The Deer Hunter - Classic Movie Review

The Deer Hunter, Cimino's take on the Vietnam movie contrasts the comfort of every day life in America to the flip side as a Prisoner of War in Vietnam. The near three-hour narrative tracing the classic human parabola from wedding bliss to funeral blues, and the ultimate test of friendship.

We open in the hellish heat and sulphurous fumes of the Pennsylvania steel mills, where friends and co-workers Michael (Robert De Niro), Nick (Christopher Walken), Stan (John Cazale), Steven (John Savage) and Axel (Chuck Aspergen) endure inhuman conditions for pay, night after night.

These are tough men, we are told. The weekly reward for the steelworkers is escape into the cool mountains, and Michael in particular is soon scampering across snow-capped peaks with a gazelle's grace. But, lest we forget that a ticket to heaven comes at a prix fixè, Michael tracks and kills a beautiful stag, as if nature itself must pay his tithe.

It's a film of striking and often startling contrasts, and Cimino doesn't once flinch from an unpromising gear change. Indeed, The Deer Hunter is distinguished by quite audacious transitions from high to low, light to dark.

At one point, Michael, abandoned in his motel room at night, suddenly appears at the other side of the frame, still shrouded in darkness; only when he steps forward into the light do we realise that it is now daytime and he is outside, standing in the shade, hiding from his friends.

And, famously, there is the sudden jolt into Vietnam. The hunting buddies, exhausted and exhilarated from a successful trip, come to rest around a piano played by George Dzunda's lovable bar owner; dimly, the rhythm of what sound like rotor blades underscore the pretty melody. Without warning we are in another world, helicopters rain napalm down on a green forest.

If, as Dante maintained, hell is composed of seven levels, we have just slipped down several stages at once.

At a time when patience was a given rather than a virtue, '70s audiences were happy to endure the inevitable longueurs - a 40-minute wedding production number that fails to forward the plot - because word-of-mouth had assured them that all hell would soon break loose.

And for cinema goers who had yet to be fed money shots and special effects, the notorious Russian Roulette sequence - where Prisoners of War Michael, Nick and Steven must face off against each other for the amusement of their Viet-Cong captors - which takes place early in the second hour, was the equivalent of a must-see, water-cooler moment.

Simply one of the most terrifying scenes in celluloid history, this sequence alone ensured that The Deer Hunter would become perhaps the most unlikely blockbuster of all time. When the film went on to dominate the 1978 Oscars - taking five awards including Best Film and Best Director - Cimino was heralded as the poster-child for the brave new world of American cinema. A man, it was supposed, who could do no wrong.

On his return from Vietnam, Michael's failure to reconnect with friends whom he once openly patronized is lent a genuinely tragic dimension. There is no way Michael could explain what he has seen, what he has lived through, even if he wanted to.

And in a movie that is practically spoilt for stand-out performances, Meryl Streep's luminous debut, John Cazale's last screen appearance, Christopher Walken's Oscar-winning breakthrough, De Niro is always central, manfully shouldering the film just as Michael carries the crippled Steven to safety. His work with Scorsese is more expansive, more celebrated, but Michael is De Niro's signature performance: the enigmatic, stoic, thoroughly Nietzschean hero who has not only appeared in various forms (see Heat's Neil McCauley) throughout his career, but one that we mere mortals can easily imagine is a close relation of the great man himself.

The Deer Hunter is a grueling film, an upsetting experience, as much an endurance test for the audience as it was for cast and crew fighting a private war on location in Thailand. And yet, from the justly ubiquitous theme music to Vilmos Zsigmondís rich and lyrical cinematography, The Deer Hunter is a film of enormous, if mostly melancholy, beauty.

As such, it contains a raw power to move, and in some cases, bait, audiences to extremes of emotion almost unparalleled in cinema. At the time this was an astonishingly ambitious attempt to dress a wound in the American psyche that was still fresh and weeping; 25 years on,The Deer Hunter deserves to be reclaimed as one of the most powerful humanist tracts ever committed to celluloid.

A simultaneously touching and harrowing experience that puts the audience directly in the shoes of one man's experience of Vietnam.

Full Metal Jacket - Classic Film Review

The totality of war, from the loss of self to ultimately the loss of life, has never been as thoroughly examined as in Kubrick’s much misunderstood Full Metal Jacket. Other films, of course, exist that portray the brutality (Platoon), the senselessness (Apocalypse Now) or even the joy (Patton) that is to be found in slaughtering your fellow man. But no film takes us through “the shit” from beginning to the sick, sick end like Jacket does. Our guide along the path to hell is Modine’s Joker; a young but scrappy Marine recruit with his eyes wide open. To me, one of the greatest joys in cinema is, for lack of a better term,character development. Watching a person transform from something to something else due to circumstance is, well, rewarding. Joseph Campbell termed it as “the hero’s journey.” Shorthand, think of either Luke or Han in Star Wars; they start out thinking and believing one ideal, and exit the narrative knowing and following another. For a real lesson on this journey, check out all three lead characters in LA Confidential (review forthcoming — I promise). Joker starts his journey as an arrogant but righteous little shit. In the middle of Gunnery Sgt. Hartman’s (the amazing R. Lee Ermey) initial epic tirade, Joker will not abide the playful yet ultimately sick racism thrown in his face. Hartman breaks him down with a “gut stomp” that leaves Joker broken, but largely unbowed. By the end of the film, Joker shoots a dying “gook” woman in the face. And how the hell did this happen?

