In spite of a fusillade of P.R. overkill about what a brave,
risk-taking actor he is, and how he spent five hours a day in a makeup
chair squirming, Leonardo DiCaprio’s portrait of a balding, sweaty,
gristle-chewing, half-mad J. Edgar Hoover is gimmicky play acting.
J. Edgar,
Clint Eastwood’s exhausting chronicle of power obsession about the
enigmatic, self-serving egomaniac who, as director of the F.B.I., kept
America trembling with terror for half a century under the phony guise
of patriotism, is a long, tedious and hollow disappointment.
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