Rating: 3/5

Fincher displays a cross-section of a 1930’s Hollywood as he focuses on the detail and aesthetic of the beautiful time capsule, forgetting somewhere along the way that imitating Mankiewicz’s work isn’t enough to be captivating.

In 1942, Citizen Kane was nominated for nine Oscars yet won only one, the award for Best Original Screenplay being shared between writer and director Orson Welles and writer Herman J. Mankiewicz. Although it was beaten in every other category (including Outstanding Motion Picture), Welles’s first outing into cinema has since become the picture of perfection; consistently voted by critics as the greatest film of all time in Sight & Sound magazine until it was dethroned in 2012 by Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Yet, although it is undeniable that Welles contributed greatly to its success, David Fincher hands Mankiewicz the spotlight in an attempt to rectify history.

Gary Oldman plays a washed-out Mankiewicz, weary from a brutal Hollywood system and a blood-alcohol level that would set off any breathalyser from across the room. Isolated with a broken leg, Mankiewicz dictates Citizen Kane from a booze-laden bedroom as he struggles with his apparent lack of empathy. Typing Mankiewicz’s verbose paragraphs, Lily Collins shares a lot of Oldman’s present-day screen time as she represents the young, innocent, yet wise.

Mank would be incomplete without the inspiration for the flawed newspaper tycoon Kane, Charles Dance stepping up to the plate as William Randolph Hearst lives lavishly in his own Xanadu. Every old and rich entrepreneur has a young and beautiful partner that stands by their side, Amanda Seyfried playing the naïve and exciting Marion Davies. Brimming with brilliant performances all round, Fincher brings to screen a very human story that, at times, shines brightly only to cast long shadows across the rest of the film.

Even without watching the film, one can easily guess its structure. Very much like his magnum opus, Mank flitters back and forth as Mankiewicz writes the script, flashbacks contextualising the drunkard who, at first glance, seems like nothing more than that.

Oldman encapsulates the classic image of Hollywood: writers sitting around a table smoking cigars and playing poker only to riff off each other when pushed to come up with a script. And while there is the occasional glint of emotion in his worn-out eyes, it is rare that anything but the selfish and self-destructive writer can be viewed amidst the constant lack of consideration for those around him. This absence of direction is no fault of Oldman’s as he is seen as remorseful and even caring, only for the flashback to end with a jarring return to the pre-scheduled program. Ironically, a shortage of focus isn’t the only problem with the black and white biopic.

Already, the parallels between Citizen Kane and Mank are clear, but the powerful dialogue that centred the newsroom of the classic seem to be missing. The wordplay is certainly well written, but the beautiful moments where so many reporters would be speaking over each other creating a mess of conversations are lost here.

The raw and intimate view of Mankiewicz’s life are his own instead of the retelling of others close to him, which leaves him in an awkward spot between hero and hated. After making one of his didactic comments, Mankiewicz remarks that he is “always the smartest guy in the room”, showing his awareness to his careless attitude yet doing nothing to change course. Charles Forster Kane was positioned to be the cruel and narcissistic villain, yet here Mankiewicz comes off as a lukewarm imitation after a handful of moments of one-dimensional humanity.

The beauty of black and white… Amanda Seyfried and Gary Oldman. Photo: Netflix

Yet, the film is far from bad. Apart from the stellar performances that are consistently captivating, Fincher’s attention to detail is the star of the film as it brings about an aesthetic that is simply beautiful. Cigarette burns flash across the top right corner as the film reels get swapped, followed by a stuttering frame or two to keep the illusion. The simple typewritten headings to each flashback formatted like the top of a script’s scene. Each nuance serves to create a world of film instead of simply showing it, a feeling that successfully creates a wonderful opening hour, only for the handbrake to be pulled as the film begins to drag its way towards an anticlimactic end, the stereotypical biopic text fading onto the screen, diminishing the final blow.

It is clear what audience writer (and father to David) Jack Fincher had in mind when penning Mank. Anyone who adores cinema will see the beauty in this film just as I do, yet just like a penniless child in a sweet shop, the initial wonder wears off fast as the apparent lack of progression overpowers the sense of amazement.

Similar to its cinematography, Mank is similar to a series of greys that are neither pure white nor jet black, a film the walks the line between brilliance and disappointment as it peters along to a somewhat empty climax, a finale that echoes what should have been a Rosebudian blow.