Directed by: James Marsh
Review by: Laura Hawbaker
One can’t think of the World Trade Center without conjuring images of fiery destruction. In the years since September 11, 2001, New York’s Twin Towers have come to symbolize the darkest depths of human hatred. And yet on August 7, 1974, the newly constructed World Trade Center represented the polar opposite. The Towers were the scene of artistic creation, beacons for the highest peaks of human imagination. In the documentary “Man on Wire,” director James Marsh casts the Twin Towers in the light of hope and splendor by telling the forgotten tale of one man and one wire.
The title comes from a police file in which the criminal complaint is described simply as “man on wire.” The man in question is Philippe Petit, a French street performer and daredevil who “set out to conquer, not the world, but beautiful stages.” Petit infamously (and illegally) tightrope walked across the Notre Dame Cathedral as well as Sydney’s Harbor Bridge before setting his sights on the Twin Towers. At the time the Towers were the world’s tallest buildings, and the thin chasm of void between them, in the eyes of a tightrope walker, begged to be crossed.
With the aide of a hilarious crew of fools, plans were set in motion for “le coup,” as the Frenchmen called it. They created fake badges, snuck past security, carried their equipment up to the roof, hid from patrolling guards, set up the wire over night, and in the morning performed a feat normally only seen in dreams. For forty-five minutes, Petit’s tiny, lone figure danced on air between the hulking masses of the Twin Towers. “It was against the law, but it was not wicked or mean… it was wonderful,” explains Petit’s right-hand man, Jean-Louis Blondeau, who tears up at the memory of the sight. Also at the scene was Petit’s girlfriend, Annie Allix, who on the street-level urged Manhattan’s pedestrians to look up. “It was like he was walking on a cloud,” she recalls.
Meanwhile, the New York City police—unprepared to step on the wire themselves—patiently waited at the edges of the Towers for Petit to finish his walk. When he finally took his final step, Petit and his cohorts were arrested and sent in for psychiatric evaluation. No one could believe someone would risk his life simply to create a beautiful moment. “It was very American,” laughs Petit. “I did this magnificent thing, and they ask ‘Why!? Why!?’ I say, ‘There is no why!’”
Marsh sets the footage to the evocative music of Michael Nyman. Lone violins and sweeping piano ballads paint a pristine picture of whimsy. There is also evidence of classic caper films: Petit’s accomplices are given aliases like “The Australian” and “The Inside Man.” Marsh draws on expressionism by recreating scenes using stylized cinematography (spinning night skies and silhouettes) that call to mind silent era films like “Le Voyage dans la lune.”
The sum of all these parts is a dream-like documentary, something that inspires awe of humanity’s creative spirit. Marsh wisely chooses to forgo any direct indication of the Twin Towers’ destruction twenty-seven years later. “It would be unfair and wrong to infect [Petit’s] beautiful story with any mention, discussion or imagery of the Towers being destroyed.” Yet here and there is a light touch, like a feathered brush stroke, alluding to the buildings’ fate, such as a lingering shot of a photograph in which Petit walks between the Towers, while overhead a jet soars past. It serves as a reminder that though there may be evil in the heart of men, there is the capacity for great beauty as well.
