Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2020)

14. My Psychedelic Love Story

Errol Morris' reputation as a documentarian is such that, over the years, sometimes interview subjects reach out to him. Morris' 2017 Netflix docudrama “Wormwood” received a lot of attention. Among its many viewers was Johanna Harcourt-Smith, who was the girlfriend of Timothy Leary at the time he was arrested. Harcourt-Smith has long been the center of rumors that she set Leary up for imprisonment. After many years, Johanna has come to believe she was intentionally misled by the government to achieve these goals. She would contact Errol Morris to make a film about her story, in hopes of exploring this idea some more.

In the 1960s, Timothy Leary, a Harvard psychologist professor, became the prophet of psychedelic drugs. His rhapsodizing of LSD made the drug far more popular and made Leary a target of government scrutiny. Richard Nixon considered him the most dangerous man in the world. But “My Psychedelic Love Story” is not Leary's story, not solely. Johanna Harcourt-Smith is the woman Leary was in love with when he was arrested. She lived the sex and drugs lifestyle with Leary. While Leary was in prison, she led the movement to free him while also working as a CIA informant. This and many other stories from Johanna's life are told in “My Psychedelic Love Story.”

It's a cliché to say this but: “My Psychedelic Love Story” really is a snapshot of its time. Acid was just entering the public consciousness. Nixon would officially engage the War on Drugs, declaring that nebulous problem as the greatest woe facing America. Expanding your consciousness was the biggest thing for young people to do. Through Johanna's recollections and archive footage, Morris recalls all the drugs she took, many of the men she slept with, and some of the times she was naked in public. It was truly a different time and “My Psychedelic Love Story” gives us a little peek at what living through the sixties must have been like.

Johanna Harcourt-Smith proves to be a good topic for a documentary. She has led a fascinating life. She was born into the lap of luxury, the granddaughter of a British archaeologist and raised by a well-to-do family. Johanna would rub shoulders with the Rolling Stones, appear on Swish television, and become a minor celebrity in her home country. Her journeys with Leary would take her all over the world. Johanna talks about heading to Kabul as a simple trip. Yet she looked at visiting America as a truly exotic trip. In casual speech, she talks about appearing at public places in the nude or arranging elaborate drug deals. And Johanna relates all of that with a smile and a sly sense of humor.

Johanna took the sixties' ethos of free love to heart. She breathlessly recounts the number of sexual encounters she had throughout the decade. Any time a man would resist her charms, she considered that quite strange. Yet Johanna's relaxed attitudes towards sex was not just an aspect of the time and place. Tearfully, she recalls an episode from her childhood where her mother's chauffeur molested her. She found the experience intensely wrong and uncomfortable, yet her body reacted with pleasure. She was never taught about pregnancy, only STDS. Inevitably, she got pregnant as a teenager. The child was taken away and she never saw it again. Johanna learned to use sex as a tool to get what she wanted. Of course she did. She was always taught that intimacy was only a way to control people. It explains a lot about her casual attitude towards sex.

While “My Psychedelic Love Story” is the story of Johanna's life, it obviously focuses the most on her time with Timothy Leary. Their love is described as spiritual, Leary seducing her with Tarot cards and crystals and long talks about her third eye. Opinion on Leary ranges wildly. Many consider him an acid prophet, bringing mind expansion to the public at large. Others consider him a charlatan, who was only interested in getting high and getting famous. Either way, Leary suffered for his fame, sitting in prison for four years. Ostensibly arrested for his ties to radical left organizations and drug trafficking, Leary's sentence wouldn't be lessened until he started to talk. 

Johanna talks about the long process it took to even get Leary to that point. She was eventually wrapped up in a plot that involved drug smuggling, cocaine, sex, and another man in love with her. All along, Johanna claims that she was totally naïve about what she was doing. (And also high on coke most of the time.) That she had no idea that her words were sending people to prison. At the same time, more than once, she talks about how good she is at lying. Is this a subtle admission of her crimes? And if we can assume this to be true, the long discussed conspiracy theory that Johanna was a Mata Hari sent to seduce Leary seems more plausible.

Whether or not Johanna knowingly led Leary to the CIA or not, we'll never know. The film discusses her post-Leary life only slightly. There's a brief discussion of the death of Johanna's mother, as she sadly recalls her final breath. How their passionate relationship – which lasted all throughout his incarceration – dissolved suddenly after an argument one night. (Leary was married five times.) She clearly never totally got over the end of the relationship, holding regrets over it for years to time. One can't help but wonder if “My Psychedelic Love Story” was a way for Harcourt-Smith to finally put her complicated feelings about the end of the relationship to rest. She would die only a few months after the documentary was filmed.  

After straying from his trademark interrogation style somewhat with “American Dharma,” “My Psychedelic Love Story” is a more traditional Errol Morris movie. We hear the director talk back at Johanna from behind the camera a few times, slightly incredulous at her pleas of innocence. Mostly though, this is one person telling their story. To keep things upbeat and energetic, Morris incorporates frequently psychedelic imagery. Clips from “Alice in Wonderland,” shots of Tarot cards, and of Nixon speeches are included. The text is brightly colored and the editing is fast paced, nicely capturing the sixties rock-n-roll feeling of this story. Morris includes audio from Leary, to make sure his presence is still felt in this story that's partially about him.

“My Psychedelic Love Story” would air on November 22nd of this year, a little over a month after Johanna passed away. Coming away from the film, you can't help but have a mixed impression of her. I definitely feel like she's a little bit full of shit. At the same time, I get the impression that she really did love Timothy Leary and believed in his message. If nothing else, her story is a surprising and fascinating one. While the film could have propped a little more into the topic of how the government tried to suppress radical speech in the sixties, it's ultimately more focused on Johanna's unique story. Seeing her tell this wild tale is more than worth it. [Grade: B]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2018)

13. American Dharma

In 2017, Errol Morris filmed “American Dharma,” one of his trademark interview documentaries with notorious alt-right hellraiser/Trump adviser Steve Bannon. The film received mixed reviews on the festival circuit. While there were some positive notices, others criticized Morris for not interrogating Bannon enough. Yet others were aghast that Morris gave someone like Bannon a “platform” at all. The film was slow to pick up a distributor, perhaps because of this. Or perhaps because, even then, it was a hundred controversies ago in the Trump presidency. By the time the film got a general release late last year, Bannon's name had completely fallen out of the news cycle. And now I'm getting around to covering the movie, as the country is knee deep in the smoking wreckage of the administration Bannon helped bring to life.

Through a long conversation with Bannon, Errol Morris tracks the man’s rise and fall. He discusses his roots as a filmmaker of right-wing political documentaries, how he came to be involved with alt-right propaganda site Breitbart, and how he eventually became the primary architect of Donald Trump's presidential campaign. Bannon reveals the brute force tactics, such as a naked appeal to populism, that navigated Trump through countless controversies to the White House. Through the conversation, Bannon also reveals his frequently contradictory personal philosophies. 

