Commentary: Two Very Different Disasters, One Possible Lesson

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A massive cloud of smoke loomed over the western part of the city, the surface of water shimmering nearby, an ominous giant, heavy and dense against the deepest blue of the heavens; as people across the urban landscape looked up in awe, a sight all too reminiscent of disaster movies; The moving camera angle, eyes filled with dread and bewilderment. Already, whispers were spreading through that urban landscape about what was unfolding, knowing it would be remembered for a long time after the dust had settled. It would become a tragic tale often mentioned in a casual way, “I was there, watching it all, powerless to intervene as it consumed everything.

Those words paint a heart-wrenching picture of a calamity, a catastrophe that occurred over two decades back on September 11, 2001, in a city distant from the raging wildfires that ignited on January 7, 2025. In many respects, these words resonate with both events; the sense of powerlessness, the bitter smoke, the histories obliterated seemingly within moments.

I know. Because I was there for both.

This is another story about two contrasting urban centers: one known as the “City of Angels” and the other as the “Eternal City.” These metropolises, like former lovers who can’t seem to stay apart, have exchanged their citizens over the centuries much like a boy swapping baseball cards. Despite their distinct landscapes and cultures, they share a bond forged by calamities that occurred more than two decades ago, each suffering widespread devastation that led to displacement, instability, and ultimately, the most human of inquiries: “What’s next?

The fires that ravaged Palisades and Altadena, transforming vast regions into eerie, Pompeii-esque sculptures of ash, or the blaze that reduced to rubble the two largest twin structures on Earth, as if they were delicate strands of pasta cooking in a pot, give an impression of malevolent intent. However, these destructive forces are far from being angry behemoths seeking destruction with divine vengeance. In truth, they are simply natural phenomena, following their course without any conscious malice.

In a somewhat casual tone, I’d say: “Just like the relentless great white shark in ‘Jaws’, fire seems to move towards wherever there’s fuel. It devours until it’s all consumed, regardless of who you are or how much wealth you possess. Provide it with enough wind, wood, and jet fuel, and it will keep burning until its supply is depleted. Perhaps that’s what makes it so chilling – its utter disregard and insatiable hunger.

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, far from our thoughts was the idea of a fire. The summer’s warmth still enveloped us, and New York City shimmered with a vibrant spirit. I, an actor and fitness trainer (having chosen this path over tending bar), resided in the East Village and was edging towards a career in filmmaking. As I stepped out to cycle uptown to meet a client, the day mirrored those in Los Angeles when wildfires erupted – a sky as clear and deep as a Renaissance painting. An unexpected backdrop for the events that were about to unfold.

When a significant number of people observe something so jarringly out of context, similar to poor quality special effects in a movie, their behavior becomes odd and uncomfortable. As I prepared to travel uptown on Third Avenue, hundreds of individuals were contorting themselves strangely towards downtown. Upon looking over, I noticed the now iconic, enormous cloud of smoke ascending from that jagged, yawning void. The phrase “a small plane had struck the WTC” was echoed repeatedly like a chant. However, it didn’t take long for that to cease being the truth.

On that fateful day, a tale we all recognize, dark and legendary it has become. However, I’ll piece together fragments of memories as I recollect them. The flames ascending stories upon stories. The cityscape transformed in a heartbeat. The scent, sharp and eerie, because deep within us, we understood the chilling concoction from which it emanated. The hollow gazes of individuals blackened by soot, moving like zombies uptown. The deafening silence of a friend who remained speechless for days, having witnessed the horrific spectacle frozen at the tower’s base as people plummeted. I returned to the scene on my birthday a few weeks later, to ponder and reflect, looking up at debris-sized chunks of buildings clinging precariously. The anxiety that surged within us in the following weeks, triggered by the sound of military jets, fearing another calamity would ensue.

It’s wrong to make equivalences regarding the lives lost, as they are unique and deserve respectful treatment, but it’s impossible to ignore the striking similarities between that event 24 years ago and what Los Angeles recently faced. What transcends the smell of smoke in the air is the immense destruction wrought. Memories and any sense of a predictable future were obliterated instantly, leaving behind a changed landscape. The question of “where do we go from here?” and “how do we confront an uncertain and daunting future?” hangs heavy in the smoke-filled air like a question mark.

