VERNON, FLORIDA - #752

It’s never explained during the running time of the movie why exactly documentarian Errol Morris chose Vernon, Florida, as the subject of his 1981 documentary. Following on the heels of his acclaimed Gates of Heaven [review], it’s easy to see that the filmmaker is once again assembling a diverse cast of characters to tell their stories, but outside of their living in the same area, there isn’t an obvious connection. Legend has it that Vernon, Florida was originally supposed to be about people who had cut off limbs to collect insurance money, but when Morris found those folks less than cooperative, he pivoted to find subjects that were.

And he found no shortage of willing participants. Vernon, Florida is certainly replete with colorful characters--a nigh-obsessed turkey hunter, a preacher with demonstrable faith, a worm famer, and a cop who is more than content to police a sleepy burg where nothing happens are just a few of the townspeople who share their existences with Morris’ camera. Each is eager to impart what they know--which actually may be their connection. They are all backwoods know-it-alls, disdainful of that which doesn’t come straight from the land or is easily discernible with the naked eye. Even the fellow in the beginning who bought into some kind of jewel club is convinced the precious stone he was sent for his membership fee is a fraud. Why? Because even though he has a jeweler’s loupe, he doesn’t know what to look for. Where is the chain of evidence on this rock?

Then again, maybe he should listen to the old man who describes his encounter with an atheist. When the non-believer told him that all life “just happened,” it seems more than obvious to the believer that the thing that made it happen is God. If I exist and you exist and all that’s around us exists, and we don’t know where it comes from, what other explanation is there?

Morris, of course, does not challenge this or any of the other claims he hears. And there is nothing to say that any of his interviewees are necessarily full of crap. The worm farmer, for instance, who insists books written about the cultivation of “wrigglers” got it wrong, bases this on practical experience. The only thing that will really teach you is doing. Just like the only true deterrent to speeding, which is about the only crime Vernon knows, is for the cop to park his car out in the open and let the drivers see him. Then they’ll think before hitting the gas.

It’s all simple to grasp, and all the men are charming in their way, but where we get the Morris twist in Vernon, Florida is perhaps in his choice to let the men talk long enough that they sometimes show themselves up. The guy with the jewel, for instance, seems to have a habit of spotting things that aren’t there and then exhibits no follow-through to find out what he really saw. And for all his bravado about the turkeys he’s shot and his ability to track the “gobblers,” why is it that for Morris, the hunter only ever points out things that sound like the turkeys but aren’t? Sure, this is obviously him trying to prove how smart he is, believing the filmmaker would be fooled by the doppelganger sound, but it also feels like maybe Morris is winking at us. These know-it-alls don’t always know what they don’t know.

And hey, if God creates all things that “just happen,” then is He the unseen shooter that put a bullet through the police car’s windshield? Asking for a friend...

GATES OF HEAVEN - #751

Every pet owner likely watches Errol Morris’ Gates of Heaven with a little cringe of familiarity. Buried in all of us is some of the same sincere absurdity that drives many of his interviewees to partake in the services of his subject: namely, pet cemeteries.

Morris’ 1978 debut is a documentary of many subtle layers. Ostensibly about two different pet cemeteries--one run by a well-meaning man with no business sense, the other by a true believer who has made a real go of it--Gates of Heaven could at first blush seem to be having a laugh at the expense of its subjects, but the more Morris’ subtle presentation settles over you, the more you realize that Gates of Heaven is an affectionate document of people whose deeply held feelings border on the ridiculous, but whom are all the more lovable for it.

Why else pair the earnest Mac McClure with the owner of a nearby rendering plant that competes with the concerned man over the dead? McClure’s overwrought compassion is given context by terrible things that his rival so callously undertakes on the regular. Likewise, McClure’s unvarnished emotion is balanced against the business sense of Cal Roberts’, whose family-run Bubbling Well Pet Memorial transplants McClure’s customers when he loses his land. Roberts sees his business as more of a religious calling, which itself is juxtaposed against how his two sons approach the vocation. One is an aimless hippie who does the work but with little ambition, the other a go-getter, primed for the oncoming 1980s, looking to expand profit in a way that forgets the true nature of the enterprise.

