No matter how lofty one’s stature as an artist or how impeccable one’s list of accomplishments, there will always be someone out there sporting a pair of steel-toed loafers for the soul (and sole) purpose of booting a deity from the Pantheon. But not even the National Enquirer could have concocted a slam as spurious and mean-spirited as the one Pauline Kael leveled against Orson Welles’ rightful claim to co-authorship in the writing of Citizen Kane. And David Fincher’s Mank picks up where Kael left off. The title is short for Herman J. Mankiewicz, a prolific screenwriter who, in addition to having a hand in writing the film of films, gifted audiences with untold hours spent pleasurably in the dark (Dinner at Eight, The Wizard of Oz, Christmas Holiday). The script, written by the director’s late father Jack Fincher, uses as its base of operation, amid the myriad of -inspired flashbacks, a Victorville Hotel. It was there that Mankiewicz, incapacitated after a car accident left him nursing a broken leg, dictated the script to secretary Rita Alexander (Lily Collins). Told in flashback, Fincher borrows heavily from Kane’s labyrinthian structure and baroque opulence. But it’s impossible to believe that the destruction of the second Mrs. Kane’s bedroom was penned just moments after a visit to Victorville finds Welles shattering Mankiewicz’s liquor cabinet. Thankfully, Fincher doesn’t confine himself solely to the chapter of Mankiewicz’s life dealing with Mr. Welles. Admittedly, I would prefer a film about Mankiewicz’s much-warranted disgust with MGM’s boy wonder Irving Thalberg to a continuation of Kael’s fairy tale. (2020) — Scott Marks