In New York City, the dust from the tragic events settled, and as time passed, a gradual departure started. The world held its breath, looking towards New York as a gauge of what the post-9/11 future might be. Simultaneously, something quite intriguing took shape. Those who chose to stay turned their fear and uncertainty into a sense of Gotham-like pride and a determination not only to survive but to thrive – even soar.

The stubborn ideal found expression in the swift determination to reconstruct lower Manhattan, constructing a tower to pay tribute to the fallen twin towers on the ground they once stood, and given its rich cinematic heritage, creating a film festival that was as bold, rebellious, and memorable as the city itself – the Tribeca Film Festival.

Jane Rosenthal and Robert DeNiro aimed to revive and inspire the artistic soul of New York City, soothing its troubles and stimulating worldwide filmmaking and festivities once more. This initiative served as a healing balm for both the city and its local film industry, which had been struggling.

The movie I made was competing in the festival the year after, and it transformed my life and provided me with a career. I can still vividly recall the electrifying sensation of renewed optimism amidst that turbulent situation. Twenty years later, that highly acclaimed, illustrious festival has catapulted countless careers and served as a significant milestone in New York’s renaissance, soaring above its ashes with unyielding determination.

A moment etched deeply in my mind, encapsulating everything for me: As I strolled with my girlfriend (a well-known actress from The Sopranos who was stealing the spotlight at my festival), we were walking towards my film’s premiere in lower Manhattan. We noticed a large area surrounded by scaffolding which seemed strangely empty and pristine. It suddenly struck us. This was where the towers once stood. No longer looming structures of shattered concrete, glass, and steel. Time had silently passed, leaving us behind. The healing process had started.

20 years after, I’ve become an Angeleno who has been enjoying avocados for seven years, and a self-taught director of commercials in the DGA, a role I take great pride in. With numerous narrative projects in the works, I am confident that the festival played a pivotal role in shaping the life I live today, as well as marking the beginning of a rejuvenated Manhattan.

In 2001, New York became a city I adored deeply, and now, during this crisis, my affection for my recently adopted city, Los Angeles, has grown even more. Despite being evacuated from my home in Laurel Canyon, I’ve been spared the heart-wrenching losses that many others have endured, which makes me reflect on the similarities between those times and this present moment. As I write this amidst the Santa Ana winds, their mournful howls echoing, my heart races just as it did when fighter jets flew overhead for weeks following that fateful day. My wish is for these feelings to transform into the same sensations of hope and resistance.

There’s no arguing that Los Angeles boasts some of the world’s top film industry talents. However, this talented workforce has been hit hard by the ongoing pandemic, union disputes, and cuts in filmmaking tax incentives. Some skeptics even suggest that the frequent wildfires could be the final blow to the movie business.

What if, instead, it hadn’t been the case? What if, in reality, things had gone in the opposite direction? Could it be that the essence of New York City and the founding tale of the Tribeca Film Festival have something to impart about the influence of filmmaking on shaping destinies? Perhaps bringing film productions to Los Angeles is exactly what this city of angels requires, like life-giving plasma. Might this very proposition serve as a rallying cry that the industry has been seeking, a beacon symbolizing the city’s tribute to the brave firefighters and first responders who put their lives on the line? Could it be a spark that ignites our collective spirit, inspiring all Angelenos to rebuild and reinvent themselves in the best way possible? I, for one, am inclined to approve this idea, but only time will reveal its true significance.

As a devoted admirer, I often find myself reflecting on words from my cherished grandfather George, the man who ignited my artistic spark with his thoughtful gift of my first easel. We share more than just physical resemblance; we share an unyielding spirit that he instilled in me when he urged me to cling tenaciously to my dreams, as if they were the life-sustaining air in space. In essence, his advice mirrored the wisdom of my beloved Hemingway: everyone experiences cracks and fractures along their journey, but with time, these breaks heal, leaving us stronger and more resilient in those once-broken places.

Todd Heyman is an independent film director living in Los Angeles. https://toddheymandirector.com

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2025-02-01 08:26