Walker

"It is not every man who's offered a country of his very own!"

Alex Cox's most ambitious film, Walker (1987) is a movie like no other. This recounting of America's most notorious filibuster functions on multiple levels: satirical biopic, absurdist critique of American foreign policy, surreal art film.

In the 1850s, American adventurer William Walker (Ed Harris) leads an unsuccessful invasion of Sonora, Mexico. Walker considers retiring, but his fiancee's (Marlee Matlin) death prompts him to conquer Nicaragua for Cornelius Vanderbilt's (Peter Boyle) railroad company. Leading a polyglot band of freebooters, known as the "Immortals," Walker liberates Nicaragua, appointing himself military commander while placing a pliant puppet in the Presidency. But Walker's regime grows more repressive, turning the Nicaraguans, Vanderbilt and his own men against him. Walker still considers himself a "man of destiny," confident that faith will see him through.

Politically and artistically, Walker is remarkably subversive. Besides shooting in Daniel Ortega's Nicaragua, Cox employs a rococo aesthetic, mixing period detail with riotous anachronisms. Characters drink Coca-Cola, read Newsweek and use IBM computers in 1850s Nicaragua. The incongruities extend further: Cox scores battle scenes to lively salsa music, employing slow motion and grisly blood squibs to make Sam Peckinpah blanch. Actors perform Julius Caesar in a riot-torn city. Vanderbilt appears in extreme close-up like an Eisenstein villain, an effect undercut by flatulence.

Filibustering was a long-standing tradition until the Civil War. Possibly the most famous is Aaron Burr, who left the Vice Presidency to claim the Louisiana Purchase as a private fiefdom. Contemporary with Walker, John Fremont established California's Bear Flag Republic, Narciso Lopez invaded Cuba and Irish-American Fenians constantly raided into Canada. Aside from Fremont these men failed, but sewed chaos abroad while commanding much admiration at home.

Historian Robert E. May frames filibustering as the logical extension of "Manifest Destiny." After all, 19th Century America expelled Native Americans and conquered half of Mexico, spreading destruction and slavery alongside democracy. Walker and Co. were merely small-time players in the same market. Likewise, Cox and writer Rudy Wurlitzer depict Walker as the Id of American adventurism, much as Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo equated the Mafia with Big Business.

Appropriately, Cox sends up the absurdity of aggrandizing epics. Walker provides a narration track that incongruously glorifies his squalid actions. (Anytime his troops "liberate" a town, it's accompanied by plunder and bloodshed.) Walker and his Nicaraguan lover (Blanca Guerra) speak in different languages, yet understand each other perfectly. This neatly pastiches the absurdity of standard biopics, transmogrifying historical figures into marble models. Walker borders on cartoon, yet surely the cinematic treatment doled out to, say, Lincoln and Gandhi isn't less ridiculous?

Similarly, Cox and Wurlitzer use Walker to deconstruct the "Great Man" view of history.  Justifying his actions with abstractions about God and Democracy, yet admits he doesn't understand his own principles. He sees no incongruity between introducing slavery to Nicaragua and upholding "freedom." His grasp of military tactics consists of walking unarmed towards dumbfounded Nicaraguan troops. Ultimately Walker's campaign becomes not a political or moral crusade, but megalomania writ large.

Ed Harris gives arguably his best performance. Constantly reserved and intense, completely unironic, Harris mixes flinty determination, unlikely naivety and disturbing singlemindedness. Walker isn't so much power mad as blind to reality: he's determined to make an impact, regardless of (and oblivious to) the actual results. It's a masterful turn, humorous yet unsettling, that Harris sells beautifully.

It's Harris's show all the way, but Cox throws the supporting cast a few bones. Rene Auberjounois gets the best secondary role, as a German mercenary who holds Walker to ridicule. Bianca Guerra proves quite memorable as a Nicaraguan matron who seduces and tries to manipulate Walker. Peter Boyle sweats and farts through his scenes, a broad caricature of capitalist avarice. Marlee Maitlin gets some funny bits before bowing out early. Joe Strummer of The Clash, who also produced the soundtrack, cameos as one of Walker's men.

Walker was a colossal flop, damaging Cox's budding career. No doubt Cox's radical politics played a part in its failure, though his artistic excesses undoubtedly turned off mainstream audiences. Definitely not for all tastes, it's nonetheless a remarkable experiment.

Murphy's War

Peter O'Toole gets one of his more conventional vehicles with Murphy's War (1971). It's a fine if undistinguished wartime thriller, where solid action and good acting compensate for clunky dramatics.

Murphy (Peter O'Toole) is the sole survivor of a ship torpedoed by a U-Boat in the waning days of World War II. He winds up in coastal South America, nursed by Dr. Hayden (Sian Phillips) at a small mission. But the offending U-Boat turns up to destroy a radio station, the Captain (Horst Janson) executing a wounded English pilot (John Hallam). Murphy vows revenge, recovering the pilot's seaplane and enlisting a French captain (Philippe Noiret) to destroy the Germans.

Peter Yates makes Murphy's War enjoyable. War movie fans get their money's worth, with Yates mixing beautiful Venezuelan with violent action. Yates mixes conventional set pieces, like the Germans' violent shore raids, with more inventive fare, like Murphy's haphazard plane rides. The movie climaxes with an incredibly tense standoff; Murphy and Louis run down a fully-armed submarine with a ramshackle boat, dodging bullets and torpedoes but unsure how to vanquish their opponent. Yates' fascination with nuts-and-bolts mechanics, like Murphy's homemade bombs and shipboard mechanics, pays off handsomely.

Murphy's big problem lies between action scenes. Sterling Silliphant's script frequently bogs down, evincing a pace that's more pokey than engrossing. Murphy himself shifts between insouciant and implacable, with little effective transition; the supporting cast is even more thinly sketched. Presumably Silliphant meant an antiwar allegory, contrasting the greater conflict (heard through snatches of Edward R. Murrow broadcasts) with Murphy's petty vendetta. But any subtext or characterization is so scantily rendered, we're waiting impatiently for the next burst of violence.

Peter O'Toole does fine work, playing Murphy as a mix of Lord Jim and Paul Kersey. His trademark intensity commands the screen, though Murphy is far from his most effective characterization. Sian Phillips (Becket) does creditable work, avoiding all expected cliches in a decidedly unromantic part. Philippe Noiret (Topaz) gets the most interesting role, a practical man aloof from (but drawn into) Murphy's cycle of violence.

Murphy's War is an above-average war movie. It holds few surprises and occasionally drags, but should please viewers seeking colorful adventure. 

Pork Chop Hill

Lewis Milestone delivers one of Hollywood's best Korean War movies with Pork Chop Hill (1959). Though aided by the US Army, its notable in its grim and unsentimental view of the "Forgotten War."

In spring of 1953, the Korean War's winding down, with negotiators deadlocked at Panmunjeom. The Chinese break the uneasy truce, overrunning United Nations positions on Pork Chop Hill. Headquarters orders K Company, led by Lieutenant Joe Clemons (Gregory Peck) to lead the American counterattack. The assault goes badly, with K Company suffering heavy casualties. The struggle for the hill devolves into a cruel attritional struggle; with war's end seemingly in sight, many of Clemons' men wonder why they're fighting at all.

The Korean "police action" divided Americans from the start. While justified by North Korea's aggression, its inconclusive nature frustrated Americans expecting a replay of World War II's moral certainties. Disputes between President Truman, fearful of triggering nuclear war with Communist China, and General MacArthur, determined to win at all costs, projected America's political divisions on the world stage. On the ground, American-led UN troops faced North Korean and Chinese troops in grinding trench warfare. The UN victory essentially restored the status quo, leaving tensions unresolved 60 years later.

Hollywood's renderings typically reflect this ambivalence, barring nonsense like Prisoner of War (1954). Sam Fuller's The Steel Helmet (1951) remains the iconic treatment, with its uncomprehending GIs fighting an existential struggle. The Manchurian Candidate (1962) used Korea as the springboard for paranoid black comedy. Even conventional fare like The Bridges at Toko-Ri (1954) and Men in War (1957) wonders if Korea's worth fighting for. Save ubiquitous M*A*S*H* reruns, the war barely registers on our cultural radar. Few South Korean treatments like Taegukgi (2004) have reached Western viewers.

