At the
Movies
Saving Private Ryan, and a splendidly depressing
Russian movie
By JOSEPH CUNNEEN
Saving Private Ryan (Dreamworks/Paramount) made this World
War II veteran appreciate as never before how lucky I was not to hit the beach
at Normandy until several weeks after D-day.
Spielbergs retelling of the Americans invasion of
Normandy in 1944 is a brutally violent movie in which the violence has a
serious purpose. The female guidance counselor with whom I saw Ryan
said she felt punished by the movie but was glad to have seen it.
Correcting the glib heroism of most war films and the exploitative violence of
so much that is offered as entertainment today, Spielberg insists on showing us
how these boys really died.
The first 25 minutes of Ryan is a brilliant technical
achievement and will be studied, frame by frame, in film classes for years to
come; no one should complain when photographer Janusz Kaminski gets an Oscar.
Earsplitting sound, the sense of total chaos, the bloody body parts -- we
participate in the action as if we were operating the kind of hand-held,
open-shuttered camera combat photographers used in World War II.
There is no way to take in all the carefully edited details that
rush past us from the time -- about 7 a.m. on June 6 -- we spot Capt. John
Miller (Tom Hanks) and his company of Rangers preparing to go ashore. Many of
them never make it to the beach, where reddened water washes in on the sand.
There are hellish shots of mutilated bodies as Spielberg relentlessly drives
the action forward. Even Tom Hanks hand is shaking; a few seconds later,
hes yelling directions to his squad, which we cant hear because of
the gunfire. The Germans in their hilltop bunker relentlessly go on raking the
soldiers below; there is no way to clamber up to take the position without
paying an impossible price.
We couldnt have put up with such a sequence if it had lasted
much longer; at the same time, the more than two hours of Saving Private
Ryan that follow are inevitably anticlimactic. By not introducing us to
the men who make the Omaha beach landing, perhaps Spielberg has given their
anonymous deaths greater immediacy, but the rest of the movie is not very
successful at individualizing the soldiers under Capt. Millers
command.
The strong cast assembled by the director cannot dispel the sense
of cliché, though Tom Sizemore lends strength and dignity as the veteran
Sgt. Horvath, and Barry Pepper is memorable as the Bible-quoting southern
sharpshooter. The role of Cpl. Upham (Jeremy Davies), however, the college boy
who serves as interpreter and freezes in panic when his comrades are in a
desperate firefight, seems painfully exaggerated.
Between the glorious shots of an American flag that fill the wide
screen at beginning and end, the atmosphere of proud patriotism is undermined
by the strained central plot involving Pvt. James Ryan. After the State
Department has learned that Ryans three brothers have been killed in
combat, Gen. George C. Marshall himself gives the order to locate the one
remaining son, who is behind German lines in Normandy, and send him back to his
mother. Although Capt. Miller first debunks the assignment as a public
relations ploy -- in fact, it leads to unnecessary casualties and is a most
unlikely diversion of manpower -- he manages to knit his squad together to
carry it out. The movies tension slackens as they argue, engage in brief
skirmishes and march through the French countryside; they even have time to
listen to an Edith Piaf recording.
There is a powerful emotional moment when they locate Pvt. Ryan
(Matt Damon), but the following battle sequence, in which they have to take on
an endless number of German tanks, is much too long. Although the ingenuity of
devising sticky bombs against the tanks will help the movies
popularity, the sequence is too reminiscent of the standard Hollywood
glorification of American courage against superior odds. Tom Hanks, who again
deserves superlatives for conveying low-key heroism, reveals Capt.
Millers awareness that becoming a first-rate combat officer has turned
him into someone he barely recognizes. His final scene with Ryan is moving, but
the effect is spoiled by bathos -- framing the movie with the visit of Ryan as
an elderly man to Millers grave.
Spielbergs film, neither pro- nor antiwar, ignores the
presence of European allies and never explains why we are fighting; it simply
assumes we are united in a just cause. Saving Private Ryan deserves
unstinted praise for both its technical brilliance and its avoidance of
ideology. But the directors understanding of authenticity --
how these boys really died -- is too thin.
My wife complains regularly that I like to take her to depressing
Russian movies. The Thief (Stratosphere Entertainment), written and
directed by Pavel Chukhrai, a 1997 Oscar nominee for best foreign-language
film, is a first-rate example.
The time is 1952. Katya, a beautiful young widow (Yekaterina
Rednikova), and her 6-year-old son, Sanya (Misha Philipchuk) are playing cards
on a train journey. A handsome officer, Tolyan (Vladimir Mashkov), enters their
compartment, puts his belongings away and tells Sanya, Keep an eye on my
stuff.
The rest of the movie is devoted to the temptations and dangers
associated with growing up, instantly visualized when Sanya spies Tolyans
revolver as one of the things he is to watch over. The problem is that nothing
about Tolyan is what it seems: He is no officer but a professional thief. By
the time Katya realizes this, however, she has fallen for this confident,
attractive man and is willing to pretend that they are husband and wife so that
they can get a room in a communal apartment when they get off the train.
The strength of The Thief is that it sees things
primarily from Sanyas point of view. Although the blue-eyed boy would
awaken a protective instinct in any viewer, the director avoids sentimentality
by emphasizing the ambiguity of Sanyas hopes. At first he refuses to call
Tolyan father and has occasional dreams of a real father he
doesnt remember, but eventually, though frightened by sounds of Katya and
Tolyans lovemaking, he is increasingly fascinated by the glamour and
menace of his new uncle. When a neighborhood gang picks on Sanya,
Tolyan tells him to fight back ruthlessly. Sanya uses a stick on one of his
tormenters, prompting the latters father to ask Tolyan to punish his
son; instead, Tolyan knocks the father down and stamps on the
gangs bicycles.
Sanya is also impressed by Uncle Tolyans tattoos, especially
one of Joseph Stalin. Chukhrais film is more interested in character
oddities and details of lower-class Russian life than in a political allegory
about Russian fascination with their abusive dictator, but it is hardly
accidental that one of Tolyans ruses is to encourage unsuspecting
neighbors into conviviality by proposing toasts to Stalin -- its part of
his preparation for a robbery.
Vladimir Mashkov, a well-known Russian star, is a convincing
lady-killer whose ruthlessness convincingly holds a kind of fascination. Even
though we have seen the corruption he has visited on both Katya and Sanya,
there is a terrible credibility in the climactic scene in which Sanya runs
after the truck that is taking Tolyan to prison, desperately crying out
Daddy! Daddy!
That was the day, Sanya comments in voice-over,
that I betrayed my father.
Joseph Cunneen is coeditor of Cross Currents.
National Catholic Reporter, August 14,
1998
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