Something compelling about Bannon, that sets him apart from other political pundits, is his open obsession with pop culture. Morris structures "American Dharma" after "Twelve O'Clock High," one of Bannon's favorite films that he uses to explain his belief in destiny and dharma. Throughout the conversation, movies like "The Searchers" and "Bridge on the River Kwai" are discussed. What's really interesting about this is the way Bannon's willful misinterpretation of these classic films reflect on him. He re-contextualizes a key moment from "Chimes at Midnight" to reflect his own expulsion from the Trump White House. (Which also makes Bannon seem like a massive fucking bootlickers who likes that his boss kicked him out.) He reads "Paths of Glory" as a metaphor for the experiences of the "deplorables," an interpretation so off-target it's funny. Bannon is, in fact, a fan of Errol Morris, citing "The Fog of War" as another influence but so completely misunderstood the film that he's surprised its director voted for Hillary Clinton. It's about the level of critical analysis that you'd expect from someone who unironically lists Darth Vader and Satan as his fictional idols. 

Something Morris seems especially interested in exploring is the blatant contradictions in Bannon's philosophies. Or, rather, showing Bannon's disinterest in examining these contradictions. Steve explains his admiration of Andrew Breitbart, describing someone he sees as decisive and not driven by emotion. Morris follows this with footage of Breitbart screaming at Occupy protestors in a totally unhinged fashion. Bannon dismisses the Nazi rallies that sprung up in the aftermath of Trump's election. Morris then shows stories from Bannon's websites, using all sorts of xenophobic and white supremacy-aligned phrases, Bannon goes on at-length about his nationalist, isolationist politics. He decries "the elite" and "globalists." When Morris grills Bannon and why he thought helping a billionaire become president was a blow against "the elite," he rambles out his usual list of buzz words.

So the question emerges: How full of shit is Steve Bannon? Does he even know he's full of shit? Bannon describes the origin story of his nationalist beliefs, of growing up in the spectre of the Vietnam War and seeing "Made in Vietnam" on a crate of school uniforms for his kids. That certainly seems sincere enough. As does his clear hatred of Muslims and foreigners. And his continued use of antisemitic code words like "globalists" and "the elite" makes his opinions on the Jewish people less than ambiguous. It seems to me that extending his philosophy of America First isolationism, and barely coded white supremacy, is Bannon's primary concern. He sees the tax cuts for the rich the mainstream Republican Party, which Bannon repeatedly disparages, insists on as a compromise worth making. 

Then again, greed is always a factor to consider. Bannon describes part of how he came to power. He made part of his fortune by noticing the real life money people were willing to pay for fake money and items in "World of Warcraft." Though expressing ignorance about video games, Bannon is clearly savvy about how to take advantage of new media. He brings up Twitter and Breitbart's comment sections as ways to rally support. 4Chan and Reddit even get brief mentions. "American Dharma" clearly concludes that, in 2016, the Democrats were less able to use the Internet to rally support. 

Bannon knew how to reach out to people with a clear message that resonated. He targeted his isolationist philosophy at disenfranchised Americans, unemployed and scared and susceptible to fears about illegal immigrants and Islamic extremists. (That his policies focused more on excluding brown people than striking back at corporations, the "elites" he's always railing against, is another contradiction Bannon doesn't address.) All throughout the campaign, he never wavered from that approach. When the first of many sex scandals threatened to derail Trump's presidential chances, Bannon doubled down on his techniques. He - proudly - calls it populism. I call it zeroing in on America's racist heart and never letting go. 

Either way, it worked. "American Dharma" succulently depicts how Bannon and the Trump campaign took advantage of America's ugliest and most ingrained beliefs - and a media totally unprepared to counter Trump's attention-grabbing theatrics - to pave their own path to power. Bannon repeatedly refers to it as "going to war," which Morris emphasizes with bullet and bombshell sound effects while pasting new stories and tweets to the screen. This aggressive determination to never drift away from this message, to always play to the bases, strikes me as the most obvious reason Trump secured his narrow victory. This says a lot about America in general but is, in my opinion, the clearest answer of how we got into this mess. And Morris' film depicts that well.

"American Dharma" also represents a change in style for Errol Morris. The director does not utilize his typical interrogation visual approach much this time. The film is not composed of Bannon explaining his story and experiences, with infographic blowback as Morris did with Robert McNamara and Donald Rumsfeld in "The Fog of War" and "The Unknown Known." Instead, it's more of a conversation between Bannon and Morris. Morris, though still kept mostly off-screen, repeatedly inserts himself into the film. He challenges Bannon's actions and worldview, questioning his self-described "apocalyptic" politics. This ties in with Morris' perhaps more showy-than-usual visuals. We have lots of dramatic shots of Bannon wandering around a Quonset hut – inspired by “Twelve O'Clock High” – or even meandering sequences of him walking through a half-completed house. The score, by Paul Leonard-Morgan, is also rather dramatic. 

If "American Dharma" had been made more recently, it could've had a far more cinematic ending. Bannon is currently awaiting trial for fraud involved with a bullshit con to keep building Trump's failed border wall. (Which certainly re-enforces the possibility that Bannon sees right-wing fear-mongering as a way to line his own pockets.) Instead, Morris had to settle for Bannon being ejected from Trump's White House and his weak sauce attempt to spread his venomous philosophies to Europe. Because Morris is so focused on Bannon, he doesn't explore the interplay of fragile male ego and optics that most likely led to Trump kicking Bannon out.

I can see why the movie didn't receive an especially enthusiastic reception. The last four years have been awash in media attempting to figure out how the hell this happened. It's possible nobody was much interested in yet another postmortem of the 2016 election in 2018. Bannon's staunch refusal to explore the inconsistencies in his own beliefs prevents “American Dharma” from having any “gotcha!” moments. Yet as an examination of how Bannon, and people like him, can drum up support and control the media narrative, it's valuable. Because Trump was bad and the next Trump will be worst. “American Dharma” is worth seeing for that reason alone. [Grade: B]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2016)

12. The B-Side
Elsa Dorfman's Portrait Photography

In 2017, Errol Morris would deliver something new that would easily become his most discussed work in years. After attempting, and failing, to get new narrative films off the ground for several years, Morris would change direction slightly. “Wormwood” is a true crime inspired docu-drama, a six part mini-series that was released to Netflix. Like many shows in our binge-watch era, “Wormwood” has become hotly discussed. But I'm not here to talk about that because, despite what anyone says, a TV show is a TV show and not a movie. Morris' latest excursion into long form story telling has largely overshadowed the actual new film he released this year. I'm talking about “The B-Side: Elsa Dorfman's Portrait Photography.”

“The B-Side” has Morris turning his camera on fascinating characters talking about their lives. He leaves behind the political work of the War Trilogy and returns to one of his favorite subjects: Artists and their art. “The B-Side” is an extended interview with Elsa Dorfman. A Massachusetts-based photographer, Dorfman would become most famous for her series of portraits taken with a large-scale Polaroid Land 20x24, essentially a giant Polaroid camera. Dorfman reflects on her work first getting attention in the sixties and seventies, where she rubbed shoulders with luminaries like Allen Ginsberg and Bob Dylan. She talks about her family, her work, and how technology has changed.

For his twelfth feature, Morris leaves behind one of his favorite techniques. “The B-Side” does not utilize the Interrotron, famous from most of his other documentaries. Instead, it's a far more casual interview. Dorfman stands in her studio, talking casually to Morris. The director is often heard asking questions and even appears on-screen a few times. This gives the audience a no-frills impression of who Dorfman is. This fits her portraits, which present her subjects standing in front of simple backgrounds, the edges of the set-up often visible in the photos.