Woven through these tales are the testimonies of real pet owners who have availed Bubbling Well of their services. Herein lies Gates of Heaven’s true heart. For as excessive or outlandish some may find the pet cemetery business, it means something to those who bring their fuzzy loved ones there to rest. As we listen to their stories of connection and loss, we also view the memorials, images of the absent companion coupled with some adoring sentiment--alternately heartwarming for how long the life shared and heartbreaking for how short. One poor Christmas critter didn’t even make it to the following summer.

Sure, Morris is a natural satirist, and his intent with Gates of Heaven is not to simply memorialize or celebrate. Laced into this narrative is a critique of how commerce can taint spirituality, and how necessity can be overtaken by luxury. Maybe the rendering plant is more sensible by putting the animal remains to good use, and maybe a permanent resting place for doggies and kitties is impractical and even extravagant. Neither is really for the documentarian to say, the questions are simply there. But they also wouldn’t matter if Errol Morris didn’t have a genuine affection for everyone he cuts into the film, nor would Gates of Heaven have endured these thirty years as a work of astonishing humanism. Be honest, when watching it, did you look at your own furry pal sitting nearby and consider what his or her own monument might look like when the time comes?

THE THIN BLUE LINE - #753

Errol Morris’ influential 1988 documentary The Thin Blue Line is both film as political activism and true crime. Like Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood but with the journalistic rigor of 60 Minutes.

The Thin Blue Line is the story of a 1976 killing of a policeman in Dallas, Texas. Just past midnight on Thanksgiving weekend, Officer Robert W. Wood pulled over a car driving without its headlights. When the office approached the driver’s door, the man behind the wheel pulled a pistol and opened fire. About a month later, just before Christmas, Randall Dale Adams was arrested for the crime. Though he insisted on his innocence all the way through, Adams was eventually convicted, primarily on the testimony of David Harris, a 16-year-old delinquent who claimed to be hiding on the passenger side of the vehicle that evening. Adams contended that Harris picked him up when he ran out of gas, and though he and the teenager spent the day together, he had returned to his hotel a few hours before the homicide and never saw Harris again. Adding weight to his defense: the kid admitted to having stolen the car and the gun that was used to shoot the lawman.

Despite a flimsy case, Adams was convicted and sentenced to death. Morris picks up the story nearly a decade later, and retraces all the steps taken that landed Adams in jail. He examines both the prosecution and the defense’s arguments. In addition to Adams and Harris, he interviews police investigators, lawyers, the judge, and key witnesses. The director approaches each aspect of the case from one angle, and then another, and then a third still--however many it takes to get all sides. Each interview subject is getting a chance to state their truth, and then Morris impeaches that truth or finds support for it. Other people editorialize, the director does not. While one can guess that perhaps sympathy for Adams is what inspired Morris to undertake The Thin Blue Line, one doesn’t get the sense that any of the documentary’s conclusions are considered foregone.

On the contrary, the thrill of watching The Thin Blue Line is how many twists and turns this narrative takes before finding its way to the closing credits. Morris’ camera is akin to a noir detective in that its always having to adapt to new information; every time it settles on one answer, a new question pops up, so it can never maintain a single line of interrogation. In terms of technique, Morris relies mostly on participant testimonies, which he illustrates via re-enactments. The central crime is shown over and over, but with each change in the account, we see it a slightly different way. The use of these staged sequences is engaging without being manipulative. The switch-ups have a Rashomon-like effect. Every version could be true, or none of them. In fact, as The Thin Blue Line draws to a close, the truth is still up to us. The audience, in this case, is the jury. In both approach and effectiveness, The Thin Blue Line is the granddaddy to the Paradise Lost trilogy and Making of a Murderer, both of which owe Errol Morris a huge debt.

