Dear World War II Movies

Dear World War II Movies,

I want to thank you for giving me hours of dramatic tension, patriotic flushing, strangled crying, terror, then ultimately, victory. Where else can I enjoy this range of catastrophic emotions and eat popcorn, while sitting in pajamas on my couch?

Take Steven Spielberg. The guy loves World War II. I can’t conceive of watching SAVING PRIVATE RYAN back to back with SCHLINDLER’S LIST….who has that kind of stamina, much less time. Spielberg wins the prize for knowing how to get in here – by here, I mean standing in my living room – smacking me around then hugging me, then smacking me around some more. I’m in a bloody heap of emotions but I’ll be damned if I turn off the TV. If this is an abusive relationship, I now understand why people stay in them.

How many times can I watch THE DARKEST HOUR? Apparently, an infinite number. Especially the scene where Winston Churchill (Gary Oldman) gets on the London subway and gives a rousing speech for one stop to Westminster. He asks these salt-of-the-earth working class subway riders if England should broker a deal with Hitler. Nev-ah!, they shout in perfect unison. I love their resolve, their apolitical gut response. Their surety: Nev-ah! And then, in a political turnaround, in the Parliament he asks the same question and young men and old forget their ambitious machinations to declare in the same accent: Ne-vah! Even though I know it’s coming, I am thrilled and aligned with their fervor. Nev-ah! I crow reclining in my luxury home theater.

Sometimes, my friends will recommend a documentary or a thought-provoking movie that promises universal themes, artistic cinematography, characters who imbue the complex range of human emotion. They all sound marvelous, but look, no shot if there’s a submarine movie (DAS BOOT) anywhere near the remote. Same with FURY or INGLORIOUS BASTERDS. Do I want to watch beautiful actors transform themselves in the throes of life’s vicissitudes, or see a whiskied-up Jewish American soldier brand a swastika on a Nazi’s forehead? No contest. I’m going with the Nazi burn every time.

And no, I’m sorry, but CASABLANCA is not a war movie. (Just in case you were thinking about movies that are famous for being set in World War II.) The only good romance in a war movie is the love between soldiers. Or the love of one’s country. Any war movie that tries to slip in a love story loses its power. Think of DUNKIRK. The love of country – all those boatsmen out to bring their boys home – brims so high with love it practically drowns you (in a good way). And come on, soldier love doesn’t get better than BAND OF BROTHERS.

Strangely, I don’t have these jubilant feelings for any war movie past World War II. That was the good war, right? The war that originally was in black and white. There was a raving lunatic that needed to be stopped. A world that needed saving. That inclination, that motivation, is pure. Right? Could anybody really sit watching a World War II movie, thinking, well we really screwed that one up, right? Or, how could we send our guys to this hellhole? Or even, this is a brutal, violent answer to political power-mongering. The wars in my lifetime have all been regretful, polarizing, maybe even shameful.

So thank you, World War II movies, for letting me experience the gorgeous glow of patriotism when it’s damn hard, today, to feel that way. And guess what? Thank you, men, who have been the prime line of defense in those battles being depicted on the screen. Yeah, yeah, I get that women have had input and assistance. But for their sheer numbers, strength, and commitment, it was men who stormed those beaches, manned those battleships, and roamed those fields to victory. And I get to cheer them on, from my front row seat, without any doubts. What a freedom.