Much of “The B-Side” is made up of lengthy interviews with Dorfman. Often the film will cut between the recent discussion and older archive footage of the photographer. In the modern day, Dorfman does not seem especially concerned with the artistic intent of her work. She talks a lot about her background. She mentions her Jewish heritage repeatedly. She tells stories about her husband and son, with a notable one being her husband's tendency to buy her black balloons on her birthday. Her accent makes her geographical background apparent. Beyond this, Dorfman also spends a lot of time talking about the technical aspect of her work.

The archive footage, meanwhile, presents a very different angle. In older interviews, Dorfman talks openly about what she hopes to accomplish with her work. She says she has no interest in capturing the deeper aspects of her subjects. She is only concerned with the surface. So she presents people as they are, standing before simple backgrounds with few exaggerations. And yet, despite her stated objective, Dorfman clearly captures something more intimate. Her stated preferences for what she calls the b-sides – the rejected portraits the family's leave behind – suggest that she is intent on putting something more than just the surface on film. She'll also comment on the happy accidents that have benefited her. Such as how a cord fell in a self-portrait or a particular flower being near-by at just the right time. This provides insight into the specifics of the artistic process.

Considering her long history in the business, Dorfman has also rubbed shoulders with many notable historic figures. She's more than happy to share these anecdotes. She talks about meeting Bob Dylan. How the bouncers at the club he was playing at would confiscate any cameras people attempted to bring in. After meeting her, and realizing who she was, Dylan allowed Dorfman to take his photo. Especially of note is Dorfman's long friendship with Allen Ginsberg. Elsa met Ginsberg, and many other Beat luminaries, while working as a secretary at famous publisher Grove Press. Dorfman would photograph Ginsberg many times over the years. One especially amusing story involves Ginsberg's willingness – and apparent insistence – in appearing nude in several of these portraits.

The film doesn't just capture a specific place in time through Dorfman's friendships with notable figures. It also shows how technology has changed over the years. The photographer's earliest work was done with traditional dark rooms. When the instant Polaroid came out, she considered it a revolutionary product. Dorfman loved the ability to instantly produce a photo. From there, she discovered the large-scale Polaroid, a giant version of the mass-produced model. Of course, the conversation eventually circles around to Polaroid's bankruptcy and dissolution. By clinging to an bygone piece of technology, “The B-Side” shows how much things have changed and gives the benefit of a doubt to obsolete processes.

Near the end, “The B-Side” starts to get a little more philosophical about the nature of photographs. Ginsberg's death comes up. Dorfman reflects on a photo's ability to capture a moment in time. This puts all of her work in a greater context. Because of the outright ordinariness of most of her portraits, Elsa gets at something greater. She freezes the everyday attributes, the little things we don't even think about, in one image. It puts all of life in a greater context This is what good photography is suppose to do.

The presentation of “The B-Side” shows Morris incorporating a continued visual dynamism into his documentaries. Morris peps up the interview with archive footage. He frequently puts Dorfman's images upfront, making her work come alive with bouncy editing. One of my favorite shots in the film has Morris' camera panning out over a huge collection of Dorfman's portraits. (She estimates her total number of portraits somewhere in the thousands.) In order to give a sense of scope to the technology on display, Morris will also focus on the cameras themselves, depicting them in a series of close-ups. Tying it all together is Paul Leonard-Morgan's score which is light-hearted but provocative.

“The B-Side” feels like a minor work from Morris. I know he didn't intend it this way but “Wormwood” was destined to overshadow this. The movie doesn't say anything super important about the world or the artistic process. It's also another short film from the director, only running a little over seventy minutes. However, I said the same thing about “Tabloid” the first time I watched it, which has since become probably my favorite Errol Morris movie. So maybe history will be kinder to “The B-Side,” a very pleasant movie that gives us insight into the life and career of an interesting artistic voice. [Grade: B]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2013)

11. The Unknown Known

One of the purposes of Director Report Cards is finding the reoccurring themes and trademarks of different filmmakers. This, sometimes, has me finding patterns that maybe don’t exist. Let me propose the following: In the new millennia, Errol Morris made a thematic trilogy about war and its effect. This cycle began with “The Fog of War,” continued with “Standard Operating Procedure,” and concluded with 2013’s “The Unknown Known.” (This is assuming Morris doesn’t make another movie about war, ruining my little pet theory here.) In many ways, “The Unknown Known” is a companion piece to “The Fog of War.” In both, Morris interviews a Secretary of Defense. But the War in Iraq was a very different conflict then the Vietnam War and Donald Rumsfield is a very different man then Robert McNamara. Thus, the resulting films are totally different beasts

“The Unknown Known” is focused on Donald Rumsfield, the controversial Secretary of Defense during the Nixon, Ford, and – most pointedly – the George W. Bush years. In between reading some of the countless memos Rumsfield wrote during his tenure, Errol Morris attempts to get some answer out of the contentious historical figure. Rumsfield, however, does not cooperate smoothly.

From its title on down, “The Unknown Known” is fascinated with Rumsfield's circular figures of speech. The film begins with an excerpt from its title lending speech, where Rumsfield laid out one of his clear philosophy in an especially contrived manner. Rumsfield talks like that often. Just as frequently, he interlaces weirdly folksy figures of speech into serious conversations. Eccentric characters often pop up in Morris’ films. I wish I could say the director brought that out of a former Secretary of Defense. Instead, Rumsfield genuinely is a kind of weird guy. The film often shows archive footage of Rumsfield’s notorious press conferences. Here, it becomes even more clear how Rumsfield’s slightly obnoxious, oddly compelling personality made him the face of the Iraq War.

Comparisons between “The Fog of War” and “The Unknown Known” are inevitable. Robert McNamara gave a thoughtful, intimate interview that exposed his humanity and had him talking frankly about war. Rumsfield, on the other hand, might as well be one of the unknowns of the title. He smiles, in a fake, extended way. As if he’s disguising his true thoughts or feelings. He often dispel the probing questions. Rumsfield is all business. The only time ol’ Don ever gives us a glimpse at his inner humanity is during a brief discussion about his wife. He cries later but they’re tears of joy and don’t seem entirely sincere. Unlike McNamara, Rumsfield never discusses the frank horrors of war. He’s not willing to admit that the Iraq War was a mess, that the U.S. government acted wrongly, that he ever made any mistakes. Rumsfield is evasive and closed-off.

Which does not make “The Unknown Known” the most revealing of interviews. Instead, Morris had to build the film around Rumsfield’s unwillingness to discuss his mistakes. Usually, Errol Morris doesn’t insert himself into his own films much. In his earliest movies, he was entirely silent. As his career advanced, occasionally Morris would let himself ask a question on camera. In “The Unknown Known,” Morris can often been heard asking queries. This is a natural result of Rumsfield being so damn shifty. As Rumsfield delivers another answer without truly answering the question, Morris often shouts back in a bemused manner. When asked about the missing Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq, Rumsfield sticks to his story. When asked about torture being used on detainees and suspects, he denies all knowledge. Sometimes, Rumsfield even outright lies, ignoring documents he signed himself. Despite his best efforts, Errol can’t get much out of this guy.

