Sidney Lumet's 12 Angry Men is not only a great courtroom film but a great film in itself, so anything that follows must be hard pressed to keep up. The story, originally from Reginald Rose, is largely unchanged. Twelve men have a boy's life put into their hands, and eleven of them are angry enough to be rid of him immediately. The casting enables something that was less prominent in the 50s, a multi-racial cast. In addition to the judge now being female, there are now four African-American jurors in addition to the original non-American watchmaker (and another with an obvious German accent, which is curiously never addressed). If the casting of the black jurors could add a new angle to the story, Friedkin does not run with it. What he instead does is play race against race, minority against minority. They might have the same skin colour, and might initially address each other as 'brother', but their views could not be more different. Juror 10 is in fact a racist of another level, with hints of severed ties with the Nation of Islam. So not only is he a racist, but he is a racist that even other racists cannot stand. But there is a sorely missed opportunity here. Perhaps the most emphatic scene of Lumet's was the gradual and dramatic turning of the backs of the jurors towards the racist tirade, and Ed Begley spluttering and slowly having his loud, pushy persona deflating before our very eyes. When he does vote guilty, he is utterly defeated. Here, Mykelti Williamson is not confronted with the same level of contempt, and his beliefs are not even challenged. When he finally changes his vote, it is not a moral victory, but him merely conceding his own vengeance against the Hispanic race.
The other prominent 'antagonist' of the story is juror 3, whose inhibitions are sourced from his resentment towards his own son. Lee J. Cobb was an ugly-faced bully throughout, so grotesque and intimidating that it made it all the more effective when he caves in. George C. Scott can't quite match this constant intensity, although he would have been the clear winner in his prime, making full use of his famous temper. But he does improve the climax of the character, only because his version is a much older man and he has the ability to make his face crumble and crease inwards as he sobs over his estranged son. He takes the accused's words truly to his heart. It is a much more pitiful affair when his age brings in the issue of grandparents and connections missed.
And then there is the all-important juror 8, the moral compass of the group, the one who isn't so easily swayed. Lemmon isn't as firm as Fonda, that is to be sure. He can't sell the glint in his eye as well, and when he pulls out the second identical knife and rams it into the table, it is a rather feeble move. Because Lemmon looks to be one of the oldest of them all, the dynamics are shifted. It is not his inherent good-nature that affords him the ability to not flinch at the stabbing of the knife, but perhaps a mutual understanding with juror 3 and a lifetime of wisdom and experience at reading others. Lemmon was always at the top of his game when he brimmed with his trademark nervous energy. That is not to say that he is no effective with that vitality gone - you only have to witness the pathetic man in Glengarry Glen Ross to be proved wrong there. But this role is ultimately the wrong fit for Lemmon. It asks for resoluteness, something that he would respond to by turning away and a creased smile.
In the original, Boris Kaufman had a way of compressing the space within the cramped, stuffy juror's room in addition to the flaring tempers and disagreements. He slowly cranked up the focal length, squeezing the depth of field and the actors together in the telephoto (except, of course, for that errant shot of Joseph Sweeney in urgent close-up). He used heat to create claustrophobia as if they were sitting in a pressure cooker, and raised the temperature gradually, making the men's foreheads shimmer, until finally allowing the rain to wash it all away. Visually, Friedkin's version might have made the most departure. The heat is treated as an afterthought; though we see pools of sweat on their bodies, they don't glisten with the same intensity, so the rain doesn't have a defined role. The camera hovers constantly behind shoulders, and cannot stop swiveling and moving in and around the table, which goes against the very idea of claustrophobia. The characters often stand and leave their seats, but not for any known reason. The lack of dramatic staging is the most disappointing aspect here. But it is hard to measure up to perfection.
The other prominent 'antagonist' of the story is juror 3, whose inhibitions are sourced from his resentment towards his own son. Lee J. Cobb was an ugly-faced bully throughout, so grotesque and intimidating that it made it all the more effective when he caves in. George C. Scott can't quite match this constant intensity, although he would have been the clear winner in his prime, making full use of his famous temper. But he does improve the climax of the character, only because his version is a much older man and he has the ability to make his face crumble and crease inwards as he sobs over his estranged son. He takes the accused's words truly to his heart. It is a much more pitiful affair when his age brings in the issue of grandparents and connections missed.
And then there is the all-important juror 8, the moral compass of the group, the one who isn't so easily swayed. Lemmon isn't as firm as Fonda, that is to be sure. He can't sell the glint in his eye as well, and when he pulls out the second identical knife and rams it into the table, it is a rather feeble move. Because Lemmon looks to be one of the oldest of them all, the dynamics are shifted. It is not his inherent good-nature that affords him the ability to not flinch at the stabbing of the knife, but perhaps a mutual understanding with juror 3 and a lifetime of wisdom and experience at reading others. Lemmon was always at the top of his game when he brimmed with his trademark nervous energy. That is not to say that he is no effective with that vitality gone - you only have to witness the pathetic man in Glengarry Glen Ross to be proved wrong there. But this role is ultimately the wrong fit for Lemmon. It asks for resoluteness, something that he would respond to by turning away and a creased smile.
In the original, Boris Kaufman had a way of compressing the space within the cramped, stuffy juror's room in addition to the flaring tempers and disagreements. He slowly cranked up the focal length, squeezing the depth of field and the actors together in the telephoto (except, of course, for that errant shot of Joseph Sweeney in urgent close-up). He used heat to create claustrophobia as if they were sitting in a pressure cooker, and raised the temperature gradually, making the men's foreheads shimmer, until finally allowing the rain to wash it all away. Visually, Friedkin's version might have made the most departure. The heat is treated as an afterthought; though we see pools of sweat on their bodies, they don't glisten with the same intensity, so the rain doesn't have a defined role. The camera hovers constantly behind shoulders, and cannot stop swiveling and moving in and around the table, which goes against the very idea of claustrophobia. The characters often stand and leave their seats, but not for any known reason. The lack of dramatic staging is the most disappointing aspect here. But it is hard to measure up to perfection.