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“The Walk” is a masterpiece in terms of pure directorial craft, but in terms of storytelling, it’s a near-disaster waiting to happen.
It’s too bad, because Robert Zemeckis is the master of visceral films. No one else comes close. Even in his films that aren’t particularly good, there are always two or three sequences that blow the audience away. These sequences often evoke the sights and sounds of an extraordinary experience in such a way that it makes you feel as though you’re taking part in it along with the characters in the film. It would seem that “The Walk,” which is Robert Zemeckis’ account of Phillippe Petit’s 1974 tightrope walk between the Twin Towers of the old World Trade Center, would be the ultimate Zemeckis set piece. It would rival the awesomeness of the plane crash and island sequences of “Cast Away,” the upside-down jet maneuver in “Flight,” the intergalactic wormhole trips in “Contact,” and the small-scaled relentlessness of the suspense sequences (which wrung tremendous excitement from the question of whether a nearly paralyzed woman could use her big toe to remove the stopper from a bathtub drain).
The last half an hour of “The Walk” reaches that level of quality. It is difficult to conceive of any way in which it could have done a better job of imagining each and every physical detail of the hero’s unrivaled physical achievement. After the premiere of the movie at the New York Film Festival, there were reports of people throwing up in the men’s room because they had experienced virtual vertigo while watching Petit (played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) walk, turn, and even lie down upon a cable that was stretched between the towers. In this regard, “The Walk” does not fall short of expectations. Zemeckis is one of the few directors, along with Steven Spielberg and Alfred Hitchcock, who understand how to combine audacity and simplicity in their work. This enables the filmmakers to create sequences in which the scale of the flourishes in their most important scenes is wed to emotions that are easily identifiable. He makes it his business to ensure that you not only comprehend how Petit accomplished what he did, but also what he may have been experiencing at every stage of his journey, in addition to what he observed and was exposed to. The metallic creak of the cable as Petit walks; the rustle and hiss of wind passing over his clothes and through his hair; the muffled sound of traffic noises floating up from 110 stories below: “The Walk” makes these and other sensations palpable, along with Petit’s delight, defiance, and moments of doubt and fear. The title of the film comes from the phrase “the walk,” which refers to the feat that Petit accomplished.
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If only Zemeckis had confidence in his ability to direct movies! Unfortunatley, “The Walk” lacks the ability to recognize when poetry and mystery are sufficient on their own and should be allowed some space to develop and flourish on their own. This film tells the story of a man whose life was defined by a daring, unprecedented, and now unrepeatable artistic feat (transforming boxy skyscrapers into a stage high above North America’s largest city), and who achieved that feat by trusting in his training, bravery, and willpower. The film is titled “The Man Who Fell to Earth,” and it is about a man whose life was defined by a daring, unprecedented, and now unrepeatable However, the script, which is credited to both Zemeckis and Christopher Browne, immediately begins to diminish his achievement with tedious chatter, and it is unable to stop doing so.
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The film begins with a poorly CGI’d shot of the protagonist standing in the torch of the Statue of Liberty with the Towers looming across the water behind him. He then proceeds to talk and talk and talk not to you but at you, often in bizarrely gargoyle-ish close-ups, about the amazing thing he’s about to do, or is doing—as if trying to convince us to purchase a ticket to the film we’re already sitting there watching.
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In the beginning of the film, the hero’s mentor, played by Ben Kingsley (who steals the show), scolds him, saying, “You’re doing too much!” “Do nothing!” The movie does not heed its own recommendations. If the point were to show how the hucksterish aspect of Petit’s physical feats diminished his physical feats and paint a portrait of an intolerable and in some ways untrustworthy salesman-adventurer who is in love with himself, then it might have been defensible. However, that is not the case here. Everything that Petit says should be taken at face value, as the expression goes. It is expected of us that we will adore him. His narration serves as an insurance policy to ensure that the audience is involved and that we are never left without an understanding of any point.
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As soon as you are comfortable in your seat, “The Walk” begins to convince you that you absolutely must see it (“To walk on the wire, this is life! Petit tells us while pressing his face up against the camera lens. It keeps selling, selling, and selling itself, telling you how amazing and wondrous everything is via voice-over and straight-into-the-camera narration, verbally explaining things that Zemeckis’ images are already doing a peerless job of showing you, and occasionally breaking the spell of the movie by having the protagonist chime in with an observation that is nowhere near as eloquent as the sight of Petit doing what only Petit can do. It’s possible that Petit’s narration is the most counterproductive and annoying thing that’s ever been slapped onto a movie that had the potential to be fantastic. It’s like going to the Grand Canyon or the Metropolitan Museum of Art with someone who keeps exclaiming how incredible and astonishing everything is every fifteen seconds; you get to the point where you want to leave and come back the next day by yourself so that you can actually have an experience. Suffering through it is like that.
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The narration tells us, over images of Petit drawing a line between the towers as depicted in a magazine ad that he peruses while waiting to see a doctor, “And with this pencil stroke, my fate was sealed.” As if we couldn’t figure out why that moment is important, in a movie about a guy who tightrope walked between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. “And with this pencil stroke, my fate was sealed,” the narration tells us, “I have finally made it to the start of my dream!” When Petit is lying on the cable, engulfed in misty cloud cover, and watches a lone gull hover over him and seems to stare into his eyes, as if wondering if he is also some kind of bird, the movie’s poor judgment reaches its lowest point during its still-mostly astonishing climax. This occurs when Petit watches as the gull seems to wonder if he is also a type of bird. The moment possesses the same eerie and mesmerizing power as an incantation, but sure enough, here comes Petit in voice-over telling us about how this bird came out of the clouds and hovered there over him, and dammit, movie, don’t you know we have eyes and ears?
The adage “show, don’t tell” is not one that I adhere to in any way. It is a maxim that is often used by hack screenwriters who make their living off of how-to books and seminars rather than the actual writing of screenplays. The narration in some of the most influential films in the history of cinema is forceful, persistent, and even constant. However, these movies don’t merely rely on narration in place of actual visuals. They are demonstrating while they are narrating and narrating while they are demonstrating, and the verbal component contributes to, and frequently complicates or subverts, the images and sounds that are being presented. That is not the case in this instance. There is not a single word in Petit’s narration that, with the exception of a few insightful observations about the day-to-day life of an acrobat, could not be crossed out as being unnecessary. If what you want to do is hear people talk about Petit (including Petit himself), you might as well buy a copy of the memoir upon which “The Walk” is based, or watch the great nonfiction film “Man on Wire” that was directed by James Marsh in 2008, which includes so many re-enactments that it’s basically half a drama anyway.
It is recommended to watch “The Walk” on a large screen in order to fully appreciate its final wire walk, its lovingly recreated images of the World Trade Center, its frequently dry humor (including a marvelous running gag involving an elevator operator), and some of the supporting performances (most notably Ben Kingsley’s pitch-perfect mentor performance and James Badge Dale’s turn as a wise-cracking Franco-American who joins the team infiltrating the towers). You buy him as a man driven to achieve the impossible, and willing to do the hard work necessary to hone his skills, and you also believe him as a charismatic, selfish leader whose hint of madness is as attractive as it is troubling. Gordon-Levitt is verbally miscast (his French acc-SANT is too theatrical and might make you wish they’d cast an actual French actor). However, he is physically convincing. However, in the end, this is a very frustrating task. The movie “The Walk” has everything it needs to be a modern classic, except for the knowledge that when you have everything you need to make a film like this, the movie doesn’t need to hype itself and explain itself to the audience. That’s all there is to it.
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