Film Review of The Trial of the Chicago 7
By Geoff Carter
Those of us old enough to recall the sixties, but who were too young, oblivious—or high—to realize the significance of the events happening around us at the time, still claim the transformative era of culture and politics as our own, even though we had little to do with actually facilitating change. I was twelve years old in 1968; there wasn’t much I could do. I do remember the assassinations of Martin Luther King, JFK, and Bobby Kennedy, seeing footage from the Vietnam War on network news, Civil Rights demonstrations, and widespread inner-city rioting. Disruption seemed to be standard. Chaos was the norm. The line between right and wrong was, at best, blurry.
The film The Trial of the Chicago 7 begins with a compilation of archival news footage and interviews, featuring shots of American soldiers in Vietnam, an LBJ news conference, and civil demonstrations. This is—interestingly enough—the same method Spike Lee used to Da 5 Bloods, his recent film about Vietnam and its negative resonances with Black culture. Both films are seeking to ground their respective audiences into the tumultuousness of the era in order to set the stage for their respective purposes. Spike Lee uses the war to underline the inequities and discrimination suffered by Black Americans both during the war and in its aftermath. Aaron Sorkin, the writer and director of The Trial of the Chicago 7, uses the historical footage to construct the moral backdrop in front of which his characters fight the good fight.
Sorkin’s body of work is notable for lionizing characters who, in the face of adversity, display the moral courage necessary to do the right thing. President Bartlett and his staff in The West Wing, Will McAvoy and the news team in The Newsroom, and yet another president—Andrew Shephard in The American President, are all characters whose actions are sparked by decency, common sense, and righteousness. Sorkin’s people rarely have to struggle to find the good within themselves—their struggle is to make their moral vision an external reality. And because the intent to manifest the virtue is internal, Sorkin’s characters are revealed through his signature sharp and snappy dialogue. Will McAvoy’s speech about why America is not the greatest country in the world is a marvel of screenwriting (and acting). In one three-minute speech, Sorkin gave voice to the frustrations felt by every American who has seen the magnificent place America has been—and can still be—compared to what it has now become. This is Sorkin’s sweet spot. Morality is his palette.
The Trial of the Chicago 7 is about seven (initially eight) activists put on trial in federal court after the riots at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. The narrative starts off following four activist groups as they prepare to go to Chicago for the convention. Tom Hayden and Bob Rennie, (Eddie Redmayne and Alex Sharp), front the SDS, Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin (Sacha Baron Cohen and Jeremy Strong) represent the YIPPIES, Bobby Seale (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II) is the head of the Black Panthers, and David Dellinger (John Carroll Lynch) is the head of Mobe. Together—and separately—they will bring thousands to Chicago to peacefully protest the war. And they do.
The narrative then jumps ahead to the trial, skipping the events of the convention entirely. The defendants have been charged with conspiracy by John Mitchell, Nixon’s brand-new Attorney General. The defendant’s legal team is led by William Kunstler (Mark Rylance). It soon becomes apparent that the biased and incompetent judge is determined not to give the seven (plus Seales) a fair trial. He refuses to let Seales speak, ignoring the fact his attorney cannot be present. In the face of this adversity, Kunstler, his associate Leonard Weinglass, and the defendants wage their war on unfairness and discrimination in the face of overwhelming odds. The Attorney General is against them. The judge hates them. The media reviles them. On top of that, the defendants begin to bicker amongst themselves.
Hayden, the most straightlaced of the radicals, believes change must come from within the system, a belief reflected in his dress and outward show of respect to the court. Hoffman and Rubin, on the other hand, think the establishment is beyond repair and openly mock the proceedings. Hayden and Hoffman, while united in their hatred for the war, eventually butt heads over their philosophical differences. As the trial progresses, flashbacks reveal what actually happened during the convention and how a supposedly peaceful gathering became one of the bloodiest civil disturbances in American history.
Sorkin has masterfully woven together the strands of this historical narrative, combining personality, courtroom drama, and myth into a compelling tale of sacrifice and devotion. The behind-the-scenes political maneuvering, legal strategizing, and cultural milieu of the era provide a realistic and fascinating glimpse into the motives and ambitions of the activists themselves.
The acting is absolutely superb. Sacha Baron Cohen steals the show as the irreverent and brilliant Hoffman while Jeremy Strong, as Jerry Rubin, tiptoes a thin line between flippancy, sincerity, and goofiness. Redmayne plays Hayden as an earnest revolutionary, determined to foment change through channels. Mark Rylance is marvelously unflappable as William Kunstler while Frank Langella’s Judge Hoffman is the picture of self-serving arrogance. Their exchanges are beautiful. Rylance’s pauses between Langella’s inane pronouncements speak volumes.
The film is suspenseful, tightly crafted, and well-acted. It is also an Aaron Sorkin product, so it goes without saying that it’s also well-written. It’s also, like many other Sorkin films, pedantic and preachy. It aims from the moral high ground. From any writer other than Sorkin, that might be hard to take, but he—once again, and as always, pulls it off.
