In US Politics, Films Step In Where Journalism Fails

This defining scene from Alan Pakula’s All the President’s Men (1976) sets the stage for the resignation of then President Richard Nixon after Bradlee and Bernstein ultimately expose his connection to the Watergate scandal. In a remarkable frame towards the end of the film, inside The Washington Post’s Office, President Nixon is seen taking oath for his second term on TV, while Woodward and Bernstein are seen typing furiously. Eventually, their relentless investigation exposes one of the biggest breaches of faith of the American citizens by a political leader.

Cut to fifty years later. All is not quiet on the Western front. The current owner of The Washington Post, Jeff Bezos, has reportedly axed the endorsement of the Democrat presidential candidate Kamala Harris, which was drafted by the newspaper’s Editorial board. The newspaper’s Union has expressed serious concern over this move, which happened barely 11 days before the presidential election. A former executive editor of The Post, Marty Baron, said, “Donald Trump will celebrate this as an invitation to further intimidate The Post’s owner, Jeff Bezos. History will mark a disturbing chapter of spinelessness at an institution famed for courage.” It is intriguing that the same newspaper, whose journalists unearthed the infamous Watergate scandal in the 1970s, is now being arm-twisted by a Republican candidate to withdraw endorsements for the Democratic Party. This is the perfect moment to revisit films like All the Presidents Men, which have succinctly captured how the US elections are driven by the media perceptions built by political parties among the citizenry.

While American journalism buckles under political pressure, some American films offer a critical counterpoint in these elections. Independent American films have presented remarkable takes on the issues highlighted in the upcoming US elections—ranging from endless wars and gun control to abortion rights and homelessness. Filmmakers such as Michael Moore are a crucial part of this tradition of cinema, which has served as a mirror to American society. In their whacky aesthetics and piercing content, Moore’s films have reflected the insufferable anxieties and aspirations around being ‘American’. In light of the US’ endless wars and prevalent gun culture, Moore’s Bowling for Columbine (2002) is one such film, which brings a deeper perspective to the current election discourse.

The film interrogates the deep-seated fear in the minds of White American citizens, which has been carefully cultivated by the news media and successive political leaders. With the Columbine school shooting of 1999 as its backdrop, Bowling for Columbine tries to uncover why two White teenagers woke up one fine day and chose violence. Under the film’s comical facade, the deep rot within American society is laid bare for viewers. Moore traces the colonial traditions of pillage and carnage—that White Americans have historically subjected Native and Black populations to—in this documentary. He squarely locates the collective hysteria of American citizens and their consequent affinity to gun culture within these traditions.

In a scene where Moore interviews members of the Michigan militia, one of the members says, “This is an American tradition. It’s an American responsibility to be armed. If you’re not armed, you’re not responsible. Who’s gonna defend your kids? The cops? The federal government? No, none of them. It’s your job to defend you and yours. If you don’t do it, you’re in dereliction of duty as an American. Period.” Moore connects the individualism behind the gun-wielding psyche to the larger American warfare policies. People involved in the production of missiles are seen to be recommending anger management classes to youngsters so they can avoid school shootings. On the other hand, local militias are seen expressing deep distrust in the capability of the State to maintain law and order. A paradoxical understanding of the State machinery rationalises the annihilation of both the “enemy without” and the “enemy within”.

While gun control and accountability of war expenditure form crucial talking points of this election, abortion laws are another issue driving the current debates. American cinema has shaped public opinion significantly in this regard too. Eliza Hittman’s Never Rarely Sometimes Always (2020) is a poignant and heartrending tale of the horrors that a teenager must undergo, when faced with an unwanted pregnancy. The film, shot in the cinema verite style, follows seventeen-year-old Autumn Callahan (Sidney Flanigan) on her journey from Pennsylvania to New York, to get an abortion. In the very real dangers that Autumn and her cousin Skylar (Talia Ryder) face while navigating their way through New York city, the film emphasises how the State fails to provide protection to citizens where it’s due. Through legislation that prohibits women’s safe access to abortion, government policies often compel women to resort to dangerous means to terminate unwanted pregnancy. In a powerful scene, a religious group is seen protesting outside an abortion centre in New York, where Autumn is about to go in for her check-up. The stark contrast between the disregard for the life of the young girl in favour of an unborn life is brought to the fore. When juxtaposed alongside a film like Bowling for Columbine, one is left wondering why these protests about “saving lives” are never actually seen outside stores that sell guns.

Never Rarely Sometimes Always also takes up the discourse around the contentious question of “safety”. Before getting an abortion, Autumn has to answer the questions posed about her sexual history by a counsellor. Through their conversation, it is revealed that the teenager may have been experiencing sexual abuse at the hands of a perpetrator who is someone she knows. Though Autumn’s history is never fully revealed, what becomes clear is how the denial of abortion doubly jeopardises the lives of young girls, who are already vulnerable and in danger. The grand visage of “safety”—that defines the American dream—falls apart as the audience realises that children are probably not safe in their own homes.

This question of security is further unravelled in Sean Baker’s The Florida Project (2017). The film highlights a bizarre reality about a security-obsessed country—while helicopters buzz in the skies in a surveillance State, the people on the ground are left to fend on their own in the midst of rapidly drying resources. Here, security is not just about what citizens feel within their homes; it’s about the security they must first be provided by the State through housing. Shot in the less glamorous backyard of Disney World in Florida, The Florida Project explores the adventures of a six-year-old named Moonee (Brooklynn Prince) and her friends during their summer vacation. In a bid to avoid homelessness, Moonee and her single mother Halley (Bria Vinaite) stay in a budget motel in Kissimmee, while Halley does odd jobs to make rent. Driven to desperation by the dwindling economy, Halley has to resort to sex work to feed Moonee and keep a roof over her head. The promised security of the State evades Halley, who is ultimately forced to give up Moonee’s custody to child protection services.

To authentically represent the material realities of citizens affected by the catastrophic state of the US economy, Baker has situated The Florida Project within the real milieu of the budget hotels in Florida. Inputs for the film were taken from homeless people living on the edge of the wonder world of Disney to supplement the story with actual accounts. The film shows the adverse impact of government policies on the urban poor through a sympathetic lens. A glaring disparity is revealed when viewers realise that while the right to abortion is curbed for women, they are denied the fundamental means to exist with dignity if they do give birth to these children.

With no home and no job, Halley is not offered an alternative of sustenance. Instead, her child is forcefully snatched from her on the charge of poor parenting. If there’s any scope of redemption, we can only see it through the innocent eyes of Moonee. As she says to her friend, “Do you know why this is my favorite tree? ‘Cause it tipped over and it’s still growing.”