→ January 29, 2020
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1917.

Sam Mendes’ 1917 was a bit of a surprise winner at the Golden Globes, where it took the Best Motion Picture – Drama prize and Best Director honors despite only receiving one nomination in any other category (Best Original Score). It feels like the kind of movie that awards voters love – it’s an ambitious war movie, it’s about the struggles of white men, and it has a significant gimmick to it that would appeal to the more technically minded voters – even though the film itself is more competent than brilliant, with a plot that borders on the ridiculous and a gimmick that is ultimately too distracting.

Although Sam Mendes has said the film is inspired by true stories his grandfather Alfred told about his experiences in World War I, the story itself is fictional. It follows two Lance Corporals, Tom Blake and Will Schofield, as they attempt to cross into no man’s land and possibly slip behind enemy lines to deliver a message to a colonel who is planning an attack that will actually lead his 1600 men into a trap set by the Germans. Along the way they meet many of the horrors of war, including multiple dungeon-crawl-like trips through English and German trench networks, run into half the cast of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, and somehow manage to avoid all of the bullets flying in their directions en route to their destination.

It is absolutely gripping to watch in what seems like real time, with a script that seldom eases up on the throttle for you to relax. Even when Blake and Schofield are alone, they end up in some sort of danger, and eventually we follow one of the two into a bombed-out village that looks like a death trap for him between the lack of cover and the various Germans stationed around the ruins. When the action stops, there’s usually the threat of action around a (literal) corner, and Mendes has no issue ratcheting up the tension or the extent of the threats to his characters to make the film more exciting – even though Schofield in particular seems to survive multiple incidents that would kill an actual human being. It’s as exciting as any mainstream action film, without the usual crutches of the latter genre.

The gimmick I mentioned above is the use of long takes to make the film appear to comprise one continuous shot, although there’s one very obvious break and a couple of others you’ll probably think you spotted. This isn’t actually new; Birdman tried it and won Best Picture at least in part because of it, and Alfred Hitchcock did it in Rope when there were far more severe limitations on how long any single shot could be. It is immersive, and thus effective at putting you more in the action as you watch, but within a half an hour my eyes were already tired of the constant motion and from trying to shift focus between the characters in the foreground and the endless activity in the background. I was more than ready for the film’s one actual break, where one of the two main characters passes out and the screen goes black for a few seconds, less for the pause in the action – which I generally enjoyed – than for the rest for my eyes.

There’s also a good bit of stunt casting here, as the famous names attached to 1917 each appear for a few minutes, at most. Colin Firth, Mark Strong, and Benedict Cumberbatch – all of whom appeared in the 2011 adaptation of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy – each have cameos, as does Andrew Scott as the hot priest … no, wait, wrong show, he’s a lieutenant whose regiment has just been hit. None is on screen for very long; the two stars are less well-known, although you’ve likely seen one before: George Mackay (Captain Fantastic) plays Schofield, doing a very credible job in a role where he’s asked to carry a substantial amount of the weight, while Dean-Charles Chapman (Game of Thrones) plays Blake and has more to do in the first third of the film. There’s one woman anywhere in the movie, and I believe only one person of color speaks, a Sikh soldier, even though there were plenty of black and south Asian soldiers in the British army.

As I write this, 1917 has emerged as a favorite for Best Picture, even over what I think are more highly acclaimed films in Parasite, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, and The Irishman. (Even Little Women seems to be better regarded, but no one thinks it has a snowball’s chance of winning.) I found it generally entertaining, if stylized and a bit absurd, with an ending that simply doesn’t work. The cinematography is remarkable, and seems likely to get Roger Deakins his second Oscar in three years after 13 nominations without a win. It may also win for Production Design; as much as I would like to see Parasite win for the house, the re-creation of the trench networks and some of the battlefields here was a much more significant undertaking. But the overall experience of 1917 felt a little bit like a shell game, pun intended; this isn’t a true story, or even a plausible one, but it’s depicted like one, and when it was over I thought I’d been taken for a ride – especially after the ending. It’s more of a great technical achievement and a good film than a great film in its own right.

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→ July 23, 2019
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The Ghost Road.

