Aaron Sorkin is Changing History

‘Tis the season of Sorkin. Writing mastermind behind pillars like The Newsroom and Steve Jobs (and The Social Network, I guess), the American screenwriter is one of centrist cinema’s most beloved figures. The Speech Against America that begins episode one of The Newsroom, Aaron Sorkin’s version of a network TV news station a-la The West Wing, is remarkable for its blatant neoliberalism. Earnestly glorifying old America, and not the least bit self-aware concerning the present, the monologue Jeff Daniels’ Republican news anchor delivers is a primary example of Sorkin’s politics. He’s willing to recognize the problems America faces, but his means of delivery are purposefully chosen as regressive white men whom Sorkin sees as patriotic at heart.

Will McAvoy, Daniels’ character, breaks from years of political silence with the speech, proudly siding with liberal America in a moment conveniently captured and posted to YouTube. The refrain, “America is no longer the greatest country in the world,” repeats throughout, an eerie call for America to return to what once made it so special. Keep in mind, Sorkin made McAvoy a Republican, and he doesn’t let the audience forget that.

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I’m giving so much care to this scene in The Newsroom because it’s a moment Sorkin has been writing and rewriting for his entire career, always with new subject matter or a change in surrogate. In his latest film, The Trial of the Chicago 7, Sorkin’s pall-bearer of American patriotism takes shape in just about anyone he wants, from anarcho-communist Abbie Hoffman to state prosecutor Richard Schultz. He appears to have no trouble compromising historical figures’ beliefs for a cheap reach around the aisle. But to what end?

Sorkin has serious contempt for Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. Played by Sacha Baron Cohen and Jeremy Strong (the two strictly comic actors in The Trial of the Chicago 7), the anarchists recite a few stoner-wisdom monologues on communism, but both exit the film as staunch supporters of democracy. You may have seen the clip of Hoffman overtly defending democracy while under oath, essentially saying it’s a good system that happens to be run by some bad people, but even more obvious is the narrative contempt Sorkin has for he and Rubin’s radical politics.

Hoffman is situated as a pseudo-narrator for the lengthy trial, the film frequently cutting to one of his many night club appearances, where he would lay out the details of the trial to all who would hear. That part really happened, but Sorkin doesn’t see it as an opportunity to understand why Hoffman would turn the events of the trial into a stand-up act. Instead, these scenes are repetitive and humorless recaps, dropped as the case rockets ahead and there is no longer room for a narrator.

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The use of the device recalls McAvoy’s status in The Newsroom, a character whose lengthy outbursts on the soul of America always seemed to warrant consideration. McAvoy is in a position of immense influence and power, which he routinely uses to address America via his nightly news hour. Sorkin didn’t write McAvoy that way on accident: he wanted a surrogate, and in Chicago 7, that character could have been Hoffman. I suppose I should be thankful he wasn’t, but why position Hoffman as the narrator if he isn’t going to add any commentary? Sorkin creates a crowd and an opinionated speaker, but turns his politics into pointless plot summary.

With Hoffman’s politics erased, there’s plenty of room for a new surrogate, and Students for a Democratic Society leader Tom Hayden (Eddie Redmayne) is the exact kind of neoliberal Sorkin can identify with. Hayden is an upstanding young man, one of the only seven defendants who was arrested before the trial, and a pillar of the protests surrounding the 1968 Democratic National Convention.

In one of the film’s longest non-trial sequences, Hayden recounts the events that led him to shout, before a large crowd, “If blood is gonna flow, then let it flow all over the city!”, a phrase that seemed to incite violence against the police. We see every inch of context that led to the heated exchange, as defense lawyer William Kunstler asks Hayden what made him utter those words. Turns out Hayden misspoke, meaning to say “If our blood is gonna flow,” etc, pointing out the violence committed against protestors by police; you’ll never guess whom Sorkin uses to drop that vindicating bombshell.

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Abbie Hoffman comes to the defense of staunch Democrat Tom Hayden, defending the innocent slip of the tongue and citing his experience reading Hayden’s grammatically-poor papers. The tension in the air is heavy as Sorkin draws out the grisly effect of Hayden’s words, slip-up or not, yet he frames the scenario as an opportunity for Hoffman to show Hayden respect, as if they’re all fighting the same war.

