As I mentioned in my review of Vicky Cristina Barcelona—also published at Past the Popcorn today—one of the cinematic tropes of which I am growing mighty tired is the sympathetic portrayal of “true artists” as visionary purists to whom the rest of us plebes (and critics in particular?) can only hope to bow and scrape.  In the case of Woody Allen’s latest film, that visionary is the mercurial Maria Elena, a painter who bull-rushes her way through everyone else’s lives… and yet wouldn’t all their lives be so much the poorer without having to put up with her manic pursuit of beauty?  The only moral imperative in such portrayals, it seems, is the pursuit of artistic excellence—and nothing else matters.

In the documentary film Man on Wire, that visionary is Frenchman Philippe Petit, the man who—yes!—successfully (and illegally, of course) stretched a cable between the twin towers of the World Trade Center… and tightrope-walked across it for an astonishing forty-five minutes.

And in Man on Wire, the plebes are the set of accomplices Petit recruited to help him train for the stunt and rig the cable… and whom he left in the dust upon becoming an overnight international celebrity.  Amazingly, thirty years later, girlfriend Annie Alix and key conspirator Jean-Louis Blondeau are still brought to tears by recollection of the artistic beauty of the stunt—even though Petit treated them like dirt in the event’s wake.

Amazingly, this is one of those rare instances—something like Shine or Pollock—where, in the presence of such self- and art-absorbed personalities, we manage to think: What a schmuck… but what a great, captivating, and creative schmuck!  And aren’t we grateful for such schmuckitude!

Now, to be fair, I’m an artist in my own right—not “merely” one of the press corps (who can also be pretty downright intolerable, donchaknow)—so I’ve got my own share of myopia to lay claim to.  Why, just the other day I was crowing to my wife about the sheer joy of having someone “get” what I was after.  As an artist, it’s pretty miserable being misunderstood or under-appreciated, and single-minded devotion to one’s craft is, well, pretty much a perquisite.  So I’ve known (and been, at times) my own share of Petits.

Petit even appeals to one of my pet bon mots about artists, which is that the real ones will do what they do because they are literally driven to do so and wouldn’t know what else to do; that is, they neither need nor deserve patronage or public assistance.  That was certainly the case with Petit, who mounted his early escapades entirely on his own dime—and on the backs of his accomplices—without any hope of income from the ventures.  From the Notre Dame cathedral towers and the Sydney Harbor bridge to the Trade Center towers, Petit was essentially performing gratis, a busker and vaudevillian on a grand, grand scale.  And darn if he wasn’t good!

Documentarian James Marsh also finds a great foil for his camera in Petit, who is an always-on performer and natural raconteur.  Marsh then skillfully interweaves mobile interviews with Petit (and others) with archival footage, home movie footage, and “reenactments” to keep the tone light and entertaining.  By the time we arrive at the literally breathtaking culmination of Petit’s signature stunt—the outcome of which is no surprise, by the way, in case you were wondering, as Petit is still alive, and since the media headlines and photos give away the climax—we don’t merely understand what Petit and his crew accomplished; we also get the feeling that we really comprehend the man behind the stunt.  Sadly.

But really, why should I tire so easily of pompous artists?  After all, even critics and streetsweepers can be shallow windbags.  So why not celebrate a monumental accomplishment by a very talented—if overly preoccupied and self-absorbed—representative of our species?

I would just be little more enthusiastic about the film if Marsh’s reenactments weren’t so dippy.  In attempting to evoke a Woodstock-era feel to his black-and-white footage, he actually cuts his film off from a wider audience.

But then again, maybe that’s part of the point.  After all, if you took your kids to see this film, you might have to follow up with a Biography special on The Flying (and falling) Wallendas.  Petit, unlike Man on Wire, comes off as nearly bullet-proof.

Man on Wire is rated PG-13 for “some sexuality and nudity, and drug references.”  The film could easily have been cut for a PG (or even G) rating; and why not?  The full-frontal male and female nudity, which has nothing to do with the story itself, seems just juvenile here—even though I think I get the point.

Courtesy of a local publicist, Greg viewed a promotional screener of Man on Wire.