I’d been admiring the trailer for Devotion so caught the film on opening day but somehow missed it being based on a true story until the end credits rolled featuring dual photos of the actors with their real life counterparts. Had I known that fact, it would have softened my critical attitude towards the inordinate amount of film time dedicated to character development of military hero Jesse Brown (Jonathan Majors). After the first hour and only one combat scene, I was simmering and grumbling about a war movie with no action. And no, the obligatory and predictable shore leave bar fight doesn’t count.
When the story shifted from the Mediterranean to Korea, the action picked up and I perked up. Then I was able to better appreciate the historic role Jesse Brown played as a racial pioneer, the U.S. Navy’s first African-American pilot, and to digest Brown’s race defying relationship with his white wingman, Lt. Tom Hudner (Glen Powell). Tom was the product of a wealthy New England family, Jesse was born into a family of sharecroppers who lived in a shack. The film pinnacle caught me completely off guard. Remember, I’m still thinking Devotion a work of fiction, spun to shed light on America’s “forgotten war” using an unlikely pairing of two pilots as the plot vehicle. So when I learned the truth, it was a stunning revelation. I can’t give away the climax without playing spoiler but you will know immediately when it happens, a moment of true heroism and brotherhood, yes, an act of pure devotion that will inspire and stir you through inescapable tears.
On the technical side, the too long film (139 minutes) needed editing, starting out painstakingly slow and including curious dialogues that did not advance the story; sound quality was inexplicably murky at times; cinematography unnecessarily shadowy except for the aerial scenes which were sensational. It’s a great story on many levels but if I’m entirely honest, I’d stick with the 2017 book, Devotion: An Epic Story of Heroism, Friendship, and Sacrifice by Adam Makos. I hear the film closely mirrors the book. Or read the book first and see the movie after to fully appreciate the amazing and uplifting heroism, service and friendship of Jesse Brown and Tom Hudner.
Let’s start with how many fingers are needed to play a violin? Well, somewhere between one and five but definitely more than none. I’ll leave it there and encourage you to check out this odd little film for yourself. In fact, I’ll add the caveat that this “odd little film” could well be a sleeper for an Academy Award.
Set in 1923 on the fictitious island of Inisherin off the coast of Ireland, gritty villagers revolve around a crowded pub, post office and Catholic church, going about their rural business as the IRA and Irish Free Staters battle on the mainland, occasional canon fire and explosions dotting the horizon. Corollary to that civil war is the erupting civil conflict between dairy farmer Pádraic (Colin Farrell) and his longtime best friend and fiddler Colm (Brendan Gleeson) who abruptly cuts Pádraic off, saying without any warning, “I just don’t like ya no more.” From that simple yet puzzling pronouncement, friendships bitterly deteriorate, despair escalates into rage, and rage into revenge leaving us dumbfounded and collectively squirming from our distant shore of time and culture.
Colm is facing a life crisis over his legacy, “Who remembers anyone who’s nice?” No time for the ordinary, he assigns Pádraic to the mundane declaring him “dull” and plunges into composing fiddle pieces, teaching music students and performing with his pub band. Pádraic, like any of us, can’t accept the rejection and keeps challenging Colm for an explanation or better yet, reconciliation. Colm stiffens. Never has a declaration of dull led to such a dark litany of pain with even village pets bearing the unfortunate consequences of human reprisal. Accidental be damned. Apologies futile. Regret meaningless. A friendship meltdown generates the Irish theater of the absurd, seeding the germs of a bitterly rooted forever feud and indeed, the genesis of war, an island fire mirroring mainland bombs. Humanity fault lines are exposed where dull and simple and nice devolve into a mystifying recipe for hatred and violence.
