“Oh Lord, we thank you for these biceps and awesome trapezius…”

Four Muthas.

Four adopted brothers – two white, two black – reunite in the hood to hunt down their mother’s killer. And make a racial bonding statement.

FOUR BROTHERS stars Mark Wahlberg as Bobby Mercer, one of four “brothers” (unrelated street kids adopted by kindly Fionnula Flanagan when she couldn’t find homes for them), all returning to their Detroit haunt after the fatal shooting of their beloved step-mother.

Bobby and his street-hard brahs (Tyrese Gibson, Andre Benjamin and Garrett Hedlund) knock on a few doors and bust a few heads and discover that their mother’s death was not just an accidental grocery store wrong-place-wrong-time murder, but a hit, involving cops and robbers.

It’s an energetic, involving thugalicious actioner, a well-constructed story that snakes across many red herrings and intriguing plot points: a lawyer having an affair with Mother, an insurance policy payoff, a large debt to the mob, crooked cops, shootouts with rival gangs, and a kingpin one step away from Lucifer.

That kingpin is Victor Sweet (the magnificent Chiwetel Ejiofor), who establishes his villain bona fides in his first electrifying scene, as he throws a gang member’s meal to the floor and makes him eat it like a dog on hands and knees; when that gang member’s wife gets lippy, Sweet forces her to join her man on the floor. In a firestorm performance, Ejiofor’s Sweet deals out humiliation like people deal out cards: when a judge (Barry Shabaka Henley) gives him bad news, that judge is relegated to sitting at the kiddie table; when a gang member realizes he has a better poker hand than Sweet – he folds, terrified, rather than drop the hand on the vicious hand that feeds him.

Sophia Vergara as Gibson’s girlfriend, in another annoying role where she can’t keep her mouth shut or her legs closed (hence necessitating her namesake – Viagra); Taraji P. Henson as Benjamin’s loving wife; Terrence Howard and Josh Charles as two cops also on the track of Mother’s killer – for differing reasons; Adam Beach in a cool cameo.

Directed by John Singleton (BOYZ N THE HOOD, 1991), movie surprises with its poignancy; there is a palpable camaraderie between the brothers (and that racial statement is made louder and clearer than at any political rally, just by their comfortable interaction). The scenes at the dinner table where each brother imagines Mother speaking to him, chiding, instructing, telling him to sit up straight, move us to remember that each of us cucumber thugs – no matter how hard we think we are – are mama’s baby boys at heart…

I still don’t get the last scene though, where Mark Wahlberg comes striding across the ice – just at the moment Sweet challenges anyone to take him on. That means, to make this moment happen: he didn’t ride up with his brother, but decided to get out of the car miles ahead – in the snow – just so he could appear at the correct dramatic moment walking up to the dueling location for the Hero Shot.

You lost me at hypothermia racial statement.

END

On iron horse he rides / On iron horse he gladly needs a transmission overhaul…

Red Film over White Eyes.

…and they weren’t even Indians. We called them that by accident – and we still call them that! Like, we knew in a month that it wasn’t “Indians” – but we just don’t give a shit. We never correct it!…
— Louie C.K., LIVE AT THE BEACON THEATER, 2011.

Cree filmmaker Neil Diamond dismounts the horse he doesn’t ride and unplucks the headdress he doesn’t wear, to travel into the dangerously racist heart of Hollywood and discover how cinema, since its inception, has shaped the false perception of the American Indian. This documentary goes in search of – and finds – the REEL INJUN.

Jesse Wente
Ojibway film critic

I watched REEL INJUN with tears edging my eyes; a complete people wiped out by the white bastard children of European bastards, then that genocide justified by rewriting history through popular media. REEL INJUN doesn’t cover the Indian mass murders in the name of God perpetrated by Columbus from 1492 onwards, nor concerns itself with the millions of Indian slayings in the name of American progress in the period before the designated “Indian Wars” (first documented in 1776). This doc is not here to shout into the wind about the genocide, yet in its own way, it highlights it, by showing us how movies (made exclusively by White Eyes) worked to either downplay the genocide (with only a few Indians killed in self-defense), deny its existence (Indians portrayed living side-by-side with White Eyes) or justify its execution (by dehumanizing Indians, depicting massacres of White Eyes wagon trains, regarding Indians as “savages” and a hindrance to civilization).

