Once deemed one of the most radical and influential directors of modern times, Gus Van Sant’s recent filmography has been defined by minor successes and colossal blunders.

When one examines that last 10 years of Van Sant, it is true that we see Cannes 2003 Golden Palm winner Elephant, but also we note such head-scratching failures as 1998’s Psycho and 2002’s Gerry. Consistency has never been a strong suit for the enigmatic director.

However, when the theme surrounds society’s delicate delinquencies, Van Sant is the consummate professional in relating the travails of American outcasts. The most notable examples are his exploration into drug abuse in Drugstore Cowboy and his examination of teen sexuality in My Own Private Idaho. This is where Van Sant flourishes because we can see his passion in being the defender and voice for the American albatross. Therefore, it stands to reason that the director seems in perfect command with his new endeavor, Milk.

Fifteen years in the making, Milk follows the life of Harvey Milk, the first gay man to ever be elected to public office in 1977. Milk became the face of a civil revolution in San Francisco as homosexuals began coming out of the closets to defend their rights against unjust infringement. This was a very volatile time in American history and discrimination was rampant, as is the case with any lifestyle swimming against the wave of conformity.

Homosexuals were a target and there was no bigger a target than Milk. He succeeded in the face of adversity and became what the establishment feared the most: a symbol for change, for hope. However, for his triumph, Milk paid the ultimate price as he was gunned down in his office by fellow public servant Dan White.

Milk is a compelling tale of heartbreak drawing parallels to the famous tragedies such as the works of Shakespeare, Puccini’s opera “Tosca”, and even the film The Poseidon Adventure. In such works, a cause often demands great sacrifice and the story of Harvey Milk follows this theme, but the film goes further as a tragedy. It is implied throughout the film that Dan White himself was a closet homosexual and that he killed Milk because he was jealous of his freedom. On this level, Milk succeeds as a powerful story that will at the same time make your heart pulse with hope and bleed with dismay. Credit Van Sant for searching out and staying committed to such a riveting and effectual story.

The cinematography that Van Sant employs is top-tier, giving way to a handful of shots that are simply not seen into today’s straightforward way of making film. Coupled with his creative shot selection is his technical skill that allows him to seamlessly intersperse real life footage throughout the film. Milk invokes the spirit of cinéma vérité and Van Sant’s camcorder style certainly has the feel of a documentary.

Sean Penn delivers a wonderful turn in the role of Harvey Milk, but as is the case with Penn’s penchant for powerful portrayals, this is almost a given. With minimal prosthetics, Penn becomes Milk and nails the role with almost effortless ease. Looking beyond the film’s star, we see a smattering of talent lead by James Franco as Milk’s lover and Emile Hirsch (from Penn’s film Into the Wild) in the role of activist. And actor du jour Josh Brolin gives a pleasing Brolin-esque performance as the murderer Dan White.

When all is said and done, it is hard not to like Milk, but it is far from a masterpiece. The first half of the film is very involving and sets up the storyline well despite its obviously esoteric nature. However, the film soon runs out of intriguing plot devices and hits a wall in terms of character study.

Screen writer Dustin Lance Black’s script never regains its potency and volatility that was present in the preceding chapters. The audience is left hanging, waiting for the horrible inevitability of Milk’s assassination. Although the ending exudes significant power, it just leaves moviegoers wondering what could have been if the film was a little more … consistent.

Adam Neal is the founder of FeatureFilmReview.com.