A particular note of interest is Donald Rumsfield’s obsessive note taking. The topic recurs throughout the film. Early on, he refers to the “snowflakes,” the little white slips of paper that he wrote memos on. An early shot shows the slips falling from the sky, visibly illustrating how many of the damn things Rumsfield produced. He makes frequent references to speaking notes into a handheld tape recorder. Donald’s outside image is precise. His habit of writing everything down, of constantly sending people his thoughts and ideas, supports this. Richard Nixon’s habit of recording everything is brought up at one point. Rumsfield’s constant note-writing does not seem like a dissimilar habit.

As a biography, Rumsfield’s unwillingness to open up forces Morris to stick totally to his professional career. His rise through the ranks during the Nixon administration are briefly summarized. This time frame ends with a recording of Nixon and Henry Kissenger making it clear that neither care much for Rumsfield on a personal level. During his time under Gerard Ford, Rumsfield gives an interesting anecdote about Ford hitting his head in an elevator. Later that same day, Ford was almost assassinated, which made the bruise on his forehead seem a lot less important. His response to the so-called “Halloween Massacre” is interesting, as he braces against such a negative phrase. He speaks of his exit from the government after Carter’s election in equally brief terms.

Morris actually works backwards, touching upon Rumsfield’s work during the War on Terror earlier in the film. His description of being inside the Pentagon on September 11th, 2001 aren’t exactly visceral. Even while talking about intense, violent situation, Rumsfield holds back and re-steers the conversation. His thoughts on Saddam Hussein seem strangely manufactured. Even while talking to him during a diplomatic meeting in the eighties, Rumsfield talks about the dictator being evil. Of course, Saddam was a bad guy. But Rumsfield’s answer is rehearsed, planned. When directly quizzed about Iraq, Abu Gharbi, or Weapons of Mass Destruction, he deflects more. All the while, he smiles and chuckles, never getting at the truth.

Returning from “Standard Operating Procedure,” Danny Elfman’s contributes another score. The music features far more of Elfman’s trademarks. He makes heavy use of willowy choirs, whimsical strings and mournful oboes. Yet the music still feels like it belongs to a Errol Morris movie, focusing just as much on building piano cords and repeating melodies. At times, the soundtrack is oddly up-beat, matching Rumsfield’s misleading exterior. Elfman, of course, lets the music go to darker places, when the subject of terrorism and torture come up. There’s a mysterious quality to the music that doesn’t sacrifice the beauty of the melodies. It suits the film extremely well and is a pretty good piece of music by itself.

“The Unknown Known” is frustrating but how could it be any other way? Those expecting a similar interview to “The Fog of War” will definitely be disappointed. Instead, “The Unknown Known” becomes an examination of obfuscation. It’s as much about a deceptive and contentious historical figure rewriting events to suit his needs as it is about the Iraq War. Errol Morris asks reasonable questions and Donald Rumsfield, more often then not, gives confusing, double-speak-and-mixed-metaphor filled answers. Combined with Morris’ sharp visuals and Elfman’s solid score, “The Unknown Known” remains a compelling film. Look into Rumsfield’s eyes, watch him lie, and try to figure out how much of anything he says is true. [Grade: B]

Errol Morris has been trying to get another narrative film made for some time. "Freezing People is Easy," a promising sounding comedy about cryonics meant to star Paul Rudd and Christopher Walken, nearly came together before disappearing. More recently, Morris was attached to direct "Holland, Michigan," a true crime based thriller starring Bryan Cranston. This too has yet to roll into active production. I'd really love to see either of these movies. It's still obvious to me that Morris has a great narrative film inside him. Hopefully, such a project will get made that day. Until then, Morris has been keeping busy with short documentary films for ESPN. I imagine another documentary feature will materialize in time. I look forward to whatever that movie may be.

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2010)

10. Tabloid

To say that Errol Morris only makes two types of documentaries is diminishing to his skills as a filmmaker. However, Morris’ movies can generally be separated into two categories. The first of which is his important, political and historical work. “The Thin Blue Line” got a wrongfully accused man out of prison. “The Fog of War” and “Standard Operating Procedure” shed light on the controversies of the Vietnam and Iraq Wars. The other category is intimate interviews with quirky, unique individuals about unusual topics. “Gates of Heaven,” “Vernon, Florida,” and “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” are examples. “Tabloid” fits snugly inside the second style. While both types of film are often great, I’ll admit a preference to the second type. “Tabloid” may even be my favorite of all of Errol Morris’ films.

Some time in the late seventies, a former beauty pageant queen from the American south named Joyce McKinney became romantically obsessed with Kirk Anderson, a Mormon missionary. McKinney claims the two were in love. After Anderson left for the U.K. on a religious mission – without telling McKinney – she organized a group of people to help her travel the world and find the man of her dreams. After locating him, Joyce kidnapped Kirk, took him to a secluded cottage in the country side, and tied him to a bed. How consensual the following sex was is debated. After Kirk was freed and Joyce was put on trial, a media circus erupted. The British tabloids made McKinney a minor celebrity. Yet Joyce’s bizarre story was only beginning.

That “Tabloid” is the first movie made about McKinney’s stranger-than-fiction story is surprising. The tale presented in “Tabloid” is so perfectly unusual, spinning in multiple unexpected directions with a fascinating figure at its center. As one of the tabloid reporters explain in the film, the story has everything: Sex, religion, intrigue, bondage, kidnapping. The story even had a catchy name: “The Case of the Manacled Mormon!” No wonder Joyce sold so many papers. Yet the best part of “Tabloid” is how the story gets weirder and weirder the longer it goes on. Joyce’s true nature, what really happened in that cottage, what she did on the way to prison, how the media handled it, and even her post-scandal life back in America is unpredictable and compelling. This is exactly the kind of subject that deserves a film.

Errol Morris has interviewed some colorful characters over his films. Award winning astrophysicists, death chamber designers, lion tamers, and deep south eccentrics have all told their stories in front of his cameras. Yet few of them compare to Joyce McKinney. McKinney’s distinctive accent and odd figures of speech make her immediately memorable. Undeniably, she tells her story through self-interested rose colored glasses. She describes the Church of Latter-Day Saints as a cult. When discussing her boyfriend’s time with the Mormon church, she describes him as brain-washed and robotic, talking about a Kirk #1 and Kirk #2. She frames her romance with Kirk in fairy tale terms, with everyone else – from Kirk’s parents, the Mormon Church, and the media – keeping them apart. According to her own telling, Joyce’s adventure includes extreme violence, magical spirits, elaborate disguises, and contraband hidden inside her bodily cavities. (All of this is aside from the time she kidnapped and raped a guy.) In other words, Joyce McKinney is fucking nuts. Like many crazy people, she’s fascinating to watch.

Yet Joyce’s version of events is not the only one told in “Tabloid.” Morris interviews the pilot that flew a plane across the Atlantic. According to this man, Joyce greeted him in a see-through top without a bra. Later, the same guy describes visiting a nude beach with Joyce, freely admitting that the former beauty queen – a shapely blonde – would be desired by any heterosexual male. Joyce presents herself as a virgin, a fairy tale princess totally pure in her motivations. Other anecdotes suggest Joyce was willing to use her physical beauty to get her way. Later, we learn Joyce worked as a call-girl, an on-demand dominatrix and massage therapist who performed oral sex on her clients. (Even this account points out that Joyce never had vaginal intercourse with the men.) Joyce outright denies these allegations, claiming the people who told these stories were liars and fraudsters. But they certainly explain how she funded her cross-Atlantic adventure.