Full Metal Jacket begins with perhaps the most enjoyable forty-five minutes in the history of all film. Sgt. Hartman’s brow-beatings, even after the twenty-fifth viewing, are both colossal and hilarious. Most people I enjoy spending time with can quote them not only at length but verbatim — as they should! Ermey’s comedic timing is impeccable and really, unprecedented. A quick for instance; when Cowboy tells that he is from Texas, Hartman immediately snaps, “Holy dog shit! Texas? … Do you suck dicks?” I mean… fuck — brilliant! And I could go on and on and on because the vicious hilarity never ends (read the script for yourself, or better yet, watch the movie). And I could guffaw with you all night, but the question becomes why does Sgt. Hartman behave in the way that he does? To what purpose? What end? A few minutes before, Hartman answers my question, “If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon, you will be a minister of death, praying for war.” Once you have internalized the comedy, you realize that Hartman is in fact offering the recruits a new outlook, a new philosophy if you will. One that must be implemented by utter force and that has an ugly end, but a complete system nonetheless. And, if you can past his brutal methods, you can see that he is quite, well “lovingly” is not the right word, but if these men are not trained, if they are not “born again hard,” they will in fact be in a “world of shit.” Hartman did not create the world of shit; he simply wants to give his beloved marines the best chance possible. Maybe “lovingly” is correct after all?

The turning point for Joker was the “sock party” beating of Leonard. To me it seems as if Kubrick went to great lengths in establishing the father/son dynamic between the two. Recall the “Jesus, you look like shit today, Leonard” scene where Joker is fixing Pyle’s clothing. The lost-dog look on Leonard’s face is a testament to the art of directing. One can almost imagine a dad getting his son dressed for church. And when it comes time to beat Leonard, an act that is against Joker’s very nature, he submits to the Corp and beats and beats and beats. Immediately afterwards, he is forced to cover his ears to hide Pyle’s screams. Even after nearly twenty years of viewing, that scene still chills me. Hartman and his methods have won out; the old Joker is no more. Leonard, of course, goes through the transformation but, see, he’s a non-hacker. Hartman turned him, but not into a Marine. Hartman failed, and in the cold logic of warfare, was ultimately punished for doing so.

I’m being too dry and I apologize — with a film such as this — quite similar toDr. Strangelove — nearly every scene is not only memorable, but apparent. Obvious, even. Full Metal Jacket is near impossible to review — a challenge at any rate. OK, so we got character development, right? Keep reading: Joker becomes half hard after finishing up on Paris Island, but as soon as we get to ‘Nam,” he’s back, sort of, to his old John Wayne, wisecracking self. He is still playing the father-role, though. This time to an empty-headed yet idealistic photographer named Rafterman. Joker is now reporting for Stars & Stripes, a military paper that only runs two types of stories, “Grunts who give half their pay to buy gooks toothbrushes and deodorants–Winning of Hearts and Minds–okay? And combat action that results in a kill–Winning the War.” The echoes of today are unmistakable, which again points to the completeness and universality of Jacket. Joker mouths off to his editor one to many times and he and Rafterman are sent deep into the shit. Of note is a particularly grim scene where en route, they ask a door gunner that is shooting wildly at all types of peasants, how he can kill women and children. “Easy — you just don’t lead ’em so much.” Thus begins a descent into the worst and ugliest examples of the human experience. Comparisons to Apocalypse Now — among others — are obvious and easy. But I argue that Kubrick’s vision is much more twisted. For while Coppola’s tale is wild, boisterous and exotic, Kubrick’s does nothing but cycle between the mundane and death. For the last forty-five minutes of Jacketracism and ignorance are everywhere. More importantly, every other scene has the Marines dealing with dead bodies. Almost immediately the deaths lose their meanings. Hunkered down over a just-deceased soldier, Joker congratulates Cowboy on being named squad leader. And he means it.

It must be noted that this casualness is in fact Hartman’s doing, for its roots are back on Paris Island. Think of Hartman’s near constant marching and the chants he forces them to repeat;

One, two, three, four! United States Marine Corps!
One, two, three, four! I love the Marine Corps!
My Corps!
Your Corps!
Our Corps!
Marine Corps!
I don’t know but I’ve been told!
Eskimo pussy is mighty cold!
Mmm good!
Feels good!
Is good!
Real good!
Tastes good!
Mighty good!
Good for you!
Good for me!

This constant mixing of God and country with the absurd is drilled into the recruits. From Hartman bragging that both Whitman and Oswald learned to shoot as Marines to Joker worriedly telling Cowboy that he doesn’t think Leonard can hack it, pausing for a moment, and then continuing with, “I want to slip my tube-steak into your sister,” clarity of purpose is all but vanquished. All of it is hilarious on the outside, but ultimately a sick, sick survival method and nothing more. Remember when Animal Mother explains that he’s not going to die for “Freedom?”‘ If he’s going to die for a word, that word is “Poon-Tang.” And why the hell not? Since pin-pointable meaning has been entirely stripped from their existence, why not have poon-tang be what you die for? Makes as much sense as anything else. And why not shoot a dying woman in the face and then go marching off through a fiery war zone singing the Mickey Mouse Club theme? Hell, that seems almost sane! As Eight Ball says, “…under fire Animal Mother is one of the finest human beings in the world. He just needs someone to throw hand grenades at him for the rest of his life.” Amen.