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]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1992)

5. A Brief History of Time

Let me see if I can get the timeline here straight. Errol Morris has discussed making "A Brief of History of Time" directly after “The Thin Blue Line.” Though “The Dark Wind” was released first, it seems to me that Morris’ return to documentary filmmaking was made before his sole fictional feature. Either way, after “The Dark Wind” came and went with little attention, “A Brief History of Time” brought Morris back into the spotlight. The film would be the first time a world famous figure granted Morris an audience. The man who opened that gate was acclaimed astrophysicist Stephen Hawking, agreeing to discuss his work as much as his own life.

Stephen Hawking’s groundbreaking book “A Brief History of Time” was designed to explain his important theories about the universe in such a way that most anyone could understand them. “A Brief History of Time,” the movie, spends much of its time discussing Hawking’s ideas and theorems on the nature of space and time. However, the film is equally concerned with Hawking’s personal life. The director interviews the scientist’s mother, childhood nanny, sister, friends and colleagues, as they discuss a brief history of Stephen Hawking and the disease that would change his life forever.

Because of the very nature of Stephen Hawking’s condition, Errol Morris could not interview him in his trademark manner. Stephen Hawking talking directly into the camera, everything unmoving except for his eyes while his computer speaks for him, wouldn’t make for a very interesting experience. Instead, Morris adapts his style to Hawking. Interviewing him inside a recreation of Hawking’s office, amusingly decorated with photos of Marylin Monroe, Morris peers around Hawking’s still body. We see the clicker in his hand and the different menus appearing on his computer screen. Occasionally, Morris will get close on Stephen’s face, focus on the moving eyes inside the motionless face. This technique addresses how iconic Hawking’s appearance, wheelchair, and voice synthesizer have become while also showing that his mind is very much alive inside his ill body.

Something that’s fascinating about “A Brief History of Time” is the peak it gives into Stephen Hawking’s early life. His mother comes off as an especially inviting presence, discussing Stephen’s birth during the war and a serendipitous decision to buy an Atlas before his birth. Listening to childhood friends discuss how Stephen was the only member of his family that didn’t read at the dinner table humanizes the scientific figure. His sister’s anecdote about the different ways they’d sneak into the house at night shows the scientist’s sense of humor and adventure. These interviews make it clear that Hawking’s brilliance didn’t arise in a vacuum. His whole life has been extraordinary. Yet stories from college friends about Stephen slacking in school or being too young to enter a pub prove he’s human too.

While many people discuss Hawking’s life, Stephen himself pointedly does not. The man himself mostly keeps his discussion to his theories and influences. When he occasionally breaks to talk about his condition or his academic history, it’s surprising. These sequences are never dry or boring. Instead, the film makes it clear why Stephen Hawking has become such a beloved pop culture figure. It’s not just because of his cool robot voice. Hawking has an incredible wit and a way with words. Listening to him describe the time his wheelchair was struck by a car might be more relatable. Yet Hawking is always a compelling subject.

“A Brief History of Time” obviously touches upon some heady concepts. The creation and properties of black holes are a major topic of the film. These ideas are then extrapolated to the nature of the universe itself. Whether the universe was created or whether it always existed. Or how about when or how it will end? There’s a lot of math involved in these theories and concepts. However, the more Hawking and his various contemporaries talk, the clearer it becomes that science and philosophy are only so far separated. Hawking’s journey to understand how the universe works is ultimately a quest to understand the nature of God. In truth, he’s like any of us, trying to decipher how the world works and where we fit into it. Except Stephen Hawking has a lot more math and formulas to back his ideas up.

Some of it goes over my head and I’m probably not alone in that. In order to make matters clearer, Morris illustrates many of these ideas with clever visual gags. The state of a universe is compared to a tea cup, which is shown shattering on the floor. When Hawking discusses the possibility of time running backwards, we see the tea cup reassemble and float into the air. The journey of a hypothetical astronaut’s watch across the surface of a black hole is literialized. Radiation is symbolized with different metal coils glowing different colors. A star is shown as a white sphere, changing to red as the properties of the heavenly body changes. This continues the techniques Morris learned on “The Thin Blue Line,” in addition to being a smart way of bringing some very big ideas back down to Earth.

No film about Stephen Hawking would be complete without discussing his illness. Through photographs, we see the slow affect the disease had on his body. In early photos, he stands tall like a healthy young man. At his wedding, he leans on a cane. During his graduation, he is wheelchair bound. Through interviews, we learn of the surgery that would eventually cost Hawking his voice. Some of these anecdotes are harrowing, such as the time Hawking’s wheelchair was struck while crossing the street. Others, like an incident where his wheelchair overturned while climbing a steep hill, are somewhat funny. Others are in-between, like a friend describing Stephen dragging himself up the stairs before bed. The scientist’s determination to continue his research, to survive and persevere, becomes inspiring without being syrupy.

As in “The Thin Blue Line,” the score is once again provided by Philip Glass. It’s not my favorite Glass score and took me a few listens to warm up to. The opening theme initially comes off as a bit dour, the low horns eventually building to an uplifting melody. Despite the downbeat opening, Glass’ score reveals a humanistic side in time. A side, lone piano underscores many scenes. Touching lilts and melodies emerge out of Glass’ trademark repetition. While Glass’ previous collaboration proves a little more sonically palpable, it’s still solid work from the composer.

