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Reviews

The Man /  USA  /  1972

Written by Rod Serling and based on a novel by Irving Wallace, Joseph Sargent’s 1972 film The Man concerns Douglass Dilman, President Pro-Temp of the Senate who ascends to the presidency through national tragedy. While on a trip to Europe, both the President and Speaker of the House are killed in a building collapse; the Vice-President, a once great statesman now in the throes of death, refuses the job, saying, “I don’t think we can handle that many presidential funerals.” The White House staff and Cabinet, now without a leader, turn to the fourth in line, a virtual unknown who happens to be African-American.

At the heart of Sargent’s film is a radical civil awareness. Dilman isn’t cast as a weak and unprepared pawn who relies on the color of his skin and woefulness of his ancestry in an effort to construe sympathy. Nor is he a caricature of someone who inherits the throne and finds immediate and unparalleled success. Instead, he’s an independent figure whose impromptu tenure resembles an actual presidential term, with the White House staff and Cabinet equally divided over his stay. When an international issue threatens to tear apart the balance he’s sewn between heritage and responsibility, he manages to forge a subjective compromise. When he scuffles with Senator Watson, a racist played with masterful spite and astuteness by Burgess Meredith, he matches the senior politician’s every move with one of his own. Both instances demonstrate how one man can transcend petty preconceptions, no matter the circumstances.

The film also stresses Dilman’s individuality: his party identification is irrelevant, as is his ideology; we’re never educated in Douglass Dilman the politician, where he’s from and how he votes. We empathize with him as a man rather than a history of yes/no votes and handshakes, which is why this film succeeds so well. His emotions fall outside the detached resentfulness usually associated with professional lawmakers; he’s stern yet good-humored, gruff and life-hardened but unassuming, decisive with a willingness to concede. This unplanned successor who begins his presidency by saying little and reading from prepared statements soon finds his own footing, casting aside the cynical glances of his inherited Cabinet and the rebellious attitudes of his daughter.

Perhaps the most significant moment in The Man occurs in the beginning, after Dilman learns he’s the new president. Talking with his daughter about the magnitude of his impending administration, Dilman says, “May I remind you, not by election.” Knowing fully that his stay in office will come without capital, his decisions will be challenged at every turn. Accordingly, the overall message of Sargent’s film isn’t buried in its dynamic social commentary—the story of an African-American senator rising to the presidency—but a deeper implication of the poor political sentience of Vietnam-era America. James Earl Jones’ Senator Dilman is revealed to us in classic 70s fashion, with a quick tilt up to his face as he answers the phone. It’s an obvious attempt to stun the audience with Dilman’s race. Only times change. What previously shocked audiences now instills in us a sense of indignity—a realization that, yes, one simple, upward movement of the camera once drew bewildering responses. It’s an understanding only furthered by the fact that The Man, originally produced for television, has never been released on video, and most likely never will be. A well-crafted examination of the American conscience lost to the ages because of fear.

Adam Balz | © 2006 notcoming.com