Russell Means
Oglala-Lakota activist

REEL INJUN is a galvanizing gallop through the agitprop-sodden American film industry (which sprang into infancy, coincidentally, during the Wild West frontier era), snaking and shotgunning through the periods of noble savage, to just plain savage, from sensual panther to white woman threat, from spiritual warrior to blight on civilization; taking us from the first Indian penny reel (Thomas Edison’s 1894 SIOUX GHOST DANCE), through the 1930s silent slapstick era, the racist westerns of the 1950’s, the respectful renaissance of the 1990’s, all the way to 2001’s stunning “inside job” ATANARJUAT: THE FAST RUNNER, a film about Indians made by Indians for a world audience, rather than a film about Indians made by White Eyes for White Eyes.

Talking heads include Western and Native filmmakers (Clint Eastwood, Jim Jarmusch, Cheyenne-Arapaho Chris Eyre, Inuk Zacharias Kunuk), Native film critics and historians (Ojibway Jesse Wente, Seminole Melinda Micco), actors and activists (Oglala-Lakota Russell Means, Cherokee Wes Studi, Lakota John Trudell), all probing the Indians’ journey on film and how they and society contributed/reacted to it.

Wes Studi
Cherokee actor

REEL INJUN wends its way through so many filmic indecencies perpetrated on Indian culture, it can be said that while Natives were being killed off literally in the real world, their philosophy, their humanity, their essence was being systematically killed off in the minds of the U.S. populace, to be replaced by simplistic tropes: from the age-old racism of using white actors in Indian roles (Chuck Connors as GERONIMO?! Cree comedian Charlie Hill remarks that’s like Adam Sandler playing MALCOLM X); to Indian attire (only a certain tribe wore headbands and/or feathered headdresses, yet these accoutrement became staples for all tribes); to Indian dialects (sometimes filmmakers would just dub Indians with English audio running backwards); to their very names (activist Russell Means tells us: “Tašúŋke Witkó does not mean Crazy Horse; he was a great horse trainer,” so it is more along the lines of “spirited horses.” See how the White Eyes turned it into a veiled insult?) Even that supposed tribute to Crazy Horse – a sculpture being carved from a mountain in the Black Hills, South Dakota, the largest ever statue to a human – is dubious. And ignorantly ironic. Using explosives to carve a mountain monument, venally creating a tourist trade and despoiling the ecosystem is exactly the opposite of what Tašúŋke Witkó would have desired. And “most experts agree almost every photo of him is a fake” – so it’s not even an authentic likeness!

Angela Aleiss
Columbia Univ. Ph.D

Although the general timbre of American sentiment towards Indians in film was disrespectful, there have always been pockets of dissent through the decades (meaning there were certain characters within the disrespectful films and sometimes singular films themselves affording the Indian respect: 1955’s CHIEF CRAZY HORSE, though it starred Victor Mature in the title role, was actually sympathetic to the Lakota Sioux; Adam West in 1962’s GERONIMO asking, “Why are we fighting them?”; LITTLE BIG MAN’s (1970) empathetic stance towards the Cheyenne nation; Indian Green Beret BILLY JACK (1971) retaliating against corrupt white police with innumerable Spock chops and roundhouse kicks…

The movie STAGECOACH spearheaded the downslide. Director John Ford’s 1939 template for the American western depicted Indians blatantly as a savage, bloodthirsty impediment to American progress and a threat to white women and babies. Jesse Wente calls it “the iconic western… and one of the most damaging movies for Native people in history…” Wente is as vicious in his indictment of Ford as Ford made his Indians, “STAGECOACH summed up and gave the opinion of Native people for decades to the populace in the U.S. – and it’s because of John Ford that they thought of us like that, and that Native people might have even thought of themselves.”

