Since stories of
battlefield heroics are the myths that fuel the war machine, it really doesn't
matter if they're precisely true–or even invented from whole cloth–as long as
they contribute to the cause. The flag-raising at Iwo Jima, perhaps the most
iconic snapshot of American struggle and triumph in World War II, shows that a
picture can say a thousand words, but those words don't necessarily tell the
story. On its face, Clint Eastwood's Flags Of Our Fathers seems like a potent piece
of revisionist history, boldly examining what heroism really means and how it
can be manufactured for the "greater good." But somewhere along the way, the
film loses its moxie and becomes the very thing the flag-raisers would have
detested–another bronze-cast tribute to bravery and self-sacrifice, destined to
fill out a three-hour slot in a Memorial Day TV marathon.
Beautifully structured,
save for a heavy-handed framing device (one of several traits, good and bad, it
shares with Saving Private Ryan), the script cuts between the propagandistic tour
of three soldiers featured in the picture and the cruel details of the battle
itself. On day five of a monthlong siege aimed at taking Iwo Jima from the
Japanese, a group of Marines planted the flag on top of Mount Suribachi to
rouse their fellow troops. It was then taken down and replaced by another flag,
which is the one that made the famous photograph. Half the flag-raisers died in
combat, but the other half–in Flags, a field medic (Ryan Phillippe), a "runner"
(Jesse Bradford) who never fired a shot, and a troubled warrior (Adam Beach) of
Native American heritage–returned home for speeches and photo ops. They feel
varying degrees of guilt about their new roles, but find some consolation in
the fact that their stumping will sell the war bonds necessary to finish the
campaign.
At its most devastatingly
effective, Flags Of Our Fathers follows these three men as they're trotted in
front of roaring crowds at places like Soldier Field and Times Square, knowing
that this charade is keeping them from their friends on the front lines.
(Whenever they're introduced as "the heroes of Iwo Jima," they all but shrink
in embarrassment.) As with Saving Private Ryan, the battle sequences
strike a nice balance between old-fashioned derring-do and contemporary
viscera, with the barren island sometimes turning into a nightmarish lunar
landscape. Yet what begins as a sophisticated meditation on the meaning of
heroism gradually slumps into leaden repetition in the second half, as the
point gets watered down and belabored. After such provocative beginnings, the
film finally, dutifully raises its hand in salute.