3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and occasional profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.24.15
Great movie entrances are pure
magic.
Consider George C. Scott’s eyebrow-raising
pep talk, at the opening of Patton. John Travolta, strutting down the street,
in Saturday Night Fever. Or,
more recently, Christian Bale’s meticulous “suiting up” and comb-over, in American Hustle. Everything you need to know about each of these characters,
in one quick scene.
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| When renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Julian Bailes (Alec Baldwin, center) finally gains an audience with veteran NFL doctor Joseph Maroon (Arliss Howard, right), Dr. Bennet Omalu (Will Smith) is enraged to hear that his meticulous research into brain injuries is being dismissed. With prejudice. |
Writer/director Peter Landesman
grants Will Smith’s Dr. Bennet Omalu a similarly illuminating entrance, as Concussion begins. It’s a courtroom confrontation; Omalu has taken the stand
to testify; his credentials have been challenged. In a bravura display of gentle
chiding, unassuming pride and a droll insistence on full disclosure — leavened
with an oh-so-slightly-mocking sense of humor — Omalu takes complete control of
the room.
It’s a brilliant display of
acting chops by Smith, who — from this moment onward — firmly has our hearts
and minds. We’ve learned everything essential about this doctor, mostly
crucially that he is a good and honorable man. That he respects the dignity of
others, and insists — in turn — that they respect him.
The scene is marvelous: destined
to become a much-viewed YouTube hit.
And, of course, the perfect way
for Landesman to start his film.
Concussion, based on journalist
Jeanne Marie Laskas’ exhaustive September 2009 exposé in GQ Magazine, charts
Omalu’s initially lonely and Sisyphean struggle to get the National Football
League to acknowledge that grown men bashing their heads together, even when
wearing the (minimal) protection afforded by a helmet, likely isn’t good for
their grey matter.
Indeed, far from “not good.”
Potentially life-altering, even deadly.
Sensible people, confronted with
such a suggestion, would nod and say, “Well, of course; what else would you
expect?”
But the NFL circled the wagons,
sent out the lawyers, and — possibly — pulled strings in Washington, D.C., to
thoroughly discredit anybody daft enough to suggest such a thing. We’re talking
football, folks: the one thing in Amuuurica capable of generating more foolish
passion than the right for each citizen to own 437 guns.
But that’s getting ahead of
things.
Landesman’s movie doesn’t always
live up to his star’s entrance; the filmmaker leans rather too heavily on
melodrama, the good guys ’n’ gals rather too saintly at times. But Landesman’s
heart is in the right place, and it’s hard to complain when the narrative is
this absorbing.
The story begins in 2002, in
Pennsylvania’s Allegheny County coroner’s office, where Omalu works as a
forensic pathologist in a lab run by high-profile pathologist Cyril Wecht
(Albert Brooks). Omalu’s newest assignment: to perform an autopsy on the body
of 50-year-old Mike Webster, the revered Steelers center, Hall of Famer and
nine-time Pro Bowler ... who, later in life, has become a homeless wreck and a
figure of ridicule.
We spend a bit of time with
Webster, before he winds up on Omalu’s table. Character actor David Morse gives
a haunting performance as the crazed former football giant: a ghastly,
no-holds-barred depiction of a dementia-stricken husk. (Initially, I wasn’t
even willing to believe this horrific figure was Morse; he looks that bad.)
Omalu displays his noble Nigerian
heritage like a beloved suit of clothes; his approach to each “client” feels
more like a priest giving last rites to a beloved parishioner. The doctor
treats each case like a puzzle waiting to be solved; he speaks to and for the
dead, promising that, together, they’ll find the answer.
These are delicately intimate
scenes which, in lesser hands, might look and sound silly. But Landesman and
cinematographer Salvatore Totino frame them with great care, and Smith delivers
his gentle monologues with utter conviction; we don’t doubt his sincerity for a
moment. James Newton Howard’s quietly poignant score emphasizes the pathos.
On the other hand, the mood is
shattered a bit by some silly inter-office tension. Wecht ultimately calls the
shots, but Omalu still must contend with an oafish supervisor — Mike O’Malley,
overplaying as Daniel Sullivan — who is more cartoon than character. He’s a
disappointing aberration in a film otherwise marked by better-modulated performances.
