J. Edgar: Pointless, Humorless Dud

There are important discoveries to be made when you see J. Edgar, Clint Eastwoodâ??s new film about the progenitor of the FBI. Iâ??m not referring to the movieâ??s wild speculations about Hooverâ??s supposed homosexuality, of which there is not a shred of proofâ??but the bald assertion of which allows director Eastwood and screenwriter Duncan Lance Black to feature a torrid kiss between Hoover and his longtime aide Clyde Tolson. Nor am I referring to the scene in which Hoover, the subject of a rumor long since discredited about his being a cross-dresser, weeps as he puts on his dead motherâ??s dressâ??an overwrought cinematic moment for the ages that ought to have been accompanied by heckling commentary from the robot cutouts who resided at the bottom of the screen while awful movies were being played on the hilarious old cable-TV show Mystery Science Theater 3000.