Lewis Milestone helmed All Quiet on the Western Front, and Pork Chop's view of Korea isn't much brighter. Fighting consists of endless charges against well-defended trenches, the Chinese massing seemingly endless reserves. K Company goes over the top using "Stone Age tactics," employing bayonets and wire cutters like Tommies on the Somme. Many of Clemons' men question the war, not helped by a Chinese propagandist's (Viraj Amonsin) incessant broadcasts. This comes to a head with the malingering Franklin (Woody Strode), who nearly frags Clemons to avoid fighting.

For all their grumbling, our soldiers are valiant in the face of impossible odds: we especially admire the young soldier (Robert B. Williams) who blows up a machine gun nest and works as Clemons' runner, even after losing his arm to a grenade. The Armed Forces were just recently desegregated; Milestone balances Franklin's cowardice with Suki (George Shibata), a tough Japanese-American platoon leader. For all their toughness, even Clemons admits they're merely pawns in the peace negotiations. Milestone achieves the difficult aim of celebrating the military without glorifying the war.

Pork Chop succeeds also in showing how easily military actions get confused. The initial attack is botched when American signalers shine a searchlight on the attacking force. Friendly artillery fire becomes a danger at several points. Clemons barely maintains communications with his men, let alone other commands. Most tragically, a relieving company gets wiped out after losing course. It's A Bridge Too Far on a smaller scale, every minor cock-up building towards disaster.

Gregory Peck always made a dependable onscreen soldier: between his stiff-necked demeanor and commanding delivery you couldn't ask for a better company commander. The supporting cast is reduced to impressions, though Bob Steele's beleaguered Colonel and George Shabita's tough Lieutenant stand out. Seemingly every Hollywood comer can be found in K Company's ranks: Norman Fell, Rip Torn, Harry Dean Stanton, Robert Blake, George Peppard, Woody Strode, James Edwards, Martin Landau, even Gavin MacLeod.

With heavy Defense Department backing, it's inevitable that Pork Chop interjects some flag-waving. A late scene dramatizes the Panmunjeom negotiations, blaming the impasse on Chinese intransigence. More jarring is Peck's final voice over, proclaiming Korea a just war. This triumphalist note jars with the preceding film, where K Company's lucky just to have survived. If this scene seems hokey, South Korea's subsequent history at least vindicates its message.

Inchon

"I can almost hear the ticking of the second hand of destiny."

Terence Young's Inchon (1981) has a notoriety stemming from its scarcity as much as quality. A vanity project for Sun Myung Moon, leader of the Unification Church, the movie earned abysmal reviews, tanked financially and never saw video release. Most available bootlegs originate from a screening on the GoodLife TV Network (now Youtoo TV). Never an optimal viewing choice, streaming it on Youtube is the only way to view this turkey.

Every bad movie writer from the Medveds through Michael Sauter trashes Inchon. It's a lousy film all right, mixing incoherent action, risible melodrama and right wing agitprop. Throw in Laurence Olivier's ghoulish portrayal of Douglas MacArthur and you've got a monumental mess.

June 1950. North Korean forces invade South Korea, overrunning most of that country. United Nations forces led by American General Douglas MacArthur (Laurence Olivier) struggle to fight back, being pushed to the Pusan perimeter. Major Frank Hallsworth (Ben Gazzara) and Sergeant Henderson (Richard Roundtree) get caught up in the retreat. Hallsworth's estranged wife Barbara (Jacqueline Bissett) rescues several Korean children while fleeing south. MacArthur conceives a bold counter-stroke - an amphibious landing at Inchon, well behind enemy lines.

Inchon's turbulent production is more interesting than the film. Moon conceived of MacArthur's landing at Inchon as God's handiwork, presumably elevating Dugout Doug to sainthood. Along with Japanese tycoon Mitsu Haru Ishii, Moon invested a staggering $46,000,000 in the movie, $1.25 million on Laurence Olivier alone. Yet filming was sabotaged by typhoons, earthquakes, uncooperative stars and equipment difficulties. At least one extra died filming a battle scene. All this before opening to universal scorn. Not until Battlefield Earth would Hollywood again witness such messianic hubris.

Inchon mixes the worst qualities of '60s epics like The Longest Day and Reagan-era action flicks. The opening hour presents endless scenes of North Koreans machine gunning civilians. Artfully handled this could be powerful; with Young's hamfisted direction it's execrable. Moon himself was South Korean, yet Inchon makes his countrymen faceless supplicants awaiting rescue by the American ubermensch. Along with MacArthur's constant invocation of God Almighty (ending with the Lord's Prayer) and the presence of young Alexander Haig (John Pochna) it's a conservative wet dream.

Inchon's main sin though is complete incoherence. Robin Moore and Laird Koenig's script never forms into a cogent narrative. The first half intercuts atrocities with treacly vignettes, providing no idea of the military situation, or even basic geography. Soldiers march, civilians flee, and we've no clue where they're going or why. Even when the plot starts to settle, things are dulled by windbag speechmaking and continued digressions. We're over halfway through before MacArthur starts planning the Inchon operation; the landing itself takes up less than 15 minutes.

Like a bad disaster movie, Inchon insists on cramming facile "human elements" between explosions. Major Hallsworth carries on with a feisty Korean girl (Karen Khan) when not providing exposition. Sergeant Henderson does little besides drive a jeep and, in one scene, a motorcycle. These bozos are tight with MacArthur, who dragoons them into an 11th hour commando mission. Meanwhile, Barbara's out shopping when the invasion begins. Later she drives five orphans through an air raid, all while whining about traffic. Damn those Reds for inconveniencing her antiquing!

Finally, Inchon fails the most important test: action. Terence Young directed several James Bond flicks, but you wouldn't know it watching Inchon. The big battles mix stock footage with phony special effects and laughable staging. In several scenes, extras go flying from explosions that haven't detonated yet! Some set pieces feature thousands of extras, yet still manage to look cheap. The Medveds report that psychic Jeanne Dixon advised Moon to hire Young, after consultation with MacArthur's ghost. Begging the question: what God was Moon invoking, exactly?

Laurence Olivier invites the easiest criticism. He's not helped by a script that conceives MacArthur as a humble soldier rather than history's charismatic warmonger. But Olivier deserves much of the blame. Physically, his makeup less recalls MacArthur than Boris Karloff's Mummy. Then there's his accent, sounding like W.C. Fields and Gary Cooper's bastard son. When all else fails, Olivier shouts to God, bugs out his eyes and even shares a double-take with a bust of Caesar. Rarely has an actor put so much effort into being terrible.

Larry's co-stars fare little better. Ben Gazara and Richard Roundtree putter aimlessly around Korea, conveniently remaining at the center of events. Jacqueline Bissett's anachronistic low-cut dress provides one of Inchon's few pleasures. Playing a Korean fisherman, Toshiro Mifune is just plain embarrassing. David Janssen plays a grouchy reporter, film critic Rex Reed (!) his whiny sidekick. Gabriele Ferzetti cameos as a Turkish general. One hopes they too were paid well.

Ultimately, Inchon fascinates in the way only a truly bad movie can. Reverend Moon clearly intended this movie to sell his unique religion to the masses. Given the litany of disasters during and after production, it's safe to assume God (or Doug MacArthur's ghost) was laughing at him.

The Wild Geese

The Wild Geese (1978) might be Andrew V. McLaglen's best film. It's his usual melange of cliches, slumming actors and un-artful direction, all packaged in a geriatric Dirty Dozen clone. But the end result makes explosive entertainment.

After a military coup in an unnamed African country, banker Sir Edward Matherson (Stewart Granger) hires a crack mercenary team to overthrow the government and rescue President Limbani (Winston Ntshona). Colonel Faulkner (Richard Burton) is the no-nonsense leader; Rafer Janders (Richard Harris) an embittered idealist; Shawn Fynn (Roger Moore), an ace pilot; and Pieter Coetzee (Hardy Kruger), a racist South African. Their team succeeds brilliantly, only to be double-crossed when Matherson makes a deal with the new government. Now Faulkner's band must evade swarming government troops, keep Limbani safe, and just possibly get revenge.

