Crimes and Misdemeanors

An indispensable work of art, especially at this moment in our history, Errol Morris's new documentary declares its theme before you even step into the theater. The Fog of War, says the poster--which, as a title, is not at all the same as The Crimes of Robert S. McNamara. Yes, the film's sole interview subject is the former Defense Secretary, perpetrator of America's bloody war in Vietnam; and yet in labeling this movie, Morris has consigned the man to an unemotive subtitle--visible only once you're already tucked into your seat--that promises you eleven lessons from his life. Expository vehicle and unreliable narrator, admonishing lecturer and cautionary figure, McNamara is used complexly here, but always to address what you'd expect in The Fog of War: disorientation, confusion, error and killing, considered as features of public policy.

As the study begins, Morris shows you old black-and-white films of sailors at the rail, scanning the horizon with their binoculars. Accompanying these images of tense and fallible watchfulness is an unsettled wash of soundtrack music by Philip Glass. (Morris hired Glass for the job, he says, because "no one else does existential dread as well.") The mood of foreboding breaks only with your initial glimpse of McNamara today: a vigorous and dapper octogenarian, who apparently comes onto the screen in mid-interview. "I remember," he insists to Morris with a broad smile. "I know exactly what I wanted to say."

So the first words that Morris lets you hear from McNamara are the boast of a cocksure man. The statement that immediately follows, though, isn't nearly so confident. You're supposed to learn from your mistakes, McNamara says--but there is "no time for learning with nuclear weapons." Slip once, "and you're going to destroy nations."

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