《总统先生》五十周年：一部关于调查新闻业最出色的电影

Nighttime. A dim and dingy car park. Woefully inadequate fluorescent lights flicker and buzz overhead. Two men stand in half-shadow. One is barely visible, his face almost entirely swallowed by darkness. His voice is low and gravelly:

The list is longer than anyone can imagine. It involves the entire US intelligence community. FBI, CIA, Justice. It’s incredible. The cover-up had little to do with Watergate. It was mainly to protect the covert operations. It leads everywhere. Get out your notebook. There’s more.

The other man is lost for words. He just stands there, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. The exchange ends with a warning: his life, along with that of his colleague, in is grave and immediate danger.

This is a pivotal moment in Alan J. Pakula’s All the President’s Men, which has just turned 50. The film was based on the 1974 book by journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who investigated the Watergate scandal for the Washington Post.

The man doing the talking in the scene I’ve been describing is Mark Felt (Hal Holbrook), then associate director of the FBI, better known as “Deep Throat”. His interlocutor, temporarily stunned into silence, is Woodward (Robert Redford).

A masterpiece of political cinema, All The President’s Men remains one of the finest films about investigative journalism ever made.

Steeped in a fog of paranoia and distrust – an atmosphere shaped in no small part by cinematographer Gordon Willis’ matchless treatment of light and shade – it is as relevant now as it was on first release.

Uncovering the Watergate scandal

“At its simplest,” journalist Garrett M. Graff writes about the scandal,

Watergate is the story of two separate criminal conspiracies: the Nixon world’s ‘dirty tricks’ that led to the burglary on June 17 1972, and the subsequent wider cover-up. The first conspiracy was deliberate, a sloppy and shambolic but nonetheless developed plan to subvert the 1972 election; the second was reactive, almost instinctive – it seems to have happened simply because no one said no.

What started out as an ostensibly ordinary break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters in Washington, DC during the US presidential election cycle soon revealed a broader pattern of political espionage, illegal surveillance, campaign sabotage and the systematic misuse of state power. Much of it targeted perceived political enemies.

As the indefatigable Woodward and Bernstein pursued the story, it became clear the burglary was part of a much larger operation – one that reached all the way into the heart of the White House.

Their probing would ultimately lead to the disgrace and resignation of Richard Nixon, who faced near-certain impeachment.

Figuring out the puzzle

Redford was the driving force behind All the President’s Men.

He became interested in the Watergate story while working on The Candidate, a 1972 satire about the backstage machinations underpinning an idealistic Senate campaign that, in an instance of uncanny timing, overlapped with the unfolding scandal.

Redford followed Woodward and Bernstein’s investigation as it panned out in real time. In 1972, he reached out to Woodward directly, hoping to better understand both the facts of the case and the methods of the reporting.

Convinced that the story demanded a restrained, quasi-documentary approach, Redford initially envisioned a black-and-white film shot in a pared-back style, with an emphasis on process rather than star power.

Warner Bros, with whom he had a production deal, thought otherwise. Having already agreed to finance the film, the studio insisted that Redford take a leading role – and marketed the as yet-unmade project as “the most devastating detective story” of the century.

There were early discussions about casting Al Pacino as Bernstein, fresh from the success of The Godfather (1972), but the part ultimately went to Dustin Hoffman. Pakula then signed on to direct, bringing with him a conceptual and tonal sensibility ideally suited to the material.

A quandary remained: how do you build suspense out of a story who outcome is already common knowledge? Film scholars Robert B. Ray and Christian Keathley suggest the filmmaking team’s response to that challenge is “the key” which unlocks the movie.

At one point, during his first meeting with Deep Throat, Woordward admits:

The story is dry. All we’ve got are pieces. We can’t seem to figure out what the puzzle is supposed to look like.

We share the confusion of the reporters as they struggle to get to the bottom of things. What might, in the wrong hands, have been a disastrous mistake turned out to be a masterstroke.

The result is an endlessly watchable and quotable (“Follow the money”) film that generates narrative and dramatic tension through the sheer difficultly of knowing anything at all.

In age beset by disinformation, brazen political deceit, strategic obfuscation and collapsing trust in public institutions, that lesson feels less historically distant than it does disturbingly prescient.

Alexander Howard does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.