Truman may have said “the buck stops here,” but in a democracy, it stops with each citizen, each voter
By Lynne Charles
I came away from Michael Moore's new movie, Fahrenheit 9/11, thinking less about partisan politics than about the nature of war.
Early in the movie, Moore shows a series of shots depicting the summer of 2001. It sent me both forward and back, both remembering exactly how it felt, and imagining how history would look back on this particular piece of history, a piece of history I had experienced firsthand as an adult. At this point in the movie I had a clear realization that I -- a lone individual, a mother, a citizen not a statesman, a voter, a neighbor, a wife -- by living through this moment had played a part in its events.
Just as my grandparents had lived through the Depression, I had lived though the tumult of 9/11 and its aftermath. And like them, I have been marked by it. What came to me in the darkened theatre, though, is that having lived through it, I had a vital attachment to it and in many ways, am responsible for it and its eventual outcome.
Although Michael Moore starts in his usual jabbing and pesky way delineating a link between the Bush family and the Bin Ladens, he seems to lose the intent of this exercise. In fact, his arguments delineating possible motives for the war seem diminished by the footage he presents and its emotive resonance. It is the footage of the circumstances surrounding 9/11, some of it practically memorized from having been seen so often on the media, some of it unknown but infamous by its nature and intent, and some of it simply striking in its overlooked everyday anonymity.
For instance, Moore shows the now iconic footage of the grey dust over lower Manhattan , papers flying, legs running by. He shows footage of our leaders preparing themselves for the camera, combing hair, checking collars. He shows footage of the long minutes that elapsed as President Bush continues reading a children's book after being informed that the second plane hit the North Tower . He also shows footage of everyday life in Iraq before the invasion, somehow shocking in its normalcy -- and striking in its civility. How was it that my idea of Iraq had morphed into images of darkness, dust, minarets, stern men, brutal and covert business under flowing robes -- not weddings, discussion in cafes, bustling restaurants, students with books, families on picnics?
For me, it was the most important aspect of the movie -- the erasure of boundaries between countries and between individuals. One cut is of an older woman outside her demolished house in Iraq . It is dark and the camera is close. She is yelling at the camera, wailing, actually, like a siren, asking, “Why have you done this?” Who is this “you,” one asks uncomfortably in one's chair? She continues beating her chest, exclaiming that there is no militia there, and now there are four funerals for her. I heard strange noises beside me and I looked to my husband, and realized he was sobbing.
Moore also presents a series of quickly edited news broadcasts from the initial days of the Iraq invasion. Each broadcaster is juxtaposed in quick succession: Ted Koppel, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, et al, so that one clearly sees the sense of invincibility projected, and more disturbing, a certain collective glee that was conveyed. He shows, as well, footage of soldiers preparing to attack, which is infamous in its vulgarity, and he shows slow bittersweet moments of Christmas eve on the base.
What is most effective in the film, though, is Moore's tracking of Lila Lipscomb, the mother of an enlisted soldier from his native town of Flint, Michigan. When she is first introduced she speaks of how proud she is that her two children joined the military, one currently serving in Iraq. She speaks of how she encouraged them to enlist because the family didn't have many other resources. This way, she told them, they would get an education, get a skill, see the world. At this point in the film she believes that the army will provide a safe haven for them, and an opportunity.
After she receives word of her son's death, Moore follows her trajectory of grief. Her loss of innocence parallels the viewers'. Moore eventually follows her to the Washington Mall where she nearly falls to the ground in her tears. Seeing her personal grief, our sense of detachment from this war and its effects is completely destroyed.
I came away from the film speechless. I hadn't realized what this war entailed. I hadn't gauged my sense of indifference to soldiers and to those who have lost so much in this country and Iraq. I hadn't realized how I had been played. I had come prepared to shout out loud, protest, shake my fist and lay the blame, “Who did this?” “Who is responsible?”
Truman may have said “the buck stops here,” but in a democracy, it stops with each of us, each citizen, each voter.
This is the gift of Fahrenheit 9/11.
(Lynne Charles is an artist who lives in Deep River, CT with her husband and three children. She once lived in Laredo.)
