“Cynical self-consciousness pervades the film. The behind-the-scenes glimpses of the campaign we get aren’t inspiring. They’re draining.” — MJ Lawrence
While the recently released second season of Netflix’s original series House of Cards seeks to further vilify our nation’s politicians, the goal of Mitt, the website’s original documentary about Mitt Romney, seems to be a retroactive attempt to refute the image of the former presidential candidate — and, by extension, the Republican party — as out of touch.
The plot summary claims it will reveal “a side of the candidate the public never saw.” But the cover of the documentary — or, perhaps more appropriately, the thumbnail on Netflix’s browsing window — shows a cleanly lettered “MITT” above the contrived, tousled hair of the candidate. The image clearly seeks to represent a more laid-back side of Romney, but in doing so finds it necessary to cut out the bottom half of his head, including his usual smug grin.
The movie claims to cover both the 2008 and 2012 elections, but where it actually chooses to focus is revealing. During the first half hour of the film, which focuses on Romney’s ill-fated pursuit of the 2008 Republican nomination — the film glazes over the 2012 primary — a sense of pessimism underlies the Romney camp’s approach. In a scene from 2006, for example, as the family discusses the pros and cons of running at all, some of the cons thrown out for consideration include the negative opinions the country might have of him, and their “hypothetical” examples of negative opinions are almost too accurate — and mean, too. It almost seems as if, unconsciously, they sense these things in Romney and maybe even feel that way themselves.
This kind of cynical self-consciousness pervades the film. The behind-the-scenes glimpses of the campaign we get aren’t inspiring. They’re draining. We don’t see Romney reaching for the stars; we see him and his camp dwell on statistics and self-deprecation. The movie doesn’t end with an inspiring speech about the future of his personal life or the Republican Party, but with Romney and his wife, Ann, sighing in defeat. Any compelling humanity or likability Romney’s image might gain from this documentary isn’t the product of his true character being revealed but of skilled documentarians crafting their product.
From a mostly mechanical standpoint, the film is so tastefully crafted it’s frustrating. The soundtrack to some of the film’s extended montages is always contemplative, never cheesy, and the visual filter for the entire movie strikes a delicate balance between high-definition lighting and low-budget handheld recording. The interests of the Romney family, as depicted in the film, are just as tasteful. One scene shows Romney and Ann discussing why the Coens Brothers’ O Brother, Where Art Thou? is one of their favorite movies, while another shows Romney and his sons laughing heartily to some David Sedaris comedy over dinner.
Despite this artifice, the documentarians provide some genuine insight. Some viewers might be attracted to the film simply to see how Romney finally accepted he would have to deliver a concession speech and how he viewed his own debate performances — particularly his first against President Obama, in which he almost indisputably performed better than the president. In these situations, he’s surprisingly hard on himself.
Near the beginning of the film, Romney says he’s seen what happens to the nominee who loses for their party: He becomes a loser for life. The documentary could be his camp’s subtle attempt to address this concern.
So what will Romney’s legacy be, and what role does this documentary play in that legacy? Mitt, and David Remnick’s lengthy profile of Obama published in the January issue of The New Yorker, seem obsessed (albeit in very different ways) with legacy. Should we instead be questioning the consequences of legacy? In an image-obsessed campaign, and an image-obsessed aftermath, House of Cards isn’t the only cynical chronicling of D.C. politics.
