Being the Ricardos (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

The sort of high-brow chamber piece no one expects based on its subject matter (not unlike Steve Jobs), Being the Ricardos is a deliciously dramatic exercise in how even an unbalanced film can succeed through the craftsmanship of its writer and the dedication of its actors. Much like that earlier project, this film is a pressure-cooker of a viewing experience, as we are thrust into the lives of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz during a single, intense week in 1953. And while the facts and history may not be nailed down, the visceral impact of the characters' lived experience is the point of this film. Aaron Sorkin's latest work is certainly not as timely as his latest and greatest film (The Trial of the Chicago 7), but it does showcase a cast as adept with his rapid-fire dialogue as any he's yet assembled.

In terms of plot, the story concerns Lucy and Desi as they work together on recording their hit show I Love Lucy in 1953, during the second or third season. Despite having one child and another on the way, the show seems to have become their baby. They collaborate endlessly (read: chain smoke and banter with writers around the staff table) on every creative choice, but it's clearly Ball who has the final say. Her stamina and wit -- sometimes caustic -- carry her through each ordeal, such as when she orders "healthier" food for her irritated costars for breakfast, or when she clashes with directors on the logics of writing, reading, and even blocking one particular scene. Shrewd and sometimes bitchy, she holds no punches, and much like her famed character, Ball doesn't harness her tongue in the face of the male-dominated industry. It sometimes serves her well, as when (in one of the film's many, lengthy flashbacks) she threatens her entire career if she can't do the show with her Hispanic husband.

And, for now, her catty but well-meaning behavior seems to have saved her marriage, with little to no help from her philandering husband. As they counter each other privately, they support each other publicly, perhaps most clearly in this film when news of Ball's current pregnancy hits the producers, who panic about keeping her stationary, behind furniture and bulky costumes, and even cancelling the show. The power couple team up to trailblaze the idea that a pregnant woman on prime time television is nothing to be ashamed of, as the executives most certainly are. This story's biggest threat to their stardom -- did I mention that, in Sorkin's vision, this is a really stressful week for them? -- comes in the form of Walter Winchell, the infamous tabloid snitch, who revealed Ball's past connection to the Communist Party. This news, more than anything, threatens their livelihoods, and the pair comes out guns blazing to defend themselves. I do wish the film leaned a little further into the real history of the Red Scare and its impact on Hollywood, or even on Ball's factual and staunchly fierce fight against McCarthyism, but this is no historical treatise.

It's a drama, one that hinges on its players' skills in order to succeed. The cast, led by some of the best work from Nicole Kidman and Javier Bardem we've seen in years. Thankfully, they are not chameleonic here; the vogue of the last ten years or so in biopics has been to physically transform characters into uncanny imitations of the real thing; I usually like that to some extent, but there's a lot to be said for suspending that expectation and simply letting actors channel real characters. That's what happens here. Even though Kidman is layered with some prosthetics on her nose and cheeks, it is very much Kidman working to breathe believable life into a distinctly unrealistic caricature. Similarly, Bardem looks almost nothing like Arnaz, but his voice and energy feel as fresh and magnetic as anything his real counterpart delivered on screen. Add J.K. Simmons and especially Nina Arianda as their co-stars "Fred and Ethel," whose hatred for each other shines in this dramatization, and these four performers give us nothing short of an actor's masterclass.

I confess myself surprised by some of Sorkin's directorial choices here; Molly's Game similarly had a few baffling moments, perhaps because he's still working on auteur status. This film is framed, annoyingly, by interviews with older versions of the writers of I Love Lucy, who usually set up exposition and provide details to the flashback sequences. The mockumentary trope employed here is sometimes funny, sometimes sad, and always heavy-handed; it distracts from what would otherwise be a taut focus on the main characters. And it's not like Sorkin is afraid of his leads; indeed, multiple times he takes us directly into Ball's mind, visualizing key scenes from her show in black-and-white to work out physical comedy and timing before putting it on its feet (or even on the page). This isn't the ultimate work to explore the inner lives of two of the most iconic golden-age Hollywood stars -- or of the sexism that came with the territory -- but it's a damn good place to start. Now we can all just wonder what Debra Messing might have done in the role.