Observations
Michael J. Lewis
From patriotic poetry to equestrian monuments, most of the
instruments that once elevated war and national tragedy into the realm of collective
experience have lost their power to stir us. There is no contemporary
counterpart to the Civil War’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic” or Norman
Rockwell’s mass-produced prints of the “Four Freedoms” from World War II. A
song like “Over There,” to which America marched briskly in 1917, is as remote
to contemporary sensibilities as the Bayeux Tapestry.
The only artistic medium that now seems capable of informing the national mind
about the shape and meaning of events is film. It was therefore to be expected
that, after a decent interval,
In movies, this has turned out to be
the year of 9/11, with productions ranging from the big-budget United 93
and World Trade Center to works made for television to numerous
documentaries, including one, On Native Soil, about the 9/11 Commission
created by Congress to investigate and report on the history and events of that
day. Given
When it was learned that
And yet both films have proved to be other and better than what might have been
predicted, while the major documentary of the season, On Native Soil, is
significantly worse. What took so long for these films to be made? When it
wants to, after all,
By comparison, United 93 was not released until May of this year, after
a span equivalent to the entire American involvement in that earlier conflict.
At first glance the lag may seem
inexplicable, given the urgent and sustained public interest in 9/11 and the
rich dramatic potential in what was an intrinsically visual story. But other
factors conspired to make any such film a risky proposition.
One was simple squeamishness.[3]
The attacks of 9/11 occurred shortly after a presidential election of
extraordinary rancor and divisiveness; despite a brief moment of national unity
in the fall of 2001, these emotions soon reasserted themselves in even more
virulent form. Unless a script were completely to ignore the context and
political implications of the attacks, it would run the risk of antagonizing
half its potential market. For much the same reasons,
Still another factor militating against a film about 9/11 was, oddly enough,
the fundamentally visual nature of the event itself. Most Americans, watching
at home or in the office, experienced that day’s attack as a broadcast,
rendering any subsequent dramatization gratuitous. Moreover, the impact of the
jetliners and the collapse of the towers were far more frightening to behold
than any film could make them, and the leaping victims a far more gruesome
sight. Any re-creation of these scenes would inevitably be compared to the
original, and found wanting. In this respect, it may be thought remarkable that
any major movies about 9/11 have been made at all.
Among the many discrete events that took place on 9/11, the battle for control
of United Airlines flight 93 out of
Such events need no enhancement; a sympathetic realism more than suffices.
Indeed, filmmakers before Greengrass realized this: earlier in 2006 the A&E
television network released a surprisingly good film, Flight 93, on just
that basis. But what A&E did on a shoestring and within the limited scope
of a television production, Greengrass was able to do with a lavish budget.
Here his work as a documentary filmmaker stood him in good stead.[5] Throughout the entire movie there is not
the slightest hint of artful manipulation for the sake of visual impact, or of
staccato editing to create tension. All the drama to come is inherent in the accelerating
pace of mundane scenes: the sleepy passengers boarding their early-morning
flight, the plane taking off and climbing, the first cabin service by the
stewardesses, interspersed with cuts to various regional centers where
air-traffic controllers have begun to puzzle over garbled transmissions and
straying planes.
Greengrass’s most felicitous idea was to have the air-traffic controllers play
themselves. Misgivings had been expressed over this decision, which threw into
question what the film was: a piece of dramatic fiction, or a documentary
reenactment? But the results are wholly successful. Greengrass’s flight
controllers are natural and fluid. Particularly impressive is Ben Sliney, who
here reenacts what was his first day as the FAA’s national director of
operations. He and the others accomplish what no well-known actor could do:
direct attention away from themselves onto the
drama unfolding unseen above them. Although the second half of the film
confines itself to the physical limits of the plane, these early scenes in the
traffic-control centers become the viewer’s psychological vantage point,
placing a necessary barrier between the audience and the horror to come.
Without them, the movie would have been nothing more than a ghoulish
re-creation of mass murder.