Chris Eyre Cheyenne-Arapaho filmmaker

That movie also introduced the “greatest Indian killer in history” – that gun-totin’ white-hatted, hip-swaggerin’, jaw-drawlin’ American icon Marion Robert Morrison (aka John Wayne). I never realized how despicable his actions were until watching this documentary. Why? Because I was as indoctrinated as the rest of humanity to Wayne’s inherent “righteousness” (or “white-eousness”) as the real America. We are shown a scene from THE SEARCHERS (1956) where Wayne shoots a dead Indian in the face so that he cannot pass peacefully into the spirit world. A WTF super-bigot moment for modern viewers, but passively accepted in 1956 when Indians were regarded as the embodiment of evil, backwards, bloodthirsty and white-woman-rapers. Here’s the thing: one might contend Wayne was only playing characters. But in a 1971 Playboy interview, his despicable views were aired quite unequivocally.

Melinda Micco
Assoc Prof Mills Coll.

The revisionist nature of the John Wayne era of westerns is unconscionable. They revised reality. This is why I’ve always disagreed with the term “revisionist” applied to the 1990’s spate of westerns portraying Native Americans more judiciously and humanely (DANCES WITH WOLVES, LAST OF THE MOHICANS, et al). Called “revisionist” because they revised the notion of the hostile evil Native; what they were actually doing was RESTORING a semblance of veracity to the portrayal of Natives as fellow humans.

If I have lost all respect for John Wayne, I gained an infinite amount for Marlon Brando. We’ve all heard of him sending Sacheen Littlefeather up to decline his Oscar when he won for THE GODFATHER (1973), on the grounds of mistreating Indians. Up till now, I was unaware of the bigger picture.

In February 1973, the American Indian Movement seized the town of Wounded Knee in a political protest and faced off against armored FBI for 71 days. It was a small scale war. Russell Means was there: “We are prepared to die!” Man, that guy is so REAL! Brando declined the Oscar to protest the U.S. government declaring war on the Indian nations at Wounded Knee (a site symbolic for its previous Indian massacre in 1890). Sacheen gave a gracious and humane speech – then the White Eyes press starts in with “she rented her tribal dress,” “she wasn’t truly native,”… Ignorance born of 100 years of inculcation that Indians were un-human. The final laugh goes to the Indian nations – according to Means, morale at Wounded Knee was flagging and Brando and Littlefeather turned it around with that one symbolic move!

John Trudell
Lakota activist

John Trudell Lakota activist (who took over Alcatraz in 1970 in protest) has a long-standing philosophy that overrides any I have ever heard from any political party or activist group: “We’re not Indians and we’re not Native Americans – we’re older than both concepts. We’re the People. We’re human beings. Everyone – even all the white people – were descended from a tribe. There was a time in their ancestry that they wore beads and feathers…” He makes the point that “what happened to them [losing the propensity to wear earth-based accoutrement], they’re now trying to do to us.”

Clint Eastwood recalls his 1976 classic THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES and his interaction with the mischievous Chief Dan George. (Thankfully, though he’s made some ignorant political choices in his old age, in his early films Eastwood would always go against the grain when it came to attitudes towards Natives, thereby affording them much more respect than his peers; the anti-John Wayne in more ways than one.)

Adam Beach, Sauteaux actor (the Native American Mark Ruffalo) comments on his “drunk Indian” role in Eastwood’s iconoclastic FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS (2006). We see him much younger in clips from Eyre’s groundbreaking film SMOKE SIGNALS (1998).