The Wild Geese closely resembles The Professionals, with its aging mercenaries on an impossible mission, only to be double-crossed by their employer. The central raid even parallels its equivalent in the Richard Brooks film. McLaglen hits few original notes, preferring a schematic commando story with predictable twists, obstacles and portrayals. Despite its cynicism, it's the polar opposite of more serious flicks like The Dogs of War. That film makes it mercenaries out as maladjusted burnouts; The Wild Geese announces it's fun to kill people.

Geese's first half dwells on stage-setting and characterization. It's a shame that screenwriter Reginald Rose paints heroes in the broadest strokes. Faulkner is the weary cynic interested only in money; Flynn has no qualms killing people, but draws the line at drug-running. Janders gets a particularly cloying arc: he dotes on his adorable son, but must abandon him for one last job! Coetzee, meanwhile, conveniently discovers tolerance while palling around with Limbani. It's a credit to the actors that these scenes work at all.

The movie takes flight in its skillful action scenes. After the requisite throat-clearing, McLaglen keeps things moving fairly briskly. Second unit director John Glen handles the battles with aplomb, particularly an air raid at midpoint and the running machine gun fights in the jungle. The body count's high, even by genre standards; it's no sure thing our heroes will come out alive. On a technical level Geese is reasonably accomplished; only Joan Armatrading's cheesy title tune grates.

Richard Burton provides typical I'm-here-for-the-paycheck slumming; rarely has an actor seemed so bored. Richard Harris and Hardy Kruger fare better despite treacly character arcs; Harris makes his final scenes almost poignant. Roger Moore has little to do after an excellent intro, force-feeding heroin to a gangster. None of them give great performances, but they generate enough star power to hold our interest.

McLaglen assembles a neat supporting cast. Stewart Granger (Young Bess) briefly appears as the Geese's employer; Barry Foster (Frenzy) plays his go-between with Faulkner's crew. Jack Watson (Peeping Tom) steals his scenes as a hard-assed Sergeant Major; Kenneth Griffith (A Night to Remember) plays the effeminate yet tough medic. Winston Ntshona gives an excellent turn, making a potentially silly part credible. Even bit parts go to familiar faces: Jeff Corey, Percy Herbert, Patrick Allen, John Kani, Frank Finlay.

Flaws aside, The Wild Geese is a fun adventure film. Like most movies of its type, it makes perfect viewing on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's got big stars and big action scenes - what more do you want?

The Bridge at Remagen

The Bridge at Remagen (1969) makes an entertaining, if slightly schizophrenic war movie. Echoing the "please all sides" mentality of The Dirty Dozen and Patton, it offers antiwar sentiments for liberal viewers alongside exciting, well-paced action for war buffs. It's enjoyable even with few surprises on offer.

In March 1945, Allied armies stand poised to cross the Rhine River into Germany. Adolf Hitler orders the bridges destroyed, but Major Kruger (Robert Vaughn) determines to hold the last remaining bridge - the Ludendorff Bridge at Remagen - open as an escape route. American Major Barnes (Bradford Dillman) presses on towards the bridge, with Captain Hartman (George Seagal) hardscrabble company acting as "the cutting edge." Dogged German resistance forces a stalemate, until American General Shinner (E.G. Marshall) orders the bridge captured intact - even if it means sacrificing Hartman's company.

On one level, The Bridge at Remagen comes straight from the war movie playbook. Hartman's command are bully boys straight out of Battleground and a million lesser unit pictures. George Seagal is the tough Captain; Ben Gazzara's Sgt. Angelo an amoral scrounger (a captured MP40 is his weapon of choice); Bo Hopkins, Matt Clark and Robert Logan play assorted grunts. These characters fight hard, recreate boisterously, flirt with local girls and argue with commanders. In extremis they even ponder mutiny, but wind up carrying out their impossible task all the same.

But director John Guillermin (The Day They Robbed the Bank of England) injects Bridge with mildly subversive elements. One scene has Allied bombers strafing the bridge as German civilians flee across it. Here it's the Germans scrambling to save civilians - a jolt that momentarily dissipates the escapist fun. The American brass doesn't come off well: Shinner orders a suicidal attack, coldly rationalizing that 100 men can be sacrificed to save 10,000. It's no All Quiet on the Western Front, but inserting such content into a big budget battle epic still surprises.

Bridge spends a lot of time with its German antagonists. Robert Vaughn plays the sympathetic Major Kruger, supported by familiar faces Peter Von Eyck and Hans Christian Blech (Decision Before Dawn). They face a dilemma familiar from The Desert Fox onward: honorable soldiers waging an increasingly pointless conflict. There's no question many German officers suffered such qualms; some, of course, turned against Hitler. But many Anglo-American war films unquestionably overplay this hand. One imagines Russian/Ukranian viewers not appreciating it.

Like most war movies, Bridge at Remagen ultimately boils down to the action. Guillermin stages impressive large scale battle scenes throughout, making fine use of Czechoslovak locations. The film kicks off with a tense opening, highlighted by the incessant whir of tank engines as they race to capture a German troop train. The air raid is capped with impressive stunt work, but the best scene has Hartman's men struggling to disarm explosives under heavy fire. Capped by Elmer Bernstein's typically stellar music, it delivers the expected thrills.

The Bridge at Remagen isn't an all-time classic but makes entertaining viewing. Those seeking shoot-'em-up escapism should enjoy it fine

Ill Met By Moonlight

After their daring experimental films of the late '40s (Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes), Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger hit a rough patch. The Elusive Pimpernel and Gone to Earth (both 1950) flopped; Tales of Hoffman (1951) wowed critics but didn't achieve success. The Archers turned to more conventional fare with Pursuit of the Graf Spee (1956). That naval epic proved a commercial success, despite being one of their weaker collaborations. Their final pairing proves much better-realized.

Ill Met By Moonlight (1957) recounts a daring World War II mission, the 1944 kidnapping of German General Heinrich Kreipe on Crete. It's a typically English story, gentleman adventurers pulling off an impossible caper a la G.A. Henty or Rudyard Kipling. But Powell & Pressburger keeps things grounded in reality, however unlikely the tale.

SOE operative Patrick Leigh Fermor (Dirk Bogarde) lives undercover in Crete during Nazi occupation. Fermor receives orders to kidnap General Kreipe (Marius Goring), the island's military governor, and spirit him away to Cairo. With a small British team and some Greek partisans, Leigh Fermor kidnaps the General while bamboozling his subordinates. As the commandos make their way to the coast, however, the Germans are only a step behind.

Ill Met By Moonlight is too outlandish to be invented. The real Major Leigh Fermor just died in 2011; besides soldiering he was an acclaimed travel writer. He and his mates playact an adventure against beautiful Cretan settings, switching costumes and calling audibles when the Germans make an unexpected move. During their mission, Leigh Fermor and Moss pose for a photograph in captured German uniforms; this very "Hollywood" moment really happened. Even faced with capture they're unflappably good-humored. Gunga Din's heroes would improve of such cheeky insouciance.

Those expecting thrill-a-minute action might find Moonlight disappointing. It features only two onscreen deaths; the big action scene occurs entirely off screen. Instead it's a tense cat and mouse game. The biggest set piece shows Leigh Fermor bluffing his way through 22 German checkpoints. Kreipie proves a resourceful foe, leaving medals behind and giving a telltale coin to an inquisitive Greek boy (Demetri Andreas). There's also tension with the Greek partisans, overly eager to cut Kreipe's throat. Success is by no means a foregone conclusion.

Powell & Pressburger's restrained approach redounds to their credit, especially given later iterations of commando drama. The Guns of Navarone (1961) plays like Moonlight on steroids, packing its Cretan spy mission with explosive action scenes, ridiculous plot twists and nigh invincible heroes. Emeric Pressburger himself wrote Operation Crossbow (1965) which transforms Britain's V2 sabotage program into James Bond fantasy. By contrast, Moonlight features ordinary Englishmen and Greeks achieving amazing things through pluck.

Dirk Bogarde cuts a dashing figure, all boyish toughness and devil-may-care humor. David Oxley makes a pleasant foil. Marius Goring (A Matter of Life and Death) makes a crafty adversary, struggling to outwit his captors. Michael Gough (Batman), Cyril Cusack (The Day of the Jackal), Wolfe Morris and Paul Stassino handle key supporting roles. Christopher Lee and David McCallum have early career bits.

