A decade ago, Fahrenheit 9/11 opened to critical acclaim and fawning profiles of its creator, Michael Moore. Harry Reid and the Senate Democrats organized a special screening at the Capitol, and at the party convention a few weeks later Moore was seated next to Jimmy Carter in the presidential box – a signal honor for someone who on the very day of 9/11 had complained that al-Qaeda had hit Gore-voting states rather than Bush states, as if Mohammed Atta cared one jot about which infidel you voted for. By 2004, Moore was hailing the Sunni insurgents in Iraq as the equivalent of America’s Minutemen. But so what? He’d won an Oscar for Bowling For Columbine; he was getting bigger and bigger, in more than the cheeseburger sense. And it all came together in the rapturous reception for Fahrenheit 9/11.
These last ten years can’t have gone the way he thought they’d go. He’s a diminished fellow nowadays, and the nearest thing to a celebrity documentary-maker this summer movie season is Dinesh D’Souza, who figured that instead of whining about Michael Moore why not replace him? But let’s put the politics off to one side: you won’t be surprised to hear that I disagree with Moore’s thesis in Fahrenheit 9/11 (Bush is to blame for everything), but it is, after all, supposed to be a movie, and on this tenth anniversary I thought we’d look at the film as a film rather than as a political tract. Because it’s not just any old film: it won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, which is a rare honor indeed, and one they’re unlikely to confer on Mr D’Souza. And all those prestigious cinéastes surely wouldn’t have done it just for the Bush-bashing, would they?
Dissenting from the jury’s verdict, JeanLuc Godard said, ‘Moore doesn’t distinguish between text and image. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’ I’d say he does know what he’s doing, if only because it’s so obvious. For example, early in the picture, Moore shows a montage of Bush bigwigs — Cheney, Rummy, Condi — getting made up before TV appearances. The message here seems to be that the Bush administration is a bunch of phonies wearing carefully constructed artificial identities. But don’t Democrats wear make-up on TV? Al Gore certainly did, to frightening effect in the first 2000 debate. Moore’s clipfest seems crude and pointless, unless you’re simply giving the crowd an opportunity to sneer at the physical features of administration officials, and the über-neocon Paul Wolfowitz plastering his hair with saliva.
After he’s got (yawn) the Florida recount out of his system, we get to the meat of the film, beginning with a sequence covering September 11th itself. Moore used the planes hitting the towers as a cheap punchline in Bowling for Columbine. So this time he doesn’t show us anything: the screen is black, we hear only sounds, screams, thuds, chaos, and then the darkness clears to show us the aftermath. Critics were very appreciative. ‘Moore exercises admirable forbearance,’ wrote Ann Hornaday in The Washington Post, ‘and creates one of the most moving sequences in recent cinema.’