People may see "Milk" and wonder why it wasn't released earlier this year. The story of America's first openly gay public official might have lent weight and sympathy to opponents of recently passed Proposition 8. But director Gus Van Sant and writer Dustin Lance Black did not make the film to rally support for gay marriage. Rather "Milk" aims to tell the story of a champion for civil rights who lost his life for the cause.

The plot spans Harvey Milk's transformation from closeted New York businessman to the "Mayor of Castro Street." Milk's endless tenacity and magnetic personality created a coalition among gays, seniors, teamsters and minorities. Along the way there are lovers, rivals, threats and, inevitably, deaths. The film is narrated by Milk's audio recordings, which add a layer of intimacy. Van Sant's camera rarely strays away from the man, making his presence the driving force of the film.

Sean Penn's portrayal adds another dimension to Milk, one based simply in his presence as a politician, speaker and friend. Each time Penn grabs the bullhorn and says, "My name is Harvey Milk and I want to recruit you," there is a shudder. His voice is forceful, teeming with righteousness but humility, too. The sight of thousands of angry people restrained from violence by Penn's stirring speech compounds the performance. In conversation Penn's appeal is his humor and well-guided pathos rather than impassioned rhetoric. Yet Penn's Milk sometimes loses that impossible optimism. He is a martyr, not a saint; his tireless work ethic tends to hurt himself and those around him.

James Franco's Scott Smith is one of the casualties of that aloofness. As Milk's longtime lover, he is a harried housewife, exhausted with elections and politics. Franco nurtures Penn until the cause that united them drives him away. There is no shortage of chemistry between the two actors; their performance is full of commitment and passion. The same is true for Penn's relationship with Diego Luna, who plays his manic lover Jack Lira. Here Penn is the old soul, caring for the troubled refugee to the Castro. Luna's performance alternates between a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed beaming and a needy, sulking self-pity. But perhaps the most intriguing relationship is that of Harvey Milk and Cleve Jones, played by Emile Hirsch. Jones becomes an adopted son of sorts for Milk. As the youthful protege, Jones rallies the denizens of the Castro to political activism, reaching out to the queer community that Milk cannot even touch. His acting ranges from sly flirt to boisterous head of angry mobs, bullhorn in hand as he reels off rousing chants. Yet not every character is fleshed out. Josh Brolin as murderer Dan White is frustrating. He is elusive and at times his motivation to kill is unclear, but the film's concentration on Harvey Milk necessarily precludes a larger focus on Brolin's character.

Van Sant makes San Francisco as much as a character as any of the actors. The city that Harvey Milk, et al, inhabits is markedly different from its portrayal in most cinema. The cinematography of "Milk" plays with color, as Van Sant paints San Francisco powder blue, the color of Milk's campaign, to create a vision of the city radically different from its sun-drenched film history. And the obligatory shots of the Golden Gate and North Beach are missing. In fact, there are no landmarks besides the Castro Theatre and City Hall. It is fitting since the film marches down Market Street as Harvey Milk leads the marginalized to power. Van Sant is also careful to show the City from above or within. San Francisco is never seen from without, via Oakland or Marin. In "Milk" we are not witness to the rallies and marches but rather part of them.

"Milk" is a unique take on San Francisco coupled with the tragic story of Harvey Milk's rise and fall. It is vehemently political too, but the film's politics are not aimed at Proposition 8 or even bigotry. Instead "Milk" is simply a call to civic participation that embraces the pro rather than the con. Gus Van Sant and Sean Penn have created a film that is at once political, particular to San Francisco and a deeply personal story of an American tragedy.