Entertainment

Spy drama full of intelligence

Don’t mistake “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy” for a thriller; thrills it renounces with an almost Cromwellian zeal. It is to a James Bond movie approximately what “Mad Men” is to its fellow advertising industry saga “Bewitched.”

The adaptation of John le Carré’s chilly Cold War spy classic (which was made into an equally crafty TV miniseries in 1979) is indeed gripping, in the manner of a chess match that requires concentration to play but even more to derive pleasure from observing. The movie scarcely hints at le Carré’s great theme, his thermonuclear-strength irony, that there was no great moral difference between the Soviets and the West. It is as if the idea of theme itself is too ambitious, too glamorous for this cadre of small men in shabby surroundings in a dingy decade. The Cold War, here, is a thing of squalor and exhaustion — more an embarrassing error than historic folly.

I won’t get overly fancy with the plot, but woe unto you if you exit for some Jujubes. We begin in 1970s London with a failed mission involving a British spy (Mark Strong) sent to Budapest. We jump to “Operation Witchcraft,” in which British intelligence thinks it is getting top-secret information about the Soviets. Yet Witchcraft is really a Soviet play to get information from the “Circus,” or Britain’s CIA, where one unidentified top spy is working for the USSR. Chief British spy Control (John Hurt) realizes this just as he is forced into retirement because of the Budapest debacle.

George Smiley (played with grandmaster concentration by a superb Gary Oldman) has also been made to retire (and lost the company of his cheating wife, Ann). He is rehired to work from outside to figure out which of his ex-colleagues is the mole (le Carré is credited with coining this meaning of the word), while in flashbacks other dramas play out, such as the romance of a callow young agent, Ricki Tarr (Tom Hardy) with the wife of a Russian spy in Turkey. Another intelligence officer, Bill Haydon (Colin Firth) launches his own secret mission — seducing Smiley’s wife.

The script (by Peter Straughan and his late wife Bridget O’Connor) revels in cynical world- weariness: “I’m innocent — within reason,” says one character, and another gets to deliver the crushing line (delivered, like almost all of them, languidly), “If it helps, tell her I love her.” Females have almost no dialogue — their warmth and humanity just isn’t on — but one woman notes, “That was a good time, George.” He corrects her, “That was the war, Connie.” Toward the end, we glimpse a graffito in the street: “The future is female.” A reference to the rise of Margaret Thatcher? Or a hint that all things ruthless and coldblooded (a slush fund is referred to as “the reptile fund”) must eventually acknowledge feeling?

One of the rare hopeful lines is about “Karla,” the (male) chief spy of the USSR, who once chose likely death with his own kind rather than fleeing. “That’s how I know he can be beaten,” Smiley says. “Because he’s a fanatic, and the fanatic is always concealing a secret doubt.” It would be lovely to think so, but the line makes no sense. A choice between an opponent who is a born dealmaker and one who is prepared to be burned at the stake is an easy one.

Swedish director Tomas Alfredson’s (“Let the Right One In”) subtlety is sublime (though I ached for a bit more explanation of motive and character in the climax), and the art director’s realization of deflated, ashen 1970s London is exquisite. It’s refreshing bordering on intoxicating how much work this film leaves for the viewer, all the way down the line from the grand conflicts to the cast’s movements: There are no speeches about (or even overt references to) communism, no mewling how-could-you-betray-me showdowns. No one even whips off his glasses to signify Hey, I’ve Got An Idea.

Which brings me to a word of praise for Oldman. The cast is uniformly excellent, but as the ringleader of the Circus, Oldman owns the proceedings. In his limitless constraint — his commanding torpor — he is the equal of the magnificent Alec Guinness in the miniseries. Throughout the film Oldman, who is in the smallish group of great actors never nominated for an Oscar, rejects scene-hogging foolishness and stays profoundly, gravely rooted in Smiley’s shrink-wrapped, walled-off soul. He is as cold and intense as a freezer burn. Thanks to his mastery, and Alfredson’s, no film this year left me hungrier for a sequel.