Gates of Heaven (1978)

Last December, while aimlessly browsing the Internet, I happened to stumble upon an article published by Ebert in 1991 - that is, five years before starting his Great Movies collection - in which he listed his personal ten best movies of all time, comprised of films that had "moved [him] deeply in one way or another". Despite being the first time I had ever laid eyes on that article, based on what I knew about Ebert I was pretty sure of what to expect. I knew Michael Curtiz's Casablanca (1942) would be in there - as it was the movie with which he had started his Great Movies compilation -, together with Orson Welles's Citizen Kane (1941) - generally regarded as "the" best movie of all time (at least by then). I was sure that a movie by Yasujiro Ozu (one of Ebert's favorite directors ever), as well as one by Martin Scorsese (about whom Ebert even wrote a book), had been selected as well, and I had also several educated guesses as to which career-defining movies by Hitchcock, Fellini, Kubrick, and Bergman, highly esteemed and influential directors whom Ebert deeply respected, would be in there too. In addition, I was absolutely sure he had picked at least one film noir, which he once called "the most American film genre".  Finally, given Ebert's passionate championing of the documentary form, I was certain a feature in that genre would be in his list as well, most likely the Up Series (started in 1964 and by then on its 5th chapter), regarded by him as "an inspired, almost noble use of film" (Hoop Dreams, the "great American documentary" in his own words, would only be released in 1994). I had a hunch, too, that, even though German director Werner Herzog was highly esteemed by Ebert, no movie of his would make it into the list, all being overlooked in favor of a silent picture... despite not being so sure which one he could have picked. Maybe the most silent of them all, Murnau's The Last Laugh (1924)? Or could it have been Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), with the astounding Renée Maria Falconetti? A comedy by Buster Keaton perhaps? It was mostly to answer that question that I set myself to read his article, and, sure enough, most of my predictions were correct, except that, to my surprise, Ebert had chosen to pass over all films of the silent era as well as those by Ingmar Bergman in favor of a low budget, virtually unknown documentary which, I so discovered, he had been praising as "infinitely fascinating": Gates of Heaven by Errol Morris, a director until then all but unfamiliar to me. Needless to say, that much praise really caught my attention, making me eager to go through Morris's entire filmography to try and understand that particular movie's appeal, leading me to discover, thanks to Ebert, the finest documentary filmmaking auteur since Leni Riefenstahl.

Mac explains the defense he used in the lawsuit against

him. Notice the scene composition by Morris, particularly

the tipped scale of justice.

The documentary is roughly divided into two parts, with each one being centered around a different pet cemetery. It starts by abruptly introducing us to a kind-looking man we later discover to be called Floyd "Mac" McClure, with his explaining how, after his dear collie had been run over by a reckless driver, he was inspired to start a pet cemetery so that he and others like him could have a place to put their beloved pets to rest once they had passed away (its actual name however is never mentioned - rather strange for a documentary, but more on that later -, although a quick Google search* revealed it to be called "Foothill Pet Cemetery"). He also gravely and at length expresses his contempt for the animal rendering business, in which dead animals are processed so that marketable goods can then be generated from their byproducts, something he, who holds pets in the same standing as people, deeply abhors. His harsh opinion is promptly juxtaposed with that of an actual rendering plant manager (whom Google told me is called Mike Koewler), giving us in this way the first glimpse of one of the movie's strongest points: its masterful editing. As Morris states, his interviews are "not written, not rehearsed: it’s [all] spontaneous, extemporaneous material", meaning thus that he must rely heavily on editing to make his point across, and he does so beautifully throughout Gates of Heaven. With this particular contrast, he aims at showing us how each man believes to be providing an essential service to people in need while believing the other one is at fault: Mac is convinced that people who have lost their pets long for the same act of closure naturally expected for loving relatives who have passed away, and that therefore the act of recycling their remains is nothing short of abominable, whereas Koewler relies on the fact that he is not only providing assistance to people who need to get rid of animal carcasses, but also creating tangible, useful products out of them. Although Morris advocates for neither, he can't help but highlight, via editing, the bias and the irony in Mac's point of view, as Mac tells him how, in order to eat the "good piece of meat [he] bought to eat", he needs to rid his nostrils of the smell he said he felt coming from the nearby rendering plant, a place that treats animal remains as commodities, as he himself is treating as a commodity the remains of an animal with which he has no emotional ties - again intercut with Koewler reminiscing about a girl that left her work at the plant because the mere though of what happened there bothered her, even though she had never seen nor smelled anything while employed there.  

