I liked J. Edgar, the Clint Eastwood-directed flick, written by Dustin Lance Black, about controversial crime fighter J. Edgar Hoover, played by Leonardo DiCaprio.
More than anything, it turns out to be a tortured love story between Hoover and his underling/companion Clyde Tolson, played by Armie Hammer.
They hold hands a lot and share knowing looks, and at one point Hoover tells Clyde, “I’ll get us adjoining rooms,” as you think, “I bet you will!”
A flashback shows Hoover telling Ma (Dame Judi Dench), “I don’t like to dance with women,” which spurs her into closeting overdrive.
She shows him how to dance with a woman (herself), reminds him about the open gay everyone called “Daffy” (as in Daffodil) who killed himself, and snarls, “I’d rather have a dead son than a daffodil!”
Flash forward and Hoover is telling Clyde that he’s gotten physical with Dorothy Lamour and is considering marrying her.
Jealous Clyde goes ballistic and they violently fist-fight, followed by Clyde planting a desperate kiss on Hoover, to which Hoover warns, “Don’t you ever do that again!”
Rejection-fight-kiss-rejection. Yet they kept coming back to each other for more bouts of conflicted passion, with Clyde the conscience behind J. Edgar’s self-loathing.
There’s also the inevitable scene in which J. Edgar puts on his dead mama’s dress and pretty necklace and falls apart crying. The glamorous pain just wouldn’t stop!
By the way, the film tells us that when Hoover died, Clyde got the estate, and when he died, he was buried next to his love.
And all they had was that one bloody kiss?
Ain’t that a crime!