1957: War

In light of a recent wonderful year end roundup essay from one of my favorite critics, I have been given the incentive to ditch ranking movies by year. To sum up his point; it’s pointless (for me) to attempt an objective list based on rank when different movies set out to achieve different goals and when I don’t really know how to quantify something as elusive as “importance.” This is a dangerous distinction, often the reason many puffed up entertainments (Foxcatcher) garners more serious consideration than those pesky termites. But I feel the need to at least briefly grasp those qualities that draw me to certain works, especially the ones that appear on the opposite ends of the brow chart. So what better year to start with than 1957, a year that two of my friends have argued is the year of 3:10 to Yuma, the rest be damned. I can’t say I disagree with this sentiment wholeheartedly. Scratch that, I disagree with it wholeheartedly, not that Daves film deserves anything less than adoration but that one great film ought to render a whole slew of great films rubbish in comparison. 1957 (as was much of the 50s in general) was blessed with an overabundance of great works, specifically in the war and western genre.

Paths of Glory pisses me off. I clench my teeth and curl my toes every time. I want to crawl into the screen and fix everything, but that’s part of the frustration because nothing can be fixed in a world set so firmly in its ways. It’s one of the most effective movies I’ve ever seen, so much so that my dad can’t even watch it. He gets too upset. I think it’s also a nice example of a war movie having the utmost respect for soldiers, binding together in their tight fortified hell, yet matching that passion with a deep and rampant hatred for the hierarchical entities that orchestrate the madness spacious/snug quarters. ---- Ugh! I can’t help but sounding like a kid fresh out of college, locked away in his parent’s house awaiting the real world, shocked by the horrors that have been shocking young stupid kids like me for years, except that I’m not a kid anymore. Oh well, I’ll continue on my righteous rant. ---- There is a big emphasis on juxtaposition (housing, clothing, food, custom, luxury) between soldier and officer, and after all of the cruel formalities take their course and the viewer is left feeling not only helpless but also disillusioned to the point of anger. In most films that involve a courtroom, the built in drama revolves around the law being upheld (the truth being proven) while here it’s just the opposite. The law is part of the problem and there is nothing to swoop and protect us from its mulish procedure.  And then, just as the movie goes where most viewers hope it won’t,  a young fearful girl (played by Kubrick’s wife Christiane) --- a similar victim of war’s brutality and cynicism ----  sings “The Faithful Hussar” to a group of rowdy soldiers who suddenly fall silent and/or hum along. I don’t really even know how to process this scene; I just know it gets me every time. It doesn’t offer any resolution. I have seen it three or four times and with each viewing I had to wait a few minutes before reentering the real world. The battle that these men are fighting is futile, their lives are not valued, their blood won’t solve anything, and their common sense/love for each other will only earn them a date with the firing squad. It’s as anti-war/authority/fascism as anything ever made. And for anyone tempted to count Kubrick as cold and detached, I offer this movie as evidence of his humanism, not to mention his grasp of the film language at a young age. For all of the griping (undoubtedly matched if not dwarfed by the rampant deification) about Kubrick, I think we can all agree that he had a freakish talent that may or may not hit some on a personal level.

It makes sense that the overall war sentiment was that of, shall we say, less reverence than the “flag-wavers” made during the conflict and after. Don’t get me wrong, I often prefer that era of war but it’s nice to see the tide shift a bit, though John Ford’s The Wings of Eagles --- which I always felt could have been the bastardized fourth Calvary movie ----- proves that supposed antiquated notions of war can still make for riveting entertainment, especially since much of the focus here is on the home front. And to be fair to Ford, who accomplished more in five years than I will in 65, his attitudes towards authority in general probably paved the way movies like Paths (his visual command certainly did), just look at Henry Fonda’s Owen Thursday for heaven’s sake, not to mention Paths could have easily been called They Were Expendable. Either way, the Frank “Spig” Wead biopic lost $804,000 so perhaps audiences were slightly disillusioned at this point especially considering what nabbed the top box office spot. The #1 draw of 1957 --- which also won Best Picture and ushered in a new era of “epic” filmmaking for its director whose previous films were technically more “intimate” but not as different in scope from where I’m standing ---- was The Bridge on the River Kwai. I’m not going to try and ascribe a cultural or political analysis of (Paths of Glory pretty much earned back what it cost) its success measured with its fog of war sentiments, but it raises a few questions. The movie has become (or always was?) one of those AFI/Academy obvious picks for “greatest of all time” which has undoubtedly curdled some of its myth for postmodern audiences. Me, I saw it many times when I was younger and at least three times as a young adult. I revisited it recently, not necessarily to pinch myself but because I genuinely love looking at it. I also don’t lament Lean’s post-Kwai “epic” course, and even if I did it wouldn’t do me or anyone else any good.

Kwai, like Paths and Fort Apache, finds hysteria in the ruse of military etiquette. You have a few individuals operating on a somewhat sensible --- albeit allegedly opprobrious -- level only to be gunned down by the same people they are supposed to be fighting alongside. This not-so-friendly-fire is so on point, the scenario so damned-if-you- do/don’t/what’s-it-all-for that you can wonder if we really needed to “madness” postscript to drive it all superfluously home. But again, I’m not complaining. More madness from Andrzej Wajda in his fictional account of the Warsaw Uprising’s doomed attempts at staving off Nazi forces whilst waiting for Soviet aid that deviously won’t arrive in, Kanal. We’re down til we’re underground. There is a lot of words spilled on Polish bravery, though you get the distinct impression that Wajda is also accentuating a needless cultural imprudence. I think he did a great job of assimilating rousing with exasperating, especially as they slide down into the depths of hell. There they wander around in excrement, lost, gassed, doomed. There is something to be said for their fortitude and our innate survivalist predisposition, even if their final stand is spurred on by their adopted ethnographic principles on valor. The final shot is cruel, funny, and acerbic. It perfectly encapsulates everything that came before.

Due to their staggering losses during WWII (ten percent of the population), it would make sense that the government would want to keep a watchful eye over their film industry, ensuring that this loss was worth the price. By 53, Stalin was no longer and Khrushchev’s critique of his totalitarian rule opened the door slightly for a broader sense of an individual’s value in the face of war. This gave way to intimate histrionics, where the greater good had to finally faceoff with personal loss a la Mikhail Kalatozov’s, The Cranes Are Flying. It follows a family (including a lover) torn apart by war, specifically the enlistment and death of our hero, Boris. Much of the action and conflict revolves around the home front once again with Boris’ girlfriend Veronika and her various tribulations. Though Kalatozov and his cinematographer Sergio Urusevsky shot things that boggle the mind and eye, the movie simply wouldn’t resonate without a central performance as good as Tatiana Samoilova’s. At least I can honestly say that this is what struck and stuck with me. Anthony Mann's Men in War follows a group of foot soldiers through a series of awful predicaments. It's Mann through and through and since I'm feeling extremely lazy I'll leave it at that and trust you to know what I mean.

Maybe I’ll post more on 1957 later. No promises.