After Capote, this movie didn’t stand a chance. It’s better in some respects and worse in others–Toby Jones is a swishier, freakier Truman than Philip Seymour Hoffman, Christine Keener was a much better Harper Lee than Sandra Bullock, the production and direction of Infamous are slightly more daring but not as slick. (Continuing these comparisons should be fascinating fodder for a film class, but I’ll leave it at that.) The story about the outsider writer seduced by his outsider subject, however, is almost beat for beat the same, and Infamous, whatever its merits, can’t help but seem redundant at this point. Tough luck.
