Flags of Our Fathers, 2006. Directed by Clint Eastwood, written by William Broyles Jr. and Paul Haggis. Starring Ryan Phillippe, Jesse Bradford, Adam Beach, Barry Pepper, John Benjamin Hickey, Paul Walker, Jamie Bell, Neal McDonough, Harve Presnell, Judith Ivey, Myra Turley, and Thomas McCarthy.
Now showing at theaters around town.
A long time ago, when I was working in a library, an old gentleman who used to visit frequently noticed a display copy of Stud’s Terkel’s then-bestselling The Good War. The book stopped him in his tracks. For a moment he looked like he was going to throttle someone, hopefully not me. He grabbed the book and said: “‘Good War?’ What ‘good war’? There’s no such thing as a ‘good war’. My God…” Then he slammed it down and walked away.
Veterans are an amazing collection of people, especially those who have experienced combat. Of the many veterans I’ve interviewed (some from my own family and for work I did for a pair of books) the ones who faced actual fighting were always the most open minded and emotional, and often times altogether silent about their experience. If you could get them to talk there were always long moments of tense reflection, as they tried to get past the myriad of emotions that were suddenly called up again, remembering a time of exuberant youth that was altered in the worst of all possible worlds. My own Grandfather was a medic in Normandy, and told his story to only one person, my aunt Mary. I never recall hearing him drone on about how great it is to fight in a war.
On the other hand, there’s a relative who stayed safe on an island during Korea who brags whenever he can about his being a veteran of that war. He also lifted a glass at the beginning of this current conflict and crowed, “I’m happy. I’ve got my war.” This is in contrast to a guy I once worked with who was one of 16 men out of a unit of 200 who survived a Vietnamese assault. He takes the day off on that anniversary, because he cannot bear to face the world. And there’s my own father, who joined the Navy at the height of Vietnam. It occurred to me the other day that I’ve never heard him call himself a veteran. He just shrugged. “I’m not. I joined the Navy to avoid fighting. There’s nothing to be proud of.”
This outlook is so contrary to what the hawks want to hear: a complex weave of emotions and opinions, instead of the necessary saber-rattling needed to keep the propaganda machine hot. Not necessarily peace-mongers, veterans who’ve seen combat typically hope others don’t go through what they endured. They don’t see war as fun, as a game, but see it as perhaps a necessity. Often, during these conversations, I have seen them look toward a picture of their own kids and wish, quietly, that another war would never be fought, to wreck the youth of their own children.
Flags of Our Fathers is specifically the story of the men who raised the iconic World War II flag over the island of Iwo Jima. The flag was raised on the fifth day of fighting (there were thirty more to go) and three of the six survived the onslaught. James Bradley, the son of John “Doc” Bradley (one of the six), decided to interview many of the survivors and their colleagues and piece together their story. The three–his father John (Ryan Phillipe), Rene Gagnon (Jesse Bradford), and Ira Hayes (Adam Beach)–were brought home as soon as the government realized the appeal of the picture. Immediately, they were pressed into service to get people to buy bonds. Hauled around the country to various stadiums, they would wave or climb a papier-mache mountain and raise another flag (without the other three, of course, as they were killed), in an attempt to get people to participate in the 7th war bond drive. This nearly drove them crazy.
Flags of Our Fathers is an odd film, filled with moments of horror, of black humor, of beautiful mystery, all of which is stitched together with some maudlin schmaltz. I say odd because it comes from the hands of Clint Eastwood, Steven Spielberg and Crash writer Paul Haggis–three filmmmakers who have been known not to be either subtle or complex. But unlike Spielberg’s overrated Private Ryan, Flags is not an exercise in technical verisimilitude: instead, it seeks, through three complex characters, to try and tell us, as best it can, what it means to be a soldier. In this way, it is brilliant.
This lengthy PR tour affects the three men in vastly different ways: John cannot help but be reminded of his friend Iggy’s death, and the tremendous guilt that accompanies that memory; Rene loves the attention, and hopes to parlay his fame into financial success; while Ira is devastated, feeling as if this fame were more of a curse. There are various PR blunders–one of the men in the picture has been misidentified–a fact that disgusts the soldiers–and there’s some startling insensitivities, as when a dessert, molded into the shape of the image, is ladled with blood-red strawberry syrup, sending Ira into fits. A Pima Indian from Arizona, Ira gets run through the wringer here–he’s constantly insulted because he’s Native American, his patriotism questioned because he questions the motives of this publicity campaign, and is ostracized for his grief. The man drinks to forget what he’s seen, drinks to forget what he’s reminded of day after God-damn day, drinks because the pain is too great (and of course this drinking is attributed to his being Native American). All he wanted to do was remain with his unit. At one moment, he breaks down, weeping and holding the mother of one of his fallen comrades. It is a beautiful scene: for the rest of the men, simply crying is a luxury they are not to be afforded. They are heroes, not humans.
Flags of Our Fathers doesn’t seek to damn the Government for making these poor fellows run around the country like trained bears–in fact, the movie makes a case that without the success of this fund drive, the war “would be over in a month” (a fact I personally believe is dubious). And Eastwood isn’t interested in making these men superheroes–they are all flawed, capable men who might be in over their heads. At times the film veers into solemn voice-over, summarizing the ‘point’ of the movie when it should just stop and allow the audience to soak in what we’ve just seen. Mercifully, there are very few of these scenes. Instead, the film captures, almost perfectly, the complexities of being a soldier, and especially a survivor.
My own grandfather was a medic during World War II. I always liked that he was a medic, that he didn’t kill people, instead trying to save them. He landed in Normandy, a hundred and twenty minutes after the first shot was fired. His journals are sad. Grandpa was trying to sound upbeat, talking about the ‘Skipper’ upstairs looking after him, but he must have been scared shitless. I think about how, for a medic, battle is a different experience: while others run ahead firing their guns and ignoring the dead, he had to stop and see the results firsthand and hear what would often be final words. The shouting in pain, the praying, the remember me to so-n-so. When he was done administering triage to the worst casualties, dodging bullets himself, he then beat it back to a trench just before the German planes strafed the beach. And then, as night fell, he would hear the soldiers he had saved scream for help as the tides came in and drowned them, every one. That was a sound that would haunt him the rest of his life.
Eastwood closes this film with a shot, from high up on the same mountain where the flag was raised, of the six men being allowed to swim in the ocean on a secured beach. This was a reward for raising the flag. For a moment, they are able to strip themselves of soldierhood, peeling off the clothes that define them at that time, and return to the land of boyhood. Screaming for joy for a change, they dive into the sea and play.
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Some brief conversations with veterans I’ve known or had the privilege to meet. In this case, all are real.