That the word “brief” is in the film’s title is fitting. Like Errol Morris’ earliest documentaries, “A Brief History of Time” doesn’t run very long. It manages to pack in a lot of information into a run time that’s just a little over eighty minutes. Hawking would approve of the film, only criticizing Morris for changing one minor detail during one of his speeches. While not as endlessly fascinating as some of Morris’ later films, “A Brief History of Time” gives a vivid view into one of the most complex minds of our time. At the very least, it’s easily a better movie than “The Theory of Everything.” [Grade: B+]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1991)

4. The Dark Wind

Errol Morris remains one of the most critically respected documentary filmmakers out there. Despite his long career, the director has only ever made one narrative film. “The Dark Wind” was adapted from Tony Hillerman’s long-running series of Navajo-based murder mysteries, focusing on the character of Jim Chee. Produced by Robert Redford, who hoped to launch the series, Morris and his producers frequently butted heads and the movie was barely released to theaters. This is probably the primary reason why Morris has mostly stuck to documentaries since then. Yet “The Dark Wind” remains an interesting exclusion in the director’s long career.

Jim Chee is an officer for the Navajo Tribal Police in Arizona, working to enforce the law on the Navajo and Hopi reservations. Chee is also training to be a tribal healer and believes deeply in the old ways. His boss assigns him to mild crimes, like watching a windmill that has been repeatedly vandalized or investigating the petty theft of a shop. Instead, Chee discovers a grisly murder and later spots a plane crashing in the desert. Soon, the cop uncovers a drug smuggling plot where murder, theft, Indian mysticism, and revenge intersect.

Based on the obvious noir influences of “The Thin Blue Line,” Errol Morris being tapped to direct a crime movie probably seemed like a natural choice. Yet it’s not Morris’ talent for moody tableau that is the most interesting thing about “The Dark Wind.” Instead, the director’s gift for capturing natural, quirky details of individuals is a great benefit to “The Dark Wind.” The Indian reservation setting adds a unique atmosphere to the film. The mixture of modern crimes and ancient beliefs makes for a compelling contrast. The script being smattered with dialogue in the Navajo language is a unique angle. The eccentricities and beliefs of the tribes add color to “The Dark Wind,” setting it apart from similar murder mystery procedural.

Disappointingly, the mystery at the center of “The Dark Wind” is not especially gripping. The inciting incident – Chee witnessing the plane crashing in the desert – doesn’t happen until a half hour into the movie. There are two subplots the protagonist is concerned with: The vandalization of the windmill and the theft of some beads. Anyone who has taken a Writing 101 course can guess that these subplots will tie into the central mystery soon enough. The storyline concerning drug smuggling struggles to make itself interesting to the viewer. A big problem with “The Dark Wind” is its tendency to drag when focused on the more typical crime movie elements. The various competing storylines aren’t quite tangled enough to qualify as convoluted but the script seems determined to distract viewers from how simple the story actually is.

How does Morris handle the transition from documentaries to traditional filmmaking? Well, that’s another problem with “The Dark Wind.” From its opening scene onward, “The Dark Wind” heavily features narration from Lou Diamond Philips. Long scenes devoted to him silently sleuthing out clues in the desert are accompanied by Philips’ voice-over. The interior monologue can be quite amusing and I suspect that many of the words are taken directly from Hillerman’s book. However, it’s not a very cinematic way to tell your story. Moreover, the narration can sometimes become overbearing, pushing out any room for the audiences’ opinions.

In some ways, Errol Morris’ visual presentation of the film works well. The opening credits are greeted by a bright red sun rolling over a desert mesa. A scene of Philips inside a shack, performing an ancient rite, is nicely shot, conveying a sense of mysticism and isolation. The discovery of the dismembered corpse is handled in a matter-of-fact way, which translates as relatively shocking. The film’s climax occurs during a rain storm and is dramatically lit, a series of Indian rituals taking place among some abandoned ruins. Despite clearly being a low budget film, “The Dark Wind” generates some memorable images.

Some of the time. Other times, “The Dark Wind” is incredibly stiff and bland to look at. Far too many scenes are devoted to characters standing around in rooms, talking to one another. Some times, the camera is entirely stationary, as someone enters a location, has a conversation, and then exits. Not helping matters is the DVD presentation. The print is washed out, not much better than a VHS. Meanwhile, the film is presented in full screen. You can tell that this clearly doesn’t represent the director’s original vision because boom mikes droop into frame multiple times. The boom mike appears often enough that it should’ve gotten a SAG card. The sometimes static presentation might be Morris’ fault, considering his documentaries occasionally share that future. But I can’t imagine a professional like Morris would make the rookie mistake of equipment stumbling on-screen.

Lou Diamond Philips has an easy-going charm that isn’t always well utilized in his lead performances. However, Jim Chee is a part that caters fantastically to his skills. Chee is not your typical movie cop. He doesn’t pull his gun until the last act and, even then, never discharges it. When shoot-outs occur, Chee is a captive, not a participant. While the narration is overbearing, Philips adapts to it incredibly well. When interacting with the normal people on the reservation, speaking Navajo or Hopi and relating to them on a person-to-person basis, Philips shines. The part is tailored to his abilities as an actor. If “The Dark Wind” works at all, it’s because of Lou.

