115 - Flags of Our Fathers review

Note: This review is a bit better than the one published in the Northern Iowan. Sorry about the discrepancy!



"Every jackass thinks he knows what war is. Especially those that have never been in one," narrates an elderly World War II veteran at the beginning of Clint Eastwood’s Flags of Our Fathers. We’ve all been told that war has the capacity to taint and destroy everything it touches, but to those with firsthand experience, the armchair musings of civilians must seem trite and vacuous.

There have, however, been a number of great war films directed by men whose combat experience is limited to discussions with the props department over blank firing rifles. Eastwood’s newest film joins those ranks, an unusually thoughtful and observant entry into the complicated and important genre. It contains the usual battle scenes, including a landing battle with Iwo Jima’s Japanese defenders that approaches the intensity of Saving Private Ryan’s famed opening, but works most effectively outside of the combat zone.

It follows Navy corpsman, "Doc" Bradley (Ryan Phillipe), and two marines, Rene Gagnon (Jesse Bradford) and Ira Hayes (Adam Beach). They were pictured in the historic photograph of six Americans raising the flag atop Mount Suribachi during the Battle of Iwo Jima. The great snapshot resonates so deeply with the American public that the three are promptly shipped home to help sell war bonds, while the other flag-raisers lie dead under Iwo Jima’s surreal black sand.

Though they have exchanged bullets and bombs for fancy dinners, parades, and meetings with the president, things are not well. They can’t stand the outpouring of praise and labels such as "hero", which was won not by winning a hard fight, but by helping to erect a flagpole. Gagnon tries to levy his newfound celebrity to his advantage, with no success. Hayes, a Native American, finds himself having to field absurd questions about stereotypes such as tomahawks, while being unable to feed his insatiable cravings for alcohol at bars that don’t tolerate non-white customers. Bradley calmly and dutifully makes his way through the ordeal, while being haunted by guilt over the gruesome torture-death of his friend back on Iwo Jima.

Although appreciative, the men and women back home have been fed a whitewashed version of the truth of war. Though their publicity work may be important, at this point in the war victory over the Axis is assured, and the fuss over their role in the scheme of things feels hollow when thinking of their departed comrades. In one scene, they point out that one of the deceased marines in the photo is being confused with another marine, the head of the bond drive displays a blithe indifference to the facts, as all that matters to him is that as many bonds as possible are sold. As Hayes drinks himself into a state that nearly renders him un-presentable to an audience, his superiors berate him and threaten to send him back to the front, a proposition that actually inadvertently holds much appeal. Whether in battle or at home, the men are simply instruments to be used as the war machine necessitates, their personal feelings on any issue a moot point.

This portrayal of war, not just as the grinder of flesh but as the destroyer of souls, sets Flags of Our Fathers apart from other contemporary war classics. We’ve seen the bloody terror of Saving Private Ryan and Black Hawk Down, but this shows us much more. An occasional lack of focus takes the film off track, as the distinctly non-chronological narrative doesn’t always feel right, and the fight for the island lacks a flow that could have greatly increased the impact of the later battle sequences, but Eastwood usually remains right on target. The performances are great across the board, the cinematography beautifully captures the imposing glory of Iwo Jima, and the story never fails to be moving and sincere.

We may not be able to truly understand war without being in it ourselves, but we can learn from it, and if I’ve learned anything from war films, it’s that war is best left to those who have already had to fight it.

4.5 out of 5

114

What a wretched, stupid move on Fox's part. As my friends and I can testify to, this is the sort of film that has RABID fans eagerly awaiting the release. So what does the studio do? Cut the release by more than half and jerk around everybody that doesn't live in or near a major city. So I'd like to give a big "Fuck you" to anyone at Fox even remotely connected to this decision, even if by some miracle my theater does get the film.

113 - Hard Boiled review

Just what is it about cinematic violence that enthralls so many? Would it be the fantastical aspect of watching movie stars engage in conflicts we lack the capability to? The cathartic release of seeing someone pay for their wrongs ? Or could the artistry of putting human injury to film be enough?

For John Woo’s Hard Boiled (1992), I’d have to say all of the above. There have been thousands of films that use violence as a selling point, but I’m not aware of any that take it to the manic extreme of Hard Boiled. The action sequences are so numerous that they blend into one another, but always maintain a very clear sense of coherency and style. If there exists a film where the destruction of human life plays out so beautifully, I’ve yet to see it.

People will often comment on the clothesline nature of action films plots (where the story serves as a structure to hang action sequences) as if narrative was a superfluous luxury affordable primarily by slow-moving Oscar-bait. But here may be the only example of a film with a worthless plot worthy of being considered a classic that I can think of. I’ve watched this film consistently for nearly a decade, and never found the dialogue or story events to matter much; Hard Boiled represents such a victory of style over substance that the style becomes the substance. Instead of discussing the characters relationships to one another via dialogue, we discuss it considering the guns they shoot at each and the way bullets are dodged.

The clothesline: Chow Yun-Fat plays a cop, nicknamed "Tequilla", who finds himself engaged in a never-ending series of shootouts with a massive gun-running gang on the streets of Hong Kong. This leads him into conflict with Tony (Tony Leung), an undercover cop working as a hitman for the gang. Film Plots 101 dictates that they join forces to butcher every gang member in their path.

I’ve eagerly watched every movie gunfight I could get my hands on, but any given piece in Hard Boiled would be able to take the prize for most spectacular use of violence as entertainment to date. Woo’s creative use of scenery and firearms is dazzling. The aesthetics of the fantasy gun battle are crafted in a way that merges the best aspects of Woo’s successors, particularly Sam Peckinpah.

Woo’s use of perspective, a key component to a successful action sequence that too many films completely overlook, proves to be nearly impeccable, as his camera lets us in on all the angles of the gun battles, from the heroes to their unfortunate living targets. It lovingly details the effect of thousands of projectiles racing through a room, as scenery quite literally gets chewed to pieces, recognizing that gunfire has results, and we get to see it all. The film may have the highest on-screen body count in cinema history; the Internet Movie Database claims 230, but I personally counted 250, with no less than 100 killed by Chow Yun-Fat alone.
One sequence has the protagonist sliding down a stair rail, emptying two guns at once into fleeing goons. Another features a one man, teargas and shotgun laden assault on a warehouse filled with dozens of bad guys, who quickly find themselves outmatched. The final third features a forty-five minute battle in a crowded hospital where enough blanks are fired to supply any other ten action films. It even has the most technically and visually impressive sequence that I’ve ever seen, a two minute and forty-two second shot where the two heroes maneuver through the hallways of the hospital, blasting thugs to pieces, stopping only to reload, ascend in an elevator, and chat about guilt, only to exterminate some more.

This was Woo’s last film before moving to the U.S. to work in Hollywood. While he has since produced a couple of good films (and several bad ones), the much more conservative Hollywood environment and the ludicrous standards of the MPAA ratings system have ensured that his American work has been significantly toned down from the outrageous blood-baths he specialized in before.

Despite the consistent theme of his Hong Kong action pieces (hero runs into goons, butchers them, moves on), the variety and sheer skill exhibited keep them from degrading into formula, other than the one Woo sets himself (Self-plagiarism is style, Hitchcock said). The great Roger Ebert has often said that films are not about what they are about, but how they are about it. Woo’s magnum opus before leaving Hong Kong demonstrates the truth of this statement to enormous effect. It’s not about the violence, but the way the violence is presented, supercharged and unleashed in relentless waves of blood and bullets, all for our viewing pleasure.

5 out of 5