The nature of the truth has been a reoccurring feature in Errol Morris’ movies: The facts of the murder case in “The Thin Blue Line,” the different perceptions of the abuse in “Standard Operating Procedure,” Fred Leuchter’s view of the truth in “Mr. Death.” In “Tabloid,” this theme manifest in the conflicting stories told about Joyce. Is Joyce, as she claims, a virtuous warrior of love? An advantageous seductress? A literal sex worker? At one point in the story, two rival British tabloids ran opposing sides of the story. One presented Joyce as the Madonna. The other presented her as the whore. As one of the film’s interview subjects points out, the truth likely lies somewhere between these two extremes. The viewer coming to their own conclusions is part of the fun of “Tabloid,” a mystery without a solution, that anybody can be caught up in.

Whatever your opinion of the Church of Latter-Day Saints is, you have to admit that some of the Church’s theology is… Eccentric. Joyce describes some of these beliefs while Morris digs up old footage from LDS educational films. About how Jesus was a polygamist, how God lives on a planet in the center of the universe, how black people were cursed by the Lord. Inevitably, the magic underwear comes up. Joyce claims she and Kirk burned his together. A former Mormon and an expert on the church is also interviewed. He back-ups the statement that the Church’s stance on sex is conservative, to say the least. That young Mormons are encouraged to become missionaries. He also shares an amusing anecdote, about Joyce McKinney becoming a Mormon bogey-woman, a succubus that could abduct young Mormons and steal away their precious virginity. If nothing else, the Church’s involvement adds another unusual element to this bizarre story.

Naturally, such a salacious true story caught the attention of the tabloids. In the U.K., the tabloids are notorious for focusing on sleazy, sexual stories. Which helps explain why Joyce became such a figure of fascination. Joyce, unsurprising given her attitudes, describes the tabloids as smutty and degrading. She talks about paparazzi doggedly pursuing her. Even once she’s back in America, Joyce claims people tracked her down. Yet her minor celebrity status earned Joyce some perks. It got her into a movie premiere, where she out shined star Joan Collins. While inside clubs, she got to meet Keith Moon, John Travolta, and the Bee Gees. She received adoring fan mail, from young men who would’ve been happy to been chained up by her. While the fame was fun at first, Joyce’s paranoid fantasies has the tabloid press becoming another one of her enemies. Considering we live in a world where internet viral videos can make nobodies somebodies, this side of “Tabloid” remains pertinent.

Joyce seemed to disappear from the public’s eye after interest in the story died down. She secluded herself from public life. This is illustrated with some home movies, where Joyce’s deranged narration accompanies footage of her parent’s house. Yet “Tabloid” takes another unexpected turn in the last act. McKinney tells an unlikely story of a vet sabotaging her pitbull’s medication, which caused him to go crazy and violently maw her. (It’s unlikely that Joyce could’ve survived the extreme wounds she describes.) Another pet of her’s, a stray named Booger, saved her life. Booger becomes the second love of Joyce’s life, being her companion in her later years. When Booger died of cancer, Joyce set out on another global adventure to rescue her love. The journey led her to Seoul, Korea, where Booger became the first commercially cloned dog. What could’ve been a sweet story is slanted by Joyce’s continued eccentric behavior. She repeats the name “Booger” like a mantra, which quickly becomes hilarious. She mentions God promising her that her dog will return to her. That Booger’s spirit visibly followed her on the plane ride. If you wrote this stuff, it would be described as over-the-top.

Morris’ film follows the visual cues of the tabloid, printing black-on-white headlines, grainy photographs, presenting his interviews inside a television, and emphasizing the salacious words used in the film. Joyce McKinney’s strange life and stranger personality followed “Tabloid” even after the film was finished. After the movie's release, McKinney sued Morris for defamation. She claimed the film portrayed her as a crazy rapist. Even though her actions would obviously be described as rape by any modern definition. As for “crazy?” Well, just watch the movie. (Since then, McKinney has also been connected with a bizarre burglary case.) “Tabloid” is hilarious, enthralling, and endlessly re-watchable. Who would’ve thought that a Wyoming beauty queen would provide Errol Morris with his most unusual interview? [Grade: A]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2008)

9. Standard Operating Procedure

The history books will judge America harshly for the Iraq War. Whether you believe we should’ve started it, or if the war hasn’t even really ended, are topics beyond the reach of this blog. Among the many controversies concerning that conflict was the Abu Ghraib prison scandal. The images of the prisoners – nude, standing on boxes, piled atop each other, mocked by a female soldier with short hair – came to represent to many the betrayal America inflicted on its own people and the world. Errol Morris making a film about this event, interviewing those involved, provided an oppretunity to get another perspective on history.

As “Standard Operating Procedure” opens, the abuse at Abu Ghraib has been going on for quite some time. Some of the prisoners are insurgents, terrorists, and soldiers. Others are normal people. Many of them are treated the same way. The men are stripped nude, tortured and humiliated on a regular basis. At some point, the men and women involved in these daily routines begin to take photographs of the disgraced prisoners. These photographs are what made this event in history notorious.

Errol Morris’ intimate interviewing style is well suited to this subject. Allowing the people in and around those famous photographs to talk, telling their sides of the story, give us important insight into how and why this happened. The interview subjects make it abundantly clear that Abu Ghraib was bad when they arrived. One soldier reports seeing an interrogator forcing a man to crawl across the floor in the nude. The prisoners that aren’t nude are forced to wear women’s underwear. When tied up, said underwear is shoved over their heads. Some of the interview subjects report asking about this behavior. Each time, they are told this is how the interrogations work. Yet out of all the people interviewed, only one left the prison when he saw the horrible way the prisoners were being treated. In other words, everyone was just following orders.

However, none of the employees at Abu Ghraib ever take personal responsibility for what happened there. When someone admits to doing something awful – including torture, humiliation, and even murder in two separate scenarios – they never blame themselves. Instead, all involved are all too willing to pass the buck to someone else. A commanding officer goaded them into this. When one of the wardens is questioned about the smile she gave in a photograph with a dead body, she says she always smiles in a photo, no matter what. There’s two ways to look at this. Either the environment at Abu Ghraib was so toxic, that nobody questioned what they were doing. Or everyone is trying to save face after the fact. Only Sabrina Harman seems honest about how responsible she is for what happened.

Morris’ film is not about Abu Ghraib in general or even the abuse that happened there. Instead, it’s specifically about those famous photographs. More than once, Morris has the present parties discuss when the photographs were taken. They’ll look directly at one of the infamous pictures, point out who is who and what is happening. Morris is determined to get the story behind those photographs, to figure out the context of everything happening inside them. A man designated to the case after the fact explains how three cameras took most of the photos. The specific brand names are pointed out. In a brilliant illustration, we see how he laid out a timeline, determining when the different photos were taken. Yet not all of the notorious pictures are what they appear to be. The aforementioned female solider with the short hair, who was on all the news programs, points out that another woman was in several of the photographs with her. The other person was cropped out, effectively making another person the face of the scandal. Morris is interested in how photographs both illuminate and hide the truth.

