9 / 10
A District Attorney
In 1963, Jim Garrison is the district attorney of New Orleans, a tall, earnest, pipe-smoking family man. When President Kennedy is shot in Dallas, Garrison briefly investigates a local connection, a pilot named David Ferrie, and hands him over to the FBI, who release him. Three years later, reading the Warren Commission report, Garrison can’t accept its conclusion that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.
He reopens the investigation, and it consumes his life. His team uncovers a web of strange characters in New Orleans: anti-Castro Cubans, soldiers of fortune, CIA contacts, a gay underworld and a respected businessman named Clay Shaw. Garrison becomes convinced that the assassination was a coup, planned by powerful figures in the government and military who wanted to stop Kennedy withdrawing from Vietnam.
Oliver Stone made JFK in 1991, and Hollywood has produced few films more controversial. It’s also, as pure filmmaking, one of the most dazzling.
How It’s Made
The first thing you notice is the editing. JFK mixes colour and black-and-white, real footage and recreations, 35mm and grainy 8mm, flashbacks and fantasies, often within the same scene. Witnesses describe events, and the film shows us their versions, sometimes contradicting each other, flickering between them in a torrent of images.
It’s overwhelming, by design. You’re supposed to feel buried. Stone wants you to feel the way Garrison feels: flooded with information, suspicious of everything, unable to trust any single account. Joe Hutshing and Pietro Scalia won the Oscar for editing, and Robert Richardson won for cinematography, and they earned them. Few films have ever been cut like this, and almost none at this length.
The style influenced a generation of filmmakers and television, and it’s still exhilarating to watch, even when you disagree with everything it’s saying.
For Writers
JFK floods the audience with images, film formats and conflicting eyewitness accounts. The style makes viewers feel the paranoia and information overload of the investigation.
A story’s style can put the reader inside a character’s state of mind. Fragmented structure, shifting perspectives and rapid pacing can recreate confusion or obsession better than any description of it could.
If your character is overwhelmed, let the form of your writing reflect it: short sections, abrupt shifts, overlapping voices. The reader will feel the pressure along with them. Stone does it with film stock and editing. A writer can do it with sentence length, section breaks and the sudden intrusion of a second voice.
Costner as Garrison
Kevin Costner plays Garrison as a decent, dogged man of principle, an Everyman crusader in the mould of Jimmy Stewart. It’s a sincere, solid performance, and it anchors the film’s frenzy. Garrison’s obsession strains his marriage to Liz, played by Sissy Spacek, who grows frightened and furious as he neglects his family for the case.
The film’s portrait of Garrison is, however, very generous. The real Garrison was a far more controversial figure, and many journalists and historians argued that his investigation was reckless, that he intimidated witnesses and that his case against Clay Shaw was baseless. Stone presents him as a lonely hero standing against a corrupt establishment. That’s a choice. It isn’t a fact.
An All-Star Cast
The supporting cast is astonishing. Tommy Lee Jones plays Clay Shaw, silky, arrogant and sinister, and he was nominated for an Oscar. Joe Pesci plays David Ferrie, a manic, paranoid, wig-wearing pilot who falls apart in a hotel room, raving that everybody’s going to die. It’s a wild, sweaty, jittery performance, and the scene is the film’s most frightening, because Ferrie seems to know exactly what’s coming for him.
Gary Oldman is uncanny as Lee Harvey Oswald, capturing his voice, his manner and his smirk. Kevin Bacon plays a prisoner who claims to have seen the plotters together. Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, Ed Asner, John Candy, Sally Kirkland and Vincent D’Onofrio all turn up in small roles. Half of Hollywood seems to have wanted in. Their familiar faces give even the smallest scenes a jolt of recognition, helping keep three hours of testimony and theory moving.
Mr. X
The film’s most famous scene is a long monologue. Garrison travels to Washington and meets a mysterious retired military intelligence officer, known only as X, on a bench near the Lincoln Memorial. Played by Donald Sutherland, X lays out, over about fifteen minutes, a sweeping theory of why Kennedy was killed: the Cold War, the defence industry, the plan to withdraw from Vietnam and a military establishment that saw the President as a threat.
Sutherland delivers it with calm, quiet authority, and Stone intercuts his words with a barrage of images. It’s spellbinding, and pure speculation. X is loosely based on a real man, L. Fletcher Prouty, whose theories were widely disputed. But as a piece of cinema, a character convincing the hero, and the audience, that the world is not what it seems, it’s masterful.
For Writers
Mr. X delivers a fifteen-minute monologue on a park bench that convinces Garrison, and much of the audience, of a vast conspiracy. A single persuasive speech changes the whole story’s direction.
A long speech can be a very powerful tool in a story, if it’s given to a compelling character at a moment when the protagonist, and the reader, are ready to hear it.
