In the past, Hollywood usually reflected American
anti-intellectualism by showing professors as unworldly, unmanly, possibly even
impotent buffoons, which makes “A Beautiful Mind” of a decade or so ago
something of an anomaly. Like that movie, however, the two most recent
depictions of professors on the screen, though also based on fact, feature two
brilliant scientists who, despite their success, suffer serious, even disabling
afflictions — schizophrenia for John Nash in the American picture, ALS for
Stephen Hawking in “The Theory of Everything,” and now, apparently some form of
high functioning autism for Alan Turing, the protagonist of “The Imitation
Game.”
“The
Imitation Game” chronicles the heroic work of a team of experts — linguists,
cryptographers, mathematicians, even a chess champion — in unraveling the
secrets of the fiendishly successful German cypher machine, Enigma. Most of the
action takes place at Bletchley Park, now famous as the headquarters of much of
the secret war, including the efforts to break the
German code. The time scheme also moves back and forth through various stages
in the life of Alan Turing (Benedict Cumberbatch), showing his success as the
leader of the code-breakers, his school days, and his arrest and conviction in
1951 for “gross indecency,” the term for a homosexual act, which then
constituted a crime in England, consenting adults or not.
Realizing
that the team simply cannot decipher a machine-made code that changes every 18
hours, Turing decides to invent another machine to match the German
device. Despite opposition from his
colleagues and the blatant hostility of the commanding officer (Charles Dance),
Turing designs and constructs the ancestor of the modern computer. With the
accidental contribution of one of the women who monitor the intercepted German
communications, he and his coworkers decipher the first messages, ordering a
submarine attack on an Atlantic convoy.
That
solution to the problem, however, raises further moral and emotional issues. If
the team reveals the planned attack and the Navy and the RAF respond, then the
enemy will realize that British military intelligence has foiled Enigma; they
obey a cruel calculus, arguing that the sacrifice of hundreds in the convoy
means that millions will be saved in the future. The same calculus caused
Winston Churchill to allow the devastating bombing of Coventry.
Within the
context of the war and the intelligence work, the picture focuses almost
entirely on Turing’s life and personality. A remarkably gifted logician,
mathematician, cryptanalyst, and computer scientist, Alan Turing is also both
arrogant and pathetic, offending his colleagues, his commanding officer, and
virtually everyone he encounters. His obsessive dedication to his invention,
his literal-minded approach to his colleagues, his apparent lack of affect, and
even his intelligence suggest a textbook example of high-functioning autism.
The pathos
derives from the loneliness imposed by his sexual orientation; though briefly
engaged to his colleague Joan Clarke (Keira Knightley), his only real love
exists in memory. Several flashbacks
show this sad, smart, lonely boy (Alex Lawther) bullied in the great English
tradition at one of those elite academies the upper classes call public
schools, in love with a classmate who dies young and after whom he names his
marvelous machine. His arrest and its
tragic consequence demonstrate the cruel folly of a now abolished law and the
loss of one of the great minds of his time and place.
With the
professionalism of most English casts, the actors all carve out individual
characters. Matthew Goode plays Hugh Alexander, the complete opposite to
Turing, a handsome, sharply dressed ladies’ man, “a bit of a cad,” as Joan
Clarke describes him, who dislikes Turing intensely (and for good reason) but
respects his achievement. The best
example of the cleverness and deviousness of British counter espionage is the
slick and convincing Mark Strong, who plays Stewart Menzies, the head of MI6,
manipulating almost everyone, including Turing himself.
Given the
assignment of playing an essentially cold, often quite unpleasant person with
only minimal emotional variations, the very busy Cumberbatch — he’s all over
the place these days — performs quite creditably. He manages a most difficult
impersonation and even makes the audience care about him in ways they probably
never expected, a fine piece of work in an interesting chapter of history.
This article appears in Dec 31, 2014 – Jan 6, 2015.