A film like United 93 succeeds or fails by its emotional authenticity—in this case, the felt authenticity of a group of strangers suddenly thrown together by the prospect of death, and forced urgently to act. In general Greengrass has a great talent for orchestrating the emotional state of a crowd, but his touch is not always convincing and in some ways it misses the mark. Thus, he downplays Todd Beamer’s celebrated phrase, “Let’s roll,” a line that in the movie is scarcely audible. But Beamer’s utterance was no mumbled aside—a telephone operator on the ground heard it distinctly.
Rather, it was one of those signals, like the call of a quarterback or the tap
of a conductor’s baton, that set concerted action into motion. (In this
respect, the version in A&E’s Flight 93 is more compelling.) Some of
Greengrass’s omissions are also peculiar. He does not show us, for example, how
passenger Thomas Burnett made four separate calls to his wife, quizzing her in
detail about the attacks on the
Greengrass has also come in for criticism over the way in which he humanizes
the perpetrators. One of them, for example, is shown telephoning and conversing
with his girlfriend before the flight, while the group’s leader is shown to be
a quiet and circumspect type, nervously fighting to control his jitters. In the
film’s most controversial scene, one of the hijacked passengers prays over the
phone with an operator just before the camera cuts to the pilot reciting verses
from the Quran. But the final half-hour of the film, with the plane flying
remorselessly to its destination, is extraordinary.
As the inexperienced pilot jerks and rocks the aircraft, some passengers use their in-flight phones to say their good-byes to loved ones while others improvise a battering ram out of a serving cart. Once the assault begins, the camera no longer plays the part of an objective eye, watching from a safe remove, but instead places the viewer right inside the tumultuous charge to the cockpit door and the ensuing struggle to break in. The melee is a visual equivalent to the furious sounds recorded on the black box as the plane—we are now watching from the cockpit window—plummets to the ground.
Greengrass took it upon himself to tell
the entire story of United Airlines flight 93. By contrast, Oliver Stone’s
The centerpiece of the film, the interaction between McLoughlin and Jimeno
(played respectively by Nicholas Cage and Michael Peña), is particularly
affecting. Trapped twenty feet apart, each unable to see the other, they speak
across the darkness with repeated mutual exhortations to stay awake. Their
topics of conversation lunge erratically, from childhood television shows, to
wives and children, to detached speculation about how long it will take before
their internal injuries kill them. These scenes could easily have descended
into the maudlin or the morbid, but Stone invests them with a kind of mournful
dignity, depicting his trapped officers as secular martyrs, their faces covered
with soot, powder, and sweat until they are nearly monochrome, like a grisaille
painting. As in Christian religious art, these suffering faces fill the screen
and in their way are beautiful.
Far less effective are the scenes where Stone drifts to the families and the
panic-stricken wives of McLoughlin and Jimeno. Stagy and histrionic, with a
palpable lack of chemistry among the actors and actresses involved, these
domestic interludes consist mostly of very short snippets of action: a few
lines of dialogue, a phone call, a hug. This jagged montage-like style, originally
developed for television in response to the tendency of viewers to shift
channels during boring bits, is now a hallmark of visual storytelling; but here
as elsewhere it is employed at the expense of dramatic tension created through
the authentic ebb and flow of thought and emotion.[8]
Stone was clearly attracted by the challenge of making a film within a physically restricted setting. So, long before him, was Alfred Hitchcock when he limited himself to a boat (Lifeboat, 1944) or a studio apartment (Rear Window, 1954). In World Trade Center, Stone has assigned himself the most restricted scale imaginable, what can be seen and felt by two injured and immobile men in a claustrophobic thicket of twisted steel and concrete. But Stone lacks Hitchcock’s tactile genius for giving the viewer an acute physical awareness of the space in which the action unfolds. With the perfunctory Stone, we are never allowed to visualize exactly where McLoughlin and Peña lie with respect to one another, or exactly how they are pinned. When Peña is finally pried loose, we know that he is undergoing agonizing torment but we are not shown why. Hitchcock would have ensured a clear understanding of how the beams and slabs were entangled, and how the lifting of one would cause a dangerous settling of another; Stone is satisfied to show the man scream, which arouses our sympathy but not the vicarious identification that first-rate filmmaking can achieve.