With a couple of his friends as investors, Mac was able to establish his much-desired Foothill Pet Cemetery, of which he was the main manager; nevertheless, due to his lack of business acumen, that cemetery was eventually closed, with all people involved losing their money and him being prosecuted and found guilty (of what, however, is never specified). In the shot when he is interviewed about the events leading to his conviction, you can't help but notice some suspiciously relevant items in the background. This is due to Morris's deliberately manipulating what we are seeing in order to better convey the feeling his interviewee is (or he anticipates will be) projecting during the interview, thus effectively directing the meaning of that interview so to speak. To some extent, this is not uncommon in documentaries: if you are doing a film on food and you are going to interview a chef, you will most likely depict him in an environment relevant to either his profession or your theme. Morris, nevertheless, goes the extra mile: he takes great care on assembling his shots, much like directors of non-documentary films have been doing since the birth of cinema, with almost every item in the frame contributing to the meaning of the overall shot, so that he can guide us through the state of mind of his subjects without the need for voice-over narration. When interviewing Mac about the closure of his pet cemetery (which would invariably lead to him talking about the trial in which he believes to have been wrongfully convicted), we can clearly see the tipped scale of justice cleverly not at his left, but at his right-hand side, together with a pair of bronzed children's shoes at his left, maybe symbolizing his child-like view of the world, in which all people invariably love their pets, rendering companies are comparable to hell on Earth and you can "pay 50 thousand dollars an acre for land and pay taxes and interest on the balance [charging] 25 cents [per burial]", as stated by one of his investors in a juxtaposed interview.

Zella Graham (?)	Lucille Billingsley (?)
Notice the simplicity of the environment in which Zella Graham was interviewed when compared to the one Lucille Billingsley was in. Also, observe the framed pictures of their deceased pets near their heads, almost like a thought bubble in a comic strip.

As the land in use by Mac had to be given back to its original proprietor, all pets buried there needed to be relocated, much to the grievance of their former owners. We are then presented to Zella Graham and Lucille Billingsley (according to the AFI, that is - their names are not mentioned in the documentary and I am not sure of who is who, but, as Morris seems to be putting it, does it even matter?), who give an account of the distress caused by having their pets exhumed... at least at first: framed in environments that salient their personalities, they start by talking about themes relevant to the documentary, but soon digress, and end up badmouthing each other. Here is where yet another signature of Morris's style stands out: whereas other directors would edit out deviations from what has been asked, he opts for leaving those digressions in the final picture, stating in his defense that "people have a need to express themselves, people have a need to tell their stories in their own words to someone else", and that, as a consequence, the world seen through the prism that is each particular interviewee is far more interesting than any objective answer. In no interview this is more obvious than when an elderly lady called Florence Rasmussen (wittily sharing the frame with her timeworn walking stick) was asked about her reaction to the closing of Foothill Pet Cemetery and the subsequent pet exhumation performed there: after delivering some 30-seconds of relevant content (in which she mistakes the name of the cemetery to which the pets were being relocated), she then goes on a 5-minute rant about her being confined in her house at the mercy of her "opportunist, sand-hauler son", oblivious of the fact she keeps contradicting herself with every single sentence she utters (some times right after she finishes saying them!), in a jolly monologue which Ebert referred to as worthy of "William Faulkner or Mark Twain".

