That knowledge, joined to
a gloss-free, largely handheld camera style, makes United 93 an extraordinary piece of
filmmaking in service of what ultimately feels like an unnecessary film. Shot
from the ground level, it begins as a keenly observed men-at-work movie,
following pilots, stewardesses, terrorists, soldiers, air-traffic controllers,
and passengers as they go about their jobs. Greengrass has an eye for capturing
a telling detail without dwelling on it, in the mundane conversations that
allow a pilot and co-pilot to bond on their first flight together, or the body
language of a terrorist seemingly determined to put off his task as long as he
can. The knowledge of what's to come allows Greengrass to build almost
unbearable tension reinforced by his characters' ignorance–and later, their
slow realization–of what's going on.
A star-free cast of
character actors and some of the real-life 9/11 ground crew reinforces the
horrifying you-are-there quality. It's a frighteningly immersive experience.
And United 93
functions best as a kind of horror film. Everyone watches as the dull, everyday
moments of a day give way to death and destruction they can do little to
prevent. The effect is gut-wrenching in a way that gives new life to the
cliché. It's upsetting viewing that will probably hit a lot of audience members
on an almost physical level. Just keep telling yourself "It's only a movie."
Except, of course, it
isn't. Greengrass has pieced together an unforgettable, honorably intentioned
film from the details of that Tuesday morning. And… well, the "and" remains
elusive as the credits roll. We all lived through this not so long ago; it's an
odd thing to make a film whose most striking effect is its ability to bring the
feelings of Sept. 11 flooding back, then close on a profoundly disturbing note.
A crasser film would have been easier to digest and dismiss. It's hard to do
either with United 93, and that's either its genius or its folly.
