That the Times Building has only just fool-proofed its inviting façade in the wake of two daredevil climbs, points to holes in post-9/11 security. Admirable in not pandering to World Trade Center gut sentiment, the James Marsh Man on Wire details the “illegal but not mean” infiltration for “le coup, . . . the artistic crime of the century,” Philippe Petit’s 1974 wirewalk between the 110-storey structures. Indeed, derived from that Frenchman’s To Reach the Clouds, the documentary fits alongside crime-caper fictions, devoting a fair amount of ninety-four minutes to the planning, logistics and execution that enabled the petite Petit to “dance at the top of the world” three-quarters of an hour at 1,350 feet.

Appropriately residing now not far north of New York City, the principal was then a Paris street juggler, magician and unicycle rider known for illegal but applauded cablewalks between the Notre Dame Cathedral towers (1971) and Sydney Harbour Bridge (1973), and by invitation has since performed atop other landmarks, acted in films and written eight books. Attracted in youth by the demanding freedom of the high wire and self-taught in the skill, he had noticed a magazine rendering of the drawing-board Twin Towers looming above his city’s Eiffel symbol and was hooked on “the object of my dreams [which] doesn’t exist yet.”

Nostalgic actuality footage covers the two earlier escapades as well as the glass-box Modernist Towers abuilding, 1966-’77, above a dirty, insolvent, naïve Lower Manhattan. Aside from some open graphics work, a lot of other footage, however, only appears to be real, dotty but suspiciously well-preserved 16 mm voice-accompanied recordings of the years of meticulous planning, simulations probably extending to scenes of bucolic practice and to trial runs. A cast is listed (Paul McGill for Petit), as these re-creations -- not at first realized as such -- introduce the accumulation of friends, admirers and accomplices from three continents who aid and abet or chicken out.

Cast into doubt by such camera trickery -- which in no way takes away from the real media and personal records of the daring stunts -- all of this is liberally interspersed with interviews with the participants (whose younger actor selves do resemble them). With their frequent commentaries the film widens to multiple perspective from the wirewalker’s single point of view in his 2002 source-book account.

Drawn in by friendship or love, or by the novelty, challenge or absurdity, each revolved around the obsessed strong personality of Petit. Publicity is far-fetched in equating this with “the oldest story, the hero going on a journey, or a quest, the test and impossible objective.” Notwithstanding lame treatment, The Da Vinci Code’s Holy Grail, in contrast, does carry its own millennia of built-in gravitas. What is attractive in the current not-full documentary is the puckishness of the enterprise, sidebar-exemplified in Petit’s pickpocketing the wristwatch of a policeman taking him into custody after the descent back to earth.

Hinted but not further explored are the ramifications of the subject’s single-minded personality, the selfishness claimed for real and would-be genius. Photographer Jean-Louis Blondeau (David Demato) was with his childhood friend from the first, the Notre Dame bit, but something unspecified came from the WTC walk, for this interviewee suppresses a tear over the subsequently broken relationship. The reverse side of the coin is longtime, still cheerleading now-ex-girlfriend Annie Allix (Ardis Campbell), whirlwinded by the young man who “never asked if I had my own destiny.” Unquestioning moral support from start to finish and beyond, she still has nothing but awe and admiration as the woman who sacrifices her all, understanding that hers is but secondary to the hero’s going out to do what a man’s got to do.

In a Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine tee-shirt -- likely from his 1982 skywalk marking the resumption of construction -- Petit himself is the manic, “very volatile” self-dramatizing master of ceremonies as interviewee, a stage manager even to coming out from behind red velveteen curtains. The immediate renown, emphasized by Annie, arguably changed him, but ego has always driven this performer. He does not deserve the fate of the obnoxious James Thurber champion approvingly pushed out of a window, but though, rounder and softer exuding je ne regrette rien walking a woodland wire today, France’s man on fire does it on his lonesome, accomplices and lovers left behind.

Animated sequences are brief but cheapshot, and it is a letdown to realize that considerable portions are re-creations. Material recorded both by the plotters and by the media is stirring enough on its own and should have been allowed the greatest share of screen time. Questions about the personality of its subject are not intended in the film but occur anyway to the viewer, who, along with more sheer-wonder-of-it-all, wants a deeper consideration of the issue. Tom Hulce’s undeniable genius Mozart irks those around him on the screen; Petit’s driven artiste will do the same to those who look at the screen. 

(Released by Magnolia Pictures and rated "PG-13" for some sexuality and nudity, and drug references.)