Only Pádraic’s rational and reasonable sister Siobhán escapes the madness, her smile widening as she catches the ferry to a library job on the mainland. The town innocent and simpleton, Dominic, ironically offers the obvious insights, a compelling and cogent narrative on the town lunacy. “Why does he not want to be friends with you no more? What is he, 12?” Abused by his sheriff father, rejected by his unrequited love interest and repulsed by the meanness of his only friend, Dominic is perhaps the most tragic victim in this black comedy followed closely by loyal and loving Jenny, Pádraic’s diminutive donkey. Stunning how quickly and easily the frailty of our human condition morphs into mayhem and barbarity! Stunning and sick. Sick and senseless. Yet, the engaging characters, beautiful setting, comedic interludes and unique storyline weaves together my strong endorsement to seek out The Banshees of Inisherin and settle in for a wickedly dark but deceptively enchanting Irish tale.
I’m guessing practically everyone who reported to the theater to watch Where the Crawdads Sing read Delia Owen’s 2018 novel of the same name. As usual, the book was so much better that it’s hard to fairly grade the film. My rather wishy-washy summation is this: Enjoyed the book, a lot. Enjoyed the movie, mostly. The cinematography was stunning. Although the novel was set in the marshes of North Carolina, filming actually took place in Louisiana, in the wetlands on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. Score one for the movie. The characters that played Kya, Tate and Chase matched up to the images the book created in my imagination. Score two for the movie. The biggest gap was the lack of character development for “Marsh Girl” Kya, a gifted wildlife artist, self-taught naturalist and gritty survivor of abuse, neglect and abandonment, by family and community. Focus on any of those. Please. Instead the emphasis was on the Kya/Tate/Chase “kiss and don’t tell” romantic interests. We lost the depth of Kya to the shallows of unrequited love. The reliance on flashbacks felt disjointed. As a fellow reviewer penned (far better than I), “…it elongates a predictable love story, distances us from any suspense of learning the outcome and makes the court case feel longer than the O.J. Simpson trial.” Lastly, the casting of Kya’s attorney Tom Milton (David Stathairn) was so Atticus Finch that I could not help drifting from Barkley Cove to Maycomb, Alabama. I kept expecting Scout to pop up in the courtroom’s segregated balcony. So there you have it. Enjoyed the movie…mostly. Suffice to say, if you have to choose, skip the movie and read the book.
Ok, I’m an Anglophile, I admit it. At 3:00 in the morning of April 29th, 2011, I hosted a royal wedding watch party to celebrate the marriage of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Friends expectantly gathered in splendid hats—meaning lots of feathers of course, our best American fashion effort. My peacock plume matched my teal pajamas perfectly, bought new from Ross for this regal occasion. Earl Grey tea, scones, clotted cream, lemon curd and orange marmalade were daintily served in my 1973 wedding china. Finally, a use for those fancy gold-trimmed cups and plates! No surprise when Downton Abbey debuted also in 2011 on PBS Masterpiece Theater, it was totally, absolutely, utterly must-watch tv in my home. I adored every single member of the Crawley family and their household staff (well, except nasty Miss O’Brien).
Cue the Downton Abbey theme song “a character in its own right” and I’m scanning the Yorkshire countryside for the Dowager of Grantham to emerge, an ever sarcastic comment on her lips, petite cane in hand. Which brings me to one complaint about the film, when was it ever acceptable for the inimitable Violet Crawley (Dame Maggie Smith) to be called “Old Lady Grantham”? That was jarring and wrong! The story itself included so many red herrings that early on I deliberately switched from hunt to enjoyment mode and stopped chasing after the who’s who of sick and dying (Cora & Violet Crawley) and the South of France Crawley field trip “who’s your daddy” plot line (Robert Crawley). Back at the Downton estate, a silent movie is being filmed, “The Gambler,” keeping Lady Mary busy (and tempted), especially when the film is canceled midstream: suddenly silents are out, talkies are in. No! Downton’s leaky roof needs the revenue! Never fear, Mary and her elegant voiceovers save the day. Even the 1920 film industry gets a new lease on life! A new cinematic era!
Just like the film title declares, the various characters move into neat and tidy new beginnings, most definitely offering a satisfying “happily ever after” ladies’ curtsy and gentlemen’s bow for each as the Downton Abbey saga (may) finally come to an end. Let’s all lift our pinkies to creator Julian Fellowes in hopes of a third Downton Abbey adventure, a dignified one of course.