Ill Met by Moonlight makes a fine final bow for the Archers. Not their most artistically accomplished work, it's nonetheless an enjoyable adventure film.

Atonement

I saw Atonement (2007) during its theatrical run and remember being disappointed. Rewatching it now, I'm more apt to be generous. Joe Wright's adaptation of a masterful Ian McEwan novel isn't perfect, but conveys McEwan's exploration of perception, guilt and creativity with striking clarity.

England in the mid-'30s. Precocious preteen Briony Tallis (Saorise Ronan) observes several incidents with her sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley) and servant Robbie (James McAvoy) that she interprets as sexual assaults instead of innocent flirtation. One night, someone molests Briony's friend Lola (Juno Temple) - an act Briony blames on Robbie. Robbie joins the BEF when World War II breaks out, getting caught up in the retreat to Dunkirk. Cecilia has become a nurse, pining for his return. Briony (now Romola Garai) also works as a nurse, realizing Robbie's innocence and hoping to right her mistakes.

Beneath Atonement's genteel trappings lies a disturbing character study. Briony dominates the film, a striking presence both physically and personally. She's a narcissist who enjoys the power to shape events. She finds an outlet in fiction but proves. A mix of honest misunderstandings and conscious desire (she entertains a crush on Robbie) makes her view Robbie as a deviant. Adult Briony still arrogates herself the right to "change" others, whether patients in a hospital ward or patch up Robbie and Cecilia's tattered romance. She views her writing as a "kindness," assuaging her guilt by creating a storybook ending for those she's wronged. It's a chilling portrait of literary "God complex" gone mad.

Understandably, writer Christopher Hampton downplays the expected class warfare themes. Robbie's basically a member of the family, with Cecilia's parents paying for his education. There are more pressing issues than Upstairs Downstairs drama. There's Morris (Benedict Cumberbatch), a charming chocolate maker who brings news of impending war; Lola, a precocious waif not so mature as she thinks; Robbie and Cecilia, initiating a tentative romance. But everything comes back to Briony, never realizing that her meddling carries actual consequences.

Wright's direction employs several neat tricks. Dario Marianelli's score brilliantly employs clacking typewriters, driving home the theme of someone writing events. Wright shows key events from Briony's perspective, before backtracking to show what "really" happened. This device could be hokey, but it's used sparingly enough to work. This also keeps us invested in Robbie and Cecilia's budding romance, unthinkable if either was a pervert. Robbie's fall from grace strikes a poignant note: his erstwhile benefactors turn on him, while Briony coldly observes. This ends a masterful opening hour on a perfect note.

Atonement stumbles afterwards. Wright encrusts his war scenes with David Lean grace notes, even borrowing imagery from Doctor Zhivago (a field of massacred children, Robbie's eyes illuminated by pinpricks of light), but everything seems rushed and perfunctory. The much-ballyhooed Dunkirk tracking shot is technically stunning, but really doesn't advance the film. Compared to the first hour's craftsmanship, Robbie's plight in France feels anemic, with the actual war kept off-screen and Robbie's squad mates (Daniel Maze and Nonso Azonie) barely ciphers. Worse, Cecelia all but vanishes, throwing the narrative off-balance.

Wright regains an even keel showing Briony's "penance" as a nurse. Briony struggles mightily to be practical, yet she can't sublimate her individuality to nursing - nor curb her desire to shape the lives of others. Accompanied by the gruesome sites of maimed Tommies, it's a striking sequence. The reveal of Lola's attacker proves less effective: given Wright's dual perspective trick elsewhere, it's an obvious cheat. But Wright delivers the finale with such gut-wrenching power that we forgive most of these faults. We just wish Atonement was half-an-hour longer to properly flesh out some story points.

Top acting honors go to the Briony Trio. Saorise Ronan got a well-earned Oscar nod, revealing Briony's studied arrogance and childish vulnerability. With her piercing blue eyes and impassive demeanor, she's a striking screen presence. Romola Garai ably handles the thankless chore of anchoring Atonement's middle third; she gets one standout sequence, comforting a dying French soldier (Jeremie Renier). Finally, Vanessa Redgrave closes things out with a heart-wrenching monologue. It's one of the best intergenerational acting teams in memory, each leaving an indelible impression.

James McAvoy gives a powerful turn as a smart but perpetually frustrated youth. Despite being periodically tapped as the "next big thing," McAvoy's career hasn't really caught fire - though his role in X-Men: First Class leaves us hopeful. Keira Knightley is tolerable, despite employing clipped verbiage that makes her sound like a tetanic Celia Johnson. Benedict Cumberbatch (War Horse) makes the most of brief screen time; Juno Temple (The Dark Knight Rises) plays Briony's unfortunate friend.

Atonement rewards multiple viewings. Despite occasional missteps, it's a unique, deeply affecting drama with fascinating thematic material. Maybe reading McEwan's novel since my first go-around helped me appreciate it better. It certainly couldn't hurt.

Admiral

Admiral (2008) is a Russian national epic, an Alamo-on-the-Volga as problematic as John Wayne's ode to Americanism. Andrei Kravchuk's biopic received the backing and enthusiastic support of Vladimir Putin's Ministry of Culture, eager to promote a national hero untainted by Soviet ties. It's a handsomely mounted film centered around a man who probably doesn't deserve such adulation.

Vice Admiral Aleksandr Kolchak (Konstantin Khabensky) leads Russia's Black Sea Fleet during the First World War. Though married, he falls for Anna (Elizaveta Boyarskaya), the wife of a subordinate officer (Vladislav Vetrov). The two carry on an affair, with Anna abandoning her husband as the Revolution breaks out. After a brief exile abroad, Kolchak winds up in Siberia leading the Provisional All-Russian Government, a locus for anti-Bolshevik rebels. Kolchak's troops are quickly defeated, and the Admiral's betrayed by his allies of the Czechoslovak Legion.

Admiral is conceived loosely along the lines of That Hamilton Woman, a naval epic balancing flag-waving heroics with torrid romance. The love interest provides an easy hook, with appealing leads and thrilling battle scenes calculated to pull in mass audiences ignorant of Russian history. Kravchuk ensconces everything in careworn melodrama, even including hokey framing device evoking Titanic. This allows him to downplay his subject's rougher edges.

Admiral Kolchak was, in many ways, a remarkable man: a courageous polar explorer, a brilliant naval commander and personally honorable. Yet as "Supreme Ruler of Russia," Kolchak was at best incompetent, at worst a repressive despot who massacred socialists and Jews while quarreling with allies. The Czechslovak Legion didn't betray Kolchak out of craven greed, but because the Whites never fulfilled their promise to expatriate them. Nor does Kolchak's alliance with piratical Cossack Grigory Semyonov accrue him credit. One questions Admiral elevating such a shabby reactionary, yet many Americans still admire Robert E. Lee and Nathan Bedford Forrest.

Suffice it to say, Admiral avoids this troubling context. Kravchuk provides only a superficial sketch of Kolchak's regime, focusing on his military and romantic exploits. In their eagerness to beatify Kolchak, the filmmakers paint as crude a portrait of Russian politics as American Cold War propaganda: it's murderous Bolsheviks versus noble monarchists, the latter done in by French and Czech traitors. It recalls unsophisticated Hollywood shows like Nicholas and Alexandra, treating the Romanov's ancien regime as something to be mourned. It's hard to disabuse any culture from nostalgic mythography, least of all one still reeling from 74 years of Communist repression.

Kolchak himself becomes a flawless model of integrity. He's introduced leading his battleship through a Baltic minefield while exchanging fire with German warships, leading his sailors in prayer as shells crash around them. This battlefield bravado serves him perfectly as future dictator; his men even kneel to him as a surrogate tsar. His wife (Anna Kovalchuk), and Anna's husband, graciously step aside when the two fall for each other. He's noble and courageous to the end, calmly staring down a firing squad. It's easy to see Kolchak as a Putin surrogate, a fatherly leader whose harsh tactics are justified by treacherous enemies.

