Films such as 'An
Inconvenient Truth' don't always let viewers make their own conclusions.
March
19, 2007
IN CASE YOU
haven't noticed, documentaries are hot. No longer the domain of
university film leagues and vintage un-P.C. jokes — "How
many lesbians does it take to screw in a light bulb? One to turn
the bulb and 20 to make a documentary about it" — nonfiction
films are cheap to make and increasingly free of the esoteric artiness,
and sometimes outright pretentiousness, that gave the genre its
elitist reputation.
Al Gore (and
friends) accepted the Oscar for "An Inconvenient Truth," which
waltzed into the winner's circle as a box office phenomenon and
obvious shoo-in, even though it wasn't much more than a riveting
PowerPoint presentation with good lighting. Recently, there have
been rumblings from the scientific community about Gore's grasp
of the details. Few doubt his premise, yet scientists (on both
sides of the debate) have suggested that some of his arguments — such
as suggesting a direct cause-effect between global warming and
hurricanes — were exaggerated for the purposes of getting
people's attention.
But who can
blame him? Now that the documentary game is taking on many of the
high-stakes qualities of Hollywood, it seems that only the sexiest
(or most alarmist) will survive. Yet the pleasures of documentaries
(at least in this elitist's opinion) come from the triumph of grit
and substance over flashy theatrics. And though it's naive to assume
that any form of documentation other than, say, the phone book,
is purely objective, the best nonfiction filmmakers have had a
stake in letting their subjects speak for themselves and allowing
viewers to draw their own conclusions — even when they weren't
sure what those conclusions were.
Michael Apted's
ongoing "Up" series, which began with a portrait of 14
English 7-year-olds in 1964 called "7 Up" and checks
in with them every seven years ("49 Up" was released
in 2005), raises questions about the British class system but refrains
from shoving polemics down our throats. In the 1975 classic, "Grey
Gardens," Albert and David Maysles focus on the bizarre and
squalid lives of a mother and daughter (Jacqueline Kennedy's aunt
and first cousin, as it happens) and, with limited intervention,
tell a story about isolation, mental illness and the complexities
of inherited wealth.
There are
many more where those came from. But aside from some noteworthy
exceptions ("Capturing the Friedmans," "Grizzly
Man" and the TV mini-series "The Staircase" come
to mind) we rarely see such movies anymore — and not just
because our ability to sit through long scenes with no cutaways
or animated graphics has been worn away by the legacy of Short
Attention Span Media. We rarely see them because, in many cases,
the focus has shifted from the films' subject matter to the filmmakers'
agendas.
There's nothing
intrinsically wrong with that — this elitist's all-time favorite
doc is the hilariously navel-gazing "Sherman's March," which
follows director Ross McElwee on a botched mission to chronicle
the fall of the Confederacy — but too many of these directors
don't know the difference between hammering us with their opinions
and laying out the evidence so that we can decide.
Call it the
Michael Moore syndrome. It's hard not to like his films (and many
of us do: "Fahrenheit 9/11" grossed nearly $120 million
in the U.S. alone), and yet you don't need to be a right-wing nut
to see that he twists his material to suit his perspective.
From the
loins of Moore sprang Morgan Spurlock, of the Oscar-nominated "Super
Size Me," who decided the best way to expose the malfeasance
of the fast-food industry was to eat nowhere but at McDonald's
for 30 days and monitor his health deterioration. While we didn't
learn much from that movie that serious journalists hadn't objectively
reported in far greater detail, it proved to be good for Spurlock.
He got his own documentary television show on the FX channel, "30
Days," wherein he (or occasionally someone else) got immersed
in an alien culture and lived to tell the tale: surviving on minimum
wage, serving time. You get the picture.
Actually,
we don't get the picture. In Spurlock's work, and in the work of
many contemporary documentarians, we get a picture of the filmmaker's
p.o.v. and not much else. That's because this crop of documentarians
doesn't seem to believe that shooting real life — what happens
without their interference — is sufficiently interesting.
Along the
way, a strange thing happens. The filmmakers' hipper-than-thou
preachiness (or, in Gore's case, unhipper-than-thou earnestness)
makes us inclined to pick fights with them. Before too long we
find ourselves arguing against dire predictions about global warming
and eating Big Macs while we're doing it. Why? Because even though
these movies are labeled "provocative," there used to
be another word for this style of film. It also starts with the
letter P.
That's not
to say that the true-believer "embellishments" in "An
Inconvenient Truth" deeply discredit the movie. But if Gore
gets his own show on FX, I may start cutting down trees. On the
other hand, he could team up with Spurlock and spend 30 days in
the White House. From there, he could propagandize with impunity.