Hacksaw Ridge
(2016)
(SPOILERS) There was probably an insightful,
sensitive movie to be made about the World War II experiences of conscientious
objector Desmond Doss, but Mel Gibson’s Hacksaw
Ridge isn’t it. It’s unsurprising that a number of reviewers have independently
indulged the wordplay Hackneyed Ridge,
an effective summation of the ridiculously over-the-top, emotionally shameless
theatrics Mel indulges, turning a story that already fell into the “You
wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t true” camp into “You won’t believe it anyway,
because it’s been turned up to 11” (and that’s with Gibson omitting incidents he
perceived to be “too much”, such as Doss being shot by a sniper after he was
wounded, having given up his stretcher to another wounded man; certainly, as
wrung through Mel’s tonal wringer, that would have been the case).
Perhaps Mel should stick to making subtitled
features, the language barrier diluting the excruciating lack of nuance or
subtlety in his treatment of subject matter. On the other hand, perhaps it’s
simply the unfamiliarity of instilling uplift that has called him out. Apocalypto was, after all, a classic
action movie, a chase to the death that never let up once it got going, and
before it got going was relentlessly grim: powder for the keg. The Passion of the Christ, which I
didn’t care for, was undeniably consistent in approach, pace and content; it
was exactly the torture porn gospel he intended, for better or worse. Hacksaw Ridge, when we’re finally thrown
into the heart of the battle, is a predictable war porn slaughterhouse (anyone
familiar with his previous three directorial efforts should be well-prepared), so
underlining the confused, conflicted statements Gibson is making, and one might
suggest, if one wanted to play cod-psychologist, the confused, conflicted impulses
he’s battling within.
The early part of the picture is played out
in the sickly, capitalised character beats of an Oliver Stone or Spielberg war
picture – I’m thinking the patriotic earnestness of Ron Kovic, or the hometown
sincerity of Tom Hanks – lathered with the most cynically treacly score
imaginable from Rupert Gregson-Williams, one that attempts out-manoeuvre the
most in-your-face of John Willliams’ contributions to those directors. Andrew
Garfield, 33 but easily convincing as 23, which makes a change, I guess, is
absolutely aw shucks, good ol’ Southern boy too-good-to-be-true, in the lead
role; he’s entirely effective, doing exactly what his director wants and hitting
those marks with aplomb, but it makes the character entirely flat. That, and
the undiluted stream of cheese-infested dialogue. The formative events Desmond encounters
are of an entirely cartoonish nature: his adversity to violence as presented by
two defining incidents; his rose-tinted romance with nurse Dorothy Schuttle
(Teresa Palmer, very good).
So, when he eventually makes it to basic
training and reveals his damned conchie colours, it’s taken as read that
there’s going to be no sudden retrenchment of approach. If you have a character
as undiluted as Desmond, varnishing every element around him is exactly the wrong
way to go. Vince Vaughn’s R Lee Ermey-lite drill sergeant provides a bit of
light relief at first (and credit to Vaughn, he’s really trying to be convincing in the role, even if he’s hopelessly un-),
but the caricatures around him, from Sam Worthington’s captain who becomes a
dyed-in-the-woll convert to the Doss cause (Worthington is consistently bland,
as per usual, which actually kind of works – someone needed not to be going for it here), to the harshest fellow-enlistee-come-greatest-pal
(Luke Bracey – surprisingly good, given how abjectly awful he is in the abjectly
awful Point Break remake), simply lay
on the clichés.
All of which makes the battlefield carnage
something of a relief. There’s much less talking for starters. And Mel’s really
in his element. Having spent all this time avowing the man of peace, he can
really go to town on the flying entrails and exploding innards that are really
what a war film’s all about. There’s the merest flash of Nazi propaganda
footage, probably put in just so he couldn’t be seen to be ignoring his
Achilles heel (well, one of them), but this being Okinawa, his focus can fortuitously
rest on the faceless hordes of brute Japanese, depicted as rampaging multitudes
of xenomorphs straight out of the James Cameron movie.
There’s been criticism of the depiction of
the Japanese, the few moments of character given to a frightened man Doss
attends to and an officer committing hara-kiri. Which is fair to an extent, certainly
given the balance the perhaps unlikely Clint Eastwood afforded the Pacific
campaign in his two pictures (of which, the Letters
from Iwo Jima was far the superior), but it’s also in keeping with a
picture that’s relentlessly crude in its depiction of everything, from religious conviction to romantic love to lovingly-captured
exploding bodies, dismembered bodies, ignited bodies (Mel loves his flaming
Japs). Always remember: if in doubt, bring on the carnage in glorious slo-mo.