Like many epics, Admiral's spectacle overcomes its thematic shortcomings. Kravchuk stages remarkable battle scenes outpacing anything in recent American cinema. The curtain-raising naval battle is a remarkable mixture of computer effects and visceral violence, a thrilling period action recreation. A massed execution of Tsarist officers registers strongly, while the harrowing battle scene two-thirds through the movie provides impressive cast-of-thousands excitement. Admiral's remarkable scope and authenticity makes Hollywood treatments of the period (Doctor Zhivago, Reds) look anemic in comparison.

Konstantin Khabensky gives an excellent performance. Strong-willed, amiable and courageous, he makes an ideal hero. Elizaveta Boyarskaya gets an underwritten role, Anna merely the Admiral's romantic foil. Nonetheless she's appealing, nailing all her emotional scenes. Sergei plays one of Kolchak's followers; Richard Bohringer is the treacherous French General. Anna Kovalchuk gets the thankless role of Kolchak's wife.

I respect Admiral as a well-intentioned throwback to old fashioned epic film-making, yet it contains the same fuzzy-headed politics and sentimentality as its American counterparts. Next, I eagerly await a laudatory biopic of Baron Ungern Von Sternberg! There's a White General worthy of film treatment.

The Red and the White

It's often said (most famously by Francois Truffaut) that there's no such thing as an antiwar film. The idea being that by depicting combat in an entertaining fashion, antiwar movies negate their message. This is true enough with commercial cinema, which disingenuously grafts noble-sounding speeches on top of exciting action (Platoon anyone?). On the other hand, it's hard to imagine All Quiet on the Western Front, Come and See or Gallipoli inspiring anyone to enlist.

Miklos Jancso's The Red and the White (1967) is a remarkable subversion. Commissioned to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Russian Revolution, Hungarian director Jancso instead crafted an avant garde journey through hell. It's a formless but hypnotic experience, showing Russia's Civil War as a barbaric descent into madness.

Russia's Civil War between the Communist Reds and reactionary Whites (aided by foreign invaders) comes to a small village on the Volga River. Patrols from both sides arrive, surprising and overwhelming each other in a random series of encounters, with civilians caught in the middle. Eventually the battle lines harden: a small patrol of Reds survives an air raid and captures White headquarters at an abandoned monastery. But White reinforcements, including Hungarian troops, soon bear down on the Bolsheviks.

By any standard, except those of the Classic Hollywood Narrative, The Red and the White is an incredible work. The picturesque Volga becomes a monstrous No Man's Land where no one's safe from the depredations of either army. The war's ideological origins provide an excuse for wanton killing. Besides the Russians, Hungarians serve on both sides of the conflict; that country went through its own abortive revolution in 1918, when Admiral Horthy's reactionaries crushed Bela Kun's Bolsheviks. The only clear distinction is the uniforms: shabby gray for the Reds, striking black for the Whites.

In presentation, Red functions as a rebuke to Soviet realism. Jancso follows Eisenstein et al in his focus on masses over individuals, but substitutes extreme long takes in medium shot for close-ups and kinetic edits. Photographer Tamlas Samlo achieves depth of field that Gregg Toland and Freddie Young could only dream about: as White troops assemble nurses for execution, scouts ride in front of the camera while mounted men assemble across the river. That's not to mention the finale, where extreme long shots reveal a huge White army massing in the distance. Only Spartacus compares in its presentation.

Jancso infuriated his producers: instead of rousing Communist agitprop, they received a nihilistic condemnation of conflict. The violence gradually escalates in scale: POWs are massacred, women raped, property destroyed. The battles are confused melees: one set piece sees a Red patrol decimated by swooping airplanes, leaving only their riderless horses. Things end on a tragic note, when surviving Bolsheviks confront the entire White Army. Hopelessly outnumbered, they cheerily sing La Marseillaise before being slain in one massed volley. It's the perfect coda to a remarkably bleak, affecting film.

Overlord

Few war movies are as offbeat as Stuart Cooper's Overlord (1975).  It's the art house answer to The Longest Day and Saving Private Ryan, mixing archive footage with the personal story of a confused Tommy on the eve of the D-Day.

Tom (Brian Stirner) is a young Englishman in early 1944. He joins the Army and spends weeks training at Aldershot. He and his mates know the invasion of Europe's coming but no particulars. Tom fears his individuality's subjugation to England's war machine. He struggles through training, making a few friends who flit out of his life, bedding some girls and confiding fears to his parents (John Franklyn-Robbins and Stella Tanner). Tom's unit prepares for front line duty, joining the British invasion force landing on Normandy.

Overlord strikingly captures war's mundane horror. Tom experiences an air raid, a stark training sequence more intense than Full Metal Jacket and lingers over friends and fears long after they're gone. Cinematographer John Alcott's bleak black-and-white photography stresses its dehumanizing aspects. This docudrama sparseness clashes with stylized fantasy scenes: Brian imagines sex with a one-night stand (Julie Neesam), and suffers a recurring premonition suggestive of Robert Capa's The Falling Soldier. Tom's fate at Sword Beach proves appropriately anticlimactic; he's merely a tiny cog in the British Empire, a stand-in for a nation struggling for its survival.

What really sets Overlord apart is its use of documentary footage. Cooper enlisted the help of London's Imperial War Museum, utilizing previously unseen archives to surreal effect. One strange sequence intercuts newsreel footage of Nazi Germany (reedited to make it look like Hitler and Co. are dancing a massed jig) with Tom's seduction by a prostitute. Another scene contrasts Tom's journey with an RAF raid on Germany. Just as effective are the mundane scenes of soldiers camping and preparing for the invasion, often set to period tunes. Cooper's interplay of realism and artistry achieves haunting effects.

Overlord is a remarkable picture. Stuart Cooper crafts a truly unique experience that should be seen, not read about.

The Alamo (1960)

John Wayne treated The Alamo (1960) as his dream project. The Duke spent over 15 years trying to get money and industry clout to retell Texas's War for Independence. The project was so long in gestation that an early script became The Last Command (1955) with Sterling Hayden. Wayne accrued a $12,000,000 budget mixing personal funds with backing from Texas donors, building a massive set in Brackettville, Texas, and directing the film himself. Critics excoriated the movie, not the least for an obnoxious campaign that claimed real Americans would nominate it for Oscars. Despite disappointing box office, it's become a perennial John Wayne favorite.

The Alamo is watchable despite its sprawling excesses. One doesn't begrudge Wayne's conservative politics: if Kirk Douglas injected progressive content into Spartacus, why can't the Duke make an ode to Americanism? The problem isn't Wayne's worldview but his slapdash presentation; such a massive production would be taxing for a veteran director, let alone a freshman like Wayne.

In 1836, Texas rebels against General Antonio de Santa Anna's repressive Mexican government. As Santa Anna's armies invade Texas, Sam Houston (Richard Boone) assigns Colonel William Travis (Laurence Harvey) to fight a holding action at the Alamo, a small mission in San Antonio. Travis gathers militia headed by Jim Bowie (Richard Widmark) and Tennessean Davy Crockett (John Wayne), but it's still fewer than 200 men against 7,000 crack Mexican troops. The leaders clash as they determine how to fight Santa Anna, but ultimately decide their cause supersedes personal disagreements.

The Alamo functions as Texas's creation myth. Texans still hold it as sacred, with any questioning blasphemy: remember Hank Hill freaking out over a twig boy playwright's reworking of the story? Historians know the Texans rebelled for various reasons, from Mexican high-handedness to their abolition of slavery. It's undeniable that Santa Anna was an unscrupulous dictator whose power plays (eleven non-consecutive terms as President!) and despotism ravaged Mexico and Texas alike. Certainly the compelling siege format and larger-than-life heroes with undeniable courage make for an epic saga.

Historical accuracy isn't the point. Wayne intended The Alamo as his definitive statement on America. Hence the endless harangues about truth, justice and the American Way. Crockett monologues about the beauty of republics, a very Reaganite homily. Bowie crudely espouses rugged individualism, reinforced by minor characters like blind Mrs. Robinson (Veda Ann Borg). Crockett even reframes the Domino Theory for the 1830s: if we don't stop Santa Anna at San Antonio, he'll soon be in Nashville! Travis's "line in the sand" boils history down to reactionary myth: America is under siege, and you're with us or them.