“The Dark Wind” doesn’t have an especially loaded supporting cast, with few recognizable names in the credit. However, a few notable actors show up. Fred Ward plays Joe Leaphorn, Chee’s boss and another reoccurring character from Hillerman’s books. When busting Chee’s chops, in the way that police chiefs in movies tend to do, Ward is entertaining. However, he’s generally underutilized. Blake Clark is highly amusing as the Hopi officer Chee sometimes is paired with. He has a much more sarcastic tone to his performance, taking the Indian rites less seriously. Character actor Joe Karlan seems to be cast in a nothing part as Jake but eventually reveals himself to be important to the story. Karlen gets to utilize some unhinged energy, making for a memorable turn.

“The Dark Wind” doesn’t entirely work, as the script could’ve been tighter and the presentation is sometimes bland. However, a consistent tone and a strong cast makes for an interesting, mildly entertaining police thriller. How much of the final film is even Morris’ is debatable, as he apparently left the production before filming wrapped. Robert Redford disliked the movie. After this film's failure, he would eventually get his on-going series of Jim Chee movies, made for PBS’ “Mystery!” anthology. That it’s Errol Morris sole narrative feature so far is disappointing, as the film showed that the documentarian had the chops to make a traditional feature, even if the final product doesn’t hold together perfectly. [Grade: B-]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1988)

3. The Thin Blue Line

After “Vernon, Florida,” Errol Morris didn’t make another movie for seven years. The director has admitted that he had difficulty finding funding for a new film. In order to pay the bills, the filmmaker start working as a private detective. It’s through these avenues that Morris became aware of Dr. James Grigson. Nicknamed “Dr. Death,” Grigson often worked with the Texas justice system, convincing juries that offenders were likely to commit violence again and were thus eligible for the death penalty. Instead, Morris became interested in the case of Randall Dale Adams, a seemingly innocent man on death row. “The Thin Blue Line” would not only have Adams’ sentence overturned but would reignite Morris’ career as a director.

In 1978, Randall Adams and his brother traveled to Texas, where Adams quickly found work. In October, while on the way to work, Adams’ car ran out of gas. While hitchhiking, he was picked up by David Ray Harris, a mentally unstable teenager with a history of violent crimes. After smoking some pot and seeing a drive-in movie, the two were stop for a routine check by police. Unbeknownst to Adams, Harris had stolen the car. The younger man pulled out a pistol and shot the police officer to death. Despite ample evidence pointing towards Harris as the perpetrator, Adams was convicted of the crime. Ten years later, he was serving out a lifetime sentence in a Texan prison. This is where “The Thin Blue Line” comes in.

“The Thin Blue Line” documents a true story but unfolds like a mystery. There’s an incredible moodiness, lent by its music and direction. The question in “The Thin Blue Line” is not who murdered Officer Robert W. Wood. The film presents more than enough evidence to clear Randall Adams of any crime, while David Ray Harris emerges clearly as the murderer. Instead, the central question of the film is how was an innocent man convicted for such a lurid crime while the actual killer was allowed to go free? Morris, using his technique of piercing interviews, attempts to get at the answer. As always, the director’s unblinking camera gives the subjects more than enough rope to hang themselves.

While “The Thin Blue Line” features plenty of the documentation's trademark interviews, the movie also represents a major leap forward for Errol Morris’ style as a director. The documentary makes extensive use of reenactments. (The film relies on them to such a degree that “The Thin Blue Line’ was expelled from the Best Documentary category at the Oscars that year, despite being the most acclaimed entry in that genre of 1988.) While sticking as closely to the facts as possible, Morris shoots these sequences like modern day film noir. Thick shadows and, yes, the color blue influence the reenactments. A lingering close-up on a tossed milk shake or a falling body draw attention to the details of the crime. There’s a quiet suspense to the shots of a firing gun or the soon-to-be murderer sitting at a drive-in movie theater. One brilliant scene, a crash zoom on the tail end of a car, shows the fallibility of human memory.

“The Thin Blue Line” doesn’t merely show recreations of the crime scene, like the countless true crime shows that would follow in its wake. While “Gates of Heaven” and “Vernon, Florida” were intentionally stylistically restrained, “The Thin Blue Line” reveals the artistic filmmaker that was always inside Morris. The film is fantastically edited. Morris’ stationary interviews cut between the daring reenactments. Photographs of newspapers and crime scene pictures are featured. Old news presentations and film clips are featured. Most impressively, “The Thin Blue Line” sometimes cuts away to artistic, isolated shots, like a pocket watch swinging across the scene. Or cars traveling along a road at night. While Morris’ previous films were brilliant, they often came across as the work of a first timer. “The Thin Blue Line” shows an artist coming totally into their own.

“Gates of Heaven” was a movie about grief, death, and the afterlife. “Vernon, Florida” was about small town philosophy and personalities. “The Thin Blue Line” has a much sharper, political point. The documentary is essentially an indictment of Texas justice. Why was Randall Adams persecuted and convicted for a crime he didn’t commit, especially when David Ray Harris’ guilt was fairly obvious? Essentially, the police department was eager to pin the crime – the murder of a fellow cop – on anyone. Adams was badgered into signing a confession and the court was willing to sentence him to death, despite the lack of evidence.(The film is also willing to point out the town’s connection to the Klu Klux Klan, casting doubt on everyone’s honor.)  Through these lines, “The Thin Blue Line” becomes a wider condemnation of the death penalty. When such an obvious miscarriage of justice can happen, how can we trust the court system to end anyone’s life?