I was just a nosy little kid in 1957 when I eavesdropped on my older sister whispering to her friend over the phone that “Elvis the Pelvis” was about to perform on tv. The Ed Sullivan “we have a really big show tonight” was a Sunday staple at our home so I expectantly curled up on the green divan next to my mom hoping Topo Gigio wouldn’t take up too much of the time—I couldn’t wait to see this Elvis person do his crazy gyrations. To my 6-year old dismay, the cameras shot only from his waist up! Meh. Done with Elvis. Bookending my ho-hum relationship with Elvis Presley was turning down tickets to see his last Bay Area performance, November 28, 1976 at the Cow Palace. Ridiculous white jumpsuit. Too fat, too old. He died a few months later, August 16, 1977. Blowing off that concert opportunity ranks as one of my life’s biggest regrets. Fortunately, this film filled in much of the Elvis era that I shrugged off. A lot of the (too long) 159 minutes underscored what is common pop knowledge: PFC Elvis looking absolutely fab in an army uniform, gorgeous Priscilla, love and marriage, welcome to the one and only Lisa Marie, hello Hollywood, Viva Las Vegas, professional exploitation, mommy madness, daddy disturbances, medical mayhem, sex, drugs and rock and roll….leading to the tragic yet predictable finalé, Elvis has left the building. Framing the rise and fall of Elvis (fabulous Austin Butler) through the eyes of his lifelong agent, Colonel Tom Parker (enigmatic Tom Hanks) was an innovative storytelling twist that perked me up. A domineering and abusive presence, this Mississippi to Memphis saga is narrated from Parker’s self righteous and self serving point of view, forcing me and the three other blue hair patrons in the theater to silently protest and defend poor Elvis from our heated Cinemark recliners. Then there was a subtle, cryptic corollary—that I’m still mulling over—between a charismatic experience that overcame Elvis as a boy at a Pentecostal tent revival and the swooning, screaming, sobbing female crowds overwhelming Elvis as a singer. Was there a mystical or psychological connection? Maybe, maybe not but these oddly parallel phenomena make for fascinating fodder. If you like Elvis songs, the movie is crammed full. If you are an aficionado of rock icons curious about the “King of Rock and Roll” Elvis is worth your time. Me, I’m now planning a double feature of Jailhouse Rock and Blue Hawaii. BYO-popcorn!
When you think of memorable private detectives from the world of fiction, who pops into your mind? Here’s mine: Sherlock Holmes created by British author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and television’s Columbo, 1971-2003 with Peter Falk. Add to the PI pool, Motherless Brooklyn’s Lionel Essrog (Edward Norton) a most unusual private detective working cases in 1950’s New York. Lionel suffers from Tourette’s syndrome, a condition that causes repetitive movements, unwanted sounds (tics) and barking out words or phrases at the most inopportune “you have no ideahow inconvenient” times. To balance the awkward nature of blurting out what ever comes to mind, Lionel is blessed with a photographic memory that runs like a videotape of conversations, encounters and scenes, a priceless gift when it comes to piecing together the puzzle of detective mysteries.
Lionel owes most good things in his life, including his job as a private investigator, to Frank Minna (Bruce Willis) who became his father figure and mentor by rescuing him, a troubled kid, from an orphanage operated by stereotypical cruel Roman Catholic nuns. Frank’s unorthodox PI agency is made up of Lionel and three other orphanage refugees, Gilbert (Ethan Suplee), Danny (Dallas Roberts) and Tony (Bobby Cannavale), the “Minna Men,” who Frank brings together to do odd urban jobs with the barest PI undertones.