The human side gets lost amidst the speech-making. Writer James Lee Grant frames character conflicts in crude, one-note fashion. Tough guy Bowie locks horns with the dapper Travis, with Crockett mediating between them, a dynamic unchanging throughout. Crockett's romance with a Mexican widow (Linda Cristal) peters out before it begins. Worse, Crockett's accompanied by an insufferable gaggle of hicks, whose drunken antics bog down the early scenes. The Mexicans get no characterization, though Wayne praises them as "fighting men."

The Alamo pays off 90 minutes of throat-clearing with impressive action scenes. This is what audiences want! Working with William H. Clothier and second unit veteran Cliff Lyons, Wayne provides stirring battles of massed volleying, crashing horse falls and thundering, body-hurling explosions. He smartly builds the action from brawls and sorties to the cast-of-thousands finale, providing stylish deaths for the three protagonists. Finally, Dimitri Tiomkin complements the action with a beautiful score. The Alamo succeeds as spectacle even if its drama proves uneven.

Actor Wayne plays Crockett as both a font of "homespun wisdom" and two-fisted hero. Hearing his verbose speeches, one imagines Wayne relishing the chance to hit back at condescending liberals who dismissed him as an inarticulate fossil. That said, in crunch time the Duke is an action star: he unhorses Mexican cavalry barehanded and keeps fighting even after being lanced in the chest. With the weight of a country on his shoulders, Wayne becomes a mythic superhero.

Richard Widmark makes a fine tough guy, his six-barreled scattergun toppling Mexicans like bowling pins. But Laurence Harvey's presence is near-inexplicable: why's the pretty boy Brit from Expresso Bongo playing a Texan? More inexplicable is how the obnoxious Chill Wills wangled an Oscar nod, or why singer Frankie Avalon plays a prominent supporting role. Wayne drags along the Ford Stock Company: Denver Pyle, Ken Curtis, Hank Worden, Olive Carey and Jack Pennick all appear. Richard Boone "guest stars" as Sam Houston; the appealing Linda Cristal (Two Rode Together) disappears just as the plot kicks off.

The Alamo remains a flawed but enjoyable historical epic. Viewers who don't cotton to Wayne's right-wing bloviating can still enjoy the rousing battles. For all its crudeness, it's undeniably entertaining.

Cast a Giant Shadow

Cast a Giant Shadow (1966) was a labor of love for Melville Shavelson. A former joke writer for Bob Hope, Shaverson spent years trying to get the film made, finding no interest until John Wayne read his script. Agreeing to co-produce, Wayne encouraged Kirk Douglas to play David "Mickey" Marcus, the American soldier-turned-Israeli fighter, and Shadow opened to good box office but indifferent reviews. Seen today, it's a stilted epic that fails to do its subject justice.

David Marcus (Kirk Douglas) is an American JAG officer who, during World War II, gains a reputation for insubordinate, reckless behavior. After the war ends he's contacted by Major Shamir (James Donald) to help the Haganah, a Zionist group agitating for Israeli independence. Marcus is appalled by the pitiable state of Palestine's Jews, agreeing to serve as a military adviser. Israel gains independence from Britain but is immediately set upon by its Arab neighbors. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Israelis rely on Marcus's expertise to secure their freedom.

Cast a Giant Shadow places a poor second to Exodus, Otto Preminger's flawed but engrossing paean to Israeli freedom. Shavelson's literal-minded script lurches from set piece to set piece, only stopping for exposition. Shadow spells out back stories, hammers home plot points and explains everything in a deadeningly declarative fashion. We never doubt Mickey's motivations, thanks to the stilted dialogue and clunky flashbacks. The human moments fall even flatter, with Marcus's wife (Angie Dickinson) miscarrying a baby and Haganah agent Magda (Senta Berger) conveniently losing her husband just as Marcus's marriage dissolves. Very little of Shadow feels authentic, except its sincere advocacy for Israel.

Shadow has some interest for war movie fans. For a comedy director, Shavelson has a good feel for action scenes (though surely second unit directors were involved), drawing interest from the IDF's ramshackle tactics. In one battle an Israeli pilot (Frank Sinatra) bombs Arab tanks with seltzer bottles! Other scenes don't work so well; the World War II scenes feel cheap, making heavy use of stock footage. Marcus's visit to Dachau especially grates in its (understandable) tell-don't-show presentation. On top of everything else  the movie plods. Its seemingly endless battles and lectures (with occasional melodramatic interludes) ultimately make for a deadening experience.

Kirk Douglas gets a role tailor-made to his star image. Douglas plays the cheeky wild card, parachuting into France against orders, butting heads with John Wayne's General and later Israeli officials. He gets plenty of earnest drama scenes contrasted with rugged action, a Spartacus for the '40s. He's obviously more virile than Magda's impotent husband; is it a sign of star ego that Douglas gets to bed Angie Dickinson and Senta Berger? Douglas handles himself well, even if Marcus seems too perfect to be credible.

The star cameos simply don't work. John Wayne's scenes clunk, while Frank Sinatra's pilot barely makes an impression. Yul Brynner has more screen time, but his grumpy soldier isn't much more substantial. Senta Berger (Major Dundee) makes an appealing love interest/freedom fighter but Angie Dickinson's scenes play as cheap melodrama. Character actors James Donald (Bridge on the River Kwai), Michael Hordern (Royal Flash), Luther Adler (The Desert Fox) and Gordon Jackson fare better. Topol (Galileo), the cast's one authentic Israeli, plays a crude Arab sheik. 

Like many message movies, Cast a Giant Shadow features good intentions blotted out by indifferent execution. Mickey Marcus's story is worth telling; too bad it's rendered so stiffly.

None But the Brave

None But the Brave (1965) was among my most-watched childhood movies: AMC ran it almost weekly, and it made passable filler between Rio Bravo and Patton. However cool it seemed at the time, Frank Sinatra's only directorial effort is an embarrassing pacifist whine, pitched at the tritest level imaginable. Think John Boorman's Hell in Pacific re-envisioned by Stanley Kramer and you're there.

During the height of World War II, a squad of American Marines is shot down over a remote Pacific Island. Captain Bourke (Clint Walker) takes command over the objections of Lieutenant Blair (Tommy Sands). Bourke discovers they're not alone: an isolated Japanese garrison remains on the island, commanded by sensitive Lieutenant Kuroki (Tatsuya Mihashi). The two sides skirmish repeatedly until Kuroki enlists the American's doctor (Frank Sinatra) to operate on an injured soldier. Bourke and Kuroki initiate a truce which lasts until Bourke's men contact the US Navy.

The basic problem is None But the Brave simply isn't credible. WWII's Pacific Theater was a nasty race war, both sides viewing the other as subhuman. Japanese soldiers habitually massacred Allied civilians, bayoneted or beheaded captured troops and worked survivors to death in slave labor camps. Allied troops weren't shy about killing Japanese wholesale either, not helped by the latter's tendency towards banzai charges. Neither side took many prisoners; why house and feed enemy "vermin" when you can exterminate them?

Mind you, this isn't to imply moral equivalence between the Allies and Imperial Japan. But the fact remains, neither GIs nor Japanese had much interest in peaceful co-existence. Some conflicts can't be resolved by cigarettes and painting smiley faces on a leg stump (yes, that happens). Maybe an Eastern Front epic with the Waffen SS befriending NKVD Commissars would strain credulity further, but not much. Even as an allegory, Brave's set up feels unacceptably phony.

As a Japanese-American co-production when "Yellow Peril" resentment still lingered, Brave's intent is admirable. But Sinatra ruins our good will by ramming the theme down our throats. Early on, a scene of Kuroki chewing out his fanatical Sergeant (Takeshi Kato) is intercut with Bourke and Blair arguing. Kuroki's pedantic narration further underlines the message. Worst of all are two flashbacks that amuse rather than enlighten. Things end in a bloodbath followed by the most on-the-nose "message" ever committed to celluloid. Like many war movies, Brave has its cake and eats it too, presenting thrilling action while whining about the pointlessness of it all.

The best that can be said of Sinatra as director is that he doesn't hog the camera. Harold Lepstein captures beautiful Hawaiian scenery but the photography is rote, mechanical hackwork. Every scene seems to run a beat too long. Even the action feels sloppy: Sinatra films the skirmishes in close-up and medium shot, establishing no spatial geography between the Americans and Japanese. We never figure out where one side is in relation to the other, which would matter if we cared.

