The Mule

If ever there was a person who exemplified the concept of disagreeing with one’s politics yet respecting said person, it’s been Clint Eastwood for me.  Regardless of the things he’s said and supported off-screen and some of the messages of his most famous films (the inherent madness of Dirty Harry stands out most prominently, I think), his films have always been works of art to celebrate, even back to Play Misty for Me.  Sure, there are some duds in there (does anyone actually remember Hereafter?), but Eastwood’s quality has been something you could count on, even if parts of the films don’t fully work (I’m looking at you, Sully).  The Mule, though, is the first time I’ve had to question Clint Eastwood as a filmmaker.

The film adapts the story of Leo Sharp, an octogenarian who became one of the most prolific drug mules for the Sinaloa Cartel in the early years of this decade.  Now dubbed Earl Stone, the old man unwittingly takes a driving job when his horticulture business is flailing, which he soon learns is actually the transportation of cocaine for the Sinaloa Cartel.  Told mostly as something of a redemption story of a man who has always put work ahead of his family, Earl learns the importance of being there for your loved ones, regardless of the cost.

On the positive side, the film boasts a damn fine cast, including Eastwood hisself as Earl, Dianne Wiest as his ex-wife, Taissa Farmiga as his granddaughter, Alison Eastwood really stretching as his daughter, Andy Garcia as a boss within the cartel, Bradley Cooper and Michael Peña as DEA agents looking to take down the cartel, and Laurence Fishburne as their boss.  (It was also nice to see Clifton Collins, Jr, AKA Corp. Aguilar from The Last Castle, in there as another cartel operative.)  This cast works very well together, and every scene, every emotion, is sold whole-heartedly.  Though not working with his usual DP, Tom Stern, Eastwood is still aided by a highly-talented cinematographer in Yves Bélanger, who previously lensed Wild, Brooklyn, and Dallas Buyers Club.  Bélanger keeps the usual Eastwood moodiness and mild grit around, though his sue of shadow isn’t quite as pronounced as Stern’s.  The script from Nick Schenk (whose work on Gran Torino won him some serious hardware) – adapted from the New York Times article by Sam Dolnick – is mostly solid, if a bit predictable, but it provides Eastwood with yet another lovable curmudgeon role that he’s done so well for the past few decades.

But things aren’t all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, however.  The most glaring issue is that of Earl Stone hisself, a character Eastwood gets us to really like in spite of his crappy treatment of his family and his blatant casual racism.  Unfortunately, Eastwood goes too far in getting us to like Earl, essentially transforming Earl into the kind of self-insert nigh-Gary Stu character one would likely encounter in trashy fan fiction.  Despite being a mildly-crotchety and slightly withered old man, Earl still whoops it up on the dance floor, constantly charming the pants off of scores of women at a time – often literally:  At at least two occasions, it’s very strongly implied that Earl boned a pair of women, possibly lasting most of the night in one of the threesomes.  Gonna haveta call bullshit on that one, homie.  Moreover, wherever Earl goes, his infectious positivity toward life just brings smiles to people’s faces, be they low-level cartel thugs sporting assault rifles in tire shops, higher-ranking cartel bosses, any woman that isn’t related to him, or even the DEA agents looking to arrest him.  I believe this attitude toward Earl is meant to be juxtaposed with the crappiness of his family life and the darkness of his new chosen trade, a sort of situational irony, but it never melds well enough with the rest of the surrounding narrative, instead coming across like Eastwood – not Earl, Eastwood –  trying incredibly hard to show that he’s a lovable scamp who knows better than everyone around him.

This is the biggest fault of the film, but it lasts throughout the entire runtime, and it bleeds into the general lack of gravity pervading the proceedings.  Eastwood’s other offerings, no matter the subject, always portrayed the narrative events as being important somehow, weighty, forceful, often without having to directly say anything to this effect.  Much of the credit goes to Stern’s photography, but the directorial tone is always clear.  Here, though, this feels more like a mild goofball comedy that somehow turned serious, kinda like a different take on Forrest Gump, where this old man travels about the country, positively impacting the lives of everyone he meets, just with a more gravely tone of voice.  It was hard to appreciate the gravity of the situations in front of me – the continuing dissolution of a family, a man’s descent into drug-muling, the over-hanging threat of violence stemming therefrom – when things seem to lean lightly on that pedal.

It’s a bit of a messy film, but the underlying redemptive story and the strong performances help keep The Mule from being relegated to immediate obscurity.  It’s not one of Eastwood’s finest hours, nor is it one of his few ouright failures: it’s kinda meh, leaning into positive territory.  I’d wait for a rental if you’re looking to see it.