Pablo Larraín
Jackie

Sure, with a protagonist like Natalie Portman in this state of grace, half of the film is done. But the excellent Pablo Larraín does much to avoid being overshadowed by a terrifying acting performance. Or rather, he manages to give as much space as possible to the actress without sacrificing his investigative work, his constant exploration of Jackie's soul. This is a film that may appear sparse, but only because the director and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim are excellent at not drawing attention to themselves; nevertheless, they dig, make hypotheses, juxtapose different moments, open intimately personal, religious, or institutional, political issues. They really show everything that could be shown, make Jackie and the other characters say everything. And all this without burdening the cinematic fabric, which proceeds swiftly, blending the protagonist's grace with a severe style that, while leaning towards emphasis, never becomes cumbersome. In this sense, the dosage of the music, the scene cuts in the editing, and the entire emotional component of the work are masterfully calibrated.

In 95 minutes, almost effortlessly, the entire complexity of Jacqueline Kennedy's figure is unraveled during the most traumatic days of her life. But within this restricted time, there is room for all the different shades of her character: the naivety and clumsiness of the early days, shown through the images of a documentary on the White House furnishings; the ego that swells over time, the vanity when we see the protagonist preparing on the airplane and then throwing herself to the crowd; the pain, the deep black, even through an intelligent use of blood, an almost voyeurism that leads the camera to follow Jackie at the end of that tragic day, when she has to remove her stockings, when she has to go to sleep. And then we are shown the anger, the necessity of a catharsis, always split between the will to celebrate her husband and that of exposing her pain, and thus herself, to the world. Then there is the polemic, the mulling over what has been done, the finding of justifications for her impulsive actions, in front of a journalist who presses her. And finally, there is peace, the finding of her own balance, dialoguing with a priest and accepting the senselessness of life.

For each piece of this extraordinary mosaic, Natalie Portman has a different shade in her expression. Her face is a faithful litmus test of the woman's different inner impulses. The quality of her acting is dizzying and harmonizes perfectly with the structure of the director's vision. The ability to portray such a character, without leaning in judgment but exploring all its dimensions with equal and admirable depth, must be divided between the technical and empathetic abilities of the actress and the general approach of the director and the screenwriter. Even an extraordinary actor, without a valid script, becomes a caricature that continuously repeats a pattern. Instead, on Natalie's face, the many moments and feelings, even conflicting ones, of those fateful days are drawn. And so she can seem like a doll, with her pink Chanel suit, or a veiled Madonna, all in black and strictly framed from below, during the funerals.

At the level of pure directorial style, Jackie is a rigorous film that doesn't need to indulge in great flourishes because it's already very solid. Yet, the shots are unforgettable: Jackie from behind as she prepares in Dallas, the car after the assassination filmed from above, the shower to wash away the blood, with the protagonist from behind, or the already mentioned shot from below during the obsequies. Just after the death, there is an extremely close-up shot on the tear-filled eyes, while Jackie wipes away the blood. That is poetry. And then the blood remains, though just hinted at, on the dress, as if marking the woman's departure from that world, her institutional death alongside her husband. This sense of being ousted is rendered excellently and represents one of the most interesting aspects in the institutional declination of events. Kennedy immediately vanishes; there really isn't a desire to celebrate him; politics must go on, the institutions can't stop, America can't appear weak. And so, in this sense, Jackie's stubbornness, her need to take the stage one last time, served the State to pause a little and reflect on its tragedies. In her purely familial and personal vision of events, the protagonist also impacts the political level.

The quality of the writing is such that it opens a reflection on journalism, on whether the truth emerges through the intermediary of the press. Jackie's self-censorship perhaps prevents her from being fully understood by public opinion, but the cinematic eye exists precisely to return to her what she herself decided to take away, by censoring parts of the interview. Cinema arrives to fill the injustices of politics and journalism, arriving as the definitive balance of a life.

And amidst the many insights, there's also room for an existential view, an analysis of human life within the construction of the cosmos by God. And in the end, what remains is very little; man doesn’t need much to live, as if to suggest that soon even Jackie’s tragedy will be overcome.

8+/10