The Fog of
War
by
Howard Schumann
Educated in the best Ivy League schools, successful leaders
in the business world, they were the best and the brightest, the core
of John F. Kennedy's administration. They came to office in 1961 with
high hopes that the world would become a better place. When they left,
these expectations lay shattered amidst the rice paddies and jungles
of Vietnam. Considered the architect of what came to be known as "McNamara's
War," Robert S. McNamara, Secretary of Defense under both Kennedy and
Johnson, was one of the brightest, but had the reputation of being aloof
and arrogant. This public image, however, may not have been the whole
story. In the fascinating Oscar-nominated documentary, The Fog
of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara,
Errol Morris (The Thin Blue Line, Dr. Death) interviews
the now 86-year-old Defense Secretary in an effort to come to terms
with what led to the quagmire of Vietnam, and reveals a more complex,
even strangely sympathetic man.
The
interview, interspersed with archival footage, news broadcasts, and
tape-recorded conversations from the period, documents McNamara's personal
account of his involvement with American policy from WW II to the 1960s.
Culled from 20 hours of tape, the interview is separated into eleven
segments corresponding to lessons learned during his life, such as "empathize
with your enemy," and "rationality will not save us." The Secretary
does not apologize for the war, saying he was only trying to serve an
elected President, but is willing to admit his mistakes. He says that
he now realizes the Vietnam conflict was considered by the North Vietnamese
to be a civil war and that they were fighting for the independence of
their country from colonialism, (something opponents of the war had
been trying to tell him for over five years). Morris never undercuts
McNamara's dignity or pushes him into a corner, yet also does not slide
troubling questions under the rug, and there are some questions McNamara
does not want to discuss.
Though
his reputation is that of a hawk, previously unheard tape-recorded conversations
between McNamara and both Presidents reveal that he urged caution and
opposed the continued escalation of the Vietnam War. In 1964, we hear
Johnson say, "I always thought it was foolish for you to make any statements
about withdrawing, but you and the President thought otherwise, and
I just sat silent." McNamara also discusses his role in World War II,
the Cuban Missile Crisis, and his accomplishments as President of the
Ford Motor Company. In talking about Cuba, he reveals how close the
world came to nuclear annihilation, saved only by the offhand suggestion
of an underling. McNamara repeats over and over again, demonstrating
with his fingers, how close we all came to nuclear war. He talks openly
about his involvement in World War II under General Curtis Le May, and
how he helped plan the firebombing of 67 Japanese cities, including
Tokyo, in which 100,000 Japanese civilians were killed. In a startling
admission, he says that if the allies had not won the war, both he and
Le May could have been tried as war criminals.
Mr.
McNamara has spoken out a bit late to save the lives of 50,000 Americans
and several million Vietnamese, but at least he has spoken, and we can
learn from his reflections. Though the Secretary does not apologize
for the war, saying he was only trying to serve an elected President,
to his credit he has looked at the corrosiveness of war and what it
does to the human soul, and we are left with the sense of a man who
has come a long way. While his lesson that "in order to do good, one
may have to do evil" sounds suspiciously like "the end justifies the
means," his sentiments are clear that the U.S. should never invade another
country without the support of its friends and allies. "We are the strongest
nation in the world today," he says, "and I do not believe we should
ever apply that economic, political or military power unilaterally.
If we'd followed that rule in Vietnam, we wouldn't have been there.
None of our allies supported us. If we can't persuade nations with comparable
values of the merit of our cause, we'd better re-examine our reasoning."
A valuable lesson indeed.
By
the late 1960s, the undeclared war in Vietnam had dragged on for four
years, despite assurances from our political leaders that we had turned
the corner. While massive protest marches brought the issue to the attention
of millions, they did little to stop the war. By the early 70s, Richard
Nixon was President, the war had escalated to Laos and Cambodia, protesting
students were shot dead at Kent State, over 30,000 Americans and countless
more Vietnamese were dead, and there was no end in sight. Impatient
with non-violence and radicalized by the continually escalating casualty
count and the deafness shown by political leaders, more militant groups
such as The Weathermen and Black Panthers began to emerge.
The
Weathermen (later The Weather Underground), a radical faction of the
SDS (Students for a Democratic Society), waged a small-scale war against
the US government during the 1970s that included bombings of the Pentagon
and the Capitol buildings, breaking Timothy Leary out of prison, and
evading a nationwide FBI manhunt. Nominated for an Academy Award, directors
Sam Green and Bill Siegel's compelling documentary, The Weather
Underground, candidly explores the rise and fall of the protest
group over a six year period, as former members speak about what that
drove them to "bring the war home" and landed them on the FBIs ten most
wanted list. Though tough questions were not asked, it is nonetheless
a balanced and engrossing documentary that puts the last serious student
movement in this country into historical perspective without either
romanticizing or trivializing it.
