Objectively speaking, this is the perfect film. Every single element of it was executed to the very highest standards, not just mine but those who are in charge of doling out awards and laurels of various sorts. Furthermore, it transcends the realm of good filmmaking and reaches the apex of "great" by virtue of having a reason to exist, a painful truth to uncover, and a message that people needed to hear whether they wanted to or not.
Which makes my reaction to it a bit incongruous. When the movie ended, I was seriously frustrated. Such a good movie, and yet so many plot holes, unanswered questions, and tenuous connections. I stewed in that frustration for a good while. As a film, it was genius. As a story, it was almost insultingly amateurish. So I thought.
Whether intended or not, my reaction revealed another element of the genius of this film. somehow over the course of the film, I had become so invested in Tibbs' story, his outlook, that I had fallen into the same trap that almost undid him. Those plot holes and incongruities that so frustrated me--they didn't really exist. I only felt them because I expected something else, for the vast conspiracy at the heart of the mystery to be exposed, and for the bigots and bullies to get their comeuppance. When that didn't happen, I was so frustrated that I instinctively blamed the film for what I perceived as a flaw, but was instead the very fabric of the story.
If I had watched the movie purely as a murder mystery, it would have been tied up in my mind as neatly as Jessica Fletcher or Matlock could have hoped. But I didn't watch it that way. I scarcely noticed the ostensibly central mystery, just as Tibbs did and, like him, was blinded. Blinded to the extent that for some time after the movie was over, I didn't even believe that the mystery had been solved. And that, in my book, is art.
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