As interview subjects, Randall Adams and David Ray Harris are very different figures. Adams is quiet, his accent-less voice detailing events as he remembers them plainly. He cuts the figure of an everyman, a laid-back and normal person who wound up in a very bad situation. His nature is so becoming and plain that even an admittance that he smoked pot seems out of character. Harris, meanwhile, cuts the figure of someone very unstable. He speaks in a gritty whisper, often punctuating his statements with inappropriate laughter. Harris seems like an incredibly untrustworthy person. After the police officer’s murder, Harris wound up in prison for another, unrelated murder. The chilling conclusion to “The Thin Blue Line” is an audio-only interview with Harris where he more-or-less confesses to the central crime. In other words, Morris finds two compelling interview subjects on his journey for justice.

There are other odd characters that pop up in “The Thin Blue Line.” The most memorable of which are a married couple who may have witnessed the murder. The blonde wife reveals an obsession with crime stories. She sees murders and mysteries all around her, which she links to a childhood fascination with detective shows. Self-professed nosy people like this aren’t helping police investigation, especially since an expert later asserts that she saw nothing. Meanwhile, her husband casually admits to cheating on his wife during his interview. The police who pinned the slaying on Adams seem relaxed and even jovial, casually detailing the process of committing an innocent man to death.

Holding “The Thin Blue Line” together is a score from Philip Glass. Glass’ main theme features pounding strings, slowly building in intensity. While the rising tempo of the music suggest a coming sense of freedom, the lower strings underneath the main melody create a growing feeling of unease. The combination suggest that Adams may soon be free but that it will be a difficult journey for him. A darker variation of the same music underscores Adams’ version of events. A flightier theme accompanies the introduction of the Texas skyline. Glass even employs some intentionally cheesy synth when the blonde mystery-enthusiast is interviewed, suggesting how goofy her theories are. While Glass’ work here is unlikely to win over naysayers – it’s as repetitive and minimalist as most of his film scores – it certainly provides the film with some of its power.

“The Thin Blue Line” has an interesting legacy. The film helped clear Randall Adams of any charges, freeing a wrongfully accused innocent man. After becoming a free man, Adams sued Errol Morris, claiming the filmmaker had unfairly bought the rights to his life story. Morris has expressed no ill will towards Adams over the lawsuit. Countless true crime shows ripped off the movie, combining interviews with moody re-enactments. While “The Thin Blue Line” didn’t win an Oscar, it did become one of the most critically acclaimed documentaries ever made. I tend to gravitate towards Morris’ quirkier work but “The Thin Blue Line” is clearly an impressive film. [Grade: B+]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1981)

2. Vernon, Florida

When I was a kid, here’s what I associated with the state of Florida: Disney World, beach front property, the retired and elderly, alligators, swamps, and hurricanes. In 2016, people associate Florida with meth, the most deprived of rednecks, and often unbelievably bizarre white trash shenanigans. I’m not sure if George Zimmerman or the Bath Salt Zombie deserve more blame for that. Anyway, Errol Morris was way ahead of snarky internet culture in realizing that Florida is weird and fucked up. “Vernon, Florida” runs just under an hour – which would normally exclude it from a Director’s Report Card but there’s no way I’m not discussing this – and takes place in the titular small town.

Vernon is a town in the northern half of Florida. As of 2004, only 757 people lived there. It’s a collection of several small buildings surrounded on all side by swampland. Errol Morris turns his camera on the residents of the town. By allowing the townsfolk to talk on camera, we see and hear some fascinatingly odd things. People make unusual proclamations about life, religion, God, death, philosophy, farming, animals, the rivers, crime, and outer space. In less than an hour, Morris captures the personality of the tiny town.

Errol Morris has been open about his original vision for “Vernon, Florida.” While investigating insurance fraud, the filmmaker discovered an especially brutal form of scam. People would mutilate themselves, usually by chopping off limbs, claim it was an accident, and collect on the insurance money. Claim adjusters tell of a town in the deep south nicknamed “Nub City” for how much of this fraud goes on there. After some searching, Morris realized that Vernon, Florida was Nub City. Initially planning on making a horror film about the town, this evolved into a documentary focused on the fraud. When the amputee-inclined residents threatened Morris – physically beating him, as the director claims – he changed his focus. This is why "Vernon, Florida" doesn’t have the thematic through-line that “Gates of Heaven” did. The movie is basically left over footage from a scrapped project.

Which, in this case, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Instead of documenting a horrendous string of self-mutilations, “Vernon, Florida” is devoted to documenting life in the sleepiest of Southern small towns. How sleepy is Vernon? The cops sit on the side of the road, in their car, watching in boredom as absolutely nothing happens outside. Presumably, there are some young people in Vernon. Mostly, the film just talks to the elderly. “Vernon, Florida” undeniably focuses on the town's eccentrics. Yet this gives us such a clear picture of the time and the place. I’ve lived in a few small towns. Though living rates vary, most of them are like this.

Despite its smaller scope, “Vernon, Florida” is, in some ways, a more elaborate film then “Gates of Heaven.” Morris doesn’t stray too far from his trademark InterroTron. Much of “Vernon” is devoted to people talking directly to the camera. However, there’s more editing. The film cuts between the different subjects, each one sticking to their particular interest of obsession. After a while, this begins to produce a comedic element. We cut from a man discussing God and the universe to a guy going on endlessly about turkey hunting. It’s a small change. Yet it’s still movement beyond the stationary and deliberate – some would say motionless and slow – approach the director took in “Gates of Heaven.”

