The Conspirator

Three score and one year ago, Robert Redford made his directorial debut with the wonderful Ordinary People. But it’s been an extraordinarily ordinary filmography since then. From the politically noble but anticlimactic The Milagro Beanfield War to the superficially sweet but unintentionally racist The Legend of Bagger Vance, Redford’s films usually just miss their target. His new historical drama The Conspirator strikes a bullseye in terms of accuracy, timeliness of theme and casting – but as history upstages drama, Redford manages to strike his mark while failing to leave a lasting one on the audience.
Following the assignation of Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Aiken (James McAvoy) is forced to defend Mary Surratt (Robin Wright), mother to one of the conspirators. A public hate figure, even Aiken suspects her guilt, despite the prosecution’s flimsy evidence. But as her case is tried in a military court rather than civilian and rules aren’t bent but smashed and blended into a smoothie in order to find her guilty, Aiken realizes that justice lies not in the verdict of a court, but in the fair process of determining it.
With obvious allegories to Bush’s Patriot Act and governments’ readiness to ignore laws under the umbrella excuse of war, Redford’s intentions are impeccable. So too is his cast, with McAvoy, Wright, Kevin Kline and Danny Huston putting in fantastic performances. The one distraction is the ever-bland Alexis Bledel as Aiken’s beloved. Doe-eyed and Valley Girl accent-inflicted, she appears to be performing in The Sisterhood of the Travelling Bustle.
But Redford’s theatrical production never manages to fully engage. Marinated in a cataract haze of soft-focused sepia, The Conspirator looks like an impressive History Channel drama. And that’s also where its narrative strengths lie. Acting strictly as a historically accurate examination of how justice systems fail when verdicts are assigned outside of the courtroom, Redford skips past the public’s emotional response to Lincoln’s death, Aiken’s personal relationships, and even conjecture about Mrs. Surratt’s actual involvement. The result is a film that’s as well crafted, tightly laced and restrictive as Bledel’s corset.
It’s a travesty that artistic license was used in the prosecution’s case against Mary Surratt. It’s a damn shame more wasn’t used in the film about her.