It’s more edifying, gratifying and downright thrilling that way.
And much of it works: the visceral quality
of the battlefield is palpable. But it’s also impossible not to be pulled out
of the proceedings by the artlessness of the emotional assault, by that score,
by movie-movie moments where, rather than attempting fidelity to the events-as-were,
Mel embroiders. Did Desmond really kick a grenade away as if he was scoring the
winning goal in the Premiership league final (he did kick it away, but I doubt with such cinematic bravura)? Did he
really pull his sergeant to safety on a bit of tarp while the latter gunned
down swathes of fiendish enemy, as if he were auditioning for a stunt sequence
in The Living Daylights? Mel
frequently crosses the line from suspension of disbelief into unintended
hilarity, and with it the fabric of the picture is torn asunder (talking of
which, the real Doss was one of those who volunteered to go up the ridge and
hang the cargo net. As for the reason the Japanese didn’t just cut down it down,
rather than being extraordinarily sporting, it appears it was tactical).
Perhaps the apotheosis of this is the scene
in which Hugo Weaving (unable to extricate himself from walking, talking cornball
functionality his character, but doing his commendable best, Mr Anderson), in
his WWI corporal uniform, shows up at his son’s court-martial to deliver a
vital letter from his old commanding officer (and all that after Desmond’s had to miss his wedding: the logjam of calamity!)
Any lingering doubt that this is really quite a bad movie vanishes entirely at
this point (and that’s way before we have the chortlesomely saintly imagery of
Doss showering himself clean of all that grime and blood, and his final,
Christ-like pose as he descends the ridge on a stretcher: no mention of his
wounds leaving him 90% disabled, mind). Hacksaw
Ridge is, without insulting the many stellar pictures made during the ‘40s
and ‘50s, resorting to a shorthand of character and convenience of plotting
that you just shouldn’t be able to get away with today. And in many cases, you
can’t, but this is evidently appealing to a certain audience, who are lapping
it up.
They’re probably also as wilfully oblivious
to the moral complexities of Doss’ decision to be a conscientious co-operator
as the film’s director (I should stress here that I’m talking about the
depiction of the movie character, rather than forming a conclusion on the
actual person). On the one hand, he takes “Thou
shalt not kill” to its logic conclusion and is a vegetarian (we’ll excuse
the killing of plants, for the sake of argument). On the other, he believes the
war was justified, and his acts frequently facilitate the deaths of the enemy
(when Sergeant Howell takes out a soldier while Doss effectively acts as a
decoy, or the aforementioned bobsleigh incident) or even his own colleagues (how
many die aiding Doss in one of his foolhardy/daring rescue bids). Does “Thou shalt not kill” extending to making
oneself actively complicit in the killing of others, be it condoning a war as
righteous or supporting your comrades on the battlefield? Unfortunately, Mel
doesn’t much care to dive into this. Desmond’s father tells him he thinks too
much, but this isn’t readily apparent when Captain Glover attempts to impart
basic utilitarian principles. But that does, kind of, fit, with a man who cites The Holy Book, which provides
all manner of conflicting moral positions, such that it’s no wonder its
adherents come out with all manner of conflicting (and sometimes enraged)
positions.
I think it would have been quite possible
to make a war movie dealing with many of these themes acutely and soulfully.
Indeed, it has been done, by Terence Malick nearly 20 years ago now, before he
became a parody of himself (The Thin Red
Line). Alternatively, and as evidenced by the interview footage at the end
of the film, the best vehicle for this story might have been a documentary; the
real Doss recounting the incident where he washes the mud out of a blinded soldier’s
eyes, who can then see again, carries way more impact than Mel’s dramatisation of
the same (there is a doc, where this
footage originated, Terry Benedict’s The
Conscientious Objector, which is far superior despite doggedly following
the biographical doc rule book, complete with annoyingly instructive score). As
for Hacksaw Ridge’s place in the
Oscar race, it has no business being up for Best Picture, but that’s not
exactly unusual. One must content oneself in the knowledge that it could have
been much, much worse; it could have been directed by Randall Wallace.
Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.
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