You’re going to be hearing about turkey hunting a lot in “Vernon, Florida.” Of all the small town eccentrics Morris turns his camera on, Roscoe Collins seems to receive the most screen time. The man is obsessed with turkey hunting. It’s all he ever talks about. On the his front porch, he points to a collection of turkey feet and beards he has mounted. He tells the story behind each of them, full of bizarre, backwoods detail like his friend called “Snake” or getting lost in the woods. The final scene of the film has Roscoe riding down the river, looking at buzzards, and wishing they were turkeys. Despite constantly talking about it, we never actually see Roscoe successfully kill any turkeys. He stands in the woods, holding his shotgun, listening intently for turkeys that do not exist. Is he a nut? Or is living in Vernon just so boring that people fixate on hobbies this way? Either way, it’s oddly hypnotizing.

In “Gates of Heaven,” Morris was criticized for supposedly mocking the people he interviewed, an assessment I don’t truly agree with. In “Vernon, Florida,” however, Morris is definitely mocking his interview subjects. They’re so bizarre, their habits so odd, that they unavoidably become objects of mockery. Frequently, the Southern accents are so thick and slurred that you can barely understand what anyone is saying. An old man keeps animals in small sheds outside. He introduces a gopher tortoise by saying it’s not a turtle but a gopher, which is hilariously incongruous. He dangles a clearly displeased opossum by its tail. A farmer goes on about wigglers – worms infecting his orange trees – and how he’s an expert on the topic. A couple display a jar of sand taken from a nuclear taste site and insist that the sand grows. What does one say to stuff like this? Even if the real life eccentrics don’t know it, their antics are very funny.

“Vernon, Florida” isn’t just occupied with the off-beat beliefs and practices of small town Southerners. As in Morris’ previous film, he weaves unexpectedly deep themes through his seemingly trivial subject matter. As you’d expect, religion is a big deal in a place like Vernon. One of Morris’ interviewees is the youngest man in the film who quit his lucrative former job to do work for the local church. He discusses how God provides for him. Another lengthy sequence is devoted to a pastor delivering a rambling sermon, based around the word “therefore.” The filmmaker doesn’t seem to be judging these people for their beliefs. Instead, the film is presenting these odd views and opinions as natural expressions of unique personalities.

Allowing the cast of characters to talk about life present their individual views on the big issues. As a man steers his boat through the swamp, he details a time when he rebuffed an atheist. His view on God and existence is interesting, saying that the fact that everything exist is proof enough of a higher power. Another man shows off a blurry photograph he took of a star which segues into a conversation about space travel. He discusses a future where every culture can exist on its own planet. (Including, in a moment that produces some cringes, “colored” people.) Another member of town discusses, with a little too much enthusiasm, the time he saw a man get his brains splattered out of his skull. Through these interviews, normal people express their opinions on reality and death.

A part of me will always be curious about what the assuredly body horror-filled film about Nub City would have been like. Yet a loss can still be a gain. “Vernon, Florida” is a fascinating and frequently hilarious peak at a people who don’t normally wind up on camera. Though it’s unlikely to change your life, “Vernon, Florida” is unusually compelling throughout its short run time. Once again, just by pointing the camera at people and letting them tell their stories, Morris has created a movie not quite like any other. [Grade: A-]

Director Report Card: Errol Morris (1978)

Over the years, I've learned a few things about my self as a film reviewer: Some movies are easier to write about then others. I have no problem rambling on and on about horror or action. It's much more difficult to probe why a comedy works or fails. Really good or really bad movies are very easy to write about. Mediocre movies are the most difficult films to discuss. The Director Report Card project was always meant to expand my horizons as a film fan and writer. Today, I start a retrospective for Errol Morris, my favorite documentary filmmaker. This also means I'm going to be writing about a lot of documentaries for the next week or so, obviously. Non-fiction films present their own challenges. Luckily, an Errol Morris movie always leaves the viewer with a lot to think about. Let's start.

1. Gates of Heaven

“Gates of Heaven” is a movie it took many years for me to see. During one of many journeys through the IMDb, I came upon the film, described as an off-beat documentary about a pet cemetery. A little more searching around discover that Roger Ebert, the leading authority for all suburban cinema seekers, recommended the film very highly. Ebert not only listed “Gates of Heaven” among his Great Movies but also considered it one of the best films ever made. At the time, “Gates of Heaven” was only available on a hard-to-find, long out-of-print VHS. Eventually, the film was released on DVD, in a box set with Errol Morris’ other early films. Today, you can even buy it on Blu-Ray, courtesy of the Criterion Collection. That much sought first viewing left quite on impression on me. Every viewing of “Gates of Heaven” has had a similar affect.

“Gates of Heaven” chronicles two very different pet cemeteries. The first was a passion project of a wheelchair bound man, Floyd “Mac” McClure. Disgusted with rendering plants, Floyd endeavors to open a pet cemetery in order to give pets – beloved friends and companions – a dignified burial. However, not all the paper work on the location was signed and filled out correctly, leading to Floyd’s business being closed down. The deceased pets are transported to Bubbling Well Memorial Park, a pet cemetery run by a man and his two eccentric sons.

In his debut film, and many others that would follow, Errol Morris employs a style unlike most documentaries. There is no voice-over narration. Instead, the interviewees talk directly into the camera, relating their stories personally. It’s less like watching a movie and more like having a long conversation with someone. Any other information the watcher receives is through images or editing. Morris calls this “InterroTron,” the subjects re-examining their own stories as they tell them. In a way, it even seems to remove the filmmaker from the equation. “Gates of Heaven” seems more interested in telling the story of these people then expressing the filmmaker’s point of view.