There is a level of restraint here that is kind of remarkable. As David Harris emerges as a more intriguing character than initially thought, it must have taken every ounce of control that Morris could muster not to rush ahead, to expose all the secrets immediately, or convert his winding path to a more direct route. It’s a credit to what a good storyteller the filmmaker truly is. Because even if you go in knowing the outcome, you’ll still be completely drawn in waiting to see how Errol Morris is going to get us there.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME - #699

When one comes to understand the theory of an ever-expanding, unending universe, one also comes to understand how small a part one plays in a large cosmic drama. Getting to know the man who developed that theory, Stephen Hawking, only proves to make one feel smaller. If he can explore the vastness of space despite being confined to a wheelchair, unable to talk or move most of the muscles in his body, what exactly are we doing with our lives?

Making the viewer feel small, of course, is not the goal of Errol Morris' 1991 documentary A Brief History of Time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Based on Hawking's book of the same name, as well as his similarly titled memoir A Brief History, Morris' film is a concise and fascinating biography of the brilliant astrophysicist that engages with the man's life by accepting that the product of his work is as essential to his story as any of the life events that led to him becoming who he is. You can be told what Albert Einstein had for breakfast every day, but you're still going to want to spend some time hearing about the Theory of Relativity.

Hawking is virtually a household name, but I'd wager quite a lot of people don't really know all that much about him or what exactly it is he has accomplished. Most know that he speaks through a complex computer set-up where he uses a clicker to find the words he wants to say, which are then voiced by a robotic voice. (It's a far more sophisticated version of the manual selection process used by Jean-Dominique Bauby in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, [review] but as we learn in A Brief History of Time, based on the same principle.) Personally, however, I'd never really known about the neurological disorder that led to Hawking's body breaking down, nor the years it took for his functions to fail him. Morris juxtaposes the active and often lazy boy that Hawking was with the focused, dedicated man he became, divining the essential details from family, friends, colleagues, and Hawking himself.

What emerges is a compelling portrait of a unique individual who refused to give in to his disease, and by some ironic happenstance, benefitted from it. (As his mother says, no one would call his affliction anything but bad luck, but Stephen did more with it than most.) It's hard to say how many of Hawking's discoveries would still be waiting to be found were he not bound by circumstance to spend his every waking moment living the life of the mind. In fact, as Morris explains the different ideas and theories that define Hawking's essential work, it becomes clear that his exploration of the origins of the universe and his quest to see where life is heading is more than a little defined by his predicament. One of the central discoveries that Hawking made was to realize that black holes aren't entirely black, and that what enters a black hole is, after a fashion, returned to the universe, albeit in a different form. Does it not make sense that a man with Stephen Hawking's condition would seek a way to explain and conquer oblivion?

Errol Morris' technique was well defined by A Brief History of Time. He adeptly blends interviews with archival images, animated graphics, and specially photographed sequences to lead the audience through all aspects of his subject. The way he brings to life the various theories from Hawking's book is particularly impressive, turning somewhat abstract concepts into recognizable sequences by using Hawking's own metaphors in a more literal fashion. It's fitting, actually, since Hawking himself apparently began to think in terms of pictures as a way to communicate more effectively when language began to fail him. Cinema, as it turns out, is an ideal medium. The world's most popular art form is surprisingly agile when it comes to realizing the theoretical scientist's goal of explaining the fundamentals of the universe to every person existing within it.

And with that, we can feel larger. Access to the keys to the universe means we can take some part in driving where it goes. The new version of the TV show Cosmos, as hosted by Neil Degrasse Tyson, has a similar mission. The more that we know as a collective people, the more we will be able to discover, and the fewer boundaries we will have left to conquer.

This disc was provided by the Criterion Collection for purposes of review.