Pat Barker’s The Ghost Road is the third book in a trilogy, but the first I’ve read since it won the Booker Prize and I wasn’t even aware it was the third book in a series until I picked it up to read it. I was expecting something bleak, even dreadful, given the description on the back of the book – it’s set during World War I (humanity’s deadliest), and involves two men, one a psychiatrist evaluating soldiers who’ve returned from the front, one a soldier who has returned and wants, against all logic, to go back. It’s surprisingly brisk, even dryly funny, even though the book doesn’t shy away from war’s horrors and the denouement is just as grim as you’d expect; it compares quite favorably to Evelyn Waugh’s war trilogy, written several decades earlier and from a very different point of view.

Rivers is the psychiatrist in question, based very much on a real doctor of that name, while Billy Prior is the soldier, surrounded in war by real historical figures, and himself based on Barker’s own readings of historical documents of soldiers’ experiences at the front. Rivers is presented regularly with the absurdity of war and its effects on the men who fought it, including hysterical conditions that we’d recognize today as post-traumatic stress disorder but that were dismissed at the time as a sort of dubious madness. He treats Prior as one of his patients, and is more frank with this particular soldier due to some shared experiences, owning up to the pressure form above to clear as many soldiers as he can to return to active duty.

Prior is strangely eager to get back to the fight, even though he’s long lost any faith in the reasons for the war – I imagine this is one of the great separators between those who fought for the allies in World War I and those who did the same in World War II – and knows that the more tours of duty he does, the more likely he is to die there. He’s engaged to be married, finding out just before his return that his fiancée might be pregnant, but is hoping to be absolved of that responsibility one way or another, because he, like Rivers, is gay.

Ghost Road doesn’t set out, at least, to be a novel of gay men in a war of masculinity literally gone toxic – wars are always begun by men, and World War I seems especially to one of the more pointless of all wars, a battle of egos that cost millions of young men their lives. Instead, it seems that Barker creates a parallel between the alienation of men fighting someone else’s war and the isolation gay (or bisexual) men would have felt in a time where homosexuality was criminalized in much of the world, including the UK where the novel is set. The sexual encounters described in the book are matter-of-fact, furtive trysts that are entirely devoid of emotion, let alone any sense of intimacy – fitting for a war that seemed to reduce men to their barest selves, sentient beings powered by rage or controlled by their survival instincts.

Rivers is the stronger character, even though Prior gets to fight and thus has a good bit more to do on the page. Rivers, however, gets to observe and interpret for the reader, and the reader in turn sees more of the turmoil inside of him, especially as he knows the futility of his work – that he’ll be sending men back to the war who have no business returning to the battlefield. His interactions with patients also provide the bulk of the book’s humor, without which it would be the tenebrous slog I feared it would be. At the same time, Barker’s characterization even of these two men falls more on the technical side than the emotional; the descriptions of their internal monologues even tend towards the precise, perhaps lacking some of the depth of feeling you’d expect of characters facing the effects of wartime trauma and the guilt involved with surviving or believing you should go back.

For those of you who’ve read this far, I wonder if it would surprise you to learn that Pat Barker is Patricia Barker – that a novel about two gay men in World War I, a novel with no female characters of any substance whatsoever, was written entirely by a woman. It certainly surprised me, not in the sense that I thought a woman incapable of doing so, but that I thought a woman might be less interested in telling a men’s story in a world of men’s stories. There’s apparently some reason behind this – that, early in her career, Barker was tired of praise that was always tempered by commentary that her books were about or for women – but it’s still fascinating to me that she made this choice, and then executed it so well.

Next up: about 2/3 of the way through Laura Cumming’s The Vanishing Velázquez: A 19th-Century Bookseller’s Obsession with a Lost Masterpiece, which is just $1.99 on the Kindle right now.

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→ November 6, 2015
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A Fable.

My ranking of the top 50 free agents for this winter, with scouting/stat notes on each player, is now up for Insiders.

…thinking how war and drink are the two things man is never too poor to buy.

