The bestseller "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" was a non-fiction book and though it dealt with a true life murder case, it was shelved in the travel section in many bookstores. Indeed, if you read the book, you'd be way past page 100 before any reference to the murder appears. The killing of Danny Hansford by Jim Williams was used largely as a pretext by author John Berendt as an excuse to pen an affectionate travelogue about the city of Savannah, Georgia; it's largely a leisurely tour of the city and a genteel introduction to many of the city's quirkier citizens.
Clint Eastwood's movie version of MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL is only about the murder, more or less, with most of the colorful characters edited out or reduced to crude jokes. And for all the location filming that Eastwood did in Savannah, he could just as easily have shot the entire film on the Universal backlot. Devoid of local color or a quixotic taste for the off beat and amusing, MIDNIGHT ends up playing as though it were an uninspired pilot for an unsold TV series. Berendt's book just begged to be translated to the big screen by someone unconventional like Robert Altman, someone with the knack for and an interest in ensemble dramas and a slightly skewed vision of the world -- not someone conventional, albeit talented, like Eastwood. The book's charm was in its varied vignettes and casual observations about a city straddling two mindsets: clinging to the decorum of the antebellum past while thriving in the pulsating, diverse present. The problem is that in stripping the story down to the basics of the murder trial, it becomes obvious that the trial isn't all that interesting in the first place.
After a quarrel, wealthy antiques dealer Williams kills his young male lover (played by Jude Law and now renamed Billy Carl Hanson) and claims it is self defense. Killing is one thing, but the well-to-do of the city are aghast at just how uncouth Williams' behavior appears to be as the ensuing trial brings to light Savannah's hush-hush gay subculture. Though in Eastwood's hands it is less straight versus gay than rich versus poor; as Williams lies and manipulates to get away with murder, there is more than a hint of plantation owner entitlement in the way he justifies his behavior throughout. The problem is, that as played with his usual unctuous arrogance, Kevin Spacey never makes Williams either likable or remarkable. What made the case notable was that the ordeal was stretched out over several years and four lengthy trials that highlighted Williams' cunning nature and taxed the patience of even the most benevolent of Savannah's citizens, all of which the filmmakers condense into one trial and a handful of cliché courtroom moments.
What Eastwood retains beyond the truncated murder trail is limited in its effectiveness. The book's element of voodoo is present, but done with little sense of mysticism. Minerva, the voodoo priestess played Irma P. Hall, comes off as little more than a crazy old lady stereotype and her midnight visit to the said garden (a cemetery) lacks the power to either give one the creeps or even cause nervous laughter. A huge chunk of the movie is surrendered to "The Lady Chablis," a secondary character in the book and the trial. I suppose Eastwood found it positively shocking to have a black drag queen traipsing around amongst the normal citizens, but in the film the character is less a jolt than a bore. Despite being played by the real person, Lady Chablis (a.k.a. Chablis Deveau, a.k.a. Benjamin Edward Knox) seems woefully miscast and seems more tacky than eccentric or outrageous.
The worse part of the film is its rather blunt homophobia. Having sidestepped the major point of the book -- the gentle weirdness of the characters -- to focus on the trial, the film then tries to make a gay story seem as straight as possible. The Williams murder trial made public an open secret, that a gay world existed behind the facades of the southern mansions and it was discreetly apparent, quietly tolerated, yet never, never discussed. When a prominent citizen kills his male lover, that sort of don't-ask-don't-tell etiquette is difficult to maintain. The filmmakers deal with the gay issues, but someone (Eastwood, screenwriter John Lee Hancock, the studio?) clearly did not want to make a gay film. Thus homosexuality is treated more like a dirty little scandal rather than a naughty little secret; something to be held at arm's length or viewed as a rude little joke, like Lady Chablis. For instance, the gay author of the book, John Berendt, is played by John Cusack as "John Kelso," and the film makes a point of letting us know he is definitely heterosexual and drives home the point by giving him a female romantic interest not in the book (and played curiously enough by Clint's own daughter, Alison Eastwood). Such cinematic bearding is standard issue for the skin-deep liberalism that Hollywood so righteously embraces.
