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Murder, revenge, and violence are all senseless, gruesome
acts, but somehow, director Sam Mendes (American
Beauty) manages to find warmth, substance, and love in
the seemingly hollow lives of Depression-era mobsters. One
family: the Chicago Irish mafia. Two fathers: Michael Sullivan
(Hanks), top hit man for the Irish mob; and his boss,
John Rooney (Newman). Two sons: Michael Sullivan, Jr.
(Hoechlin), who desperately wants to gain his father’s
adoration; and Connor Rooney (Craig), who, seeing his
father’s love for Sullivan, is consumed by jealousy. Deceit,
competition, and envy ultimately bring these four together
in a violent collision—a collision that begins and ends with
murder.
Raised as John Rooney’s son, and working as his “angel of
death,” Michael Sullivan and his family have a seemingly comfortable
life. Yet, beneath it all, Sullivan’s family is slowly being
disassembled by the secrecy of Sullivan’s murderous work.
One rainy night, Michael Sullivan, Jr. hides in his father’s
car, and for the first time, he sees his father conduct business:
a murderous bloodbath in true mobster fashion. When Connor
discovers Michael, Jr. at the scene, the Sullivans’ universe
is immediately shattered.
Fueled by jealousy and hate, Connor sneaks into the Sullivans’
home and riddles Michael’s beloved wife (Leigh) and
his youngest son, Peter (Aiken) with bullets. Now,
on the run, Sullivan must balance his need for revenge with
his desire for the redemption of Michael, Jr.—his desire to
steer his oldest son away from the road to perdition. And
most importantly, Sullivan must fight to keep them both alive,
as their fates, along with the Rooney’s, are determined by
the powerful and often belligerent relationships between fathers
and their sons… and sons and their fathers. Therein we find
the beauty of the film: Every man’s life is defined by his
decisions at the crossroads of good and evil—which road he
takes—and by the children he leaves behind.
For those of you hoping to find the quintessential mobster
movie in Perdition—complete with dastardly, sleep-with-the-fishes
one-liners and vague references to “cosa nostra”—look somewhere
else, for this is no such movie. Mendes, again displaying
his uncanny ability to capture subtlety, presents characters
who are human first, and mobsters only by trade. Noticeably
devoid of superfluous dialogue, Perdition depends on
Mendes’ omniscient lens, which he dutifully provides. Every
shot, every look, every color and pillar of light conjures
meaning. In one scene, when Sullivan and Newman’s Rooney sit
to play a duet together on the piano, not a word is spoken;
yet, the screen drips with apprehension, respect, love, and
emptiness. Mendes’ John Ford-ian use of doorways and
windows to symbolize passage from one moment in life to another,
his exceedingly innovative use of sound (especially in the
final scene), and the raw, kinetic beauty of his action decidedly
show that he is equally gifted in capturing motion as he is
in capturing the human condition.
Hanks, as usual, is the backbone of this film. Because his
character is necessarily inaccessible, hidden, and internalized,
Hanks makes us feel honored by silently opening the soul of
Sullivan for us to see. Indeed, I am convinced that Hanks’
best talent is his ability to “realize” things for the first
time on camera—to think and to absorb, and to let us see him
do it. His dark, disturbed, yet huge-hearted Sullivan brilliantly
epitomizes a man struggling for the salvation of his son,
and is one of the finest examples of what can be achieved
through simplicity, honesty, and vulnerability.
Paul Newman is, of course, equally as impressive. He, like
Hanks, is a master of subtlety, but carries with him the sheer
power of being Paul Newman. Watching him and Hanks together—both
of them silver screen gods to their respective generations—is
like standing at the foothills of two great volcanoes. The
ground rumbles, and the calderas spit smoke, and we wait in
anticipation until that perfect, climatic moment when their
performance erupts. Newman’s Rooney is vicious but compassionate,
loyal but confused, powerful but weakened by his own self-disdain.
And with these opposites, Newman succeeds in manifesting the
most dynamic character—not a character you love to hate, but
one you hate to love.
Newcomer Tyler Hoechlin does an excellent job in portraying
Michael, Jr. No doubt, largely the result of sharing most
of his screen time with Hanks, his performance is exceedingly
pure, true, and fresh. Jude Law, as the maniacal hit
man hired to off Sullivan, makes an otherwise arbitrary and
clichéd character quite memorable. Taking the depth of motivation,
personality, and largesse that the script affords him, Law
creates some of the most memorable scenes of the film.
It would be irresponsible not to mention as well the brilliance
with which screenwriter David Self (Thirteen Days
and The Haunting) adapts this tale from Max Allan
Collins’s graphic novel, with illustrations by Richard
Piers Rayner. While, for the most part, Self stuck to
the original material (with the exception of altering the
fate of John Rooney—originally named Looney—and lessening
the body count slightly), he added to it an emotional rhythm—a
deeper humanity—that allows us to see more of ourselves in
Sullivan. Like the waves of the great lake—which play a hugely
symbolic role in the film—Self constructs a narrative that
hits the viewer repeatedly, swell after swell. But in the
troughs, in the calm time, over the crest of the approaching
wave, we get a glimpse of the world, and are filled with hope…
until the next wave hits.
Certainly, Misters Collins and Rayner deserve much praise
as well. Many shots in the film mimic Rayner’s illustrations,
and Collins’ story is first class. Producer Dean Zanuck
says of Collins and Rayner’s novel, “The father and son story
had a powerful emotional impact on me, and the illustrations…
provided a great visual of the period.” Dean sent a copy to
his father Richard D. Zanuck, who passed it on to DreamWorks’s
top dog Steven Spielberg. “Two days later,” says Zanuck,
“the phone rang. It was Steven and he said, ‘I love this.
Let’s do it.’ And that’s how it happened.”
I have heard complaints that Perdition is too internal,
too stoic. But stoicism is not a lack of emotion; it’s a superfluity
of suppressed emotion. And what is more exciting than
watching emotion forcefully explode from its restraints within
America’s finest actors? This film will make you laugh, cry,
jump, and hope. From its intriguing and moving tale of fathers
and their sons, to its surprises and aesthetic beauty, Road
to Perdition is truly a remarkable study of humankind.
It’s the best mobster movie since Goodfellas. It challenges
our romantic infatuation with crime, and reminds us that we
are the construct of our decisions—and everyone makes bad
ones. As Newman’s character says, in one fashion or another,
“there’s no one in this room that is not a murderer.” Indeed,
this film proves that watching humankind’s silent struggles
is far more interesting than just watching the deeds that
arise from them. It proves that less is more. And judging
from the applause I heard at the end of the screening, that
is exactly what you will be cheering after you watch Road
to Perdition: “More. More. More.”
— W. Duke Greenhill
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