The narrative begins with the Watergate burglary, its connection to the White House, and the revelation of Nixon’s secret tapes–which catalog every conversation that ever took place in his office. As we see a psychologically unraveling Nixon listening to one particular tape, the camera ventures into the heart of the tape recorder–with wheels and gears turning ominously–and we come to understand the real significance of the tapes: More than just evidence, they are a testament to Nixon’s very existence. They are also a formal device the film uses to examine his life and memories.

Erratically traversing time and space, from the present moment to his childhood, political rise, and a complicated retelling of events leading up to Watergate, the first hour two hours of the film are tiresome and sometimes confusing. Evocative of JFK in its visual storytelling, replete with repetitive and, at times, unnecessary and unmotivated changes in film stock and color, the narrative presents a disjointed portrait of Nixon’s early life and career. Because the chronology seems haphazard, and memories triggered for seemingly no important reason other than what I’m guessing is a structural need to present them early in the film, the performances suffer. The film’s style–which was interesting when used in JFK because the story of the assassination is one of conjecture and contradiction–draws attention to itself at the expense of the story and the acting. It’s not until you get into the third hour that Nixon finally begins to live and breathe.

Largely due to Anthony Hopkins’ brilliant performance–at turns powerful, uncompromising and firm, yet simultaneously riddled with self-pity, nostalgia and grave self-doubt–Richard Nixon emerges as a complex, driven but ultimately flawed character. Hopkins, who prepared for his role by watching every available videotape of Nixon’s public speeches repeatedly, has the mannerisms down pat, including the awkward two-armed victory salute. Capturing more than just Nixon’s idiosyncrasies, Hopkins conveys the man’s tortured soul: Though not particularly good looking, athletically talented, or hailing from a privileged family background, Nixon raised himself up out of poverty by the sheer force of his will, the cruel twists of fate, and a calculating amoral ambition. A self-made but ever unpopular president, he constantly compared himself to the ever more popular (and far better looking) John F. Kennedy, wondering why Kennedy seemed to have the public’s adoration practically handed to him on a silver platter, while Nixon received scorn and derision. Deeply patriotic yet borderline megalomaniacal (and some would say sociopathic), he alternates between admiring Abraham Lincoln and callously ignoring a groundswell of public opinion against the Vietnam War, choosing instead to bomb Cambodia and North Vietnam back into the Stone Age for the oxymoronic principle of establishing a “peace with honor.” This is the same man who, driven by hubris, subverts the United States Constitution, yet forges, boldly and singlehandedly, diplomatic ties with Red China and a peace treaty with Russia. It’s a poignant moment in the film when Mao tells Nixon:

You are as evil as I am. We are the new emperors. We are both from poor families and others paid to feed the hunger in us. In my case millions of reactionaries. In your case millions of Vietnamese…The real war is in us. History is a symptom of our disease.

“You are as evil as I am. We are the new emperors. We are both from poor families and others paid to feed the hunger in us. In my case millions of reactionaries. In your case millions of Vietnamese…The real war is in us. History is a symptom of our disease.”

It’s no easy feat to traverse this chasm of contradiction, to make it feel real, to convey the logic of decision through the eyes as it unfolds. It’s no easy task either to condense history and deliver it as truthful fiction, to check your own desire to rail against a man many call a “monster,” to portray instead the deeply flawed human being who stood at the precipice of greatness. For this, both Anthony Hopkins and Oliver Stone, as well as numerous others who labored behind the scenes (writers, editors, advisors, spouses), must be acknowledged.

In the end, the important tape Nixon listens to is one he chooses not to surrender, and is forced instead to grudgingly surrender his presidency. Haughty, unapologetic and secretive, Nixon is portrayed as a strong-willed man blind to his own weaknesses: a victim of his own self-aggrandizing desire for power yet, paradoxically, a cog crushed by the very machinery of power he believes he commands and controls. Protracted as it is, the film manages to convey the complexities of the man, and of the single historic event for which he is largely, though perhaps unfairly, remembered.