach during his cancer treatment. Simultaneously a tale of journalistic grit in the vein of Spotlight and a sort of fever dream character study, this mostly gripping drama paints a deeply unflattering picture of the man who did too little. Bolstered by the fascinating lead performance of Al Pacino, who finds something of a cross between deliberate obliviousness and tortured guilt in the titular character, Paterno is a grim, but wholly necessary biopic.
Many readers probably know this story all too well already, but Paterno does go in some unexpected directions that give this tragedy added nuance. Pacino's JoePa is obviously the central character, but much of the screen time goes to Sara Ganim (Riley Keough), the Pennsylvania-based reporter who cracked the Sandusky story. We don't get to see a whole lot of Ganim's actual journalistic work, but Levinson and screenwriters Debora Cahn and John C. Richards make the crucial choice of familiarizing us with some of the victims through their interactions with the quiet, determined reporter. This is essential to the movie's success, as Paterno is only a minor part of a much bigger story. But considering the subject of the matter and his spectacular fame, the immortalized coach shifts into the spotlight. As JoePa fails to see what's right in front of him, the film tracks the Paterno family frenzy after the allegations are revealed, as his wife (Kathy Baker) and three children (Annie Parisse, Greg Grunberg, Larry Mitchell) scramble to find a solution to this growing problem.
With these events unfolding at an unfathomably rapid rate, Levinson zeroes in on Paterno himself. And that's a very bold choice. In a way, making a movie about the famous coach in connection to these events is a difficult, even impossible task. It's hard for the audience to sympathize with Paterno, and by this point, he was too old to verbalize any genuine regret or dismay. While his downfall has often been framed in the media as a kind of epic Greek tragedy, this was a mess of his own making, and he hurt a lot of innocent people along the way. His death shortly after the scandal prevented any tell-all interviews, and there's little room for doubt in the public's mind given the evidence against Sandusky and the university. Much of what Levinson does is dramatic recreation, and there were times where I felt that a documentary may have been a better fit for this material.
But instead of succumbing to the potential pitfalls of this subject, Levinson delves into the mind of the coach as his most glaring mistake evolved and metastasized before his very eyes. What he finds is illuminating and occasionally even haunting, a strange cocktail of pride, uncertainty, and just a hint of genuine remorse. This is all thanks to the performance of Al Pacino, who proves that he can still deliver something rewarding and complex when given the right material. Despite his brash vocal mannerisms and over-dramatic gesturing, Pacino's performance here never towers over the film. Instead, it diminishes in prominence as the story grows, finding Paterno retreating further and further back into a mental state that may or may not be failing him. At the time, many thought Paterno was senile, that he legitimately didn't remember what had happened in the Sandusky era. Levinson and Pacino sort of lean into that idea, but opt for a more challenging balance, finding a thin line between hazy, almost nightmarish regret and purposeful ignorance.
The final product is intermittently chilling and gut-wrenching. Pacino shouts and cheers until he doesn't, taking the movie in a direction that feels simultaneously more somber and chaotic. Through his dreamlike, partially internalized framing, Levinson's breakneck pacing feels even more apt, creating a sense of flow that matches the mania of the real events. The director begins at the top, tackling Paterno's record-breaking win (which made him the most successful coach in history), before showcasing how everything began spiraling out of control. As the film progresses, Levinson finds a potent mixture of brutality and quiet intensity, from the violent hits on the gridiron to the devastating effect of seeing a mother confront her son's abuse. Paterno is an uncontrollable whirlwind of a film, but Levinson remains in control throughout.
There are some odd decisions made here, and I can't help but feel like the showy filmmaking techniques occasionally undermine the actual story. There's a lot that Levinson does right, but the Penn State story is a big one, and it couldn't possibly be tackled in one comprehensive film. Even after such a gripping tale of the program at the center of the scandal, there are still so many stories that could be told. To use an example, while Riley Keough is terrific as Sara Ganim, we don't get much about her character. Why did she pursue this story so intensely? What effect did it have on her? She deserves a movie of her own, and it feels like Paterno shortchanges the victims and the heroes in favor of damning the villains.
Nonetheless, these are small flaws in what is ultimately a satisfying biopic, a textured and layered snapshot of a fallen icon during his darkest moments and a terrifying look at the week a sleepy college town fell to pieces. As a portrait of a principled man who betrayed his own values, Paterno is a devastating watch. But in those rare moments where it finds a former hero subtly reflecting on the pain he caused others, the film is even more memorable. It's a harrowing chapter in sports history, but Pacino and Levinson make this a worthwhile watch.
