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Along with a good friend, one Harper Lee (who was in the midst of writing “some book about a bird or something” as one literary hanger-on calls it), Capote tries not to be too much of a sore thumb in Holcomb – a tough thing for the short, flamboyant, effeminate high-talker – and makes quick friends with Sheriff Alvin Dewey (the master of hard-ass gruffness, Chris Cooper). It doesn’t take Dewey long to announce that Smith and Hickock have been apprehended – the two were picked up less than 6 weeks after the night of the murders – and by this time Capote has ensconced himself in the town. Truman realizes he may be able to squeeze out more than just an article about the case as he starts to probe the mind of Perry (Clifton Collins Jr.), whom he virtually befriends, and informs his editor he’s going to compose an entire book about the crime.

The work he fashions is something new: a “non-fiction novel” Capote calls it. And he isn’t modest about what he believes its outcome will be either, stating with honest pomposity, “when I think about how good my novel will be, I can hardly breath”. Some six thousand pages worth of notes are legend to be the result of Capote’s journalistic marathon into the Clutter murders, an exhaustive amount of research that explains how he could become unhealthily enamored with the aspirin-addicted Perry Smith. Somehow, Truman sees something of himself in the deranged, part-Cherokee, Korean War veteran, even going so far as to postulate that “it’s as if Perry and I grew up in the same house, and one day he went out the back door, and I went out the front”.

The film's sketch of Truman Capote is round and full. It would have been very easy for director and actor to focus on the man's famous mannerisms, his fey voice, his foppish dress, and not remember the human beneath the celebrity. But there's more to Truman than meets the eye, and the film gives us intriguing insight into the famous enigma. The alcoholic, selfish, work-obsessed side of the writer isn’t cut any slack – other than empathy that is created from the impressively human performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman – and is given tragic flaw after tragic flaw, presenting a mass of contradictions that so often follows from genius. He pours over facts, pictures, diaries, interviews and anything else he can dredge up about the crime, and then faces the grim realization that these men are going to be hanged for their deeds, and is torn between wanting a tidy end to his novel, and wanting the men to be spared from their execution.

The real Capote never published another novel after he completed In Cold Blood in 1965, and the power of Phillip Seymour Hoffmann’s characterization demonstrates the painful reasons why. He is obsessed with the crime, obsessed with the men, but is also a pouting artist who wants to shape reality for the sake of his literature. Hoffman drinks, smokes, and laughs as I could imagine Capote drank, smoked, and laughed – if not in a perfect imitation or a photocopy appearance, but with the pulsing, human incongruity that must have plagued the great talent.

His “novel” is certainly what Truman Capote is best remembered for, and it is also worth mentioning Richard Brooks’ 1967 film version of In Cold Blood, which made a less convincing character out of Perry Smith, even though far more considerable screen time was given Robert Blake’s performance. That film has become something of a classic, but its standing has less to do with the quality of the film itself, and more to do with the success of Capote’s original book. That, and, perhaps, the brilliance of the film’s photography. In fact, the photography by Conrad Hall produced one of the more lasting memories in cinema: the famous “crying sequence” that saw rain on a windowpane pour its reflection down Blake’s sad face. My recollection of this scene was vivid as I watched Capote, and made me sit up and wonder, as the Perry Smith of this film was being taken to the gallows: hey, where’s the rain? Was In Cold Blood’s rain a Conrad Hall/Richard Brooks invention, or is this new, dry version accurate? Not that it really matters all that much either way, it’s only that I couldn’t help remembering the monsoon downpour that accompanied Blake’s last mile, and the mood that was created from his rain-soaked hair, and the gallery’s dripping fedoras.

Nevertheless, Bennett Miller’s direction of Capote visualizes Dan Futterman’s screenplay brilliantly, allowing us feel close to murderers and celebrated writers alike, without losing objectivity or offering any of them undeserved sympathy. Catherine Keener does a fine job as Nelle Harper Lee, and deserves accolades she probably won't receive due to the strength of Hoffman’s title performance. Ideally, the film as a whole won’t be denied the praise it deserves either, as it is no doubt one of the best of the year.

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originally posted: 10/29/05 15:39:12
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