Documenting War and Peace
by Robert S. Jersak

Even as images of Saddam Hussein's statue being pulled down were used as evidence of some sort that, of course, those opposed to the war were wrong, and war is the answer - I hesitated, along with the other dissenters, to join the celebration. I am not alone in my concerns that the violations to human rights and national sovereignty have perhaps only just begun. The precedents are discouraging. Though few of my twenty-something generation will discuss it, the phantom of the Vietnam War hovers over us, uncertain and morally ambiguous, brought to bear occasionally by an editorial or testimonial, blatantly reminding us of our collective ignorance of foreign policy. What do we really understand about Vietnam, about Communism, about America?

And then, almost blindly, I stumble onto the Academy Award-winning documentary of 1974: Hearts and Minds. And it affects me. Deeply.

Directed by Emmy-winning CBS News reporter Peter Davis, Hearts and Minds presents a damning testimonial of the US involvement in Vietnam, from the French invasion of Indochina to the B-52 bombing of North Vietnam, from the fervent patriotism of a nation terrified by the growing Red threat, to the massive nationwide peace demonstrations which, ultimately, reversed public opinion and helped to end the thirty-year war. There is no overlaid narration, and the film is only loosely chronological; Davis constructs the film to allow the representatives of the war (pilots, villagers, administrators, soldiers, draftees) to speak for themselves, interspersed with combat footage, newsreels and film clips . Every one of the speakers has something potent to add to the debate, though, depending upon the speaker, their personal perspective may unnerve every humanistic fiber in your red, white and blue body. A good example: after a sequence of Vietnamese burials, in which orphaned children wail with grief and loved ones crawl into open graves, unwilling to carry on, General William Westmoreland proclaims to the camera that "Orientals do not share the same respect and love for life as Westerners do."

The film concludes with an interview of a U.S. Air Force pilot, who realizes on camera, perhaps for the first time, that the Vietnamese children he bombed, the children he sent into death's arms screaming, burning and crying, are, in their hearts and minds, identical to his own children at home. He breaks down, and the camera stays with him. After several moments, the interviewer asks, "Has America learned anything from this conflict?" The pilot looks up, his frosted, misty eyes are somewhat vacant and displaced. "I think we're trying hard not to," he replies.

As America shifts away from a "kinder gentler" policy philosophy, we find that the lessons of Vietnam are all but forgotten. Cheers to the Criterion Collection for restoring and re-releasing this important document of war, this powerful reminder to pause before declaring freedom and victory, this plea to all generations to learn the lessons taught by history and brutal, senseless combat.

In theatres, you may happen across a very different documentary, a peaceful and restorative film about the relation between art and time. Rivers and Tides follows the landmark work of Scottish artist Andy Goldsworthy, as he enters commissioned wilderness regions to construct and realize his philosophies of life in nature. Against the backdrop of a frosty ocean inlet, an unkempt grizzled man struggles with icicles, cracking, biting and breaking them until the sections can be placed together in just such a manner as to allow a tenuous stretching and weaving of curves through the nearby jutting rock. The sun rises, and the effect is breathtaking: a sort of serpentine Excalibur rises from the crag and is illuminated with gold light from stem to tapered tip. Even Goldsworthy is visibly impressed, as he steps back and notes that the product of his work, when offered to the world, is always something greater than he could have ever calculated or intended. It's a stirring moment, coming within the film's first minutes, and it tells the viewer that, yes, wonders are to follow.

The joy of Rivers and Tides comes from director Thomas Riedelsheimer's cinematography and Goldsworthy's Midas touch. Throughout the film I was captivated and, quite frankly, glad I was seeing these works. Because of the nature of Goldsworthy's medium, his art is rarely permanent or accessible (in one time-lapse sequence, we witness the tide rise and undo an intricate driftwood dome; in another we watch a river uncoil and carry a chain of leaves downstream). It is because of Riedelsheimer's patience and interest that these remarkable works are brought to light, and for ninety minutes, I was immensely thankful.

Not that Goldsworthy's art comes without effort. Several times we witness a sort of behind-the-scenes breakdown of a work-in-progress: rocks creak, shake and then go tumbling from a large, rising egg-like stack. Though visibly agitated, Goldsworthy takes these setbacks in stride, explaining that he has yet to fully understand what the rocks are trying to tell him. He declares that next time, he will know more, and he will continue to learn until he understands what his medium needs in order to present itself appropriately and peacefully. (I'm not certain if this principal can be applied to my automobile, but you can bet I'm certainly going to give it a try).

After seeing Rivers and Tides, I was struck by the notion that almost all of the works presented in the film are already unmade and invisible, just as we all are cobbled together and then toppled by time. It's as if the destruction is unavoidable, and that loss and death, and perhaps even wars, are the inevitable products of human life. These documentaries, Hearts and Minds and Rivers and Tides, are salient reminders that humanity in all its forms will always come undone, and isn't it, at times, terribly tragic, and isn't it, at others, strangely beautiful too?

©2003 Robert S. Jersak
CineScene