By Tessa Moran
On an August morning over thirty years ago, Frenchman Phillippe Petit walked a tightrope illegally rigged between the two towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. “Dancing” midair, some witnesses recalled. No net lay below to catch him; no harness to prevent him from falling. One mistep or gust of wind and Petit would lose his life.
This is a true story, which Petit lived to recount in a 2002 book. Yet it is James Marsh’s new documentary “Man on Wire” that gives this real-life heist the platform it deserves. Though viewers know that Petit and his accomplices succeed in the end, Marsh never ceases to create suspense from start to finish. Through the use of interviews and subtle recreations, Marsh transports the viewer to the scene of the “crime.” Every step is detailed, from making fake badges to enter the building, to hiding motionless as a night guard patrolled the premises. Viewers feel complicit in the heist, yet happy in that feeling. Afterall, it is a crime that causes pain to noone, notes one accomplice.
He and the others talk little more about why they take part in such a risky endeavor. For art, for the adventure of it? Petit is perhaps more clear in his purpose, though his risk is indeed the greatest of all. He scoffs at the media who posited “why, why, why?” as he was escorted to jail. There is no why, he says. He simply revels in the beauty of it, “To die in the practice of your passion!”
The sight of it is truly divine: Petit’s black-clothed figure suspended mid-air against the blue sky and clouds above. His then-girlfriend Annie remembers that day pointing into the air, gasping “look look, look” to passerbys. Her recount is as heartfelt and passionate as if she were standing on that New York street thirty years ago. It speaks volumes of Marsh’s talent as an interviewer; his ability to listen and to encourage the subjects to detail every sight and sound in first-person.
Even so, it is clear these characters are natural storytellers themselves. Petit, nothing less than enchanting. Wide-eyed, he jumps around the room like a child, recounting the tension-filled elevator ride up to the top of the World Trade Center. The camera lens spans his arms as they reach into the air, the light cast across his face. Marsh anticipated the unconventional aspects of Petit’s active imagination and exuberant disposition, and he adapted to it beautifully.
Often what separates great documentaries from the rest is a certain level of taste, whether it is exercised directorially, cinematically or in the editing room. Noteworthy is Marsh’s use of suggestive Errol Morris-style reenactments instead of the overly self-aware productions that clog other “historical” documentaries. Audiences barely see the faces of the actors, nor hear their voices. Instead, we see cleanly produced black and white images of a van driving into a World Trade Center lot, or a policeman asleep at his post.
Marsh’s distinct level of taste is particularly clear in his decision not to mention, or even allude to, the terror attacks of September 11, 2001. Petit’s story is compelling enough to stand on its own, and would have been cheapened by drudging up that fateful day. Instead, viewers see the towers as they were: so striking as to compel an individual to risk his life suspended between them.