For the first time since “The Thin Blue Line,” Morris makes extended use of recreations. The purpose of these sequences are clear: To impose upon the audience how ugly and brutal these events were. Early in the movie, we’re struck with the image of a helicopter exploding right over the viewer’s head. An especially vivid recreation puts us in a jail cell, with a prisoner being attacked by large Iraqi ants. These sequences are frequently narrated by readings from Sabrina Harman’s letters to her wife. Morris takes us inside the wet bags held over the waterboarding victims. He shows us the dead body of the murdered prisoner dragged around his cell. The recreations do not take the place of the frank confessions. Instead, they supplement them, adding to the verisimilitude of the film.

“Standard Operating Procedure” features all the photographs we’ve seen countless times on the news and internet. However, in the film, the pictures are uncensored. We see the men in the nude, degraded and abused. They climb atop each other, stand flat against the walls with their penises in their hands, or are handcuffed at awkward angles by their captors. No detail is spared. The ugliness of what happened is directly, honestly shown to us. As visceral as the recreations in the film are, simply showing the documents that exist do the most to confront us with what happened.

The most incensed of all the interviews in “Standard Operating Procedure” is a government official ordered to oversee what happened at Abu Ghraib. She discusses being denied access or, in one case, outright being told to destroy evidence. Another interview discuss how indifferent the workers at the prison were to the suffering around them. At one point, he describes two soldiers making out a few feet away from a bound prisoners. Yet even these aren’t the most damning moments in “Standard Operating Procedure.” Near the end, the man instructed to inspect the photographs grades each one on whether or not they show abuse. Forcing nude prisoners to climb across the floor, pile atop each other, or masturbate?: Torture. Threatening someone with electrocution, forcing them to stand atop a box for hours, handcuffing them to a bed and shoving underwear over their faces?: Not torture. The worst part is none of this extreme behavior got information that could’ve helped people. Saddam Husein was captured more by luck then anything else. The cruel things that happen are the fault of individual people but also of a system that does nothing to punish corruption.

Both Philip Glass and Caleb Sampson, Morris’ regular composers, passed on “Standard Operating Procedure.” Instead, Danny Elfman composed the music for the film. Perhaps it’s not terribly shocking that Elfman’s music sounds a bit more like Glass than his usual style. There are no jaunty tubas in this movie.  Instead, the main themes makes heavy use of building strings and horns, punctuated by lonely piano keys. The music is oddly touching while maintaining a foreboding edge in the margins. That foreboding aspect better characterized most of the rest of the score, adding a sad and sinister edge to the film. The darkest moments in the film – an anecdote about a dog mauling a prisoner – is highlighted with harsh noise on the soundtrack. It’s not one of Elfman’s classic scores but fits the film, helping to make it more powerful.

After exploring the complexity of decisions made in war in “The Fog of War,” “Standard Operating Procedure” focuses in on a specific example of collateral damage linked to military conflicts. It’s a revealing film, examining the atmosphere that makes torture and cruelty possible. Moreover, the first person testimonials shed light on history, giving us insight into events that might seem far off and distant. Considering the U.S. military is still in the Middle East and “enhanced interrogation techniques” are still a source of controversial, “Standard Operating Procedure” remains relevant in a turbulent world. [Grade: A-]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (2003)

8. The Fog of War
Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara

In 2004, Errol Morris finally won the Academy Award for Best Documentary. It had been a long time coming. Considering what the filmmaker had done to change the genre, considering how beloved and respected so many of his films are, it really should have happened much sooner. That “The Fog of War” would be the Morris film to finally win the award isn’t surprising. It’s a serious political work, a long form interview with Robert McNamara, a controversial historic figure. The film is both probing and personal, providing insight into history from a man who molded it.

“The Fog of War” is structured around eleven lessons former Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara has learned over his long career. The interview cycles through his time in World War II, his post-war career as a successful executive at Ford Motors, before focusing primarily on his time as Secretary of Defense during the Vietnam War. As McNamara explains his points, Morris cuts in with historical recordings and questions of his own.

“The Fog of War” may be the most complex film about war ever made. I don’t mean its construction or technique. Too often, war is reduced to action movie theatrics or simple stories of good vs. bad. Even films that claim to approach how difficult a subject bloody conflicts are reduce wars to tragedies, with little more complexity. “The Fog of War” addresses how difficult decisions are made all the time during a conflict. How men in command have to send people to their death and how those men aren’t always certain of their own choices. By going behind the scenes of Vietnam, Errol Morris has revealed that nothing about war is easy or clean.

This is clear early on. “The Fog of War” begins with the earliest part of McNamara’s career in the military. He describes his quick ascent through the ranks, quickly achieving a reputation as a strategist and a Whiz Kid. Most bracing, McNamara discusses his own fixed feelings concerning what the American military did during the Pacific campaign. When discussing the fire bombing of Japan, he compares the destruction and lives lost to similarly sized American cities. To hammer the point home, Morris flashes the numbers on-screen. McNamara out-right questions the brutality of these tactics before admitting that himself and his colleagues would’ve been persecuted as war criminals if America hadn’t won the war. Not only does Morris illustrate the cost of war, he also shows how open and frank this interview will be.

The frankness of these early interviews cast a new shadow over the standard biographical aspect of the documentary. The courtship of his wife and the birth of his children are topics that come up. This segues into his time as President of Ford Motors. McNamara applied the same tactics he used in war to the car company, helping to raise Ford’s profit. Oddly, even during this time, McNamara places great value on human life. The fatality of the car accident, the design flaws that caused them, are skimmed over. A hypnotic sequences recreate a moment when McNamara and his co-workers dropped artificial skulls down a staircase, to test the affect of an impact on them. When McNamara was offered the position of Secretary of Defense, he actually took a pay cut from what he was making at Ford.

These scenes and more make it clear that one of Morris’ goal is to humanize Robert McNamara, the great architect of Vietnam. This is best illustrated during his memories about President Kennedy’s death. McNamara mentions an incident where he visited the president’s cemetery site. The reminiscence concludes with McNamara breaking down in tears. It’s clear that McNamara’s time as Secretary of Defense wasn’t just a job for him. The sudden, violent loss of Kennedy was a wound felt by everyone in the country. McNamara is made into more than just a stale voice of authority.

A pivotal moment in “The Fog of War” happens early on. From off-camera, we hear Errol Morris asks McNamara about Vietnam. The former Secretary of Defense changes the subject, turning the conversation towards his time at Ford first. Eventually, the interview subject has to bring up Vietnam. Over and over again, McNamara expresses regret over what happened during that conflict. He mentions a misunderstanding before the war, involving a ship that was believed to have been sunk by Vietnamese forces. (It wasn’t.) Over and over again, he bemoans the amount of lives lost during the war. He regrets his own involvement, actively admitting that the best decisions weren’t made.

Maybe hindsight is everything. Morris often contrasts McNamara’s current interview with archive’s recordings from the time. Sometimes, the former Secretary’s words seem to line up. More than once, President Lyndon Johnson can be heard discussing a more aggressive intermission in Vietnam, while McNamara stresses that enough lives have already been lost. Other times, the conversations recorded thirty years prior betray McNamara’s current statements. Sometimes, he immediately agrees with the President’s words. Other times, he suggest more men on the ground, more soldiers tossed into the fray. Morris is not incriminating McNamara or calling him a hypocrite. Instead, he’s showing that time and recognition can make all the difference.

