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War is Hell
by Stephen Wong
There is an eerie surrealism as we descend from the gloomy skies over
Omaha beach. The redundant
waves mercilessly beat upon the transport boats carrying the first wave of American soldiers, each
silently staring at their inevitable destiny. Some begin to vomit, a combination of seasickness and
fear that can only mean one thing, war. The date is June 6, 1944, otherwise known as D-Day, the single
most important battle of the last great war. And as the US LCVP boats finally begin to drop their
doors to let the soldiers pour out onto the beach, a cold shock comes over you. You are no longer
watching a war film. You have been transported onto those boats, and all the horrors of war that
you have only read about suddenly become reality. What ensues is the most ferocious and horrific
sequence in all of film history. Bullets rip through the air with wanton lust, tearing apart the
first three lines of troops attempting to make it to shore. The camera is jolted as if to suggest
that there is nothing anyone can do to stop this madness. German 75mm machine cannons relentlessly
bombard the shoreline as rounds tear through the backs of helmets and blow off limbs. This is not
Hollywood's glamorization of death, this is death in its truest form. Bodies drop by the hundreds,
completely limp upon impact from the bullets. Soldiers lie screaming on the sand with only their
hands keeping their insides from falling out. Medics begin treating the wounded and before long,
become the wounded. The shore is soaked red in blood, yet the Americans continue on. And for nearly
half an hour this onslaught carries forth, until finally, the beach is taken.
For Spielberg, the point is simple: War is Hell. There's no glory on the battlefield. Heroes die.
Good men die. What we read in our history books means nothing. They merely consist of statistics
of death tolls and fancy plans laid out by four star Generals. Saving Private Ryan is war
seen through the eyes of a soldier, and what better choice to do that than with a man whose demeanor
alone elicits courage and honor. Tom Hanks plays platoon captain John Miller who, after courageously
leading his troops through the hell of D-Day, is sent on a mission to find and bring home private
James Francis Ryan (Matt Damon). The reason: Ryan, who was dropped behind enemy lines in France as
part of the Airborne infantry attack, is the only surviving brother of four enlisted in the war
(his mother will be receiving all three telegrams at once), and the chief of Staff of the US
military is determined to "get him the hell out of there." So Miller assembles his best men to
help him traverse the French countryside in search for the fourth Ryan. His platoon includes
stubborn Brooklynite private Reiben (Edward Burns), the strong-willed Sgt. Horvath (Tom Sizemore),
shell-shocked translator Corporal Upham (Jeremy Davies), wisecracking Jewish-American private
Mellish (Adam Goldberg), Medic Wade (Giovanni Ribisi) and sharp-shooting private Jackson (Barry Pepper).
As the men march on, we begin to see the true destruction of war-torn France. Towns are filled
with the rubble of smashed buildings, and scattered gunfire snaps through the deserted streets.
Along the way we slowly get an intimate glimpse of each of the characters, and we become closer
and closer to the platoon. When one of them dies, we feel as if we have lost a close friend. But
despite the tragedies there's always a feeling that things are still OK because of Captain Miller's
presence. Hanks' performance is brilliant. He is the quintessential every man's hero, exuding both
fatherly poise and human vulnerability, and is the binding force behind Spielberg's film. When the
epic final battle concludes, Hanks and Spielberg leave us with a hauntingly powerful admonition of
the truth of war. There is no happy ending. We are left only with a simple reminder that in war,
good men die so that good men may carry on the flame. In what is no doubt the greatest war film ever
made, Spielberg has shown us that even in the darkest moments of humanity, there is still hope.
Stephen Wong, 1998
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