Early in the film Frank bites the dust, victim of a blackmail scheme of his own undoing and Lionel makes it his moral quest to solve the who done it, suddenly needing to tap authentic PI skills, a cut well above his current errand boy, faux PI door shingle. But Lionel’s encyclopedic memory kicks in full blast and the hunt is on. Understandably Lionel’s unwavering, zealous loyalty to father Frank holds true as he relentlessly digs to solve Frank’s dumpster alley murder. Even when Lionel’s life is on the line, even when he’s offered the keys to the “You can do whatever you want and no one can stop you,” NYC kingdom by ruthless, brilliant politician and corrupt charismatic megalomaniac Moses Randolph (Alec Baldwin), Lionel sticks to unraveling the clues on his avenging path. The epic scene between Moses and Lionel is one Biblical aficionados will find reminiscent of Satan tempting Jesus in the wilderness:
Matthew 4:8-10 Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. “All this I will give you,” he said, “if you will bow down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away from me, Satan! For it is written: ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.’”
This neo-noir crime odyssey takes off when Lionel stumbles into a plethora of colorful characters as he gumshoes his way to a jazz club in Harlem and falls for beautiful Laura Rose (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), daughter of club owner Billy (Robert Ray Wisdom) or, scratch that, daughter of scruffy Paul Randolph (Willem Dafoe) or daughter of…..sorry, can’t say, big, BIG spoiler so stick with the film’s 144 minutes (dear editor, please cut 30 minutes) and hang on to your Stetson fedora for the BIG reveal. Here’s your clue, the key is a key. Keep it under your hat.
Why should you shell out $4.99 to rent this film? Because of the utterly believable entanglement of fascinating, endearing relationships delivered by a first rate, stellar cast; the myriad of dazzling period piece shots of the mean streets of New York; the exquisite, feather light jazz score; and, the “power corrupts” social commentary pitting the crooked and omnipotent against the poor and dispossessed. Set time aside during your rental window to watch Motherless Brooklyn not once but twice, there are so many twists and turns and snaky, shifting subplots that you can’t take digest all the intertwined layers without a replay. Does Lionel light a match in the Borough Authority darkness? Does David take down Goliath? Grab your slingshot and a pocketful of stones and rag-tag along!
This film was twenty years in the making, Edward Norton acquired the rights to Jonathan Lethem’s novel, Motherless Brooklyn, in 1998. There are interesting historical parallels you can review here before, or better, after watching the fictional account.
Set in the late 18th century on a remote windswept island off the coast of Brittany, this French-language film, released in France in 2019, tells the story of Marianne (Noémie Merlant), a beautiful young mainland artist commissioned to paint the portrait of equally beautiful young islander Héloïse (Adèle Haenel). Héloïse was called home from a convent to step into an arranged bride-to-be lineup because her older sister stepped off a cliff rather than be given away in matchmaker’s nuptials. Héloïse’s mother, La Comtesse (Valeria Golino) needs a portrait for the Milanese nobleman who is now considering marrying her second daughter. Ironically termed the Age of Enlightenment, marriages of the nobility in this era were finalized via life size painted portraits delivered for review to the potential suitor. Defiant, strong willed Héloïse isn’t having it. No portrait, no wedding. This is where Marianne comes in. No portrait, no commission. Rounding out the all female cast, a third young woman, Sophie (Luàna Bajrami), the house maid is befriended by Marianne and Héloïse and when Sophie gets pregnant, in solidarity they accompany her to the village to get an abortion.
Personal female power and choices are exercised despite living in an era of negligible to no options for women. The film’s powerful ending—of enduring yet unrequited love, contained in requisite yet intolerable cultural norms—is as understandable as it is unfathomable. The story’s resolution will linger long after you’ve left the theater. There is no tragedy here but there is an empty ache for more, more of what simply can’t be.
It’s not a spoiler to disclose that Marianne gets her commission, the mother-daughter arranged marriage plot is simply a period piece vehicle for the mysterious, erotic, forbidden fruit romance to emerge between Marianne and Héloïse. Their mutual attraction so sensual, so exquisitely luxurious that this love story is already mentioned as one of the best 100 movies of the decade, indeed a masterpiece.