Iron Eyes Cody is revealed as the Sicilian he is. He was the “Indian” in the commercial with the single tear for the pollution. Entrenched in Hollywood as a Native actor, he was born Oscar de Corte and pathologically retained the identity of the Native even after his older visage shriveled to decidedly goombah. In interviews and public appearances, he kept maintaining he was Native! That jet-black wig on his septuagenarian features didn’t help. His old son has decided to retain that pathology. “I will defend my father’s honor!”

Uh, you do realize that defending an indefensible lie is exactly what the White Eyes have done for 120 years of American cinema?

END

Bury the Truth of Wounded Knee.

I shall not be there. I shall rise and pass.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.
— Stephen Vincent Benét, “American Names.”

The Wounded Knee Massacre (aka The Battle at Wounded Knee Creek) was the last major armed conflict of what americans term the “Indian Wars” of the late nineteenth century. BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE opens with a recreation of soldiers taking pictures of “Big Foot in Death,” one of the disturbing actual pictures in the book, taken on the Wounded Knee battlefield in 1890.

When I read Dee Brown‘s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee over a decade ago, I would never have believed that White america would have the gall to turn it into a movie – and it if was turned into a movie, that the atrocities in the book would be diluted as a trail of tears… The latter has come to pass.

Screenwriter Daniel Giat and director Yves Simoneau deliver a film as watery as any american beer. Though it is supposedly a tribute to the indomitable spirit of the Native Americans, it is yet another White-Perspective slur-fest that dishonors that wild race with every bigoted frame. How could any movie on Earth convey the inhuman horrors of Custer’s men playing soccer with the heads of Native American children?

The movie opens with General Custer’s gruesome defeat at Little Big Horn in 1876 by combined Lakota and Northern Cheyenne Native Americans – but we don’t see the children’s heads that were just a part of the reason why the slaughter was inevitable and well-deserved. The movie ends with the grisly massacre of Lakota Sioux men, women and children at Wounded Knee in 1890. Almost as if the “Indians” got their just desserts for killing them nice soldier boys.

I rest my case.

(By the way, “Indians” is the White Eyes’ name for all the Native American races. The Native peoples refer to themselves either as Native Americans or their tribe name. When the Natives in this movie call themselves Indians so offhandedly, we realize the film-makers did all their research on Wikipedia.)

”Oh good, here comes the Cavalry to save– I mean, RUIN the day…”

It was not bad enough to kill off the Native Americans 150 years ago, now a movie is made about that inhuman era – not to honor the Natives, but to MAKE MONEY for HBO; to pretend a spirituality, tolerance and political correctness modern americans have not the depth to comprehend.

Before we continue, let us establish that Brown’s 1970 book is a disturbing, thought-provoking, well-researched masterpiece; a towering indictment of frontier america of the 1800s; a history lesson from the people who lived it, not the ones who re-wrote it. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee is a book that scarred the self-aggrandizing perspective of a nation; recounting Native Americans’ extermination at the hands of the White Eyes and their broken promises, cowardly massacres and bloody betrayals; every single treaty between the two factions dishonored by the invasive scoundrels who claimed birthright to a country that they knew was not theirs.

Though this gutless filmic re-imagining of Brown’s book tries hard to be compelling, it is merely a thin marketing gimmick for whatever Native American fever was doing the rounds in Hollywood at the time.

The actors do what they can with the clichéd characters they’re assigned: Aidan Quinn as the Good White Man, empowered to carve up land and herd the Native Americans out; the majestic Wes Studi, an old-school agitator; August Schellenberg perfectly cast as Sitting Bull, “the greatest living Indian”; Eric Schweig doing his Steven Segal impersonation; the magnificent Adam Beach (FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS), one step closer to some kind of acting award; Nathan Lee Chasing His Horse (evocative name, no? – he played the young Smiles A Lot in DANCES WITH WOLVES) is Sitting Bull’s son; and playing the president better than he ever could in real life, Fred Thompson as Ulysses S. Grant.