World Trade Center startled many critics, who seem to have been bracing themselves for another JFK. This may help explain the positive reviews it has received in otherwise unlikely quarters, including the Weekly Standard (“a frightening and wrenching film” that “feels right”) and National Review (which proclaimed “God Bless Oliver Stone”).
And yet it is finally an unsatisfying work, one that comes close to big events while sedulously declining to look at them. Formally a tale in the buried-alive genre, it draws from that genre’s formulaic stock of situations and dialogue, almost as if Harriet Beecher Stowe had written Uncle Tom’s Cabin as a story about a slave who was trapped in a well. Such a story might or might not touch us, but it would hardly prompt us to think anew about the world, or about our place in it.
Stone’s choice of heroes is similarly skewed. Of all the firemen and police who swarmed into the towers, he picked two whose chief distinction was to lie supine and immobilized for thirteen hours. Likewise, out of the full palette of virtues that were on display on September 11—among them perseverance, sacrifice, courage—he chose to depict only stoic, passive endurance. The single exception is the Marine who searches doggedly for survivors, but he is portrayed as being wound a bit too tight; one has the sense that tone is preparing us to meet him again in some yet-to-be-made film about Abu Ghraib.
In the end, it is Stone’s deliberate incuriosity about the perpetrators of the September 11 attacks that makes this film so thin. Others have pointed out the telling circumstance that Hollywood’s greatest conspiracymonger should have here averted his gaze from the most horrendously successful conspiracy of our time. As a war movie, World Trade Center neatly inverts the moral lesson of Casablanca; as compared with the troubles of two little people, it seems, the problems of the world don’t amount to a hill of beans. Which brings us to On Native Soil, the documentary directed by Linda Ellman and narrated by Kevin Costner and Hillary Swank.
In the Oscar-winning Titanic (1997), the most popular historical film of the past decade, much drama was provided by a rebuffed lover who pursues the star-crossed lead characters with a revolver through the corridors of the doomed ship, firing dementedly. In Hollywood movies, subplots like these are a sure sign that the main story, however theoretically gripping in itself, has somehow been found wanting. Given the state of historical knowledge of modern audiences, this impulse to perform cosmetic surgery on past events is perhaps understandable.
All the more commendable, then, that the impulse was resisted by the makers of United
93 and World Trade Center. In this, they may also have gauged the
national mood correctly. There is clearly a strong appetite among Americans to
know the unvarnished truth about what happened on September 11, and a need to
see feelingly and at close range what was seen on that day through the
distancing medium of television. That is surely what lies behind the unexpectedly
large sales of the 9/11 Commission Report released in July 2004: a plain,
sober, factual account, and all the more dramatic for that.
One cannot say the same for On Native Soil, which, despite the enormous richness of documentary footage available to its director, succumbs early on to the Titanic impulse. Opening promisingly enough with an image of Osama bin Laden sitting crosslegged as he fields a reporter’s questions and, in his expansive and roundabout way, all but announcing what he is about to unleash upon the world, Ellman the documentarian proceeds to do precisely what the fictionalizing Greengrass and Stone avoided: to graft[9] gratuitous drama onto the story itself. Some of this fake drama[10] is insinuated by Ellman’s editing, which makes full and frenetic use of the jagged style, known in its purest form (as in music videos) as “shock cuts.” In an early scene, we see photographs of the nineteen hijackers.
