Why 1917 falls a little short of expectations
This is not a dis. I am the ordinary movie goer who builds expectations based on IMDb ratings, ruminates if the two hour investment is worthwhile and then puts up insufferable posts lamenting my dissatisfaction. I do not possess the eye of a mainstream movie critic nor their expertise to scrutinize the minutiae; just the view of an everyman with a handy platform for nitpicking. Let me at the outset state that this movie is an outstanding piece of cinema. All the rave reviews are well-deserved. The disclaimer implies that I have no complaints with the technical brilliance of the film and the mastery of craft it achieves, at least partially. Also, if you are yet to watch this gem, be warned of spoilers ahead.
Of the many films I watched last year, 1917 is perhaps one of the better few. Even before its official release, the film had garnered such high praise and commendable word of mouth publicity that it climbed to the top of my list of anticipated movies of 2019 (after Parasite). As an avid reader of history, each social media paean further fueled my burgeoning expectation. With numerous accolades to its credit already and as front runner for various Academy Awards (including Best Picture), 1917 seemed like the war movie I had craved for so long. Ever since Schindler’s List, even. It would surely be a sin to let this one pass.
The film opens with the two lead characters, young British Lance Corporals, Will Schofield and Tom Blake. As the duo trudges through No Man’s land a.k.a. the twentieth century equivalent of an apocalyptic wasteland, the viewer is confined by the restrained vision of the two protagonists. Blake’s brother is a part of the second battalion of the Devonshire Regiment, making his motivations personal. He and his partner are entrusted to hand-deliver a message to the battalion, calling off an attack on the Germans as it may well be a trap set to endanger the lives of 1600 British soldiers. Schofield tags along reluctantly as the chosen partner, ever the obedient fighter tasked to follow orders at the time of war.
Overlooking Schofield’s shoulder we are afforded a blinkered view of the devastation ahead, a clinical examination perhaps of the calamity of war. Even as they wade through perishing bodies of soldiers, the emotive quotient is never on display. This may well be attributed to the single-mindedness of the pawn deputed with a seemingly impossible task. The film reinforces the perils of war and the power of the human spirit, compelling us to overlook its one-dimensional hero. After all, the formulaic premise of the underdog standing up against all odds and emerging victorious is an audience favorite. The end justifies the means. Or does it?
The exploration of the Blake- Schofield dynamic however, is cut short when the former is killed, in a rather absurd act of brutality, by an injured German pilot. Suspension of disbelief aside, the scene focuses heavily on capturing a plane crash without edits, compromising the plausibility of such an attack. Our soldiers, negotiating difficult terrain and moral dilemmas at every step, retain their humanity while their German counterparts are bereft of any noble attributes of character. In a trend repeated throughout its run-time, the film paints its characters black and white, urging us to choose a side. It pits the “good” Englishmen against the enemy, capable of barbarism even in his dying breath, facilitating an easy choice. Though not preachy, the script covertly inserts such references to garner sympathy for the main characters. While the magnificence of the plane crash deserves credit, the hasty disposal of Blake robs us of any deeper understanding of the relationship between the two men.
The screenplay then shifts focus to Schofield’s sole perspective, making the movie a tedious video game-ish ordeal. At every turn we are expected to connect with this character maneuvering an obstacle course laden with a broken bridge, an impromptu waterfall, a woman with a hungry infant and even pyrotechnics in a dilapidated building. The audience is thus privy to his bravery, honor and even compassion seeping through the usual facade of apathy. George MacKay brilliantly portrays Schofield’s restraint, desensitized by the violence around him. Even with his muted responses, he conveys an odd sanguinity incongruous with the life of strife in battle.
Yet his indifference cripples the film, rendering it an immersive but soulless experience. Apparently, the horrors of war took precedence over the protagonist’s thoughts, hopes and doubts. Sam Mendes, the director, keeps the audience at arm’s length from any closer examination of Schofield’s motivations. The war-ravaged canvas though beautiful in scope seems tepid, just like the hero scrambling through it. His familial ties hinted to at the end did not redeem the character for me. I cheered for him to succeed, but felt hollow once he triumphed. His experiences, like artifacts in a museum, evoked curiosity and wonder but failed to linger once the end credits rolled.
Maybe 1917 is meant to be the kind of art that propels us through marvels of technology and innovations in cinematography. It showcases talent in multiple spheres of filmmaking and deserves to be celebrated for its contribution to Hollywood. But the impact of it all crumbles, as this wonderful movie falls short of an important virtue of great cinema- story telling.
