“What kind of a place is this where you almost mean what you say? Where laws almost work? How can you live like that?”

Many would disagree with me, but I strongly prefer Steven Spielberg the popcorn entertainer to Steven Spielberg the Moral Conscience of the Nation. For many, films like Schindler’s List and Munich are the height of cinematic profundity. It speaks to the power of the medium that films like these form worldviews. But for me, even when they’re compelling, such films usually come off as egregiously sanctimonious and self-aggrandizing, with the director seeing his real-life subjects as opportunities for virtuous self-projection—malleable idols to be forced into the mold of a surrogate movie hero. Consider that the public absolution granted to Oskar Schindler is the same that Spielberg sought by making a film about his exploits (even if their anger and guilt are not derived from quite the same sources).

A similar case could be made against Amistad, a historically dubious and morally manipulative film about an international legal battle over the lives of fifty-some West African tribesmen. Abducted from their homeland for the slave trade, Cinqué (Djimon Hounsou) and his fellow Mende break loose and slay their captors during the lengthy ocean voyage. Arriving in the United States, they are arrested and brought to trial, where they are charged with piracy and murder but also claimed as property by Spain and as salvage by two officers from the U.S. vessel that first spotted their ship.

What follows is an intricate courtroom drama—Where were they born? If they’re slaves, who owns them? If not, are they murderers and mutineers? And should the President (Nigel Hawthorne) play nice with the eleven year old Queen of Spain (Anna Paquin) who supports the slavers? From a 21st century perspective, it’s like, yes, give them, them free! But that wasn’t how things worked in 1839—that sidelines the captive tribesmen in favor of the white people (Matthew McConaughey, Anthony Hopkins) trying to set them free, with only token attention given to a fictional ex-slave (Morgan Freeman) and a translator (Chiwetel Ejiofor). Do you see the pattern?

Worse still is that unlike the vast majority of other Spielberg projects, Amistad is incredibly sluggish, failing to rise above the face value of its rampant grandstanding and swells of sentimentalism as it tries to jam three films’ worth of plots (Cinqué’s story, the courtroom drama, and the period piece about the political climate in America) into one bloated feature that sets clunky scenes next to brilliant ones. Is it too short or too long? I don’t know. What I do know is that Hounsou is a dynamic screen presence and the deserving star, all bulging trapezius muscles and elemental ferocity and unbreakable spirit, but he’s only given a few opportunities to shine (a lengthy, harrowing flashback in the middle of the film is the highlight), otherwise spending his time looking confused and/or consternated while the Americans discuss his fate in a language he doesn’t understand.

At least the mawkish gloss that burdened The Color Purple isn’t quite as thick here, but Amistad is one of those rare Spielberg pictures where you can see right through its surface to all the contrivances lurking beneath.