These faces are as eloquent as can be, and history is written across them; but
Ellman, evidently finding them too static, whips them across the screen to make
them into a bolt of lightning. An even more appalling editorial intervention is
Ellman’s sudden and arbitrary conversion of color footage into black and white
and then back into color again, as if to say that the chain of events leading
to the deaths of 3,000 Americans is somehow too boring to be endured without
every bit of graphic pep she can supply. But the nadir of On Native Soil
is its principal narrative line. For Ellman’s real story does not concern al
Qaeda, or the events leading up to the attack, or the tactical brilliance with
which the hijackers planned their action, or the death throes of the stricken
World Trade Center towers, or the drama that played itself out on stair
landings, in stranded elevators, and in the crowded conference rooms above the
wall of fire. Her real story is not about what the 9/11 Commission Report has
to tell us concerning these things but about the formation of the 9/11
commission itself—or rather, as she implies, about the conspiracy that was
afoot to delay if not to sabotage the commission’s establishment, a conspiracy
led by a shifty conventicle[11]
of American politicians who supply her with her film’s villains. Here is one
person who has seen too many movies by Oliver Stone.[12]
After this shabby and dishonest beginning, the second half of On Native Soil
is a distinct improvement. Documenting the aftermath of the attacks, it
gives us the story straight, complete with heartbreaking photographs of the
victims of the north tower, squeezed between the rising flames and the
inaccessible roof, leaping to their deaths. Had the entire film trusted the
documents in this way, using them to illustrate what the 9/11 Commission
actually learned, it might have made a truly valuable contribution. But long
before this moment it has lost any claim to credibility. Would it have been too
much to hope that Hollywood might produce a movie focused not just on tragedy
and victimhood, as these three films do in their different ways, but on
patriotism and heroism? A movie calculated to inspire not just pity and terror
but martial fervor and a sense of national purpose?[13]
Evidently it would have been too much to hope. To date, no films have been
announced that will deal with the dramatic fighting in the mountain caves of
northwestern Afghanistan and the hunt for Osama bin Laden; the military
campaign that seized Baghdad in record time; the drama of the occupation. The
American film industry will not be making a film like Wake Island in the
foreseeable future.
Still, if United 93 and World Trade Center will never be mistaken
for calls to action, and if neither is perfect as art or as history, each may
legitimately come to serve in future decades as a crucial building block of
national memory, much as an imperfect painting like John Trumbull’s The Signing of the Declaration of Independence
(1786) has come to serve as the image of that great event in American
consciousness. Certainly they are the first films in a long time that have
sought to depict traumatic events not from a perspective adversarial to
national purpose but on the basis of a felt consensus.
Although Stone’s movie buries its head, as it were, in the rubble, and although Greengrass’s is hardly without temporizing and equivocal gestures of its own, we are fortunate to have them—and all the more fortunate in light of the deep-seated cultural attitudes on such depressing and callow display in On Native Soil.
Michael J. Lewis, who teaches art history at Williams College, is the author most recently of American Art and Architecture (Thames & Hudson).
Michael J. Lewis specials:
perfidy
sedulously
felicitous
callow
“Such events need no enhancement; a sympathetic realism more than suffices.”
Then why not just watch the footage? Oh, wait, we don’t have any, of flight 93 at least. It’s dangerous to tell a film (particularly, a dramatization) to be more realistic, more unembellished. Because Lord knows you’ll end up with Bresson, the complete and total abandonment of style (or so Sontag describes it). Of course, Bresson’s so-called abandonment of style is in fact itself the very pinnacle of style. I think on this point, M. Lewis’ best argument is the one he feels deep down and only pretends to hide, which is that none of these films need ever have been made at all. Or at least that’s what I think.
[1] Wonderful.
[2] Oh, my.
[3] Definition please.
[4] Good. I feel like I just saw the film. So now I don’t have to.
[5] Monty Python piranha brothers sketch: “stood him in good stead.”
[6] Dammit!
[7] Yup. That’s synecdoche.
[8] I so could not have said it better myself.
[9] Awesome.
[10] Oh I love it.
[11] Umm…
[12] Wonderful. Here is one reader who has not read enough articles written by M. Lewis.
[13] Wait, I thought we had a White House for that?