William Faulkner is, I think, a pretty divisive figure in American literature; his lengthy sentences and often obscure descriptive style can make you insane, but he tells vast, emotionally complex stories that capture huge swaths of American history (especially of the South) through the lens of just a handful of characters. The connected novels Absalom, Absalom! and The Sound and the Fury are both on my top 100, as is The Reivers, one of two novels for which Faulkner won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (posthumously, in this case). The other, A Fable, is largely overlooked today even within Faulkner’s oeuvre, despite its grand scale and rich subtexts, which seem ripe for literary analysis, but it may suffer from Faulkner’s obtuse prose and adumbration of character descriptions and plot details. (And his vocabulary; “adumbration” appears at least twice in the text, and Faulkner engages in his own wordsmithing at times, such as “cachinnant,” a Latin word that means something like “laughing immoderately.”)

A Fable is a highly allegorical work that takes the Christ-like Corporal Stephan, referred to for most of the book merely as “the corporal,” and puts him in the trenches in World War I, where he leads a group of 12 other commissioned officers in a mutiny of peace. The novel opens just after the corporal and his disciples have convinced an entire regiment of three thousand French soldiers to refuse to fight, after which their German enemies similarly lay down their arms, causing a spontaneous outbreak of peace in the midst of a war. The book itself covers the various reactions to the corporal’s move, where the French army wants to execute him while also covering up the incident so that the war can continue. Woven into this is a second, loosely related story of an injured American racehorse whose rider and trainer rescue him from either death or work as a captive stud, traveling to small towns where the horse still wins various races even though he’s running on three legs, with the rider becomes a sentry in the war and the trainer adopts a new identity and travels to Europe to find his partner.

The corporal’s Christ allusions are blatant, perhaps too much so for modern analysis. He’s 33 at the time of the mutiny and eventual execution. He’s tempted by his father (“the general”) before the order for his execution, and the night prior to his death he has a last supper with his disciples, including the one who betrays him and the one named Piotr who denies knowing Stephan three times. His mother was Marya, and his fiancée was a prostitute from Marseilles. After his death, his corpse disappears (thanks to a German air-raid). Even his name alludes to Christianity – Saint Stephan, who is mentioned in the New Testamant, is considered the first martyr in the history of the Christian Church.

The novel is virulently anti-war, as you might expect with a Christ figure at its center, but there are elements of the picaresque in the book as well, such as the ragtag group of soldier’s at the book’s conclusion who need to find a corpse to bury in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Paris. I don’t know if Joseph Heller read A Fable, but there’s a similar vein of lack of respect for military authority and an awareness of the absurdity of war as a solution for most international problems and of the war machine’s desire to keep the combat going as a way to feed itself. Faulkner thought of this novel as his masterpiece, which leads me to believe that he viewed it as a strong pacifist statement that would incorporate satire and religious/moral arguments as a statement against war, with World War II ending around the time he began the novel and the Korean War occurring while he was still writing it.

I found the reading itself to be difficult, in part because his prose is too prolix, perhaps Proustian, but even more because he refuses to use his characters’ names, sometimes failing to name them at all. Keeping the corporal, the runner, the sentry, the general, and so on straight is hard enough without using their names, and it’s worse when there’s another general (Gragnon, who oversaw the mutinous regiment and realizes his career is over when they stop fighting) and a handful of corporals running around the book. There’s one point where Faulkner connects the horse’s groom (Mr. Harry) with the sentry, but I kept forgetting the two were the same character because he never uses the name with the term “the sentry,” who’s also a bit of a loan shark in his new regiment. A surfeit of descriptive prose can be acceptable if it’s actually descriptive, but much of the first third of A Fable felt shrouded in fog to me, including the opening section with the mutiny and the scene where a German general flies through a faked firefight to reach a negotiation to resume combat. So while the plot itself is elegant and simple, with much to ponder and analyze, it’s a book that probably requires a second or third reading to fully grasp the specific details of the story. That’s the best reason I can conceive why it’s so little read or discussed today, even as less ambitious works like As I Lay Dying continue to receive copious praise.

Unrelated: So a smart, professional person of my acquaintance saw I was reading this book the other day and mentioned how she heard Faulkner speak at Montgomery College about “five to seven years ago.” Faulkner died in 1962. I didn’t know what to do with that so I just smiled and nodded.

Next up: James Essinger’s Ada’s Algorithm, a biography of Ada Lovelace, the daughter of Lord Byron and the creator of the world’s first computer algorithm, about a century before we had the first true computer.

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