In front of the camera, Sinatra reverts to lazy Rat Pack mode, swilling booze, grinning incessantly and occasionally slapping somebody. Aside from his operation centerpiece, Old Blue Eyes might be comic relief. Clint Walker handles his He-Man leader competently, while Tasuya Mihashi gives a respectable turn as his Japanese counterpart. Stealing the show, in the worst possible way, is Tommy Sands. His bellowing Sergeant Rock caricature plays like a drunken hick R. Lee Ermey, generating gales of laughter with each slurred scream. You'll either find Sands hilarious or want to punch him in the throat.

None But the Brave is a sad mess. The innovative idea of an evenhanded war movie disappears amidst reams of cliches, position speeches and bad photography. All that remains are Sinatra's good intentions - and lousy direction.

The Horse Soldiers

John Ford's Civil War adventure feels like it should be a lot better. The Horse Soldiers (1959) is beautifully shot, with John Wayne and William Holden making a dynamic star pairing. But the movie never quite gels, a disappointing collection of exciting action and awkward drama.

In spring 1863, Union and Confederate armies are deadlocked before Vicksburg, the Rebels' last stronghold on the Mississippi. General Ulysses S. Grant (Stan Jones) recruits Colonel John Marlowe (John Wayne) to lead a daring raid on Confederate supply lines. Marlowe plans to ride from La Grange, Tennessee down to Newton Station, destroy the supply depot there, then continue south to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The mission grows complicated when the Federals encounter Hanna Hunter (Constance Towers), a headstrong Southerner they arrest for fear of informing, and when Marlowe and his surgeon Major Kendall (William Holden) grow to loathe each other.

Based on Harold Sinclair's novel, The Horse Soldiers is a heavily fictionalized version of Grierson's Raid. At a time when the Union cavalry was a laughingstock ("Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?" went a rueful joke), Colonel Benjamin Grierson led 1,700 troopers on a daring raid that cut Rebel supply lines to Vicksburg, tied up thousands of Rebel troops and safely arrived in Baton Rouge with few casualties. These scratch Yankee horsemen put Southern cavalrymen like Nathan Bedford Forrest to shame, and materially aided Grant's campaign too. It's a fascinating tale of true-life derringdo tailor made for a movie.

The Horse Soldiers is certainly a handsome movie. Ford provides beautiful shots of cavalry columns on the horizon, all captured by ace photographer William C. Clothier. Ford consciously recalls Matthew Brady's photographs, with carefully composed camp scenes and sweeping battle tableaux: one early scene even has Marlowe and staff photographed by a war correspondent. Ford stages two fabulous battles, especially the ambush at Newton Station, alongside colorful vignettes: a confrontation with two Confederate deserters (Strother Martin and Denver Pyle); Kendall chatting with a friendly Rebel colonel (Carleton Young); and a humorous episode where the Yankees encounter teenaged military cadets (loosely inspired by the Battle of New Market, Virginia).

Ford takes his only direct stab at America's biggest conflict (vignettes in Judge Priest and How the West Was Won notwithstanding), with commendable complexity. Ford consistently emphasizes the "gentlemanly" conduct of both sides. Marlowe's troops kill no civilians (accurate to Grierson's raid), care for Rebel wounded and bloodlessly disengage from the underage cadets. Yet this chivalry is contrasted with chaotic battles, Kendall's bloody operations and scenes of material destruction. Kendall proves the noblest character, putting aside nationality to treat wounded on both sides. Not quite an antiwar tract, The Horse Soldiers nonetheless eschews predictable flag-waving.

Then why isn't The Horse Soldiers a classic? Despite its quality set pieces, Ford's interstitial material rings consistently false. The Marlowe-Kendall rivalry between never seems authentic; writers John Lee Mahin and Martin Rackin give Marlowe a cringeworthy personal reason for hating doctors. No points for guessing how they patch things up. Similarly, headstrong Hannah falls for Marlowe simply because box office demands it. That's neglecting annoying side characters like the Victor McLaglen-lite Sergeant Kirby (Judson Pratt) and Marlowe's Lt. Colonel (Willis Bouchey), who reminds us he's a politician every time he's on screen. The finale also feels rushed, though for a reason: stuntman Fred Kennedy's death wrapped filming prematurely.

John Wayne and William Holden redeem a lot. These tough guy leads have great chemistry, selling their thin characters and hokey rivalry through sheer charisma. Constance Towers (Sergeant Rutledge) is compelling early on as a resourceful Southern belle; later she deteriorates into token love interest. Willis Bouchey and tennis star Althea Gibson play annoying one-note roles. Strother Martin and Denver Pyle get one of the best scenes as scurvy Rebel deserters; Ford regulars Ken Curtis, Hank Worden, Russell Simpson, Anna Lee and Carleton Young put in mandatory appearances.

The Horse Soldiers is an entertaining flick, but seems like a missed opportunity. There's plenty to like, but Ford's mixed execution makes it merely a good picture.

The Cockleshell Heroes

The Cockleshell Heroes (1955) is typical of '50s British war movies. Drawing on a real-life incident, it provides more sober flag waving familiar from The Cruel Sea and Carve Her Name With Pride. Its main anomaly is that Jose Ferrer, noted Puerto Rican-American, both directs and stars!

Royal Marine Major Stringer (Jose Ferrer) organizes a raid on Nazi shipping in Bordeaux. He clashes with Captain Thompson (Trevor Howard), a veteran Marine who resents Stringer's rapid promotion and unorthodox methods. After a training exercise turns farce Stringer leans on Thompson, who whips the Marine recruits into shape. Eventually they're tough enough for the big mission, stiff upper lips and all.

A co-production between Irvin Allen and Albert "Cubby" Broccoli, The Cockleshell Heroes is a schematic experience. Like its peers it features cheeky Brit heroes pulling off an impossible mission - not only the adventurous Stringer but familiar faces Percy Herbert and Anthony Newley as grunts. The movie celebrates the extraordinary heroism of ordinary guys, keeping its drama relatively measured; pleasing escapism for Britons not entirely reconciled to the end of Empire. David Lean put this genre to bed with Bridge on the River Kwai; subsequent commando films featured de facto superheroes.

Ferrer's direction is competent enough, marked mainly by John Wilcox's beautiful Cinemascope photography. The Portuguese locations are stunning and the movie's big set pieces (a training exercise gone wrong, the climactic raid) provide requisite action and humor. John Addison's anthemic score is highlighted by Vivian Dunn's title march; Addison later incorporated it into his score for The Charge of the Light Brigade.

Ferrer isn't half-convincing as a Brit but handles his man-of-action role well-enough. Co-star Trevor Howard does the real heavy lifting: established as a by-the-book hardass, Howard gets the meatiest scenes elucidating his back story and helping an AWOL recruit get revenge on his wife's lover. From The Third Man on Howard was always left holding the bag for marquee names, a waste of a talented actor.

The Cockleshell Heroes is a respectable example of a bygone genre. Neither terribly complex nor innovative, it provides a dose of nostalgic entertainment.

Rossellini's War Trilogy: Paisan and Germany, Year Zero

The international success of Rome: Open City (1945) prompted Roberto Rossellini to revisit wartime Europe. The result is his "War Trilogy," rounded out by Paisan (1946) and Germany, Year Zero (1948). These remarkable films improve on the flawed initial installment, showing Axis Europe's reaction to defeat and ambivalence towards their "liberation."


Paisan (1946)

By the standards of neorealism, Paisan (1946) is a full-blown epic. This episodic drama explores the end of World War II, highlighting tensions between Italian civilians and their American and British liberators.

Six vignettes depict the Allied liberation of Italy. Several American GIs liberate a town in Sicily, with Joe (Robert Van Loon) befriending peasant girl Carmela (Carmela Sazio). An African-American MP (Dots Johnson) strikes up an unlikely friendship with a Naples street urchin (Alfonsino Pasca). American Fred (Gar Moore) shacks up with Roman widow Francesca (Maria Mischi) who waits for his return. British nurse Harriet (Harriet Medin) searches for her partisan-lover amidst a British mopping-up of Florence. Three American chaplains take refuge in a monastery, whose Brothers take umbrage when they learn two are Lutheran and Jewish, respectively. Finally, two OSS agents join Italian partisans in a campaign against German troops in Northern Italy.

