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.
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.
When it comes to WW2, I’m far more familiar with the European Theater than the Pacific because my father flew missions over Europe as a B17 Tail Gunner in the 8th Air Force under the command of Jimmy Doolittle. When Midway previews starting showing, I could hardly wait! It was my chance to learn more about the Battle of Midway, fought six months after Pearl Harbor and considered the most decisive battle in the history of naval warfare sending a knockout blow to the Empire of Japan. Plus the film had a storyline about Jimmy Doolittle! What could go wrong?!
Everything. What a colossal disappointment. The action ricocheted all over the globe, kind of a WW2 Where’s Waldo mishmash. I needed a clipboard, map, colored highlighters and a sharpened pencil to keep track. Or better, just stop the movie, turn up the lights and bring in an expert to lecture. Not a single character stood out, not even Jimmy Doolittle and his Raiders. Admiral William Halsey’s shingles got more screen time than Doolittle’s daring attack on Tokyo. Will somebody please slather some calamine lotion on the admiral’s rash and stop the bitching and itching? Medic!
The entire ensemble cast—and it was a cast of thousands—created no attachment, no affection, no interest, no nothing. It’s a war story so lots of people died, I wasn’t moved. Lots lived. I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t bond with anyone. Someone please tell German director Roland Emmerich that when every character is equally significant, the result is that every character becomes equally insignificant. And apparently speaking with either a Southern drawl or Brooklyn brogue was required to serve in the Navy. I guess Midwesterners were assigned to the Army. At least curiosity about whether I’d eventually discern a different accent helped dull the impact of a ridiculously contrived dialogue. Banal, inane, corny clichés infiltrated every exchange. I groaned more at the absurd chitchat than the combat.
Uniformed men zipped in and out of ships and subs, planes and parachutes, looking quite fierce and heroic but with the feel of a Sony Playstation video game, definitely not sophisticated Hollywood special effects. I needed a gamepad handy so I could join in the carnage and I don’t even like video games. But, please, let there be something, anything to keep me engaged.
From all appearances every American fighter jet was shot down in the heat of the battle—but then like magic the pilots and wingmen would safely land, reassemble and get right back to trading platitudes, sarcasm and needling. “Gotcha,” the all American military pastime. A Japanese destroyer retrieved two downed Americans from their raft and when interrogated the US pilot growled, “You killed a lot of my friends at Pearl Harbor so go f’’k yourself.” What happened to name, rank and serial number? When the Japanese commander ordered an anchor tied to the pilot’s leg and shoved overboard, Captain Cool spit his cigarette out, shrugged, sneered and sunk to his watery death. Knowing the terror of war through my dad’s experience, I find it hard to believe that every single sailor and pilot dodging bombs and bullets would find so much to joke, wink and laugh about while careening from one doomsday battle to the next or plunging to their death.
And, just how did the women of WW2 fare? We only saw officer’s wives and at one point, when they gathered to weather the raging sea battle together, a fashionably dressed Donna Reed lookalike arrived to hear that her husband may be a casualty. She tearfully excused herself, “I’m so sorry, I need to powder my nose.” Well, bless your heart honey, you go right ahead. Besides furrowed brows, PG-13 embraces and Clairol moments, women were absolutely invisible.
Summing it up: dreadful dialogue, nameless characters, boring acting, confusing plot and lackluster cinematography. If this weren’t enough, I gritted my teeth when the dedication scrolled after the credits—perhaps Emmerich hoped no one stuck around to read, “This film is dedicated to the Americans and Japanese who fought at Midway. The sea remembers its own.” The film starts out with the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and the sinking of the Arizona, killing 1,177 sailors and marines, 1,102 still entombed. At the Battle of Midway, the U.S. lost the aircraft carrier Yorktown, the destroyer USS Hammann, 145 aircraft, and suffered 307 casualties. You can not respectfully conclude with a dedication acknowledging the aggressors and the Americans equally. At least not on my watch.