Stone keeps the monologue alive by cutting to images as X talks. On the page, the equivalent is interrupting a long speech with the listener’s reactions, small actions and flashes of what the words bring to mind. That keeps the reader in the scene as well as the argument. For a deeper treatment, try Crafting Dynamic Dialogue.
Back and to the Left
The film’s climax is the trial of Clay Shaw in 1969, and Garrison’s closing argument. He shows the jury the Zapruder film, the home movie that captured the shooting, and replays the fatal head shot over and over, as Kennedy’s head snaps back and to the left, back and to the left, suggesting a shot from the front, instead of from the Texas School Book Depository behind.
He also demolishes the single-bullet theory, the Warren Commission’s claim that one bullet caused seven wounds in Kennedy and Governor Connally, walking through its path with a pointer and a mocking tone. It’s the most famous piece of courtroom theatre of the nineties, and Costner delivers the long speech with sincere passion.
Then the jury acquits Shaw in under an hour. Stone treats it as a noble defeat. In reality, Garrison’s case was widely seen as having collapsed, and Shaw’s reputation was destroyed by a prosecution many considered unjustified.
History and Fiction
This is the problem with JFK, and a serious one. The film mixes established facts, disputed claims, speculation and outright invention, and it presents all of them with the same breathless conviction. Several characters are composites or inventions. Some scenes dramatise theories as though they happened. A viewer who doesn’t know the history can’t tell which is which.
Historians, journalists and critics attacked it fiercely on release. Stone defended it as a counter-myth to the official story and an attempt to make people ask questions. Whatever you think of that argument, it’s worth watching the film knowing that it’s an argument. A documentary it isn’t.
JFK did have one concrete effect. It prompted such public interest that Congress passed the JFK Assassination Records Collection Act in 1992, which led to the release of millions of pages of government files on the assassination.
For Writers
JFK presents facts, speculation and invention with equal conviction, and most viewers can’t tell them apart from one another.
If you write about real events, decide exactly where your invention begins, and consider how you’ll let readers know. An author’s note, a clear framing or a careful distinction in the text can protect both your story and the truth. Readers forgive invention readily. What they resent is finding out later that they were fooled, and they remember the author who fooled them.
Fiction based on real events carries a particular responsibility. When a story blends the documented and the invented without signalling the difference, readers may leave believing things that never happened.
Three Hours of Paranoia
For all its problems, JFK is gripping from start to finish, even at over three hours. Stone builds suspense out of documents, testimony and theories, turning a legal investigation into a paranoid thriller. The pace never lets up for a moment, the images never stop coming and the sense of a hidden truth just out of reach keeps you hooked.
It’s a film about the need to know, and about the fear that the people in power are lying. Whether or not you believe its answers, those feelings are real, and the film captures them with real force.
Stone and Vietnam
JFK makes more sense when you remember who made it. Oliver Stone was a Vietnam veteran who’d already made Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July, and the war was the defining wound of his life. The film’s central argument, that Kennedy was killed because he planned to pull out of Vietnam, is really Stone’s argument about how his generation was sent to fight.
That personal fury drives the film’s energy, and it also explains its lack of doubt. Stone isn’t a neutral investigator. He’s a man with a grievance against the institutions that sent him to war, and JFK is his case against them.
John Williams
John Williams wrote the score, and it ranks among his most restrained and effective. There’s a mournful, military theme full of snare drums and brass that captures the sense of national grief, and a tense, pulsing underscore for the investigation scenes.
Williams usually gets remembered for grand adventure scores, Star Wars, Indiana Jones and Jurassic Park. His JFK music is darker and sadder, and it gives the film’s frenzy an undertow of loss. It earned him one of his many Oscar nominations.
Its Flaws
Beyond the history, the film has other problems. It’s very long. Its treatment of gay characters, portraying the conspirators as a decadent gay underworld, has been widely criticised as homophobic. Garrison’s family scenes are thin, and Spacek is stuck with a nagging-wife role.
It’s also relentless, start to finish. There’s no room to breathe or to question. That’s exactly what the film accuses the Warren Commission of doing.
Craft Note
Craft Note
JFK turns an investigation into a thriller through relentless pacing and a flood of images, making the audience feel the obsession of its hero. Its power as filmmaking is inseparable from its problems as history.
The techniques that make a story gripping, conviction, momentum and emotional certainty, can also make it misleading.
If you’re telling a story drawn from real events, keep the momentum, and be straight with the reader about where the facts end.
Back and to the Left
JFK is a 9 as filmmaking: a breathless, brilliantly edited conspiracy thriller with an extraordinary cast, Donald Sutherland’s spellbinding monologue and one of the great courtroom climaxes. As history, it’s unreliable and often misleading, so watch it as an argument and read the history separately.
Frequently Asked Questions
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