At first, the White Eyes’ grasping at real estate looks like provincialism and ignorance of different cultures (“I still believe that setting the Indians on the course to civilization best serves him”) but the Illegal Aliens (i.e. american settlers) knew full well that they wanted the land under the PRETENSE of doing a good deed for the Natives – doublespeaking it as mendaciously as the Great World Terrorist of the 2000s, George W. Bush (“We’re spreading democracy [so we’re killing them for their energy resources]”). Of course, this proud, iron-skinned people, their faces etched like rocks of ages, knew better – and also knew inherent grand truths that their White Eyes scourges could never grasp: that the LAND belongs to no one, that we are all a PART OF the land. Unfortunately, there is something stronger than pride – genocide.

Not all the stupidities in this movie are the film-makers’ or the early settlers’ fault, though. We easily criticize the film for all the Natives conveniently speaking English in current American vernacular and ooga-booga accent, which simply screams “Made For Television,” but other silliness can be attributed to the Native Americans and their own bogus “spirituality”: Wes Studi preaches that if they all do The Dance they will live forever… uh, ooookay. And I know a modern Native friend who still fasts for a week and nails himself to a tree every Tree-Nailing Season and then swears he has “visions” – of COURSE you have visions, dude! You’re hallucinating from food deprivation and blood loss!

A stark modern analogy is made by writer Daniel Griffin on his Film As Art website that I found too compelling to ignore: [Unfortunately, Griffin’s site and this full article are offline as of May 2016.]

Do we really have any right to be surprised, in light of the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890, that we now strap electrodes to the genitals of detained Iraqis and suspected terrorists who have not been tried?  Should we be horrified? Absolutely. Angered? Without question. But it certainly shouldn’t come as a shock that our government’s policies have allowed wiggle room for such depravity and dehumanization—we’ve been doing it since we first arrived on this continent to Native Americans, Africans, immigrants, minorities, and (fill in the blank yourself). Evil is engrained in our history, as Yves Simoneau’s profound BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE makes absolutely clear. We shake our heads sadly at our past as if its atrocities have remained buried and left behind, but we’re certainly only fooling ourselves if we think we’ve learned to rise above it.
— Daniel Griffin

Our only hope is that viewers of this vapid HBO movie will be encouraged to read Brown’s book and perform true-hearted research into the buried heritage that the White Eyes are still working so hard to pretend to forget.

END

“… no, bring it round this way… Hold that side up! God dammit! – what’re you doin’ back there?! – No, gimme this part– wait wait no no no, who’s pulling it?!–

Raising Glory: the sham behind the glam.

When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.
– Reporter, THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE (1962).

Director Clint Eastwood‘s waving-flag film is, ironically and thankfully, the farthest from a Flag Waving maroon-necker as a post 9-11 American movie can be. When I learned of this film’s production last year, I admit to fears that the apolitical movie-making maverick, Eastwood, might have succumbed to public consensus in his autumn years, opting to go the cheesy route of delivering unto the knee-jerk patriots a red-white-and-tried-and-true formulaic, Old Glory-salutin’ burbler.

Instead, FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS explores oft-neglected truths behind the accepted legends surrounding the most famous photograph of World War II – Joe Rosenthal‘s shot of six soldiers on February 23, 1945, raising the stars and stripes on a steel pipe atop Mount Suribachi on the sulfur-sanded, Japanese Pacific island of Iwo Jima (transl. Sulfur Island).

Poffy flies it upside down.

Movie’s opening monologue is brutally delicious: “Every jackass thinks he knows what war is – especially those who haven’t been in one” – taunting the movie itself to be not just intelligent, informative film-making, but a jagged, bile-inducing horror canvas of killing atrocity; it now has to show us what it accuses others of misapprehending. The speaker goes on: “Heroes and villains are not who we think they are…”

Up to this point in film history, Steven Spielberg (who co-produced FLAGS) has held the championship belt for the most realistic war experience purveyed on celluloid, with the tendon-slicing grit of his SAVING PRIVATE RYAN (1998). But FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, in its combat savagery, out-Ryans RYAN, with Spielberg’s producer palm prints a dead giveaway in this film’s ashen, shrapnel-sharded battle scenes, filmed in khaki grays and greens, with the visceral clout of a hammer to the kneecap.