Notoriously, when Werner Herzog heard that Morris was making a movie about a pet cemetery, he famously wagered that he’d eat his shoes if the film was finished. (Showing he’s a good sport, Herzog followed through with his end of the agreement as documented in a Les Blank short film.) Perhaps Werner undervalued what pets mean to people. I’ve lived with three dogs in my life and I’ve loved each one like a family member, like a friend. In “Gates of Heaven,” the interviewed people discuss in great lengths what the companionship of a dog or cat has meant to them. Floyd McClure talks about holding his dying collie in his arms, weeping. An old woman mentions a pet cat that kept her company even after her own family ignored her. The warmth and playfulness an animal provides is as real as any human friendship. And when that life is over, the grief is just as devastating. Any one who has ever lost a beloved pet is likely to be moved by the testimonials displayed in “Gates of Heaven.”

Of course, to say that “Gates of Heaven” is just about a pet cemetery isn’t entirely accurate. In the film’s first half, Floyd McClure discusses the impression stepping into a rendering plant had on him. He repeatedly refers to the place as hell on Earth. Cutting between McClure explaining his motivation behind starting a pet cemetery is an interview with the owner of the local rendering plant. Morris’ unerring camera gives his subjects plenty of room to hang themselves. The rendering plant owner comes off as a callous businessman, not concerned for how people feel about animals, only seeing profits in what he does. In comparison, McClure’s motivation is heartfelt and sincere, expounding on a spiritual belief to honor loved ones. When Floyd’s business is shut down, paperwork and agreements are blamed. Through these scenes, a conflict between commerce and spiritual convictions form.

The second half of “Gates of Heaven” is the first example of a type of film Morris would make many times. He gives the floor to the owners and proprietors of the Bubbling Well Memorial Park. Each person explains their method, coming off as eccentric in their own way. The father who runs the place seemingly balances the concerns for business and dignity contrasted in the first half. While often reminding the viewer that he wants to make some money, the man also handles the customers with grace and care, insuring that the dead pets are treated respectfully. His wife explains the symbolic importance of the pet cemetery’s name. His two sons couldn’t come off as more different. The youngest smokes pot, hangs out in a hammock, and plays his guitar over the park. It’s a peaceful, hippy-ish existence. The other son, newer to this business, approaches his new position with the mind of a salesman. He parrots phrases and formulated quotations to explain his motivations. The scenes are sort of funny, sort of sad, and oddly touching.

Some viewers have been critical of Errol Morris, saying the documentarian is mocking or belittling his subjects. There is, indeed, an element of comedy in “Gates of Heaven.” A woman is abruptly introduced, due to the film’s naturalistic editing, singing atonally with her small dog. A later interview shows an old woman rambling off-topic. During the continuous take, she complains about her son and, at one point, is even distracted by the sounds of an off-screen car. The eccentricities of the sons in the second half provide a few chuckles. I don’t think Morris is maliciously mocking his interview subjects. Instead, he allows them to present their own personalities. It’s real life and real life is sometimes funny, even when it’s also sad.

Through “Gates of Heaven’s” run time, it becomes apparent that Morris is using the subject of a pet cemetery to ask bigger questions about death. A long sequence is devoted to the funeral service of a deceased pet. Bubbling Wells’ owner chats with the husband and wife. They show a picture of the dog, making it clear how much he meant to them. Grieving family members discuss loosing their beloved animals and how giving them a proper burial is somehow cathartic. One of the interviews says something oddly profound. “Death isn’t so much for the dead.” Of course not. The dead don’t know. The rite of burial is for the living left behind, allowing them to meditate on the significance of the lost loved one.

Other heady themes emerge. “Gates of Heaven” concerns itself with the value of life and love. The film concludes with a silent montage of animal head stones. Some carry hokey messages or phrases, like “doggone!” Others simply note that a beloved friend and companion rests here. Without any music, it mirrors the experience of walking through a cemetery. The sequence could bring anyone to tears. The mysteries of the afterlife inevitably come up. Some are sure we are reunited with our loved ones, even the furry ones, after death. Others can’t pretend to know. Yet these wishes for reunion show how hope can spring from death, how the promise of love is revisited in the memories we have of the dead.

“Gates of Heaven” begins with a simple root, using the idea to examine some of the biggest questions every single person grapples with. These universal truths and quarries are not presented dryly or scientifically. Instead, “Gates of Heaven” is achingly humane, the bereaved given room to discuss the many things they’re feeling. Morris’ presentation may seem frilless, even stagnant, yet he allows the bigger story to peak through. The every day humor balances out the proceedings, given the audience more to feel than just meloncholey. Roger Ebert’s assertion that “Gates of Heaven” is one of the greatest films of all time is hard to say. Yet the film is incredibly powerful and touching, a singular experience that examines what it means to be human by looking at animals. [Grade: A]   

MEMORIES: Toonami

The facts in this case have come up once or twice before but I still feel the need to come clean. I am an anime fan. You’d think after an entire generation had been raised on “Pokemon,” there’d be less of a stigma about admitting you like Japanese cartoons. Yet in even 2016, you have lobbyists referring to anime in pejorative terms. I’m hardly an obsessive follower of the medium. I don’t keep up with the scene, I’ve never gone to an anime convention, and years sometimes passed between me watching a series. Yet I still consider kooky Japanese animation an essential part to my developing nerdom. Like many folks my age with an interest in this genre, a programming block called Toonami owes a lot of responsibility for this.

