It arrived in theaters on September 11, 2002—a film conceived specifically to commemorate the fateful date of one year earlier, September 11, 2001: composed of eleven short films, each exactly 11 minutes, 9 seconds, and one frame, with each selected director working in complete independence.
Claude Lelouch chose to work in territory he knew well: the love story. His film unfolds entirely in a New York apartment, where a couple in crisis argues bitterly—perhaps for the last time—on that unforgettable September morning. A painful quarrel, but entirely silent: the woman is deaf. She had come to New York as a tourist and fallen for her guide: an intense, unexpected love that now, with time elapsed, fills her with doubt.
The planes striking the Twin Towers are images we all remember; most of our acoustic memories, though, come from the panicked voices of journalists commentating the events in endless live broadcasts. She has the television on, but it sits outside her field of view. While we watch the events unfold in real time, we see her oblivious, unable to hear; even when she notices the table trembling, she suspects nothing. She is lost in memories of how her love story began, focused on leaving a written record of why she thinks it is ending.
Twenty years ago, it was still plausible that news would not reach someone without a television: the woman suffers as though her world were ending, unaware that the world is actually ending just kilometers away.
In the final moments, private and collective tragedy touch, as if by some grace occurring in the very morning Lelouch chose to document—from the singular perspective of someone initially excluded from it, both in body and in feeling.
An Anthology to Remember
Lelouch's episode is only one of the eleven that make up 11'09"01, a 2002 film whose original title—less explicit but more symbolic than the Italian version—refers directly to the duration of each segment: 11 minutes, 9 seconds, 01 frame. The idea of honoring the victims of the New York attacks with a work of international sensibility came from French producer Alain Brigand, who (in collaboration with the participating countries' production companies) selected the collective of directors. Each worked independently and separately, delivering stories that differed not only in technical aspects but in themes and provocations as well.
From denunciation of Muslim discrimination (Mira Nair's India), to critiques of so-called holy wars (Shohei Imamura's Japan and Alejandro González Iñárritu's Mexico) and political interests (Youssef Chahine's Egypt and Ken Loach's United Kingdom), to pure, human drama (Lelouch's France, as noted, but also Sean Penn's USA, Samira Makhmalbaf's Iran, Danis Tanovic's Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Amos Gitai's Israel).
(Matteo Cinti)