FLAGS follows flag-raisers John “Doc” Bradley (Ryan Phillippe), Rene Gagnon (Jesse Bradford) and Ira Hayes (Adam Beach, in an Oscar-nodding performance) prior to their flag-raising and after their herded return to the States to sell War Bonds on FDR’s 7th Bond Tour. Along with Barry Pepper (straight out of RYAN) as Sergeant Mike Strank, Robert Patrick and Neal McDonough as ranking officers and Paul Walker in a small role (where he uncharacteristically doesn’t make an ass of himself), the courage of this film is not in promulgating yet another saber-rattling hero-fest, but in its depiction of the flag-raisers as unremarkable to the point of mediocrity. Their fates were as mundane as their military careers might have been had they not accidentally been in that photograph – in an age before this television culture which elevates morons and mass murderers to cult status (Kato Kaelin, Paris Hilton, Charles Manson, Timothy McVeigh, George W. Bush – who counts as both) Bradley, Gagnon and Hayes could not parlay their celebrity into lucrative post-military careers, Bradley becoming a funeral director, Gagnon, a janitor, and Hayes – a Pima Native American, disillusioned and disgusted with the military’s hypocrisy and duplicity – a heartsick drifter until his death from alcoholism.

They were great men – but only from a certain perspective.

What eventually brings a tear is not the “patriotism,” “heroism” or flag-raising, but the lies, hypocrisy, bigotry and pain that the “heroes” were made to endure when their lives were overtaken by the war and exploited for nationally endorsed murder.Screenplayed by William Broyles Jr. (CAST AWAY, APOLLO 13) and Paul Haggis (MILLION DOLLAR BABY), from the book by James Bradley (son of flag-raiser, John Bradley) and Ron Powers, FLAGS is yet another Clint Eastwood movie dealing with the nature of Heroism, but not in that childish aspect American war movies have adopted to mollycoddle the simple-minded populace who now lump every American involved in foreign conflict, however tangentially, a Hero. Rather, Eastwood dares to purvey that there is no inherent heroic action, that “heroes are something WE create,” portraying the flag-raising as the inadvertent milestone it actually was. Yes, American troops ultimately plan to raise a flag at the highest point on any battleground, but the U.S. Iwo Jima forces attained the summit of Suribachi so quickly (four days after their beach landing) that the raised flag – though a source of inspiration for the troops pinned around the island by Japanese fire – was more a premature declaration of victory (the battle would last 31 more days) than the definitive killing stroke it was sold as to the American public.

We are made privy to the nondescript raising of the first flag (which was replaced due to a ranking officer wanting to “pin the original to his bedroom wall”) and then to the equally-nondescript second flag raising, which is Rosenthal’s laurel. Rosenthal, who climbed the mountain after another photographer had already shot the first raising, thinking he had missed the actual “great” moment, almost missed the second raising too, as he hastily snapped the photo that would become the “single shot that could end the war.”

Though there is the barest shadow of uplifting music during this moment, it is not manipulative or tear-jerking; it is as controlled as all Eastwood’s directorial efforts. (The film’s main theme was once again composed by Eastwood, whose confidence in his simple, single-note themes knows no bounds – he is, after all, The Clint, and who would dare tell him his compositions are unfit for his own movies? Clint himself, in his uncertain voice, sings the opening song, or more correctly, pencils it in, in an a cappella whisper.)

