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With noirish lighting and most of the running time spent inside offices or cramped domestic rooms, Eastwood keeps the film claustrophobic, sometimes unpleasantly intimate.
A large, self-important, incident-by-incident biopic crammed with luxuriant period detail, laden with old-age make-up and powered by meticulous but riskless acting.
The Hoover material is ugly and very American, and it might have made an authentic monster story. But the picture offered is muddled, cautious, and at cross purposes.