Documentary filmmaker Errol Morris is not a journalist, but he certainly knows how to ask questions like one. The latest product of his inquisitive nature is the stunning “The Fog of War,” a film whose entire narrative is delivered by erstwhile U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara — a man who is no stranger to answering questions.
Morris is the mad scientist of modern documentaries. He aligned himself with four dedicated professionals in his 1997 film “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control,” and like those eccentrics (among them a topiary gardener and a scientist specializing in studying the naked mole rat), he looks the part of an intellectual possessed by his work. Morris wears a bland oversized t-shirt that drapes past his elbows; one eyebrow is inquisitively raised and his mouth constantly moves, always forming a response or delivering one. He has hunched shoulders that jiggle when he laughs, looking like a quick succession of shrugs.
And he talks. Errol Morris gives presidential-sized answers to questions, displaying a remarkable knowledge of the events covered in “The Fog of War” (indeed, he is far more interested in this history than he is discussing his film) and constantly drifting off into the sort of stream-of-consciousness idiosyncrasies that have defined his 25-year career.
Morris is best known for two films: 1978’s “Gates of Heaven,” a bizarre profile of California pet cemeteries and America’s obsession with self-image, and 1988’s extraordinary “The Thin Blue Line,” a film exploring the possible innocence of Randall Adams, a convicted murderer on Texas’ death row. Morris’ cinematic argument was so persuasive that Adams was exonerated and the right man imprisoned — although Adams would later successfully sue Morris for benefiting from his name.
This twist of irony wouldn’t be out of place in Morris’ truth-is-stranger-than-fiction documentaries. “The Fog of War” is no exception. The portrait of McNamara is obviously Morris’ most scrutinized work — and possibly his most important.
“I didn’t want it to be a comprehensive history of the 20th century,” he says, leaning his head on his outstretched left hand, which cups his face like it’s a basketball. The movie is structured around a series of interviews Morris conducted with McNamara in 2001.
McNamara’s answers branch out to numerous major political events of the last century, from McNamara’s infant memories of World War I to his participation in World War II to his stint as U.S. Secretary of Defense, where he was in on closed-door meetings during the Cuban Missile Crisis and, most notoriously, where he helped engage America in the Vietnam War. A true renaissance man, McNamara also served as president of Ford Motor Company (where he was pivotal in the implementation of the seatbelt) and the World Bank.
McNamara doesn’t work so much as an embodiment of 20th century politics, but rather as an empathetic example of the types of men who lead the world. “People tell me a lot about themselves in describing themselves and the language they use to describe themselves,” Morris quips. “In my more grandiose moments, I see this as a way of describing history inside-out.”
While in college, Morris protested against “McNamara’s War” — Vietnam. Unsure of what to expect from his interviews with McNamara — which were modeled after Morris’ subject-narrated television series “First Person” that aired in 2000-2001 — even Morris was surprised by McNamara’s frankness.
He squirms in his chair excitedly. “All I know is that five minutes into the first interview, he’s started talking about war crimes,” Morris says, referring specifically to McNamara’s participation in the firebombing of 67 Japanese cities during World War II. “There have been three, four, five full-length biographies on McNamara — and none of them mention this!” he exclaims, tossing his hands forward in a manner not unlike McNamara’s pen-wielding punctuations in the film.
Morris’ documentaries feature unique external footage, including archival clips, photographs and the dramatic reenactment — a tool Morris invented when he made “The Thin Blue Line,” paving the way for “Unsolved Mysteries” and similar shows. A sequence late in “The Fog of War,” however, speaks to Morris’ creation.
While discussing the legitimacy of the attacks on the USS Maddux and USS Turner Joy in the Tonkin Gulf that, real or not, led to the Tonkin Gulf Resolution, authentic-looking footage plays of curious officers and soldiers aboard a destroyer. Morris explains: “We found in the national archives original dailies of all this material for the Tonkin Gulf and it turns out they restaged these events, as non-events, days after they happened.” Does Morris believe this was a conscious cover-up, that the U.S. military felt they could convince themselves of a “non-event?”
“It wasn’t conspiracy,” Morris says, “but rather general confusion … befuddlement.”
All of Morris’ films involve a search for truth or understanding. When asked about his conscious philosophy regarding truth, Morris moves in half-time, cocking his head towards his other shoulder before opining.
“My two cents on truth … I believe in truth,” he begins. “I have very little patience for the ideas of truth being subjective, or this person’s truth versus another.”
“The Fog of War’s” trump card is that it gives both McNamara and Morris a pedestal to examine and explore their perceived truths. If there’s anything to learn from the career of Errol Morris, it’s this: From pet cemeteries to nuclear war, nothing is ever what it seems.