THE FINAL GRADE: B (7.4/10)
Images: HBO/IMDb
In the span of a week, Penn State football went from being an esteemed program with a rich history to the center of a criminal investigation that nearly destroyed the reputation of its school. Despite student support in the form of riots and demonstrations, Paterno went from being a legend to a disgrace. I remember it all very well. The initial reports, the shocking firing, the riots, Paterno's death- it all happened in the span of just a few months. Barry Levinson's Paterno (which premiered on HBO on April 7) is essentially a vivid recreation of those events, partially framed as the frantic thoughts of the dying coach during his cancer treatment. Simultaneously a tale of journalistic grit in the vein of Spotlight and a sort of fever dream character study, this mostly gripping drama paints a deeply unflattering picture of the man who did too little. Bolstered by the fascinating lead performance of Al Pacino, who finds something of a cross between deliberate obliviousness and tortured guilt in the titular character, Paterno is a grim, but wholly necessary biopic.
Many readers probably know this story all too well already, but Paterno does go in some unexpected directions that give this tragedy added nuance. Pacino's JoePa is obviously the central character, but much of the screen time goes to Sara Ganim (Riley Keough), the Pennsylvania-based reporter who cracked the Sandusky story. We don't get to see a whole lot of Ganim's actual journalistic work, but Levinson and screenwriters Debora Cahn and John C. Richards make the crucial choice of familiarizing us with some of the victims through their interactions with the quiet, determined reporter. This is essential to the movie's success, as Paterno is only a minor part of a much bigger story. But considering the subject of the matter and his spectacular fame, the immortalized coach shifts into the spotlight. As JoePa fails to see what's right in front of him, the film tracks the Paterno family frenzy after the allegations are revealed, as his wife (Kathy Baker) and three children (Annie Parisse, Greg Grunberg, Larry Mitchell) scramble to find a solution to this growing problem.
With these events unfolding at an unfathomably rapid rate, Levinson zeroes in on Paterno himself. And that's a very bold choice. In a way, making a movie about the famous coach in connection to these events is a difficult, even impossible task. It's hard for the audience to sympathize with Paterno, and by this point, he was too old to verbalize any genuine regret or dismay. While his downfall has often been framed in the media as a kind of epic Greek tragedy, this was a mess of his own making, and he hurt a lot of innocent people along the way. His death shortly after the scandal prevented any tell-all interviews, and there's little room for doubt in the public's mind given the evidence against Sandusky and the university. Much of what Levinson does is dramatic recreation, and there were times where I felt that a documentary may have been a better fit for this material.
But instead of succumbing to the potential pitfalls of this subject, Levinson delves into the mind of the coach as his most glaring mistake evolved and metastasized before his very eyes. What he finds is illuminating and occasionally even haunting, a strange cocktail of pride, uncertainty, and just a hint of genuine remorse. This is all thanks to the performance of Al Pacino, who proves that he can still deliver something rewarding and complex when given the right material. Despite his brash vocal mannerisms and over-dramatic gesturing, Pacino's performance here never towers over the film. Instead, it diminishes in prominence as the story grows, finding Paterno retreating further and further back into a mental state that may or may not be failing him. At the time, many thought Paterno was senile, that he legitimately didn't remember what had happened in the Sandusky era. Levinson and Pacino sort of lean into that idea, but opt for a more challenging balance, finding a thin line between hazy, almost nightmarish regret and purposeful ignorance.
The final product is intermittently chilling and gut-wrenching. Pacino shouts and cheers until he doesn't, taking the movie in a direction that feels simultaneously more somber and chaotic. Through his dreamlike, partially internalized framing, Levinson's breakneck pacing feels even more apt, creating a sense of flow that matches the mania of the real events. The director begins at the top, tackling Paterno's record-breaking win (which made him the most successful coach in history), before showcasing how everything began spiraling out of control. As the film progresses, Levinson finds a potent mixture of brutality and quiet intensity, from the violent hits on the gridiron to the devastating effect of seeing a mother confront her son's abuse. Paterno is an uncontrollable whirlwind of a film, but Levinson remains in control throughout.
There are some odd decisions made here, and I can't help but feel like the showy filmmaking techniques occasionally undermine the actual story. There's a lot that Levinson does right, but the Penn State story is a big one, and it couldn't possibly be tackled in one comprehensive film. Even after such a gripping tale of the program at the center of the scandal, there are still so many stories that could be told. To use an example, while Riley Keough is terrific as Sara Ganim, we don't get much about her character. Why did she pursue this story so intensely? What effect did it have on her? She deserves a movie of her own, and it feels like Paterno shortchanges the victims and the heroes in favor of damning the villains.
Nonetheless, these are small flaws in what is ultimately a satisfying biopic, a textured and layered snapshot of a fallen icon during his darkest moments and a terrifying look at the week a sleepy college town fell to pieces. As a portrait of a principled man who betrayed his own values, Paterno is a devastating watch. But in those rare moments where it finds a former hero subtly reflecting on the pain he caused others, the film is even more memorable. It's a harrowing chapter in sports history, but Pacino and Levinson make this a worthwhile watch.
THE FINAL GRADE: B (7.4/10)
Images: HBO/IMDb
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