Omalu’s examination raises
interesting questions; he receives permission to investigate Webster’s brain
further. Wecht encourages the scrutiny, intrigued by the mystery, and also
pleased by Omalu’s passion. (No surprise there, given Wecht’s career; this film
doesn’t go into his back-story, but he’s best known for having challenged the
Warren Commission’s report on John F. Kennedy’s assassination, not to mention an
involvement in numerous other high-profile cases.)
Omalu grows convinced that he has
discovered a new disease; he grants it a name — chronic traumatic
encephalopathy, which acronyms nicely to CTE — and publishes the results in the
peer-reviewed journal Neurosurgery. We see the delight of discovery in
Smith’s eyes: the exhilaration of a dedicated doctor who has uncovered a Great
Truth that will make a difference in the land, America, that he has embraced as
his own.
As Laskas notes, in her
exhaustive article, Omalu believed the NFL doctors would be pleased.
Only a newcomer to our country
could have made such a miscalculation.
But, then, only an outsider would
have considered going public in the first place.
“I wish I never had met Mike
Webster,” Omalu later laments. But that’s entirely wrong, as Landesman
repeatedly makes clear, speaking through other characters. Omalu neither knew
nor understood football; he didn’t revere it in any manner, making him the
perfect objective observer. At the same time, his ignorance of the likely NFL
backlash precluded the awareness and apprehension that might have stopped an
American-born doctor.
What follows blossoms into the
heartbreaking, frustrating saga of an idealistic whistle-blower, akin to Silkwood or The Insider. But it’s much worse, in a fundamental way;
entrenched whistle-blowers — think Russell Crowe’s Jeffrey Wigand, in The
Insider — were assailed only by corporate bullies and lawyers. Omalu also
dealt with hate mail and angry phone calls from (misguidedly) enraged football
fans.
The resulting despair must have
been crippling; Smith’s increasingly despondent gaze, strong as it is, likely
gives us only a glimpse of the real Omalu’s anguish.
Fortunately, Landesman’s film
isn’t solely doom and gloom. A parallel story follows the sweet relationship
that blossoms with Prema Mutiso (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), a Nairobi-born nurse who
attends the same Hill District church. There’s little doubt where this romance
is heading, but Smith and Mbatha-Raw make the journey quite touching.
Prema spends much of this film
watching and listening to Omalu, and the actress’ eyes convey unwavering
admiration: the best emotional anchor a man could want.
Alec Baldwin is equally fine as
Dr. Julian Bailes, a neurosurgeon and former Steelers team doctor, who changes
the course of Omalu’s apparently hopeless quest with a well-timed phone call.
Bailes, long suspicious of football-related brain injuries, becomes an
all-important conduit to the NFL ... although we can’t help wondering whether
that’ll make any difference.
Brooks also stands out as the
feisty Wecht, who snatches all of this script’s best lines, and delivers them
with gusto. It’s the sort of showy role that should be remembered, come Oscar
time.
As Laskas does in her article,
Landesman draws the obvious parallel to the tobacco industry’s repeated public
refusal to acknowledge any link between smoking and cancer; not for the first
time, we cringe at the way corporate and political behavior subverts even a reasonable
search for documented answers, when lives are at stake.
Such naysayers are represented
here by Joseph Maroon (Arliss Howard), an NFL medical stooge who dismisses the
symptoms displayed by Webster, Terry Long, Andrew Waters, Justin Strzelczek and
other former players as “early onset dementia.” It’s fitting, and ironic, that
the tortured Strzelczek is played here by NFL veteran-turned-actor Matthew
Willig; it’s no surprise that Maroon is an entirely fictitious character.
Not so Roger Goodell (Luke
Wilson, at his smarmy best), the newly minted NFL commissioner who in 2007 did
his best to bury Omalu’s research. Goodell’s scenes are brief, and his few
comments are a matter of public record.
Landesman plays fast and loose
with the actual timeline; sidebar characters are compressed, a few key
individuals omitted entirely. After all, this is a two-hour drama; it may cover
actual events with sincerity, but it’s not a documentary. That said, Dr. Omalu
should be pleased by his on-screen portrayal; certainly he was enthusiastic
Monday evening, as he introduced the preview screening to a Sacramento theater packed
with friends and supporters.
Landesman, a former investigative
journalist himself, gives this — only his second feature film — a heartfelt
touch. In a season dominated by dramas ripped from recent headlines — The Big Short, Spotlight — this indictment of tragic behavior reminds us, yet again,
that we must react with suspicion when moneyed interests insist that “Nothing
is wrong.”
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