For the third time, Philip Glass provides the music to one of Errol Morris’ film. Musically, the soundtrack to “The Fog of War” is not as exciting or novel as the music for “The Thin Blue Line” or “A Brief History of Time.” Glass leans very heavily on his beloved repetition. Sometimes, the constantly repeating strings or piano keys start to swallow one another, any melodic beauty lost. However, occasionally a more picturesque bit of music emerges, such as a singularly played flute or a burst of percussion. Isolated from the film, Glass’ “Fog of War” score does not make a huge impression. However, when paired with Morris’ images, the music becomes inseparable from the film’s success.

Robert S. McNamara is human, like all of us, with a complex personality, who has made mistakes and regrets them. By giving us a peak into a divisive historical figure’s head, Errol Morris provides a face – and perhaps a soul – to history. Moreover, “The Fog of War” makes it clear that nobody makes it out clean in a war. That, when human lives are at stake, no decision is made lightly. The audiences are put in the place of the decision makers, left to wonder if they would make similar choices in the same situation. If history would judge them fairly. While “The Fog of War” is not my favorite of Errol Morris’ films, it is undoubtedly one of his most important. [Grade: A]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1999)

7. Mr. Death
The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr.

The long hiatus that followed between “A Brief History of Time” and “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” didn’t immediately repeat itself. Within a year, Errol Morris was working on a new project. Back in the eighties, Morris nearly made a movie about a character named “Dr. Death.” In the late nineties, the documentarian made a film called “Mr. Death.” The new film would continue the revival of interest in Morris as a filmmaker, winning yet more rave reviews and positive attention.

Fred A. Leuchter Jr. began his career as an engineer. The son of a corrections officer, Leuchter was struck by how cruel execution by electric chair was. Despite a lack of formal training as an expert in capital punishment, Leuchter would quickly become a much sought technician for machines designed to kill people. Through his work with gas chambers, Leuchter would follow down an unexpected path. When Holocaust denier Ernst Zundel was put on trial for publishing hate speech, Leuchter was chosen to testify on Zundel’s behalf. A lack of knowledge of the Holocaust, history, or how poison gas dissipates didn’t stop Leuchter from proclaiming that the Holocaust never happened.

“Mr. Death” seems to begin as a documentary about a quirky subject discussing his unusual career, not dissimilar to “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control.” Obviously, somebody has to design the electric chairs, gas chambers, and gallows. Yet you don’t often think about who that person must be. Fred Leuchter cuts the figure of someone deeply lacking in self-awareness. He’s designing machines that kill people. Yet he constantly discusses how he’s watching out for the comfort of the condemned. While discussing a lethal injection machine, he mentions how the intended should be seated in a comfy, upright chair while watching TV or listening to music. He does realize these people are going to die, doesn’t he? Why would the government pay for the comfort of someone who is going to be dead soon, anyway? How far does basic humanity extend? Leuchter discusses the morbid details of burning flesh, leaking urine and oozing corpses with a matter-of-fact quality. He grasps the seriousness of what he did without understanding many of the smaller aspects.

Leuchter comes off as eccentric and his work is macabre, to say the least. Yet he seems relatively harmless at first. However, Morris is hinting at the darker days to come from the film’s opening minutes. Leuchter is introduced standing in a dark room, lightning dancing over his head. Morris cuts between the direct interviews and black-and-white footage of old prisons and airplanes. When talking about the dying moments of the soon-to-be executed, Morris takes the perspective of the doomed, showing the plain ceiling of the execution room. It sets up a sinister tone while the dark shots of Leuchter clarifies what the filmmaker thinks of his subject.

“Mr. Death” takes a serious turn about a half-hour in, after the conclusion of the first act. Leuchter’s alliance with the Holocaust denial crowd is slowly revealed. During the first half of the film, Fred went on about how he didn’t have any expertise in engineering implements of death, much less chemistry. Despite this, or more likely because of it, holocaust deniers (who sickeningly described themselves as “revisionist historians”) tapped Leuchter as their expert. There’s video footage of Leuchter stumbling through Auschwitz, climbing into holes, chiseling at walls. In voice-over, we hear Fred’s ex-wife bitterly describe the trip, which she spent in a cold car. Leuchter insists there’s no sign of poison gas on the camp walls… Which ignores the chemical fragility of Zyklone B. Not to mention the mountains of other evidence, of photographs, videos, paperwork, letters, and countless eye-witness testimonials.

Without being precisely about holocaust denial, “Mr. Death” gives us insight into the mindset of believers. Ernst Zundel, the man Leuchter was called on to defend, is interviewed. Outside evidence makes it clear that Zundel is a hardcore Neo-Nazi. Within the film, he presents himself as a proud German, determined to clear his country of a crime he believes didn’t happen. One of Zundel’s publisher, who would publish Leuchter’s statement, literally seems to believe that there’s more evidence to suggest the holocaust didn’t happen then evidence that suggest it did. I frequently assume that all Holocaust deniers are hardened anti-Semites, who just pretend the Holocaust didn’t happen in order to further justify their hatred of Jewish people. “Mr. Death” presents something far more frightening: These people are serious. Their denial of history and fact is sincere.

But what about Fred A. Leuchter? Is he an anti-Semite? Leuchter makes repeated statements about how he has no ill will towards Jews. His interviews seem to suggest that he isn’t blatantly hateful. I don’t believe Leuchter is knowingly a bigot. Instead, he’s an egotistic fool. He’s a man stunningly lacking in self-awareness. He admits his own lack of knowledge in this field and yet he refuses to acknowledge that he might be wrong. Through this lens, “Mr. Death” becomes a film about the power of ignorance. Fred A. Leuchter doesn’t intentionally do evil. That doesn’t change it from being evil.

Errol Morris’ initial cut of “Mr. Death” was already shorter then the still brief ninety minute run time of the current version. At first, the film was only composed of interviews with Leuchter. Test audiences felt the film didn’t properly condemn Leuchter or his beliefs. Morris – who is Jewish, by the way – felt holocaust denial was obviously ridiculous and repugnant and assumed audiences felt the same. Afterwards, Morris included new interviews of people pointing out the obvious holes in Leuchter’s science: Namely, his ignorance of the mountains of other evidence or his clueless handling of his mission.

Yet even with these interviews, “Mr. Death” takes an impressive third turn. Leuchter’s holocaust denial obviously destroyed his career and left his personal life in tatters. No prisons would buy his designs. His wife left him. The only work he could get was speaking engagements at Neo-Nazi rallies, which is hardly something anyone would want on their resume. He is a sad, bitter, broken man with zero opportunists. Most of “Mr. Death” shows how foolish his beliefs are. In its final minutes, the film manages to make us feel sorry for him. Does a man deserve to have his life destroyed because of his beliefs? Does being wrong – perhaps even evil – mean someone doesn’t deserve to have a happy life? These are some of the questions “Mr. Death” has the viewer asking.

