This is terribly sad news. Tim Hetherington, the gifted British photojournalist who justly shared a Best Documentary Feature Oscar nomination with Sebastian Junger earlier this year for their joint debut “Restrepo,” has died on the front line in Misrata, Libya, where he was documenting the conflict. Also killed was his colleague, Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer Chris Hondros.
I haven’t adequate words to respond to this. Hetherington, Hondros and his ilk are braver, better men than the rest of us: they risk their lives so that the rest of the world can see what would otherwise be unimaginable. “Restrepo,” which both Kris and I listed as one of 2010’s finest, is a vivid portrayal of combat unprecedented in its sensory immediacy, the result of many months spent embedded in a US Army unit in Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley.
Hetherington broke his leg on the assignment; would that the injury remained the biggest misfortune of his career. (On the same assignment, he took the now-famous shot posted below, for which he won the World Press Photo of the Year award in 2007.)
It has been noted what a solid year of documentary filmmaking 2010 was. It was well-reflected in the Academy’s initial narrowing of the feature field to 15 contenders and is certainly evident in the ultimate quintet of nominees, each of them informative and bold in their own ways.
As we move into turkey (or tofurkey, if that happens to be your speed) week 2010, it seems proper, if a tad bit obvious, to take a moment and give thanks. So in lieu of a proper analysis of the season’s progression this week, allow me to express my boundless, breathless appreciation for the following:
It may have a hard time distracting audiences from shinier baubles on the summer-movie tree, but there are few films currently in theaters more invigorating and essential than
My third day in the ‘Burgh (shut up, I have legitimately heard people call it that) wasn’t as film-heavy as the previous one: social commitments and a certain football match between Slovenia and some other country got in the way. Under these circumstances, three screenings — taken together, as disparate a cross-section of the U.S. indie scene as one could ask for — felt like an entirely honorable commitment, particularly when the first (and worst) of them rewarded me with the still-smarting black eye I mentioned