A 1992 historical epic starring Denzel Washington, directed by Spike Lee, running three hours and twenty-two minutes — which Norm, a man who bills studios for overages, sat through happily. Matt originally went down swinging with a word he refused to define, then convened an internal review of himself, found himself indefensible, and reversed on appeal. The verdict is now a double-up. The transcript of the original verdict has been preserved for the historical record, over Matt's objection.
Let me start with what was always inarguable. Denzel Washington is towering — not playing Malcolm X so much as being gradually replaced by him over three hours and twenty-two minutes. Spike Lee stages the Harlem ballroom sequences like a symphony conductor with a grudge. Ernest Dickerson’s photography belongs in a museum, and so do the costumes. A 202-minute biographical epic that moves like a thriller. This is, and I quote a very reliable critic, “the exact movie I always say I want.”
“Upon review, the film was never the problem. I was quoted out of context — by myself, in my own review, which I wrote. I consider the matter closed.”
The internal review is complete. The panel (me) heard extensive testimony from the accused (also me) and reached a unanimous finding: the original verdict was indefensible, even by the standards of a man who owns Fred Claus on three formats. I have rewatched the film. It is a masterpiece. The term I once attempted to deploy — a term I declined then and decline now to define — has been withdrawn with prejudice, the prejudice being mine. The thumb is up. The thumb was, historically speaking, always up, provided you do not count the documented period during which it was down.
Once, maybe twice a decade, I sit in a chair for three hours and twenty-two minutes and do not once check my watch. This is one of those. Denzel Washington gives what I consider the single greatest screen performance I have ever rated — the con-man swagger, the prison stillness, the Mecca transformation, three different men wearing one face — and I say this as a man whose thumb has load-bearing rust on it.
“In 1993 the Academy gave Best Actor to Al Pacino for shouting ‘hoo-ah’ at furniture. Denzel Washington had just spent 202 minutes BECOMING Malcolm X. I will die angry about this.”
Scent of a Woman is a fine film. It is also the beneficiary of the most flagrant robbery in Oscar history, and the Academy knew it — that’s why they handed Denzel the make-good statue nine years later for Training Day. Drama, history, a towering lead, a runtime that keeps its promise, and not one wizard: this movie was built in a lab for me. Thumb up. All the way up. As for my colleague’s reversal — I accept it the way the Academy accepted the Training Day Oscar: correct, late, and owed with interest. The terms of surrender are recorded below.