"1917" Review
The Second World War has been better served by Hollywood in the last few decades than its historical predecessor, probably because of the contours of popular knowledge. The Third Reich proves a more straightforward dramatic foe than the German Empire, and the American war narrative conveniently positions the Pearl Harbor attack as its starting point, whatever complicated deliberations truly presaged the decision to join the Allies. The undercurrent of war crimes committed by the Nazis has reliably elevated the stakes of characters’ missions, and placed them in a sentimental context—the conflicts move by morals, less so strategy and geopolitics.
1917, the new film from Sam Mendes, is thus somewhat refreshing. The film takes its title from the year in which the story takes place, and follows two English soldiers, Schofield (George MacKay) and Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman) on their journey to a neighboring unit. The Germans have crafted a trap, you see, by retreating and redrawing their front line, intending for British forces to attack, and be slaughtered. The Germans have also compromised British communication systems, so Schofield and Blake must deliver a message from Army Command by hand, ordering the unit to stand down. Of course, some emotional padding can’t hurt to strengthen Blake’s motivation: his brother is a lieutenant for the threatened division.
Within the first ten minutes of the film, we become aware of a simple goal—get from Point A to Point B—that will inevitably be obstructed by unexpected enemies, sudden acts of violence and consequent obligations. The way we track the goal’s attempted fulfillment is through one long take, as has been noted in most headlines publicizing 1917; the approach propelled Birdman to a Cinematography Oscar, and usually impresses, even when lacking justification.
I was worried before seeing the film that I would leave praising only its technical achievements, but then I remembered how good Mendes is at making audiences feel, and feel deeply. The director has not abandoned his theater roots since foraying into cinema, and helmed both the West End and Broadway productions of The Ferryman, which ended its stateside run in July. In that play, Mendes had his actors digging into troubled pasts, telling generational stories and manifesting generational divides, with a palpable sensitivity for love and loss.
The skill translates to 1917, and is supported by the unbreaking forward push, through trenches and across plains, which never loses Blake or Schofield, giving the audience time to register their methods of expression. What is most satisfying about the lack of cuts (in fact there is one, postproduction wizardry notwithstanding, that indicates a brief period of a character’s unconsciousness) is the understanding of construction that I developed—the construction of battlefields and trajectories relative to civilian and natural surroundings. Seeing how long it took to navigate from one end of a trench to the other, or from the British front line to the abandoned German one, endeared me to the immediate practical considerations of a group of men whose mortality existed so positively in flux.
The other rewarding structural component of 1917 is its real-time progress, which demands attention for the full duration of an event. We watch a character stabbed, and we watch his blood pool through the fabric of his uniform and through his hands as he clutches at the wound. We watch him cry and become disoriented and pull a picture of his family from his chest pocket, and we watch the color drain from his face, before his body goes limp in the arms of a friend. The sequence lasts nine minutes. Because we are not allowed the relief of a wide shot, or the goo of an orchestral suite, we can only go cold, close as we are to calamity, though far removed from catharsis.
Realism requires that Schofield and Blake walk long distances talking, without interruption. As they cover ground, Blake remembers the soldier who covered his head in scented oil his girl sent him, and the rat who liked the scent and bit the soldier’s ear off. When Blake and Schofield descend a hillside marked by felled cherry trees, Blake inspects the branches’ petals. He can name a dozen varieties, because his mother planted a garden of the trees back home.
This interlude and others like it cemented what I found most striking about 1917: how gentle it is. We await the moment when men are stopped from fighting, not compelled to kill. Yes, there are brawls and explosions, but the film presses on quickly from them, and lingers instead on peaceful exchanges, like when Schofield gives milk to a woman and child in a leveled French village, or on moments of rest, like when Schofield listens to a soldier’s hymn, encircled by anxious comrades, soaked after drifting downriver in the aftermath of a shootout. This succession of visuals is almost religious, in no contrived sense but easily, hopefully. When Schofield emerges as the film’s protagonist, we believe that he can keep faith, because others have found faith in him.
The profundity of that conviction is achieved by a talented professional ensemble in front of and behind the camera, but such efforts would doubtless fail without George MacKay’s performance. It’s funny to watch British screen veterans like Colin Firth and Benedict Cumberbatch chew on single scenes, while MacKay spends twenty-minute intervals watching and running and not speaking. To look into his eyes, wide and blue—as he registers the forces of brutality, as he fights to act rightly—is to deconstruct the instinct and care that fuel wartime conduct. It is also to cry, at the senselessness of the environment in which he struggles, and at the tenderness onto which he holds.
Fergus Campbell is a Culture writer and sophomore in Columbia College.