Rosenthal’s photograph became a government tool to leverage revenue from the gullible masses, duplicated profligately on posters, stamps, statues, ice cream shapes, etc. as a symbol of American victory – a fiction abetted by the disdainful politicians who marketed the snapshot soldiers like inanimate products. (Because there were no faces apparent in the photo, the soldiers’ identities were often questioned, and eventually became moot, as long as mothers of dead soldiers could believe their sons were raising Glory.) The “heroes” themselves were the last accommodated cogs in the war machine that exploited their celebrity for its own agenda.

“Heroes and villains are not who we think they are…”

The Japanese who attacked Our Heroes physically may have been villains during Iwo Jima’s battles, but the U.S. government that abandoned these “heroes” after exploiting them to sell billions of dollars of war bonds will forever be villains.

Though the hero-ship of the flag-raisers may have been ephemeral, the corporations drooling to exploit them at the height of their popularity, who turned their backs after wartime fervor cooled, will remain villains for many lifetimes.

And though Hayes wept over his buddy, Mike, being the “real” hero, in a flashback we see Mike viciously dispatch a cadre of Japanese infantry alone, as Ira looks on pale-faced, as if watching Leatherface eviscerate a bunch of teen models. Though it may be a rewardable feat, it was anything but pretty – and decidedly not heroic.

A disturbing scene encapsulates the dichotomy of war that brings “heroism” into question: a medic tries to save a man whose guts are spilling out, whilst twisting his knife into the guts of an enemy beside them. And if that still seems rational to the knee-jerk patriots, how to rationalize the abandonment of a Marine who falls overboard during the journey to the battleground? At first, his mates banter over his clumsiness, until they realize the miles-long armada of battleships is going to leave him to die in the brine rather than impede their killing schedule by rescuing him. As one soldier grimly observes, “So much for No Man Left Behind.” The longer we contemplate war, the more blurry the line between hero and villain…

Clint: Keeping it real for patriots, peaceniks, warmongers and jarheads.

The real killing stroke of this Iwo Jima tale is that it is only half-told – it is no secret that Eastwood is making the rejoinder/companion piece, LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA (aka RED SUN, BLACK SAND), which is an account of the same battle from the perspective of the Japanese. Not since 1970’s TORA! TORA! TORA!, which utilized American and Japanese directors for its respective cultural sequences, has there been a film project this ambitious.

How could we revisit those melodramatic Kirk Douglas and John Wayne movies of yore when stormbringers like RYAN and FLAGS come closer to showing us jackasses who have never been in war what war is, more so than the generation who were in the war gussying it up with movie stars, love stories and “heroic” spackle to hide the true horrors. While thirty-something recruits in clean shirts storm a stock footage beach in John Wayne’s maudlin, Oscar-nominated SANDS OF IWO JIMA (1949), Eastwood’s troops in FLAGS – as fresh-faced as WWII recruits must have truly been – are flesh-shredded in the most gruesome manner imaginable – “gruesome manner” sometimes being nothing more than getting shot, but in this grounded movie, getting shot is not simply “falling over and pretending to die” from unseen wounds – as they do so unconvincingly in SANDS – but being shattered by a demolishing projectile that jarringly negates life. War is Hell, not Hollywood.

The movie leaves us with an ambiguous definition of “hero” – as always, Eastwood asking us to decide for ourselves – as the flag-raisers cavort on Iwo Jima’s beach in a stolen moment of elation after their flag-raising. Eastwood’s characteristic pan back from the final scene is one of his most powerful, as the camera takes in the beach boys, then the black mountain, to the flag atop Suribachi, widening its scope to include the armada of battleships strewn to the horizon.

FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS wisely eschews the insufferable “Based on a True Story” tag at film’s opening, yet touches on more corroborated facts than most acclaimed biopics, the closing credits featuring real pictures of the Iwo Jima tableaux, including the flag-raisers themselves, ironically reminding us that this fiction pertaining to Iwo Jima’s Flag Shot is closer to fact than all the propaganda swilled during its actual occurrence.

The grandest irony is that Rosenthal was rejected as a military photographer for poor eyesight and went to work for the Associated Press – where he took the most famous military photo of all time.

END