Both Hoffman and Hayden were anti-war, but their similarities ended there. It’s dishonest, and uninteresting, to show them as ideologically opposed when it makes Hoffman look naive, while Hayden’s faults are smoothed over in the name of good intentions.

Hayden is often shown as the pariah of the seven, constantly making decisions against the group’s wishes and missing major social cues. Such as standing for Judge Hoffman despite agreeing with the others to sit and show their disapproval. Under Sorkin’s watch, however, Hayden can’t be his kiss-ass, judgemental self: he’s a handsome white guy, so of course he’s going to be a stand-in for Sorkin’s politics. Numerous scenes show Hayden under fire for his actions or beliefs, despite being one of the most inoffensive members of the seven.

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In contrast, Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin are jokers because Sorkin doesn’t know how to represent them without also ratifying communism. But Hayden receives Sorkin’s sympathy and attention at no cost to his political ideas. He’s in the room when a bombshell witness, the former Attorney General of the US, agrees to testify in the seven’s defense. He is grilled by Kunstler in a mock questioning and comes out looking like a hero, despite his obvious overconfidence and ego; he receives attention, something the other seven desperately deserve.

None of these people are insignificant, but Hayden routinely getting the last word creates a sense that this is his fight to win. Depicting the views of seven individuals (plus Bobby Seale, for a short time) in a film that covers a single court case would be a challenge, but favoring one character as a mouthpiece for liberalism while the rest of the heavily-opinionated cast crack jokes can hardly be called a representation of history.

On a wider level, Sorkin’s film fails to discuss history beyond a modern re-telling of the case’s initial verdict (five of the seven were sentenced, with the decision later overturned). He makes a massive showing of Bobby Seale, as he should have, considering the Black Panther co-founder was bound and gagged in the courtroom by order of Judge Hoffman, but his interest stops there. The others remark at the horror of seeing their fellow defendant being treated like a slave in the year 1968, and then move on, just as reality did (Seale was removed from the case and given his own hearing, reducing the Chicago Eight to the Chicago Seven). It’s shockingly empty cinema, an adaptation focused on big showy performances, but without an interest in the defendants beyond their most surface-level principles.

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As the curtain falls, Sorkin gives state prosecutor Richard Schultz (played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) a moment to reflect on the case. It’s been no secret that Judge Hoffman’s actions during the trial were erratic at best, but Schultz has stayed virtually silent throughout the case. In a revelatory act of patriotism, however, as Tom Hayden reads aloud the names of every American soldier killed in Vietnam during the over six-month long trial, Schultz stands in solidarity. “Show some respect for the dead,” he mutters to his colleague, who remains in his seat. Sorkin sees this remarkable moment, an unprecedented reversal in the maelstrom of the trial, spoken on behalf of the anti-war movement, as an opportunity to redeem Schultz.

Throughout The Trial of the Chicago 7, Sorkin narrows the roles of people he doesn’t agree with, and fawns over those he sees as patriotic. Schultz, who fights to condemn the seven and only once remarks on Judge Hoffman’s abnormalities, is one of the patriots. A true American would never disrespect soldiers, and despite what Schultz has done, he would never stoop to disrespecting the fallen.

This is the myth of unity as a savior for our divided times, where actions matter less than delivery and demeanor. Schultz and Abbie Hoffman each deliver a powerful, cathartic call for the preservation of democracy, you almost forget they’re on opposite sides of the courtroom.

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It’s unclear whether Sorkin wants to retell history with a modern flair, or reframe it altogether. The mountain of end titles after Schultz’ show of patriotism hints at the latter, detailing Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and Tom Hayden’s lives after the trial.

Rubin became a stock broker and died in 1994; Hoffman wrote a book and commited suicide in 1989; Hayden ran for California State Legislature, and was re-elected six times. Hayden died in 2016, but that fact is conveniently ignored. For Sorkin, the enshrining of neoliberal tenets is the most notable product of the trial. Hayden’s end title is saved for last: it’s true that he became a politician, but what matters is the way Sorkin treats those who didn’t.