Paisan loosely recalls A Canterbury Tale but without that film's cheerfulness. Unlike Powell & Pressburger's mythic England, Italy is a bitter, defeated enemy. Mussolini's loyalists and German soldiers conduct scorched-earth resistance, with brutal reprisals against partisans. Antifascist guerrillas achieve little without Allied help. Rossellini contrasts a downbeat ending with the Allied victory; Italy's a loser regardless, the war leaving structural ruin, social divisons and a dangerous power vacuum at the Cold War's onset.

Paisan evokes many tones but its overriding theme is culture clash. The Italians fear Americans as sex-crazed loafers and mock the Brits as ineffectual; the Americans seem bemused by European culture. Attempts to communicate lead to tragedy or misunderstanding. Joe and Carmela's meeting ends abruptly, the girl taking the blame. Fred learns Italian to communicate with Francesca only to dump her. Catholic Chaplain Martin (William Tubbs) preaches religious tolerance to the monks, only pissing them off. Only in combat do the erstwhile enemies work together.

Despite a shoestring budget Rossellini provides lots of location shooting, throwing in two large-scale action scenes. His mostly-amateur cast acquits themselves well; the affecting Carmela Sazio was supposedly an illiterate peasant. Stylistically it's a touchstone for Italian cinema: De Sica's Bicycle Thieves owes much to Rossellini's mixture of charm and pathos, while the Florence episode's graphic street fighting prefigures Pontecorvo's The Battle of Algiers. An absorbing wartime mosaic, Paisan stands as a remarkable achievement.

Germany, Year Zero (1948) 

Paisan's ambivalence gives way to despair in Germany Year Zero (1948). This unremittingly grim tale of postwar desolation shows Hitler's Thousand Year Reich reduced to a Darwinist playground of crime and poverty.

12 year old Edmund (Edmund Moeschke) lives miserably in post-war Berlin. His brother Karl-Heinz (Franz-Otto Kruger), an ex-soldier, refuses to register with occupying powers; sister Eva (Ingetraud Hinze) struggles to find work; their father (Franz-Otto Krüger) suffers from malnutrition. Edmund tries to work honestly but falls into street crime, joining his old teacher Herr Henning (Erich Gühne) to sell black market goods. Edmund takes Henning's survival of the fittest mantra literally, committing a crime that pushes him further into despair.

Possibly the most extreme in the neo-realist cycle, Germany Year Zero uses an entirely unprofessional cast. Berlin remains unreconstructed, divided by the Allied powers and its neighborhoods littered with rubble. Germans toil in menial jobs, cram into crowded tenements, steal coal in broad daylight and generally suffer.  One early scene has squabbling Berliners butchering a horse in the street. Here Allied troops are only snap-happy tourists, unable (or unwilling) to alleviate German suffering. 

Rossellini shows the struggle of "New Germany" to escape Nazism's shadow. Edmund's siblings earn our respect: Eva refuses to prostitute herself and Karl-Heinz eventually does the right thing. But the young protagonist learns all the wrong lessons after being turned away from real work. Henning's mentoring of Edmund mixes Nietzschean harangues with more disturbing attention. Two teenaged criminals swindle Edmund, pocketing his money in exchange for sex and potatoes. He's a warped Oliver Twist, too young to understand his actions but too embittered to be optimistic. Edmund's gone long before committing his stupid, senseless crime.

Some critics fault Zero for forfeiting sympathetic characters in favor of anti-Fascist posturing. True, Rossellini provides more overt messages than previous films: one crude but effective scene plays Adolf Hitler's voice over the bombed-out Chancellery, implying karmic retribution for Nazi imperialism. But even without a strong emotional hook, Germany Year Zero's bleak authenticity seers the memory. Its climactic tragedy will haunt you long after the film ends.

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Groggy hopes to provide more cheerful postings in the immediate future - perhaps drawing from real life as much as films. Stay tuned for future updates.

Rome: Open City

Roberto Rossellini's Rome: Open City (1945) is a seminal work in Italy's neorealist movement... or is it? This grim, downbeat account of Nazi occupation and Italian Resistance lays out the genre framework but retains conventional dramatic form. Whatever you call Rome, it's a remarkable film.

Rome in 1944 waits eagerly for Allied liberation, but German occupation makes things unbearably grim. A loose activist network organizes resistance in the city: engineer Manfredi (Marcello Pagliero), the pregnant Pina (Anna Magnani), liberal priest Don Pietro (Aldo Fabrizi). Even Pina's adolescent son Marcello (Vito Annicchiarico) joins in, helping smuggle guns and explosives from outside partisans. But SS Chief Bergmann (Harry Feist) has tricks up his own sleeve, using informers and interrogation to smash subversives.

Neorealism got its start in Luchino Visconti's Ossessione (1943), a bastardized adaptation of The Postman Always Rings Twice. But Rome: Open City established the genre firmly. Filming on a shoestring budget in early 1945, Rossellini captured remarkable footage of bombed-out Rome while the war raged elsewhere. The movie bombed domestically but garnered international acclaim, winning the jury prize at Cannes in 1946. Rosselini rounded out his "War Trilogy" with Paisan (1946) and Germany Year Zero (1948), catapulting him into the top tier of international filmmakers.

Rome: Open City's verisimilitude still impresses. Made just months after Rome's liberation, it's truly ahead of its time depicting bombed-out cityscapes and poverty. Italians riot over bread while Gestapo raids occur daily; hostile families are crowded into tiny tenements. What was technical necessity strikes an aesthetic chord: few films provided such raw, direct pictures of wartime destruction. Rossellini beautifully captures Italians' wartime cynicism: the Resistance seems ineffectual, while the Allies only prove their existence through bombing raids. Federico Fellini's episodic script allows for wonderful slice-of-life moments, like a kid's soccer game or Pina bickering with her sister.

Despite these authentic trappings, Rome isn't pure neorealism. For one, it features major stars Magnani and Fabrizi, a no-no in many genre works. Nor does Rossellini avoid melodramatic touches: in particular, Pina's romance with Francesco (Francesco Grandjacquet) tempts fate from the onset. Borrowing a page from wartime Hollywood potboilers (Hangmen Also Die!), Rossellini casts the Nazis as sexual deviants: Berger minces effeminately while spymaster Ingrid (Giovanna Galletti) seduces singer Marina (Maria Michi) with furs and booze. For better or worse it's more conventional than Bicycle Thieves and Umberto D.

Nor does Rome honestly address Fascism. Benito Mussolini's personality cult never achieved Hitler's pervasive success but neither was he actively opposed; Il Duce purged leftists, co-opted the Catholic and military, with most Italians carrying on indifferently. Rossellini's narrative pawns responsibility onto foreigners, as if the Black Shirts were mere quislings of the Third Reich. Perhaps Rossellini, a friend of Vittorio Mussolini active in prewar cinema, didn't feel comfortable tackling the issue head-on. Or perhaps Italians generally weren't ready to accept responsibility.

That said, Rome's dramatic power is undeniable. If Rossellini utilizes familiar archetypes they're handled iwth unusual skill and power. One comic scene of Pietro and Marcello hiding bombs from the Gestapo ends in a burst of unexpected tragedy. The second half settles in for a prolonged interrogation, with our heroes subjected to shockingly brutal torture. A partisan raid halfway through the film provides our heroes' only tangible victory. Rossellini's bleak anger presages any number of "enemy occupation" films from The Battle of Algiers to Army of Shadows.

Anna Magnani anchors the film's first half. Decidedly unglamorous, Magnani is beautifully effective as an ordinary person struggling to make a difference. Aldo Fabrizi matches Magnani, transforming Pietro from comic foil to tragic hero. The luminous Marla Michi reappeared in Rossellini's Paisan. Harry Feist and Giovanna Galletti make effective villains; Galletti gnawing seductively on a Fahrtenmesser sure makes a perverse image!

Rome: Open City makes for disturbing viewing. Rossellini's next two films adhere more stringently to neorealist expectations, and prove even darker. Classification aside, it's still a remarkable movie.