The cinematography is beyond stunning with an intoxicating palate of colors framing every scene. Art and literature merge as readings from Ovid’s version of Orpheus and Eurydice foreshadow a poignant, heartbreaking exchange between the lesbian lovers.
The music is electrifying, euphoric. The third movement of “Summer” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” plaintively ties together the hope and hopelessness of taboo love. A late night bonfire gathering of island women transcends into a haunting, masterful choral number of Latin chants, “fugere non possum,” “I cannot flee” and “Nos resurgemus,” “We rise.”
It’s a shame that France submitted Les Misérables for the Academy’s Best International Film category because Writer/Director Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady On Fire would have certainly challenged Parasite for Best Picture. Aside from a few jarring male appearances, the cast consists entirely of women and was written, directed and filmed by women. Nos resurgemus. We rise.
The Photograph parallels two couples along a multi-narrative romantic storyline, moving fluidly between the 1980s and present day; and between New York City and Pointe á la Hache, Louisiana, a small fishing village on the eastern banks of the Mississippi River near New Orleans.
We learn through a soft spoken, gently unfurling narrative and a soothing jazz and rich R&B score that young, handsome Isaac Jefferson (Rob Morgan), content as a crab fisherman in his humble Louisiana abode, falls in love with restless,“I don’t want the most exciting part of my day to be cooking your dinner” Christina Eames (Chantè Adams), an aspiring photographer. After a sultry tryst in a New Orleans jazz club—and despite Isaac’s refurbishing a shed into a darkroom—Christina chooses adventure over matrimony and unbeknownst to family, friends and Isaac, buys a one-way bus ticket to Manhattan where she starts a new life.
Thirty years later journalist Mike Block (Lakeith Stanfield), pursuing a human interest story on the demise of *post-Deepwater Horizon Gulf fishing, interviews a balding and bespectacled Isaac and is drawn to a vintage black & white photo on Isaac’s mantle, Pointe á la Hache’s hometown Mona Lisa. The haunting portrait leads Mike from the luxuriant, verdant Louisiana countryside hugging the mighty Mississippi River, to vibrant, energetic, metropolitan Queens where he tracks down museum curator, stunning Mae Morton (Issa Rae), estranged and grieving daughter of recently deceased, highly acclaimed photographer Christina Eames, the subject of Isaac’s photograph.
The movie weaves the promising yet ultimately unrequited love story of Christina and Isaac with the blossoming yet cautionary romance of Mae and Mike. Flipping roles, Christina sought new horizons in cosmopolitan New York while Mae latches on to the predictable and practical. Isaac was satisfied with the Louisiana known while Mike yearns for London change. Will generational lessons be applied and wisdom taken to heart or will a new generation of broken hearts prevail, like mother like daughter? Mae inherits two confessional letters penned by Christina, one for Mae and one for Mae’s father. Will the mysterious contents shed new light on decisions past and future? Will the rueful 1989 words of Christina prove prophetic for Mae, “I wish I was as good at love as I am at working. I wish I didn’t leave people behind so often”?
Only time will tell.
*The 2010 BP Oil Spill, one of the largest environmental disasters in American history, destroyed the fishing industry along the Louisiana coast. For a closer look into the environmental destruction and corporate cruelty, sign up on IMDb’s Watchlist to see the 2014 documentary, Vanishing Pearls: The Oystermen of Point à la Hache.
Exactly four years ago to the day of seeing this film, I sat in awe of Bryan Stevenson, death row attorney & author of Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, listening to him speak at a local university. Stevenson, born in Delaware and raised in Philadelphia graduated from Harvard Law School and as part of a class on race and poverty served an internship where he met death row inmates, learning firsthand how elusive justice can be for men of color. He was also deeply influenced by his affiliation with the African Methodist Church where members shouldered the community responsibility of helping each other with “standing up after having fallen down.” These experiences formed his unwavering belief that “each person in our society is more than the worst thing they’ve ever done.” Bryan would be that helping hand. An activist was born.
