The intellectual tension that defines the cinematic work of Errol Morris is rooted in a paradox: the passionate pursuit of objective truth through the inherently subjective medium of human testimony.
Morris makes this necessity clear when he directly challenges postmodern skepticism about objective truth, using the extreme example of a wrongful execution. As he recounts:
“You are being strapped into an electric chair and you’re screaming, ‘I didn’t do it… dear God help me, I didn’t do it.’ And the chaplain comes along and says to you, ‘you know there really is no such thing as truth... so suck it up!”
The gravity of this hypothetical moment underscores the thesis of his filmmaking: that the question of guilt or innocence, of what did or did not happen, is not a matter of perspective, but of knowable fact with definitive, often catastrophic, real-world consequences.
Morris’s cinema, therefore, is not a celebration of ambiguity, but a sustained, methodological fight against it. His documentaries are rigorous applications of this philosophical stance, designed to penetrate layers of self-deception and conflicting narratives—the very forces that obscure the bedrock of truth he insists exists. This foundational belief grounds his exploration of psychological complexity, power, and the historical record.
Shadows of the “Unknown Knowns”
The search for that objective truth invariably leads Morris into the shadows of what he famously calls the “unknown knowns.” Borrowed from the labyrinthine rhetoric of Donald Rumsfeld, Morris weaponizes the term, turning it from political jargon into a profound psychological and cinematic tool.
His films excel at examining the things we know we know, but choose to bury to preserve our own comfortable reality. They are not just about uncovering secrets; they are about revealing the psychological architecture people build to justify their actions or maintain their innocence.
The brilliance of his technique, including the use of his signature camera apparatus, the Interrotron, is that it creates a direct, unnerving confrontation between the subject and the audience. In this space, the subject speaks their personal, subjective truth straight into the lens, often unwittingly revealing the cracks, contradictions, and “unknown knowns” that underpin their entire account. He exposes the self-deception that is often more fascinating than the original crime.
Navigating the “Fog of War”
The quest to find an elusive, simple truth in a sea of complexity reached its most philosophical peak in the Oscar-winning The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara (2003).
This film is a profound mediation on the nature of human error. McNamara, the former U.S. Secretary of Defense for two presidents, is a man of facts, figures, and logic, yet his life is defined by one of the most disastrous military conflicts in history. The film explores his “Eleven Lessons,” which offer not definitive answers, but cautionary philosophical principles.
In Morris’s hands, the “fog of war” is far more than a military challenge; it is the ultimate metaphor for the difficulty of existence. It asks: How do rational, intelligent people make decisions that lead to unimaginable devastation? The film doesn’t grant absolution, but it forces us to grapple with the overwhelming burdens of moral responsibility and the limits of human knowledge under extreme duress. It is a masterpiece of portraiture that reveals the deep-seated uncertainty even in the most powerful minds.
Deconstructing the “American Dharma”
The ultimate target of Morris’s lifelong investigation is often the very nature of American mythology and the strange, stubborn people who cling to it. This thread runs from the pet cemetery operators in Gates of Heaven to the ideological crusaders in his more recent work, such as American Dharma (2017), a portrait of political strategist Steve Bannon.
If we understand dharma to mean the essential nature or underlying truth of things, Morris’s pursuit of the American dharma is his study of the powerful, often self-aggrandizing, narratives we create to define ourselves. He is fascinated by the American will—the sheer determination of his subjects to construct their own reality, regardless of external evidence.
Whether dealing with a simple murder conviction or the machinery of political power, Errol Morris is not just a filmmaker; he is an indispensable guide to the dizzying complexity of our world. He reminds us that the job of a truth-seeker is not to pronounce judgment, but to endlessly, fondly, and precisely record the magnificent, frustrating spectacle of human beings struggling to define what they know.
Beyond Cinema: A Philosophical Laureate
Morris’s dedication to epistemological clarity—his insistence on battling the “dead-ends” of extreme postmodern relativism by demonstrating that facts matter when human lives hang in the balance—is a contribution far exceeding the bounds of mere filmmaking. His cinematic output is, in effect, a series of profound philosophical essays. If the committees behind the Berggruen Prize for Philosophy and Culture or the Rolf Schock Prizes (which recognize achievement in Logic and Philosophy) are listening, they should recognize Morris not just as a great artist, but as one of the most vital philosophical voices of our time. His films are practical demonstrations of the moral necessity of seeking and upholding factual accountability.