There have been bloodier massacres in the recent past, and bigger urban conflagrations, but perhaps no event in living memory has more dreadfully exposed the oldest, deepest rift in America than did the May 1985 police assault on the self-described revolutionary group known as MOVE. By bombing the row house that MOVE occupied and allowing the resulting blaze to burn out of control, Philadelphia’s predominantly white civic authorities killed eleven people, five of them children, and reduced much of a black working-class neighborhood to ruins. The outcome was a catastrophe. The tragedy, though, was the stand-off, which had been building for a decade—or so Jason Osder suggests in his quietly terrifying documentary Let the Fire Burn.
In reconstructing this escalating conflict, Osder has limited himself strictly to the use of period footage, including newscasts, MOVE propaganda films, police stakeout videos and recordings of the official commission of inquiry. His assemblage of these found materials, made with editor Nels Bangerter, begins as if it will be an exposé but soon turns into something more dangerous: a Frankenstein’s monster of documentary filmmaking, patched together from unearthed bits and pieces that fill you with cold horror at their touch.
Here you feel none of the ironic distance that ordinarily opens up in a compilation documentary. Sometimes, as you look at the images from another era, such a film will encourage you to jeer at the clumsiness of the antiquities on display; sometimes, as in The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceausescu, you’re invited to dwell with bitter laughter on the reality that was concealed beneath the manufactured lies. Or sometimes the mere existence of the footage may figure as a noteworthy curiosity, as it does in Penny Lane’s current release Our Nixon, which draws many of its images from the Super-8 movies that H.R. Haldeman, John Ehrlichman and Dwight Chapin made during their years in the White House. (The irony turns dramatic: mere hobbyism stumbles into an encounter with obsessive, covert record-keeping.) Even in films that try to close the gap by adding present-day commentaries to the soundtrack, as do Göran Olsson’s The Black Power Mixtape 1967–1975 and Eliav Lilti’s Israel: A Home Movie, the things you see remain stubbornly bygone.
In Let the Fire Burn, however, the people, places and things on-screen seem uncommonly immediate. The few terse, matter-of-fact titles that Osder occasionally superimposes do nothing to distance the images, which come before you with the air of something irreducible, as if they were not representations of the past but solid pieces of it. A classic faith in the reality of the image is at play here—a recognition, which André Bazin articulated more than half a century ago, that film stock bears the photon trace of whatever was in front of the camera, and so puts us in remote but physical contact with the subject. In the years since Bazin wrote, many people have criticized this notion as naïve; but if so, naïveté can have a power beyond sophistication, as Let the Fire Burn suggests.