One week after hearing Stevenson I closed my Sunday sermon with his quote, “The true measure of our character is how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused, the incarcerated, and the condemned.” The film version of the book drives this point home. Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan, Black Panther, Creed) fights to free Walter McMillian (Jamie Foxx, Django Unchained) father of nine, who with zero credible evidence, was convicted of the 1987 murder of Ronda Morrison, an 18-year-old white woman shot in broad daylight at the Monroeville, Alabama dry-cleaning shop where she worked. The state’s case rested almost exclusively on the testimony of habitual criminal Ralph Myers (Tim Blake Nelson, Oh Brother Where Art Thou?) who benefited from a quid pro quo reduced sentence immediately. The sheriff, district attorney and courts, pressed to calm public hysteria by quickly solving the crime used racially-motivated fear, coercion, intimidation and evidence suppression to railroad McMillian onto Alabama’s Death Row. In fact they housed him in a Death Row cell a year before his trial! A trial that lasted one day. When McMillan offered his alibi that dozens of (black) witnesses were with him at a church fish fry 11 miles away at the time of the murder, newly elected Sheriff Tom Tate responded, “I don’t give a damn what you say or what you do. I don’t give a damn what your people say either. I’m going to put twelve people on a jury who are going to find your goddamn black ass guilty.” And they did.
Admittedly the film plods along excruciatingly slow, perhaps exactly what writer-director Destin Daniel Cretton wanted, mirroring our protracted, ponderous, snarled judicial system. A system that grinds at an evidentiary snail’s pace yet producing questionable justice at the finish line. “Brutal.” “Draining.” “Exhausting.” Comments from my movie-mates at the end of Just Mercy. This movie makes you earn it.
Walter sat in his claustrophobic death row cell for six years enduring State persecution as both victim and victor. Victimized by intractable societal racism Walter understands his lot in life, disturbingly so, “You don’t know what you’re into down here in Alabama, when you’re guilty from the moment you’re born.” Yet he defies institutional bars and chains by claiming a freedom of spirit, a life giving approach we witness in Walter’s interaction with Herbert Richardson (Rob Morgan, The Last Black Man in San Francisco) a PTSD plagued Vietnam veteran facing death for planting a bomb that killed a neighbor. On the eve of Herbert’s execution, Walter calms him by describing a forest scene, “Now close your eyes, get away from all this. No more walls, no more guards, no more wars to fight, just you, out in the open, fresh air on your face…Look at them pine trees that been growin’ since way before we was born, and gonna keep on growin’ way after we gone. They been through all the same shit we been through and more, but they still dancing in the breeze.” The body may be held captive to unprincipled bondage but by exercising his unalienable right to break free in mind and spirit, Walter escapes.
Attorney Bryan Stevenson, fresh out of school, gasps and glares and grinds his teeth as he personally experiences the cruel subjugation of the powerful over the powerless. A Harvard degree doesn’t spare him from being strip searched or belittled or dismissed, “boy.” He does on occasion fire up and fight back but even then his rage is meted out in restrained and measured doses. Even when you know the ending, it’s hard to watch.
Which pretty much sums up Just Mercy: hard to watch. But watch you must. Weather the unfolding story of prejudicial justice, a tragic oxymoron. Stomach the indictment of the death penalty. I’d wager I wasn’t the only one in the theater with their eyes closed when the jolt of electricity ripped through Herbert Richardson. Just Mercy slowly burns, simmers and finally ignites—demanding action, a call to arms, a catalyst for change, a rally for reforming the criminal justice system that has comfortably settled in as a pipeline to prison for the poor, the undereducated and communities of color. I find it troubling that many of the negative critical reviews of Just Mercy wave off the theme of racism as been there, done that old news. Really? Our current ruthless reality suggests otherwise. Credible arguments have been made that incarceration is simply the repackaging of slavery. Mull that over. The most liberating scene in the film is between Bryan and Walter after a shocking, incredulous court decision is delivered, denying Walter a retrial even in the face of the sole state witness adamantly and courageously recanting his perjured testimony. Bryan, shaken at the turn of events, goes to visit Walter who, despite his return to death row, surprises a humbled Bryan with the gift of redemption, “These fools gone do what they gone do, but if they take me to that chair tonight, I’m a go out smilin’. Cause I got my truth back. You gave me that. You gave it to my family. And nobody can take that from us again. “
Starting on April 6, 1917 (the day the US joined the Great War although never referenced) and ending the next morning, two baby faced British soldiers, Lance Corporal William Schofield (George MacKay) and Lance Corporal Tom Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman) have 12 hours to maneuver through enemy lines of the Western Front. Their mission is to deliver a “call off the attack” message in order to save 1,600 troops who are unknowingly marching into a German ambush that will result in the complete slaughter of the Devonshire Regiment that includes Lt. Joseph Blake (Richard Madden, Robb Stark from GoT), Tom’s big brother.
