I watched Collapse, Chris Smith’s latest documentary about the debbie-downer Michael Ruppert. The film suffers from a serious Errol-Morris fixation, right down to its Glassesque soundtrack–and such parroting aggravated me no end. (I love Morris’ docs, so there are worse crimes than mimicking excellence, but Smith is no newbie. Why?)
And the film itself is all one chain-smoking rant after another, interwoven with portentous blackout interludes (works), feverish archive footage underlaid over the rants (works), and a typewriter clacking out various key terms or ideas (doesn’t work). I’ve read some very credulous reviews–Roger Ebert, who should know fucking better–raving about the film’s horrifying predictions. But I was engaged, primarily by how the film keeps its object “collapse” a question–is it the world’s economy, peak oil, modern technology . . . or is it Michael Ruppert’s?
I read a lot of conspiracy theories in doing my graduate work, and that intense passionate fury and worry is all too familiar to me. But I still find it so compelling: how and why do various personal experiences and traits find meaning–and a purchase for securing identity–in visions so all-consumingly dark and destructive?
Which is not to simply dismiss Ruppert’s predictions. His corrosive critique of the unsustainability of our oil-driven economy is, indeed, a compelling horrorshow … It was so horrible, I decided not to eat any ice cream today, in solidarity. But I’m more interested by the film’s portrait of the believer than by the sermon itself.