Robert S. McNamara might be the most important person in 20th century U.S. foreign policy.
“The Fog of War” might be the most important movie about 20th century U.S. foreign policy.
Though he is most notorious for his role in the Vietnam War as John F. Kennedy’s Secretary of Defense (the youngest ever to hold that position), McNamara was also in on closed-door meetings during the Cuban Missile Crisis. As an officer alongside General Curtis LeMay, McNamara also helped order the devastating — and little-known — firebombing of 67 Japanese cities in World War II.
“The Fog of War” inventively presents McNamara’s life as a modern meta-autobiography. At once possessing the intellectual tenacity of a genius and the reluctance of a passive bystander, McNamara brilliantly embodies American politics. Morris, no stranger to such biographies (1992’s Stephen Hawking portrait “A Brief History of Time”), brilliantly expands the definition of a documentary.
Morris uses his trademark Interrotron camera — essentially a TelePrompTer that projects Morris’ face rather than words, allowing the subject to maintain eye contact with both Morris and the camera — thus offering an intense portrait of McNamara, accompanied by Morris’ usual assortment of archival clips, original reenactments and created footage.
For “The Fog of War,” Morris had access to a series of declassified taped conversations between President Lyndon B. Johnson and McNamara documenting their unique working relationship. There’s also an incredible montage documenting LeMay’s firebombing, juxtaposing the casualties of every bombed city with a comparably-sized American counterpart.
McNamara himself is a fascinating subject. He’s brilliant. He’s confident. He’s arrogant. He’s smart enough to fess up to his mistakes but strong enough to stand by his decisions.
Morris, best known for his landmark documentary “The Thin Blue Line,” has an agenda with McNamara, particularly in mining details about “McNamara’s War” — Vietnam. But the real magic in Morris’ narrative is that despite his subjective approach, McNamara is graceful enough to remain a legitimate, objective subject. Without ever being at odds with Morris — the two still talk — Morris’ presentation and McNamara’s attitude render McNamara completely human.
The film is subtitled “Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara,” and the eleventh lesson is simple: you can’t change human nature. Our decisions to be contradictory, ignorant and stupid are ingrained in the wisest of leaders and the lowliest of soldiers. I wouldn’t venture to call McNamara’s role in “The Fog of War” a performance, but his honesty, in an almost actorly way, qualifies all his lessons — especially this last one.
One of the film’s most striking sequences is its depiction of the WW II firebombing of Tokyo. A stream of numbers fall from the sky like dropped missiles; they drift through a thick fog over the city, preventing any sort of supposed accuracy. McNamara asks: is it mathematically “better” to lose many lives in the name of peace? The audience asks: Is war about numbers? About the number of lives lost? Or simply saving lives?