If you feel you are running, jumping and zig-zagging right behind Schofield and Blake through northern France’s war zone of trenches, barbed wire, bayonets, snipers, booby traps, ash, mud, rats, bloated horse carcasses, rotting human corpses—“follow the stench”—bombed out fiery ruins of abandoned French villages, mortar and mayhem, you can thank the cinematography technique that shot the terrifying no man’s land dash to look like it was filmed in a single linear take. Action! It’s a wrap! No cuts. At least that’s how the 119 minutes feel start to finish. We don’t see or hear anything that Blake or Schofield don’t see or hear. They are not so much a duo as a trio, I was with them. When a foraging rat lumbers into the trip wire, I cringed anticipating the explosion. When a downed German fighter plane cartwheels towards the two young Brits, I ducked. When Schofield runs for his life plunging over a sheer drop into the river rapids below, I braced for impact. I stood and watched the eerily breathtaking beauty of the wartime night illuminated by bombs and flames. Think Apocalypse Now. The film was shot in Scotland, the landscape stunning, my senses satiated by a dramatic range of scenes, the gore of combat carnage to the beauty of cows and countryside. After the first fifteen minutes I was unabashedly in love with this movie.
1917 is defined, not by blood and battles but by bravery and brotherhood. The relationship between buddies Blake and Schofield was close enough for an engaging balance of humor and hubris to emerge that never felt forced or contrived. Yet I never warmed up to the characters. But this may be precisely the cool response the filmmaker sought. Blake and Schofield‘s friendship was situational, a camaraderie spawning from the killing fields of war where guarding a requisite emotional distance is as essential to foot soldiers as combat gear. I felt that distance. So when the inevitable strikes, “It’s better not to dwell on it,” advice given by Captain Smith (Mark Strong) to Corporal Schofield in a moment of dazed trauma, I could pick myself up and keep moving. No grieving, no lingering, the 12-hour clock is winding down. In fact I was so invested in the mission that it frustrated me when the two corporals kept making ill advised decisions when confronted by their German counterparts, predictably crushing carpe diem under the shadow of death. I even eschewed the tender moments, a pail of milk, cherry blossoms, an orphaned child, a haunting Wayfaring Stranger solo—scenes that were clearly drawn up to infiltrate a symbolic flavor of humanity into the chaos and destruction—but the poignant minutes lingered a tad too long for my liking, slowing the urgency of the mission. I was channeling Winston Churchill, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Don’t stop! Hold that baby later! You’ve got to get the message to Colonel Mackenzie (Benedict Cumberbatch)! Now! Towards the end I kept wondering if those sentimental diversions cost lives.
Still, nothing veered me away from absolutely loving this movie. Don’t wait for Netflix or Amazon. This is the type of movie that demands the big screen. You will learn from the ending credits that the film is dedicated to Lance Corporal Alfred H. Mendes—the director’s grandfather “who told us the stories.” Mendes at the age of 20 volunteered for a terrifying World War I solo mission through no man’s land to locate three British companies separated from their battalion. It was this mission through the muddy Flanders fields of Belgium that served as inspiration for 1917. In honoring his grandfather, Mendes crafted an epic war drama. I predict more honors: Oscar goes to 1917 for Best Picture.
