Chris Vognar

A man is picked for jury duty. He seems like a solid enough fellow, maybe a little melancholy, and more handsome than most, because he’s played by Nicholas Hoult, whose eyes are an almost impossibly bright shade of blue. He shows up the first day of the trial and a look of panic plays out across his face. It seems he might have done something in his past that could have direct bearing on whether or not the defendant is found guilty. If he comes forward, he might end up behind bars himself.

Liar Liar, the 1997 Jim Carrey comedy about a dishonest man whose son makes a birthday wish condemning his dad to tell the truth for 24 hours, could have been about a doctor. Or a sanitation worker. Or a restaurateur. But what fun would any of that be? No, Carrey’s Fletcher Reede had to be a lawyer, because in the public imagination lawyers lie — constantly, for a living, without shame.

One is an unrepentant racist. Another is filled with rage for his grown son. There’s the guy who has Yankees tickets burning a hole in his pocket. There’s an ad man, a stockbroker, a proud immigrant and a blue collar working man. And there’s the stoic architect — the one who actually wants to hear everyone out, who takes his responsibility as a juror with the seriousness appropriate when a defendant’s life is at stake. Sixty-seven years after its release, 12 Angry Men remains an explosive drama of small-scale democracy, bottled up in a jury room where individual prejudices and passions gradually coalesce into a collective voice.

A tall, folksy man in a stovepipe hat rides into town on a mule, looking to get his law practice off the ground. He quickly ingratiates himself to the community, making fast friends and even judging a pie contest at the county fair (where he also wins a rail-splitting contest, naturally). Like a good lawyer, or perhaps just a hungry lawyer, he weighs his pie duties carefully, going back and forth between the peach and the apple, steadily gobbling down both. He’s a man of the people, and soon he’ll become a rather impromptu defense attorney in a murder trial.

Todd Haynes has made an homage to ‘50s melodrama (Far From Heaven), a lesbian love story based on a Patricia Highsmith novel (Carol) and a boldly prismatic study of Bob Dylan (I’m Not There), among other movies. Regardless of subject, there’s always something a little unstable at the core of his films, something bordering on horror without actually crossing into that realm. Haynes is a poet of isolation and distance, an acute conveyor of loneliness that threatens to bleed into something more tragic.

This quality permeates Dark Waters, Haynes’ 2019 legal drama based on the true story of Rob Bilott, an environmental lawyer who made it his mission to hold DuPont accountable for poisoning the people of West Virginia with chemical waste in the local water supply.

Frank Galvin is a mess. A drunken has-been of a lawyer, disillusioned by past failures and the corruption that plagues the justice system, he whiles away his time drinking whiskey and playing pinball at his favorite Boston bar. When Frank takes a case all but guaranteed to yield a fat settlement — a Catholic hospital gave a pregnant woman the wrong anesthetic, rendering her a vegetative state, and the diocese wants the whole thing to go away — he sees dollar signs spinning before his eyes. But then something happens.

When Roberto Clemente made it to “the show” in 1955, sportswriters and baseball card manufacturers took to calling him “Bob” — not out of informality but because they felt the need to deracinate his name and his appeal. Baseball was still decades away from the days when every big league roster became stocked with Latin players, and the Puerto Rican phenom posed some sort of threat to the established (white American) order. Those same writers would quote Clemente by denoting his thick accent — for example, “heet” instead of “hit.” If Clemente sometimes seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, it’s not difficult to see why. The man bluntly and accurately nicknamed The Great One is now the subject of an affectionate and thorough documentary, simply called Clemente, that premiered at the SXSW Film Festival in March. (Photo credit: Les Banos)