But it didn’t start that way. As a young child, I have vague recollections of seeing “Speed Racer” on television. Surely, I recognize the art style being different then American animation. Even then, my realization that these series came from another country came later. My older sister was dating a guy who was a dork. He was such a dork that he worked at a comic book shop. I was around six years old at the time when he brought over a VHS tape of something called “Ranma ½.” An action/comedy series about people who change gender, species, or shape when exposed to hot or cold water, “Ranma” also had some occasional female nudity. That was the obvious indication to me that these Japanese cartoons where different then what we have over here. I was intrigued, to say the very least.

Toonami – which I promise I’ll get to in a moment – did not emerge out of a vacuum. There was a rising interest in Japanese animation throughout the nineties. “Akira” and “Ghost in the Shell” had already hit. Video shops were starting to cater to the slowly growing market. I didn’t know about that stuff. TV was the way I saw Japanese cartoons. Anime must have been fairly cheap to acquire broadcast rights to. A number of shows where syndicated on weird channels at odd hours. I have vague recollection of “Teknoman” airing on Sunday mornings on my local UPN station. The same network would sometimes show “Dragon Ball Z” on weekday afternoons. At six in the morning before school, the WB station would show “Sailor Moon.” This show was a big deal for me. I was in the second grade at the time, which meant I couldn’t have been any older then seven. Not to be too blunt but those boom anime babes stirred something in me, the first time I can recall feeling a sexual attraction. Maybe that’s why I’m still fond of this genre of animation.

In the early nineties, Cartoon Network wasn’t the creature it is today. The cutting edge weirdness of Adult Swim and beloved neo-cult classics like “Adventure Time” were many years away. Instead, the network was initially built around old cartoons from Ted Turner’s archives. Which mostly consisted of Hanna-Barbera stuff, the occasional Loony Tune, and some newer programs like “Captain Planet” and “SWAT Cats.” Despite the apparent lack of quality on the schedule, I still watched Cartoon Network religiously. When Toonami premiered in 1997, it supplanted a programming block composed of reruns of “Super Friends” and “Jonny Quest.” “Space Ghost: Coast to Coast,” the grandfather of Adult Swim’s stoned-out weirdness, had already premiered. Toonami was initially hosted by the incarnation of Moltar from that show.

Those host segments are what made Toonami truly memorable, at first. I can still recall seeing one of the earliest first promo. There was a cartoon flying saucer zipping through space, zooming over a building on a moon’s surface, and brief glances at the CGI Moltar. The earliest programming on Toonami was not that distinct from what Cartoon Network normally showed. The latest alliteration of “Jonny Quest” was included, as where the Hanna-Barbera superhero cartoons. Yet one show glimpsed in the promos caught my eye: Giant robot lions combining to form an even bigger robot. As a pop culture phenomenon, “Power Rangers” had already peaked. Yet the similarity between the live-action series and the cartoon attracted my attention. Despite the sketchy animation and predictable stories, I ate “Voltron” up.




“Voltron” must have been a hit for the young Toonami. Though “Super Friends” and “Birdman” would stick around for a while, the entire programming block would soon be built around Japanese imports. “Robotech” was de-mothballed and reintroduced to a new generation. (I watched “Robotech” but, even as a kid, I found the mixture of giant robots, J-Idol pop music, and sci-fi politics to be a little melodramatic.) “Sailor Moon” soon joined the network, new episodes translated and dubbed, my passion for the series being reignited. “Ronin Warriors,” a similarly themed action show, would join the schedule a little later. Toonami is where “Dragon Ball Z” would find its audience, becoming a beloved pop culture fad in its own right. Even then “Dragon Ball” was more violent then most American action cartoons, which gave the show a certain edge. Like a lot of kids the time, I became a huge “DBZ” fan. The violence and stylized action hooked me but the escalating conflicts are what kept me watching.

All the above anime had something in common: The shows had already aired in syndication, the process of dubbing and re-cutting for American audiences already handled. I doubt the Cartoon Network executives expected much from Toonami. Instead, the programming block became appointment viewing for kids my age. “Dragon Ball Z,” especially, would become a huge hit. The network was obviously unprepared for that demand. The first 53 episodes of “DBZ” – what was originally included in the syndication package – would re-air endlessly, while new episodes were translated, dubbed, and edited. By that time that happened, it was an event.

It wasn’t just the focus on Japanese animation that made Toonami the hip thing to watch for young nerds. The block’s format drew us in. A host would greet you, introducing each show. Each series was introduced by a montage of scenes from the show, accompanied by rock and dance music. Starting in July of 1999, this aspect of Toonami would be emphasized. Moltar was traded out for T.O.M., a cute helmeted robot. Moltar’s Ghost Planet was traded out for the Absolution, a space craft that floated through space. The CGI budget was given an obvious boost. Low volume trance and electronic music would play during these segments, creating a specific mode. T.O.M. was sarcastic and hip, gently ribbing the shows and letting the viewer know what to expect. Toomani would even air music videos, composed of clips from the various shows and accompanied by semi-philosophical monologues. All of this combined to create a comfortable, likable atmosphere, breeding a fierce loyalty in viewers. Toonami felt like it was made just for the fans, as it didn’t talk down or make fun. Every day from four to six, it was a safe place you could hang out.