Coupled with Caleb Sampson’s equally sinister and quirky score, “Mr. Death” is one of Errol Morris’ most underrated films. It didn’t receive the praise and awards many of the filmmaker’s other pictures did. You don’t hear about it as often as his more beloved documentaries. Don’t let this dissuade you from checking it out. “Mr. Death” revolves around a man who is, in his own way, a fascinating figure. Like Morris’ best work, it uses a simple set-up to prompt complex questions in the audience. [Grade: A-]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1997)

6. Fast, Cheap & Out of Control

I’m not sure why but, after “A Brief History of Time,” Errol Morris didn’t make another movie for five years. It was his longest hiatus since the seven year dearth between “Vernon, Florida” and “The Thin Blue Line.” I suspect the documentary-maker’s problem with finding funding can probably explain the gap. Either way, “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” would usher in a new creative period for Morris. He would be busy for many years to follow, creating new films, shorts, and even a critically acclaimed television series. In many ways, “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” is the model for Morris’ “First Person” TV show.

“Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” concerns itself with four eccentrics, each interviewed in Morris’ trademark fashion of intimate conversation and kinetic direction. Dave Hoover is a lion tamer, who has pursued the job out of a childhood love of Clyde Beatty’s jungle adventure serials. George Mendonca is a veteran topiary designer, spending most of his adult life cutting bushes and trees into specific animal shapes. Raymond A. Mendez is a zoologist who has a special affinity with the naked mole rat, photographing the animal and designing specialized pens for the creatures. Rodney Brooks, meanwhile, is a robotics technician, determined to design machines that are as human-like as possible.

What do these desperate individuals have in common? Morris’ editing often has the interviews overlapping. Footage of Hoover training lions sometimes play under Mendonca describing his method of cleaving creatures out of foliage, a parallel being drawn between the different types of animals. Mendez’ describing the behavior of naked mole rats sometimes meets Brooks’ footage of scurrying robots. The inverse happens as well, insect-like robots and naked mole rats beginning to seem similar. Morris’ thesis seems to be the places passion leads us. Each interviewee pursues their eccentric goals because of their love of the subject. Sometimes, their passion for these unusual objects pushes into obsession. It’s not impossible to follow a line from the obsessive turkey hunter of “Vernon, Florida” to the eccentrics on display here. However, Morris’ approach is more positive this time. These guys are doing what they love. Moreover, each of the men’s interests deal with how the natural world and the world of man interacts.

Of all the guys Morris converses with in “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control,” Raymond A. Mendez and his love of the naked mole rat is probably my favorite. His interest in the bizarre rodents began with his hope that a mammal that acts like an insect existed. The mole rats are just that. They leave in ant-like colonies and have a similar social structures. A queen births countless new mole rats every day, while workers and soldiers populate the underground tunnels. Mendez’ passion for the squirmy mole rats has him designing a specific habitat for them. He describes finding the right material for the enclosure, how to hold the mole rats, and the creature’s unusual toilet habits. Through his discussion of the species, an odd philosophy emerges. In the wild, the rats would be eaten by predators or stomped by elephants. In captivity, they’re given longer lives. Mendez seems to suggest that creating a civilized society and sympathy are linked. Also, he delivers a really cute anecdote about keeping a few mole rats as pets.

Rodney Brooks lends the film its title. Brooks’ insect-like robots line up directly with Mendez’ insect-like mole rats. Brooks begins the conversation by pointing out that real life animals don’t operate perfectly. Ants fall down, wobble, and stumble. Thus, scientists should strive to emulate these aspects in their robots. Perfection isn’t natural. This philosophy extends to Brooks’ approach to sending robots into space. Don’t send one expensive robot. Send a thousand inexpensive ones. Equally fascinating is Brooks’ thoughts on how robots work. A machine doesn’t have thoughts and yet it sometimes function intuitively anyway. Brooks seems keen to align the chaos of the natural world with the perfected world of engineering, finding the most success in a happy middle ground.

Dave Hoover’s interest in lion taming began with Clyde Beatty’s adventure serials which he happily describes as “corny.” This passion was egged on by a childhood priest, who smartly figured the world needs lion tamers as much as it needs anything else. Hoover takes a fairly casual approach to the animals he works with. Or rather, a casual approach to what they could do to him. Hoover describes an incident where a lion dragged him through a cage, nearly bit his hand off, and another event where a lion nearly escaped. Despite the lions being able to tear his head off, Hoover still bonds with them. He describes his favorite lion, John John, as an ornery but lovable creature. Through the specific ways the lions are trained, Hoover presents another way mankind and the natural world balance each other. Hoover also describes his profession as a dying breed with his current apprentice being the only one to stick with the job. (Considering the lions look emaciated, old, and sick, I doubt most people would mourn the passing of the lion tamer.)

The least obviously interesting of Morris’ subjects is George Mendonca. Topiary carving is not an art form that can be properly conveyed through interviews. Mendonca also gives the driest of the interviews. Despite a robot engineer and a zoologist being in the film, the topiary artist is the most technical person interviewed. He describes how a topiary must constantly be maintained. An inspiring moment concerns a topiary being destroyed in a storm. Mendonca simply started again, which is all he could do. He’s set in his ways, preferring a pair of hedge clippers over anything else. He also admits his own age, how he probably won’t live long enough to see another complex topiary grow to fruition.

With “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control,” Errol Morris makes extensive use of stock footage. While ants and insectoid robots are being discussed, footage from “The Deadly Mantis” and “Them!” are inserted. As Hoover goes on about how Clyde Beatty’s films inspired him, Morris shows a considerable amount of footage from the serial, “Darkest Africa.” Morris even tosses in footage from “GoBots,” “Gigantor,” and “Bobby’s World” for less well-defined reasons. While these images definitely connect with the movie’s subject, sometimes it feels like Morris is padding out the run time with this footage. If you cut out the stock footage, “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” would run considerably shorter and little of value would be lost. If Morris had utilized his trademark reenactments a little more, “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” would probably be better off. Even those sequence, such as a long moment devoted to circus performers, seem to drag on.

“Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” would be Morris first collaboration with composer Caleb Sampson, taking over for Philip Glass. Sampson’s music could be compared to Glass. While he doesn’t pile it on the way Glass does, Sampson’s soundtrack does feature some repetition and building strings. However, Sampson’s work is quirkier then either of Glass’ previous scores. The music can be soaring, powerful, and meaningful. Just as often, Sampson replicates the calliope of a circus, to underscore the specific scenes in such a setting. As always, the music is the secret glue that holds Morris’ films together. For a film that’s already slightly disconnected, Sampson’s graceful soundtrack becomes essential to maintaining the spiritual continuity between scenes.

Directly after “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control,” Errol Morris would begin work on “First Person.” A television show that ran for two seasons on Bravo – back when Bravo was a classy cable network instead of another trashy reality show station – the show essentially brought Morris’ style to television. In many ways, his sixth feature is a test run for the series. Both tout the use of Interrotron, Morris’ patented style of having an interview subject look directly into the audience’s eyes. “First Person” would also focus on individual’s telling their stories, often detailing their private passions. In this way, “Fast, Cheap & Out of Control” is a bit like four episodes of “First Person” cut together. While not Morris’ most seamless film, “Fast, Cheap and Out of Control” is another impressive effort from the documentary's most interesting filmmaker. [Grade: B]