That '70s Drift, Part II: Run That Baby

ALL THE PRESIDENT'S MEN (1976) (A) - There is the myth of Woodward and Bernstein -- two young reporters working doggedly to bring down a president -- and the myth is real. It was arguably the height of a profession that is, now, in many ways, a shell of what it was back in the 1970s.

So it is easy for old newspapermen and political junkies to get caught up in the nostalgia of the post-Watergate high, a brief, shining moment of enlightenment. But even without that amber glow, "All the President's Men" is an exceptional suspense movie that bears up to repeated viewings.

Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman were at the top of their games as Woodward and Bernstein, the hungry, bickering, poor step-sons in the newsroom hierarchy. The two even have a meet-cute -- near the copy desk, when Woodward finds Bernstein intercepting his draft of one of the first Watergate stories and rewriting it. From then on, they were a team, collaborating like blood brothers and squabbling like siblings. (When the chain-smoking Bernstein lights a cigarette in an elevator, Woodward snaps, "Is there any place you don't smoke?")

Alan J. Pakula ("Klute," "The Parallax View," "Sophie's Choice") captures the clutter and clatter of the newsroom, the eeriness of an incestuous Washington, D.C., and the fear of bureaucrats swept up in a scandal. Pakula revels in the miscellaneous duties of a reporter -- the phone calls, the door-knocking, the cajoling, the persistence. A famous scene of Woodward and Bernstein painstakingly poring over individual check-out slips from a stack of thousands of slips at the Library of Congress is the perfect example of diligence and determination that personifies a profession. In another subtle moment, Redford conveys the rush of reporting with one reaction shot when, on the phone, a source utters the words that are music to a newsman's ears: "I know I shouldn't tell you this ..."

With heralded screenwriter William Goldman ("Marathon Man" (also starring Hoffman) "The Princess Bride," "Misery"), Pakula crafts a mesmerizing film noir for the ages. There is a buddy-cop snap to the dialogue, recalling the rapport of the outlaws in Goldman's "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" (also starring Redford). Newsroom story meetings crackle with one-liners. Toward the movie's climax, editor Ben Bradlee (Jason Robards), roused late at night by his cub reporters, calmly informs them that "nothing's riding on this -- except the First Amendment to the Constitution, freedom of the press, and maybe the future of the country." 

It all seemed that important 40-plus years ago, decades before an accidental president could deflect criticism and scrutiny with the mere taunt of "Fake news!" In that sense, returning to the days of telephone books and rotary dials can be a bit depressing. What we did back then mattered, dammit. We saved the country. Please don't tell us it was all in vain.

Historical and psychological torment aside, shoe-leather detective tales don't come any more entertaining. Redford is charming as the preppy, often exasperated Woodward. Hoffman is compelling as the dogged Bernstein, pulling scraps of notes out of every conceivable pocket of his rumpled outfit. And the supporting cast is critical to bringing this home. Jack Warden is delightfully gruff as Woodward and Bernstein's supportive city editor. Hal Holbrook broods from the shadows as the informant Deep Throat. Stephen Collins agonizes over a sense of duty as one of the key sources from inside the Nixon campaign. Jane Alexander is heartbreaking as the reluctant bookkeeper who slowly melts under the pressure of Woodward and Bernstein's quiet interrogations.

But it is Robards, holding together the moral core of the movie, who looms large as the legendary editor in chief, a stern father figure guiding his eager reporters. Bradlee rejects a "thin" draft of a key story. He thumbs his nose at the Nixon White House and stands by his staff. He snarls at his underlings out of doubt and frustration. But when his boys finally nail it, he can hardly control his joy. 

One night, with minutes till deadline, as Bradlee meanders his way toward the exit in a rumpled tuxedo, Woodward and Bernstein work the phones to confirm a final detail of the story that would prove to be the tipping point. With a slam of the receiver they frantically retrieve their boss from in front of the elevators. He returns to examine their copy one more time, double-checking their reporting, as they burst with hope and suspense. Bradlee rises from his chair, hands the copy back to them and growls, "Run that baby." And as he walks back toward the elevators, Bradlee playfully taps an empty desk for emphasis. It's a tiny theatrical flourish, as if by a song-and-dance man. It's the exclamation point we wish we could throw at the end of a headline.

It's how it was done back then.