Eric Steel’s The Bridge dredges up that conflict in the viewer. Though the plaudits of critics seem to validate views one and two, view three never seems to disappear.
The setting of The Bridge is San Francisco’s Golden Gate. An architectural marvel and national treasure, The Golden Gate Bridge draws shutterbugs and newlyweds from around the world. Unfortunately, such majesty also provides arguably the ultimate means with which to do oneself in. Through just over an hour and a half, the viewer observes along with the filmmaker as men and women brace themselves, hurdle the barriers and plunge to their demise.
While there is much to question in the approach and execution of the film, there can be little argument about the quality of the cinematography. There’s a truism in the photography world that one can’t help but to take a good shot in India. The same could be applied to filming in San Francisco. The seemingly constant fog contrasted with the hours of California sun make for fantastic images, as much for an editor as a cameraman. To seasonal affectives, the atmospheric yo-yo is something out of Dante. If you’re shooting a picture, it is a bounty. This is not to say that Steel & Company don’t display an eye. On the contrary, the viewer ends the film feeling that the same crew could produce a work of stunning imagery in a Dallas suburb. As with any gift, this demands the greatest care not to go around the bend. Sadly, that is just what The Bridge does.
Take the star of the film, Gene Sprague, as an example. Some might recoil at such a designation. In the context of the film, that is precisely how the jumper is treated.
Suicide comes in all forms. Frail people, hearty people, plain people and arresting people. Sprague is the latter, clad in black with long, dark hair that moves in the furious Bay winds. It is no accident that his suicide bookends The Bridge. While it would be naïve to suggest that the crew attempt to prevent any or all of the twenty four jumpers of 2004, it isn’t too much to ask that the sanctity of human life might trump the aims of a work. One critic salutes The Bridge for its lack of “religious cant and of cozy New Age bromides.” Fair enough, but this topic and this film are all about lines and where to draw them. Just as the friends and relatives ponder where the line is drawn between stopping a suicide and unseemly intrusion, the viewer must ask just how far can a filmmaker go in taking on this subject without getting too cute with his editing. New Age bromides notwithstanding, there is a real urge to chastise he who would use the ultimate in human despair for what amounts to stage blocking.
Despite this criticism, there is a lot to ponder. The setting itself, for starters. As Philip Manikow’s parents point out, there has to be a sort of majesty in it. If a person has come to that point, what could be more liberating than a free fall into (and from) such a picturesque locale. Symbolically and physically, the release must make at least two of the four seconds bounding to certain death perversely serene. To this end, it is correct to assert that jumping off the Golden Gate, though it is suicide, isn’t like any other kind. Though there is little in the way of an answer presented, there are some helpful clues for those concerned about a loved one. It is fair to attest from the anecdotal evidence provided in the interviews that if a person of interest is striking out at online dating and clad in charcoal whilst living more than an inch west of the Hudson, it is time to seek professional help.
About halfway through, one gets the feeling that the film is about to enter the second act. Namely, the pathology of suicide. Almost, but after a short jog in that direction, it continues down the vignette path. To be sure, the story that seems to set this up and not pay off is one hell of a story indeed. In a subject whose primary trade is in shock, the tale of Kevin Hines raises the bar. Be that as it may, there is a nagging feeling that simply having a sledgehammer of a subject does not entitle the filmmaker to lose the script.
Eric Steel has no obligation as a citizen to offer the viewing public a solution to suicide in general or the Golden Gate jumper phenomena in particular. As a filmmaker, he brings this upon himself.
What is troubling is that The Bridge confronts us with the question of what is actionable. No solution is offered. Again, it is a lofty request to make. This is a lofty subject. If a person watches a documentary on Iraq, he might write his Congressman. One on Katrina, she could give to the Red Cross or the NAACP. Even in a nature film, the provocation can be converted into action through political and economic means. In fact, politics and economics, if they are even viewed separately, shape nearly all the exigencies of our daily existence. It is to Steel’s credit that he avoids a “political” documentary, but surely there is an aspect of public policy, say, access to walking on the bridge, that could be addressed. In general terms, there is the lingering question of how to obviate the act as either a state or concerned individual.
With The Bridge, we’re confronted with the helplessness that the interview subjects have obviously dealt with on an exponential scale. Some of the jumpers suffered from severe mental illness, some addiction, some simple desperation onset by the parade of small failures most of us perceive or encounter. The common thread is that each person profiled had friends and/or relatives who were struggling to stop them from the act with whatever abilities they had. Just as it perturbs the apt viewer when one of those political films betrays him by turning needlessly didactic, The Bridge leaves him begging for some kind of answer.
Oddly, the American character in the 21st Century comes off pretty well. This provides little comfort. Comfort would be to prove the cynical conjecture that those who take their own life are completely at the end of their rope, or that their sense of absolute abandonment was merited. To this, one of Gene’s friends put it plainly but best: “Gene had people who loved him.” Another friend follows this. “I don’t have any answers.” None of the people in The Bridge were so alone that, as we might imagine, at the end of life there was no one to grieve. The bereaved are all over, left with little besides pain and confusion. In some cases regret, but in most cases a pervasive bewilderment.
What answers can one filmmaker offer? Hard to tell, but that irksome sensation that some answer, any answer, is owed us. At least an attempt. Just as the buffalo drowning slowly in the bog on Mutual of Omaha sticks with a person, the feeling that The Bridge is more concerned with the work than the subject never goes away. It is captivating. Even with all of these unseemly qualities, the urge to dial back and watch it all over again is surprising. Still, one could submit that something this heavy comes with a responsibility attached. If you lead us down this road, don’t leave us like Gene’s friend, saying we have no answers.
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Eric Steel, Easy There Tiger, Inc., 2006
Color, 94 minutes
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