The popularity of “Dragon Ball” and “Sailor Moon” created a renewed demand for Japanese animation. Soon, Toonami started airing shows that I had never even heard of. I remember naively thinking that there couldn’t have been that much Japanese animation left. Because kids are dumb. A flood of new series would come to Toonami over the next four years. “Gundam Wing” would introduce the sprawling, ever-green “Gundam” franchise to American shores. The awesome robot designs, kinetic action, and serious seeming plot lines made me a fan of this show too. (As an adult, I recognize the show as self-important and humorless. The robots are still cool though.) Various other “Gundam” series, some of them better than others, would also air on Toonami. “Outlaw Star;” because of its memorable characters, sly sense of humor, fully-formed world, and lovely music; still holds up. “The Big O” also had a wonderful cast, some gorgeous animation, and fantastic art design.

One of the reasons anime appealed to cranky teenagers like me is because it was edgier then American cartoons. The shows were bloodier, sexier, and more serious then U.S.-produced toons, even after editing and censoring. In other words, the cartoons were growing up with us. Out of the fine and not-so-fine shows Toonami brought to my attention, “Tenchi Muyo!” is doubtlessly my favorite. The “Tenchi” franchise was honestly a weird choice for Toonami. The shows focused more on romance and comedy then action. The first series also had a lot of nudity, which Cartoon Network awkwardly covered up with digitally drawn-on swimsuits. Toonami also aired the three then-existing TV shows back-to-back, despite each show existing in its own continuity. This was very confusing for me. Despite this, the show still connected with audiences. Including me. The vivid, lovable characters, with their distinct interactions, still resonate with me. The “Tenchi” multi-verse also has a complex mythology, appealing character designs, and functions on some basic wish-fulfillment premises. Such as a nerdy guy having half a dozen babes throwing themselves at him. Or an ordinary person learning they’re secretly super-powered royalty.

Toonami’s host speaking directly to the audience made us feel included. The music videos, hyper show intros, and ambient soundtrack gave the programming block a personality of its own. T.O.M. and his computer sidekick eventually earned a fan following of their own. The robot would review video games and movies, which is how I learned about “Princess Mononoke.” (Toonami would also sometimes show movies, which is this essay’s tenuous connection to this blog’s film focus.) Cartoon Network realized we liked T.O.M. In 2000, Toonami aired “The Intruder,” a mini-series played between the various shows over the course of a week. In it, T.O.M. fought an alien organism invading his ship. In the end, his cute, squat body was destroyed, allowing T.O.M. to gain a beefier new form. Beloved voice-acting vet Steven Blum provided T.O.M.’s new pipes. Truthfully, “The Intruder” was done primarily to promote Cartoon Network’s new website. That didn’t stop it from feeling like an event.




In its original form, Toonami ran from 1997 to 2008, an unprecedented run for a programming block. By the time Toonami ended in 2008, I had long fallen out of love with it. Long before then, I had become disillusioned with “Dragon Ball Z.” The show’s flaws – the repetitive storylines, never ending filler, characters lacking depth – became apparent to me. In 2002, Toonami started airing “Hamtaro.” A children series about the comic adventures of sickeningly cute hamsters, “Hamtaro” was totally at odds with Toonami’s usual programming. Around the same time, new versions of American cartoons like “He-man,” “Transformers,” and “G.I. Joe” started to fill the hours. I also felt this was a betrayal of Toonami’s mission statement, moving the focus away from Japanese animation. (I must have had a short memory, since American cartoons were a part of Toonami from the beginning.)

The final straw came in 2003. By then, I had moved passed the anime series Cartoon Network approved for me. I started collecting on DVD, focusing on shows with more mature themes, watching in their original language. Cartoon Network shared some fault for this, as the Adult Swim block had started by then, providing me with edgier shows. TechTV – a topic for a future Memories column – was also airing anime by this point, providing more intellectually stimulating shows. In February of 2003, Toonami premiered Giant Robot Week. For five days, they aired episodes of “Evangelion” and “Nadesico.” The shows were heavily edited, to the point of incoherence. I was already a fan of “Evangelion” and found the network’s handling disgraceful. Now, I realize I overreacted. At the time, this was the breaking point. I washed my hands of Toonami. When the programming block was canceled in 2008, I hadn’t pay attention in years.




In the years since Toonami’s 2008 conclusion, the series became a nerd culture touchstone. An entire generation of anime nerds – people far more devoted to the medium than I – had their passion ignited. If you’re around my age and like Japanese cartoons, you probably have Toonami to thank for that. I’ve felt that nostalgia too. Fans clamored so loudly for Toonami’s return that Cartoon Network had to listen. The programming block first returned in 2012 as an April Fools Day gag on the Adult Swim block, itself an institution by this point. The next year, Toonami officially returned, taking over the network on Saturday nights. The new Toonami blatantly patterns itself after the block’s 1999-2003 glory days while airing shows that never would’ve flown in that original time slot. I’ll check on the new Toonami occasionally. (“Kill la Kill” is on my wavelength.) I admire the network’s move but the passion just isn’t there for me anymore. When I feel the need to watch some anime today, I usually just streamed it somewhere.

Yet I have a lot of fond memories to thank Toonami for. For example! I first bonded with JD – the guy who co-hosts the Bangers n’ Mash Show with me and one of my closest friends – over our mutual interest in “Dragon Ball.” Moreover, the sense of fun and discovery the programming block created in me sticks in my brain. During some turbulent teenage years, Toonami was a source of fun, excitement, and even comfort. There will be other attempts to recapture the feeling, even after Adult Swim’s most recent revival ends. But you can never quite perfectly capture the past.