Other than being eager to exploit a pre-sold bestseller, it is hard to figure just why this film was made at all. The true crime element has been fictionalized, it's gay themes sanitized, the quirky characters marginalized and the town itself homogenized into banality. Neither good or evil, a story about a time and a place and a people ends up being a movie about nothing in particular and no one of any interest.
Clint Eastwood's movie version of MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL is only about the murder, more or less, with most of the colorful characters edited out or reduced to crude jokes. And for all the location filming that Eastwood did in Savannah, he could just as easily have shot the entire film on the Universal backlot. Devoid of local color or a quixotic taste for the off beat and amusing, MIDNIGHT ends up playing as though it were an uninspired pilot for an unsold TV series. Berendt's book just begged to be translated to the big screen by someone unconventional like Robert Altman, someone with the knack for and an interest in ensemble dramas and a slightly skewed vision of the world -- not someone conventional, albeit talented, like Eastwood. The book's charm was in its varied vignettes and casual observations about a city straddling two mindsets: clinging to the decorum of the antebellum past while thriving in the pulsating, diverse present. The problem is that in stripping the story down to the basics of the murder trial, it becomes obvious that the trial isn't all that interesting in the first place.
After a quarrel, wealthy antiques dealer Williams kills his young male lover (played by Jude Law and now renamed Billy Carl Hanson) and claims it is self defense. Killing is one thing, but the well-to-do of the city are aghast at just how uncouth Williams' behavior appears to be as the ensuing trial brings to light Savannah's hush-hush gay subculture. Though in Eastwood's hands it is less straight versus gay than rich versus poor; as Williams lies and manipulates to get away with murder, there is more than a hint of plantation owner entitlement in the way he justifies his behavior throughout. The problem is, that as played with his usual unctuous arrogance, Kevin Spacey never makes Williams either likable or remarkable. What made the case notable was that the ordeal was stretched out over several years and four lengthy trials that highlighted Williams' cunning nature and taxed the patience of even the most benevolent of Savannah's citizens, all of which the filmmakers condense into one trial and a handful of cliché courtroom moments.
What Eastwood retains beyond the truncated murder trail is limited in its effectiveness. The book's element of voodoo is present, but done with little sense of mysticism. Minerva, the voodoo priestess played Irma P. Hall, comes off as little more than a crazy old lady stereotype and her midnight visit to the said garden (a cemetery) lacks the power to either give one the creeps or even cause nervous laughter. A huge chunk of the movie is surrendered to "The Lady Chablis," a secondary character in the book and the trial. I suppose Eastwood found it positively shocking to have a black drag queen traipsing around amongst the normal citizens, but in the film the character is less a jolt than a bore. Despite being played by the real person, Lady Chablis (a.k.a. Chablis Deveau, a.k.a. Benjamin Edward Knox) seems woefully miscast and seems more tacky than eccentric or outrageous.
The worse part of the film is its rather blunt homophobia. Having sidestepped the major point of the book -- the gentle weirdness of the characters -- to focus on the trial, the film then tries to make a gay story seem as straight as possible. The Williams murder trial made public an open secret, that a gay world existed behind the facades of the southern mansions and it was discreetly apparent, quietly tolerated, yet never, never discussed. When a prominent citizen kills his male lover, that sort of don't-ask-don't-tell etiquette is difficult to maintain. The filmmakers deal with the gay issues, but someone (Eastwood, screenwriter John Lee Hancock, the studio?) clearly did not want to make a gay film. Thus homosexuality is treated more like a dirty little scandal rather than a naughty little secret; something to be held at arm's length or viewed as a rude little joke, like Lady Chablis. For instance, the gay author of the book, John Berendt, is played by John Cusack as "John Kelso," and the film makes a point of letting us know he is definitely heterosexual and drives home the point by giving him a female romantic interest not in the book (and played curiously enough by Clint's own daughter, Alison Eastwood). Such cinematic bearding is standard issue for the skin-deep liberalism that Hollywood so righteously embraces.
Other than being eager to exploit a pre-sold bestseller, it is hard to figure just why this film was made at all. The true crime element has been fictionalized, it's gay themes sanitized, the quirky characters marginalized and the town itself homogenized into banality. Neither good or evil, a story about a time and a place and a people ends up being a movie about nothing in particular and no one of any interest.