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Film Noir

Robert McNamara and Errol Morris discuss the Fog of War

BY RAFAEL E. VALERO

Robert McNamara seems to be stumping to save the world from thermonuclear destruction.

In December, McNamara and documentary director Errol Morris appeared at Visions Cinema Bistro's Bar Noir in Washington D.C. to take questions from an audience after a screening of The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara. Morris's film highlights four sections of McNamara 's life: his early years as an officer during World War II, his time with Ford Motor Company, and the hard years of the Vietnam War and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Most know McNamara as the reviled Secretary of Defense during the Vietnam War, in which 3 million Vietnamese and over 56,000 U.S. soldiers died. But the film's story begins prior his tenure as secretary, when he was a young analyst whose work in military strategy facilitated the World War II firebombings of Japan.

The firebombings, although largely forgotten, killed nearly one million Japanese just prior the dropping of the atomic bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The facts show that McNamara wasn't a minor player in the event, but he was a part of Harvard's "best and brightest" who were recruited specifically for such work. In the film, McNamara both accepts the responsibility for his work and yet also denies he was the mind behind the firebombings.

"I analyzed bombing operations and how to make it more efficient. Not more efficient in killing more, but more efficient in weakening the adversary. I wrote a report analyzing the efficiency of B-29 [bomber plane] operations."

As the Visions screening was ending, McNamara arrived and took a seat on stage. He sat like a Wimbledon champion in the stands for an exhibition match. It was obvious that even at 87 years of age, McNamara still has an intellectual zest. He answered hot questions from audience members, many of whom seemed not at all convinced by Morris's film, even though it introduces startling audio tapes that add another perspective on McNamara.

McNamara said he agreed to make the film with Morris because he wished to spark a dialogue about thermonuclear war. In the film he offers himself as an example of how the best and the brightest can make grave mistakes. In fact, McNamara establishes his integrity (and startles Morris) by beginning the interview with his role in the firebombings.

McNamara questions the commonly held belief that World War II was a "just war." In the first ten minutes of the film, McNamara recounts a conversation he had with General Curtis LeMay, the commander of the bombing operations over Japan. In that conversation, both men recognized the ramifications of the firebombings.

"If we had lost the war, we would have all been prosecuted as war criminals," McNamara quotes LeMay as saying. "I think he's right," McNamara adds. "HeÐand I say IÐwere behaving as war criminals."

While the film is kind to McNamara's tarnished legacy, many others have dismissed the documentary's credibility. Morris's documentaries are known for their thorough and thoughtful analyses, but some say that the filmmaker appears seduced by McNamara's intellect.

This appearance may be due to the sense of intimacy created by Morris's unique camera, the Interrotron. The Interrotron lens has a projected image of the director for McNamara to view, while Morris actually sits elsewhere, posing questions. The effect is as if the audience is receiving McNamara's confession. His intellect seduces not only the filmmaker, but the viewer as well.

At one point in the film, McNamara is heard counseling then-President John F. Kennedy to rethink his policy and set a timetable to withdraw "American advisors" from Vietnam. As a result, Kennedy later announced his intention to withdraw.

Later, President Lyndon B. Johnson, who was no admirer of Kennedy's policies, says to McNamara, "I always thought it was foolish that you recommended we pull out."

During the question/answer session, McNamara rarely answered a question directly. He is still a politician bending questions to his agenda, which became the subtext of the night. In fact, in the film McNamara says, "I always try to answer the question I wished I were asked. And quite frankly, I follow that rule."

When one man asked McNamara if he wanted to apologize to Vietnam veterans before he died, the former Secretary of State replied with what sounded like his stump answer.

"Perhaps the question is, 'why did we epitomize the best and the brightest into error? What caused it?' How to prevent the future [nuclear destruction]Ðthat's what's important," McNamara said.

McNamara's "rule" became the heart of the moment when I stood to ask him a question about his relationship with Morris, which seems to be a commercial endeavor with altruistic intentions.

"In World War II, you were packaging statistics; with Ford Motor Company, you were packing people..." I began.

"In World War II I was packaging morality!" McNamara interrupted.

In the spirit of the moment, I replied, "We'll this seems to be another example of answering the question you wished I asked."

McNamara didn't care for the audience's laughter. But he hadn't lost his verbal punch.

He said, "Correction: I was not packaging statistics. If you didn't hear the theme, I'm sorry, you'll have to see [the film] again."

Rather than open a dialogue about thermonuclear destruction, McNamara's natural ability to reconstitute questions exasperated the audience. However, his desire to revisit his past mistakes is refreshingÐmost politicians rarely open themselves to hindsight critique. In the light of the current trend to prosecute war criminals, the degree to which McNamara has exposed himself is impressive.

McNamara fielded only two more questions after mine, and neither the film's photography nor its score by Phillip Glass inspired more than a single question, despite the brilliance of both. In the end, Morris was left to interpret the evening. The director sat on the stage and summed up his thoughts about an old ideological enemy with whom he is trying to empathizeÐone of McNamara's eleven lessons.

Almost as an afterthought, someone asked Morris why McNamara wouldn't apologize. Morris looked up and said, "Do I want to hear Robert McNamara apologize? I would find it abominable. Do I want him to apologize, or do I want to see him wrestle with himself?"

The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara is showing at Bar Noir in Visions Cinema Bistro, 1927 Florida Avenue NW, Washington D.C. For tickets and show times visit www.visionsdc.com or call 202-667-0090.