Many stories demand to be told.
Some are so important, that it’s crucial they be told well.
That simply isn’t the case with director Kevin Macdonald’s oddly flat handling of The Mauritanian, adapted from Mohamedou Ould Slahi’s best-selling 2015 memoir, Guantánamo Diary. It’s available via Amazon Prime and other streaming services.
After having gained his trust, defense attorney Nancy Hollander (Jodie Foster) begins
what will become a lengthy, seemingly impossible battle to free Mohamedou Ould Slahi
(Tahar Rahim) from his Guantánamo Bay prison.
Under the authority of the United States’ post-9/11 “Authorization for Use of Military Force Against Terrorists” resolution, Slahi, a Mauritanian citizen, was arrested in November 2001; he subsequently was sent to Cuba’s Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp in August 2002. He remained there, without charge, until finally being released on Oct. 17, 2016.
Although some probably will argue this point forever, Slahi’s sole “crime” appears to have been guilt by association: most critically, a) a chance call accepted from Bin Laden’s phone; and b) having allowed an al-Qaeda recruit to spend one night at his home. There’s never been any indication that Slahi knew the man before that evening, or ever saw him again.
On said “evidence,” Slahi was accused of having recruited the men who flew the planes into the World Trade Center … which obviously didn’t sit well with the interrogators and Guantánamo soldiers charged with extracting a “confession.”
This film’s screenplay — by Michael Bronner, Rory Haines and Sohrab Noshirvani — bounces between these 2002 events and ’05, when Slahi’s case comes to the attention of renowned defense attorney Nancy Hollander (Jodie Foster). She was an apt choice, possessing the necessary security clearances, and having defended Irish clients against charges of terrorism.
Hollander is assisted by the much younger Teri Duncan (Shailene Woodley), depicted here as enthusiastic, fresh-faced and rather naïve. (That’s likely unfair to the actual Duncan; the screenplay also omits a third defense attorney, Sylvia Royce, and assigns some of her involvement to Duncan.)
The lead military prosecutor, Lt. Col. Stuart Couch (Benedict Cumberbatch), is cherry-picked for the assignment because the pilot of one of the downed 9/11 planes was a close friend: the notion being that this would further motivate Couch.
This appears to be a fabrication, and rather gilding the lily; I’m sure such a veteran officer would have been properly motivated by the 9/11 atrocities on their own. And that’s one of this film’s many problems: Between “shading” events for additional dramatic impact, and eavesdropping on conversations that would have been private — and therefore unknowable by these writers — it gradually becomes difficult to separate fact from scripted fancy.
But this is overshadowed by a much greater flaw: Neither Hollander nor Duncan holds our attention. They simply aren’t interesting characters, and Foster and Woodley — both of whom have done excellent work elsewhere — don’t try very hard. Hollander is defined by little more than her bright red lipstick and nail polish; Foster displays none of the steel and grit that would characterize such a ferocious courtroom advocate.
She and Woodley are … well … bland. Dull. Colorless.
(The fact that Foster just won a Golden Globe for this role, merely intensifies how utterly useless those “awards” are.)
Given that both actresses have been so much better, in the past, this clearly is Macdonald’s fault.
Cumberbatch is far more intriguing. Aside from his perfect replication of Couch’s Southern-fried drawl, Cumberbatch’s every move — even the subtle ones — further shade this complex individual. Couch has the most crucial character arc, as these events proceed, because he quickly becomes vexed over the fact that Those In Charge Are Hiding Something.
Couch is that rarest of cinema creatures: a truly principled lawyer. Cumberbatch’s frustration and irritation become palpable, as Couch repeatedly locks horns with best friend — and CIA spook — Neil Buckland (Zachary Levi), who refuses to be forthcoming.
Buckland — the de facto villain of this piece — apparently stands in for all the individuals who got in the actual Couch’s way, as he navigated what became insufferably vague waters.
Which brings us to Tahar Rahim, quietly powerful as the long-suffering Slahi. Rahim’s features are earnest, his bearing dignified, even under harsh conditions. He exudes the calm, forgiving nature of a deeply religious man; indeed, Slahi is as faithful as possible, to his daily prayers.
Rahim subtly handles Slahi’s wariness, upon initially meeting Hollander and Duncan, assuming their presence is no more than another trick by his captors. Trust obviously would come slowly, but — again, maddeningly — we don’t really get a sense of that. A few scenes later Slahi suddenly accepts the two women as genuine because, well, the script demands as much.
That’s typical of this film’s superficial approach, which also relies too heavily on clichés, such as this classic: Hollander and Duncan, after finally persuading the government to be forthcoming with details, finding their spartan office buried beneath stacks of evidence boxes. Cue the inevitable next scene, as the two women slog through the contents, page by page.
Macdonald and cinematographer Alwin H. Küchler also mess with aspect ratio, perhaps as a means of differentiating events in 2002 and ’05: the squarish, vintage TV screen 4:3 during imprisonment, interrogation and torture scenes — which, I’ll admit, adds to the claustrophobia of such moments — and today’s more rectangular 1.85:1 for everything else. But Macdonald overcooks this gimmick; it becomes distracting. And annoying.
He and the scripters are much better at quieter moments. I was struck by the spontaneous, unexpected kindness shown by one solider, as Slahi is “chaperoned” to his outdoor exercise pen; and also by the raw eagerness on Rahim’s face, as Slahi looks forward to his brief conversations with the never-seen prisoner in the adjacent exercise pen.
Major props as well to production designer Michael Carlin, for his persuasively concocted Guantánamo Bay: the best made-up approximations of a wholly secret actual place, since Ken Adam’s Fort Knox, in 1964’s Goldfinger.
Alas, such highlights are overshadowed by this film’s many failings, which include the finale — a 2010 courtroom anti-climax, of sorts — when the story isn’t really over.
Subsequent text blocks are a poor substitute.
Slahi, Couch, Hollander and Duncan deserved better.
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