directed by James Marsh
USA, UK; 2008
Though the directorial strategy is derivative of Errol Morris and his signature expressionist re-enactment sequences, the interview material is significantly less anxious, more matter-of-fact. This is where Marsh's film succeeds most. Where Morris, in his recent fashion, would have charged his interview footage with an intensity and an urgency (through unnerving frames, perpetual jumpcuts, positioning the focus of his subjects' eyes toward the depths of his camera lens, etc.), Marsh allows his interviewees some breathing room. It's a fine complement to the urgency of his re-enactments, and the humanistic story that unfolds only adds to the fascination contained in the documents. There are photos, diagrams, notes scrawled on graph paper, even color 16mm footage of the lads planning the coup, as they refer to it. By the time Monsieur Petit tightropes across the top of the industrialized world, any notion of "stupidity," and words like "maniac" or "foolhardy," have been washed clean from the tips of the tongues of the audience. Even the dreaded words "September 11th" seem to be relegated to a parallel history while Marsh's story is told. What remains is bliss, and an appreciation for all that is fascinating in the world.
For the duration of the film, and while image after towering image showcases what used to be the World Trade Center, and even as the Petit cell's plans and actions vaguely resemble a terrorist strike, a nostalgia for the Manhattan of the 1970's seems to replace the usual 9/11 anxiety. There is no mention of the attacks, a deliberate directorial move, and it quite suits the film. The interviewees reminisce, the re-enactments illustrate, and the documentation depicts a world (and two buildings) that existed at a different time. I found myself thinking not about what happened in 2001, but about what might have been happening in the Middle East while Petit schemed. Ah, the innocence of nostalgia. Errol Morris' films may take on subjects as dire as war and its collateral, but despite the urgency, his inability to draw out a story (at least in his two latest films) renders them impotent. Man On Wire is a piece centered around joy, and its potency is unstoppable.
I found myself coupling feelings of sadness with feelings of joy. I am not necessarily sad about the 9/11 event itself, more at the idea that a piece like Man On Wire can stir more powerful emotions than all the politics Errol Morris can muster. Joy is a more powerful force than sadness, yes, but it's a also a far easier force for most of us to handle. The images of a man walking between the twin towers represent the idea that the towers actually existed at a place in history. This is unchangeable, and as long as story and documentation exists, permanent. History is sad and history is joyful.
