‘All the President’s Men’ is a hugely intelligent drama that tells us a great deal about the labyrinthine corridors of power. It’s gripping from start to finish, though also so dense with secret names, hidden connections and information people are desperate to conceal that it can sometimes feel almost impossible to follow every thread. There’s an abstract quality to the film, but that’s part of what makes it so compelling. It shows how a seemingly straightforward burglary at the Watergate Hotel in Washington ultimately led to the downfall of President Nixon.

At the same time, it’s a celebration of investigative journalism, and at moments it almost feels like watching a documentary. Alan J. Pakula’s direction is precise and restrained, full of shadows and tense, understated sequences – especially the meetings between Bob Woodward (Robert Redford) and Deep Throat (Hal Holbrook) in the parking garage. The film operates simultaneously as a political thriller and as a showcase for the painstaking work of reporting, with Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford perfectly cast as Bernstein and Woodward.

What’s especially clever is that for much of the running time it’s not entirely obvious how all of this connects directly to Nixon. The film refuses to offer simplistic explanations or easy narrative shortcuts. Instead, we follow the reporters as they slowly piece together fragments of information, building a picture through persistence rather than revelation.

The sound design is also remarkable. Tiny details such as typewriter keys, telephone clicks and footsteps are heightened until they feel almost like gunshots, giving even mundane office work a sense of danger and urgency. And although the film was made decades before social media or digital communication, it never feels dated. Watching reporters spend hours making phone calls, knocking on doors and chasing leads only reinforces how dependent serious journalism is on patience and legwork.

As a detective story, the film works brilliantly because so many of the clues remain opaque. We move through a maze of false leads, evasions, half-truths and anonymous tips alongside Woodward and Bernstein, rarely certain of where the truth lies. Pakula deliberately strips the film of glamour; there’s nothing flashy or manipulative about it. Even the star power of Hoffman and Redford is subdued, with both actors almost disappearing into the process of reporting itself.

What emerges is a portrait of journalism as relentless, repetitive and often frustrating work – building a jigsaw puzzle without knowing whether all the pieces even exist. The reporters simply keep going, returning again and again to the people who might hold one more clue, one more fragment that could bring the whole structure into focus.