Phillip Harberts in his trophy room

Focus is then shifted to Bubbling Well Pet Memorial Park, owned by the Harberts family, to where all pets from Foothill Pet Cemetery were ultimately relocated. We first meet Cal, the family patriarch, who, besides having Mac's deep respect toward deceased pets and their former owners, is shown to also possess a sharp business mind. His views are shared by his wife Scottie, but not so much by their sons, who help around in the cemetery only because they have no other options available at the moment: Phillip, a former sales manager, was forced to leave his company due to stress; and Danny, a recently graduate from Administration School, did not manage to get a job anywhere. It is through Morris's interviews with the Harberts, specially Phillip and Dany, that we are able to fully see the consequences of him letting his subjects speak as they please: his documentary has not been about pet cemeteries per se for quite some time, but, in detriment to all factual information (central to any investigative report), has become an ode to the thoughts, beliefs and memories of all those involved. As such, we are not so much concerned with how good of a manager Cal Harberts is, but are aware, rather, that he is a caring and warmhearted person whose business vision do not at all conflict with his feelings, instead making him strive to provide the best service he can while always making sure the pet owners that come to him can find some kind of comfort. Also, we can feel for Phillip and Danny (again not something you can say about any documentary released previously to this one), both in in their own way using the cemetery to forget about their broken dreams, as Phillip tries to apply his sales knowledge in his new work while desperately clinging to his past self, and Danny makes his whole life centered around the family business, relieving his loneliness only when giving imaginary concerts to a nonexistent audience, featuring the music he himself composed and will never release.

Danny Harberts playing his guitar on the hill
overlooking the family pet cemetery

Ironically, the reason Gates of Heaven stands out when considered in the context of its contemporary documentaries is that Morris was averse to the claim by the adepts of cinéma vérité, in voge since the 1960s, that "you’re guaranteed truthfulness by virtue of style" (to quote his own words), setting out to do the exact opposite with his first movie:

"Gates of Heaven, in its own perverse way, was in my mind anti-vérité in the sense of, let’s imagine all of the stylistic requirements of vérité and let’s do the exact opposite; instead of being unobtrusive, let’s be as obtrusive as possible. Put people right in front of the camera, looking directly into the lens or close to it. Light everything. Add reenacted material, or constructed material of one kind or another…"

Morris did not break with all the tenets introduced by cinéma vérité, however, choosing rather to merge both approaches, "drawing the line in a different place" so to speak. Yes, everything is lit properly, people do look at the camera as if talking directly to the viewer, and every frame is carefully composed as to reinforce an underlying idea, but also there is no voiceover narration or onscreen host cuing us about how to feel about what we are being shown, as there is no non-diegetic music, no cinematic close-ups, not even a clear indication of who the people we are seeing are, as it is proper of that style. In such a way, by making Gates of Heaven a quasi-anti-vérité film, what Morris is actually doing is to exploit all the "underused" cinéma vérité principles to make a point: he is indirectly telling us the names of those peoples, where they lived and when any of those facts have taken place do not concern the underlying topic he is documenting. It feels to me that, although Gates of Heaven might have started as a documentary on Mac's failed pet cemetery, it grew to transcend it as Morris learned more and more about his interviewees, their griefs, their prejudices, their aspirations and, above all, their loves and attachments, turning its original topic into an excuse to peer inside the human psyche.

Ebert once said that "one of the gifts a movie lover can give another is the title of a wonderful film they have not yet discovered". Well, thank you sir.

Summarizing it:

Liked	Didn't like
A lesson on how to convey points-of-view through editing alone	On a first viewing, I could not understand where one of the people interviewed fitted in the context (and no, it was not Florence Rasmussen)
Finding new details arranged by Morris every time I rewatch it

Leave it to Florence to find the best sentence ever to finish a rant she started with "Boy, if I could only walk! If I could only get out!":

---

Great Movie review by Roger Ebert here.

If you liked this movie, then do watch Morris' The Thin Blue Line (1988).

* I was forced to Google some information because it is impossible to write about people and places without knowing what to call them...

---