Tru Story

Shaken and stirred: Philip Seymour Hoffman as Truman Capote. Photo Attila Dory. Courtesy Mongrel Media.

There are many reasons to admire Capote: expert performances, impeccable period detail, crisp cinematography, shrewd dialogue. But if you had to narrow it down to one, it would be its dogged sense of purpose: there isn’t a single extraneous word or gesture in its 115-minute running time.

Truman Capote was one of the most eminent writers in post-war America, an outsize personality who held journalism up to the literary standards of the novel. Bennett Miller’s film chronicles the years 1959 to 1966, the gestation period for In Cold Blood, Capote’s galvanizing non-fiction bestseller about a multiple murder in Kansas. Instead of presenting a cinematic scrapbook of his subject’s life, Dan Futterman’s taut screenplay (based on the book by Gerald Clarke) filters all of Capote’s experiences through the prism of In Cold Blood — a masterwork that brought him unprecedented fame and eventually led to his undoing.

A quick recitation of the facts: on Nov. 15, 1959, would-be burglars Dick Hickok and Perry Smith broke into the Clutter farmhouse in Holcomb, Kansas. When they couldn’t find any money, Hickock and Smith cruelly murdered all four members of the Clutter family. Truman Capote was already a name writer when he came upon this gruesome slaughter in the pages of the New York Times. Seeing the murder as a stunning jolt to America’s conservative calm, Capote convinced The New Yorker magazine to send him to Kansas to write about it.

Capote (Philip Seymour Hoffman) travels to Kansas with childhood friend and fellow writer Harper Lee (Catherine Keener) to survey residents and chronicle a community in shock. Keener plays Lee (who would publish her one and only novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, in 1961) with a dignified composure; the role is unfussy and low-key, and it’s done well. Hoffman’s evocation of Capote, on the other hand, deserves ecstatic praise. Surely one of the nerviest actors working today, he burrows into the role, nailing Capote’s fey coo of a voice, his slightly incredulous stare, his distinctive posture (in side profile, Hoffman stands like a languid S). Hoffman also taps into Capote’s officious streak. Swathed in an immense scarf, hands thrust insouciantly into his coat pockets, Hoffman sweeps into the office of Alvin Dewey (Chris Cooper), agent of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, with all the grandeur of royalty. “We’re not looking for any inside information. I don’t care if you catch whoever did this,” Capote says in a galling display of insolence, as if his press credentials gave him a pass on pity. Capote’s impudent tone changes when he sees the photographs of the murders — and meets the killers.

A little too cozy: Perry Smith (Clifton Collins Jr.) and his biographer. Photo Attila Dory. Courtesy Mongrel Media.

From his first encounter with Perry Smith (Clifton Collins Jr.), Capote is smitten. (It’s telegraphed in the subtlest way possible: the quiver of Hoffman’s top lip.) The two men would form an unusually powerful bond. Capote was compelled by Smith’s imposing masculinity, as well as his inner turmoil and latent intelligence; Smith was simply glad to find a compassionate ear. The scenes between Hoffman and Collins are quietly devastating — as much for the sense of dread as Capote’s unrequited love. (Collins’s portrayal suggests that Smith was quite oblivious to Capote’s yearning; then again, Smith had other things to contend with.) Part of Capote’s deep interest in this violent perp was the perceived similarities in their upbringings: Smith’s mother, brother and sister all committed suicide — as did Capote’s mother. With little thought to the consequences, Capote finds Smith and Hickock a better lawyer —one who can defend them from the death penalty.

Capote’s brush with the criminal element made for rich conversation fodder at parties. At one point in the film, he regales a group of rapt listeners with stories of his fieldwork, and then turns to the woman beside him and asks how she’s been spending her time. It’s a self-serving joke — as if anything she proffered would be as thrilling as Capote’s fixation. The implication: nothing enthralled Truman Capote quite like Truman Capote.

Had the film fixated on this Capote — the boozy name-dropper and exuberant raconteur — Hoffman’s performance might have slipped into an extended caricature. But Miller and Futterman are more concerned with the introspective Capote, the morally conflicted Capote. Perry Smith’s gripping story consumed the writer, compromising not only his journalistic objectivity but his relationship with life partner Jack Dunphy (Bruce Greenwood). For Capote, this assignment was the point of no return: after In Cold Blood, he published only sporadically, succumbing to alcoholism and heavy drug use. He died of liver disease in 1984.

There’s a scene about two-thirds of the way through that demonstrates the film’s remarkable precision. It’s the premiere of the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird. Capote sits sulking at the bar, nursing his umpteenth martini. A visibly euphoric Lee sidles up to say hi. Instead of toasting his friend’s tremendous success, Capote drones on about how the world is “torturing” him. This brief exchange illuminates the dark side of Capote’s narcissism — and foreshadows his eventual ruin.

Capote opens Oct. 28 in Toronto and Vancouver.

Andre Mayer writes about the arts for CBC.ca.