Using
FBI photographs, news accounts, archival war footage and interviews
with Weathermen, SDS leaders, and FBI agents, the documentary explores
the limits of protest in a free society and the odds faced by those
confronting state and corporate power. Included are scenes of napalm
bombing in Vietnam, the murder of black leaders Fred Hampton and George
Jackson, and excerpts of talks by President Nixon. The documentary contains
interviews with seven of the original Weathermen, all white, middle
class, and well educated: Mark Rudd, Bernardine Dohrn, Bill Ayers, Brian
Flanagan, Naomi Jaffe, Laura Whitehorn and David Gilbert. These were
not weekend hippies or armchair activists, but people so committed they
cut themselves off from family and friends for nearly a decade.
While
the movement began by targeting all (white) Americans, after the explosion
of a homemade bomb in Greenwich Village in 1970 killed three of their
members, the group decided that no one should die as a result of their
direct action, and no one did. In spite of their belief that civil disobedience
was the only alternative, the radicalism of the group alienated many
of the people they were trying to convert and forced them to go underground,
with everyone eventually surrendering to the FBI. Today most are still
active in professional capacities in support of these ideals, and still
convinced of the evils of the capitalist system and the need for genuine
democracy.
While
their acts can be understood on the basis that it was a time of worldwide
revolution, and by the failure of marches on Washington to stop the
escalation of the war, questions as to whether or not their tactics
were effective are still being debated. If nothing else, they exposed
the FBI's sinister CointelPro program, an attempt to infiltrate and
destroy left wing organizations. Though today the goal of a truly just
and humane society seems farther away than ever, as director Siegel
pointed out referring to The Weather Underground, "It's clear they didn't
have the entire answer, but their impulse that the world can be a more
progressive, humane place is worth considering. They made huge mistakes
but also had an impulse that things needed to change." The impetus for
that change is still alive.
In
a wealthy Connecticut suburb, Ned Merrill (Burt Lancaster) jumps into
a backyard swimming pool, then dries himself off and heads for the nearest
martini. Proudly announcing to his neighbor, "This is the day Ned Merrill
swims across the county," he tells his friend that he has decided to
swim from pool to pool, revisiting friends and acquaintances at each
pool on his way to his posh hillside home.
Based
on a short story by John Cheever, Frank Perry's 1968 film The
Swimmer, is a brilliant and disturbing thriller in which an
odyssey of suburban pleasure turns into a journey from hell. At the
outset, Ned seems comfortable with his body and with nature. He runs
alongside a stallion and races through the trees. On the surface, all
is well. When asked about his wife, he repeatedly tells everyone that
she is "fine" and that his daughters are "playing tennis," and "love
their father." As he begins swimming home via his neighbor's pools,
troubling layers begin to emerge beneath his smoothly polished exterior.
The neighbors are friendly and there is a good deal of animated chitchat,
but Ned's responses seem strangely automated. He is very giving with
his compliments, but his constant promises and appointments raise questions
about whether he is just putting people off. As he visits his neighbors,
we begin to see Ned through the eyes of the people he has ignored or
rejected, and feel the hurt that he has caused them in his life. Gradually,
his neighbors become increasingly hostile and the small talk takes on
an undercurrent of meanness.
He
meets a former mistress (Janice Rule) who is tempted to pick up where
she left off, but decides that she doesn't want anything more to do
with him. There is also the sexy wife of one of his old friends who
makes a play, but is quickly turned off. Two chance encounters that
at first seem quite innocent take on the feel of a neurotic obsession.
One is with a former baby sitter, twenty-year old Julie Ann (Janet Landgard)
who claims to have had had a crush on Ned years ago, but is frightened
and runs away when he makes advances to her. The other is with a lonesome
boy whom he befriends beside an empty pool and invites to his house,
but there are dark overtones that mercifully are unexplored.
Clad
in only a pair of black swimming trunks, Ned reaches each neighbor's
pool one by one: the Grahams, the Lears, the Hallorans, the Gilmartins,
the Biswangers. The pool parties he encounters describe an affluent
way of life that has been stripped of meaning, foreshadowing later films
about the moral decay of suburbia such as Ordinary People and
American Beauty. Ned Merrill is the prototype of the successful
upper middle class American man: virile, handsome, and charming. His
appearance bares his body, but his soul has gone missing. Little by
little the layers of deception are pulled away, and what remains is
frightening. His is a world apparently built upon prestige and affluence
and the importance of appearances. He has no true friends.
Following
up on his Oscar-recognized performances in From Here to Eternity,
Elmer Gantry and Birdman of Alcatraz, Lancaster is mesmerizing
in his portrayal of the slow disintegration of a once proud man. Backed
by Marvin Hamlisch's very lush debut film score, the film flirts with
melodrama, but is saved by outstanding performances. The film raises
many questions and suggests that there may be other interpretations
besides a literal one. The out-of-focus photography (done to excess)
telling us that Ned is confused creates a surreal atmosphere that hints
he may be dreaming or indeed may already be dead. Whatever the interpretation,
The Swimmer is an original, a film that brings us right up against
the façades we erect to prevent others from truly seeing us. Bring some
towels and warm clothes. This swim will give you one big chill.
©2004 Howard Schumann
CineScene
