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The Fog of War (2003)

    At only one point does Robert S. McNamara cry in The Fog of War. It’s when he talks about the 1963 assassination of John F. Kennedy, the president who invited him into his administration and made him the youngest person ever to serve as U.S. Secretary of Defense.
    It’s the most sentimental moment in Errol Morris’ new documentary, an important and fascinating study of a controversial man whose primary role in, and insight into, late 20th century warfare and politics provide valuable food for thought decades later, at the outset of a new century.
    McNamara does apologize for errors. The man widely considered the major architect behind U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War offers an all-too-true disclaimer that registers dramatically in light of contemporary world affairs. Stating that human nature cannot be changed, McNamara describes the inherent "fog of war." In war, "It is beyond the ability of the human mind to comprehend all the variables. We kill people unnecessarily," he admits.
    More than a 106-minute interview in which McNamara, an unabashedly articulate guy at 85, offers up personal reminiscences, The Fog of War also works as a civics and history lesson, biased as it may be. Documentarian Morris, known for unorthodox, non-fictions such as Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. (profiling an electric chair inventor) and The Thin Blue Line, (about the retrial of a man convicted of murdering a Dallas police officer), doesn’t attempt to present an "objective" version of events here. McNamara is the sole commentator, interrupted only briefly by Morris, who uses his "Interrotron," a teleprompter-type device that coaxes McNamara to look directly into the camera, ultimately allowing the audience to make eye contact with him. (McNamara initially balks at the machine, but soon changes his mind.)
    But Morris masterfully weaves other elements into the interview sequences. Previously unseen footage of Gulf of Tonkin reenactments from the National Archives, taped discussions between McNamara and President Lyndon Johnson, appropriately eerie music by Philip Glass and artful graphics of dominoes falling on maps create a new story about a pivotal time in American history.
    While it’s a compelling history for people too young to remember McNamara, it’s also particularly relevant to followers of history who have read biographies of McNamara or his own books. Even anti-war protesters of the era who remember McNamara as a hawk with an out-of-control conceit will appreciate the guy’s candor and intelligence as he remembers, and accounts for, his storied past. To put it bluntly, he’s darned likable.
    The movie presents significant new material, including a Cuban missile crisis scenario that doesn’t simply point to John and Bobby Kennedys’ bravery. McNamara also discusses Gen. Curtis LeMay’s firebombing of dozens of Japanese cities in 1945, and the B-29 bombers that killed 100,000 people in Tokyo in March, 1945 – five months before the atomic devastation in Hiroshima.
    McNamara and Morris hinge their history on 11 lessons, or tenets, of war, which provide a handy framework for the film’s provocative anecdotes: 1) Empathize with your enemy; 2) Rationality will not save us; 3) There’s something beyond oneself; 4) Maximize efficiency; 5) Proportion should be a guideline in war: 6) Get the data; 7) Belief and seeing are both often wrong; 8) Be prepared to reexamine your reasoning; 9) In order to do good, you may have to engage in evil; 10) Never say never; and the aforementioned 11) You can’t change human nature.
    While the movie mostly focuses on the Vietnam era, it also touches on lesser-known facets of McNamara’s life that are equally as interesting as the military material. Born in San Francisco in 1916, McNamara’s middle name actually is "Strange." He attended the University of California, Berkeley as an undergraduate and went to Harvard Business school, where he became a faculty member. He worked at Ford Motor Co. in Detroit, and went on to become the first non-family member to be named president. His tenure in the job was a brief five weeks, though. He was lured away by Kennedy’s offer to join his administration.
    After leaving Johnson’s White House ("I don’t know whether I quit or was fired," he remarks), he became president of the World Bank from 1968-81. Clearly a man to be reckoned with, the savvy McNamara even acknowledges his interview strategy. He says, "Never answer the question that has been asked of you, answer the question you wish had been asked of you." He probably does the latter in The Fog of War. But it’s a fine testament to a thoughtful director that McNamara certainly has done the former, too. The inventive Morris presents McNamara as a complex character with a soul as well as smarts. McNamara says to the camera, "I’m sorry. I made errors." He goes on, "A lot of people misunderstand me," adding, "We are rational, but reason has limits.
                                                                                                                                                                      -   Leslie Katz