We gave it an A
A decade ago, who could have guessed that Steven Spielberg would become our most spectacular poet of war? Saving Private Ryan (DreamWorks), his World War II epic about the invasion of Normandy and its aftermath, is a movie of staggering virtuosity and raw lyric power, a masterpiece of terror, chaos, blood, and courage. More than Coppola, Stone, or Kubrick, all of whom apotheosized the druggy morass of Vietnam, Spielberg has captured the hair-trigger instability of modern combat. He puts us directly inside the consciousness of men in battle, and he does it from the outset, using the famous attack at Omaha beach on June 6, 1944, as an occasion to stage one of the most brutal and revolutionary sequences ever filmed.
As Higgins boats pull up under blue-black skies, the American soldiers stare silently, occasionally vomiting with seasick fear. The fronts of the boats drop open, and the enemy gunfire explodes with a sickeningly dense and relentless cracking, the camera trembling as if the earth itself were coming apart. Red bullet holes appear on the men’s helmets, and bodies drop like rag dolls. This may be D-Day, but it looks more like a mass suicide, and the profound shock and horror is that it doesn’t stop. For nearly half an hour, Spielberg uses his unparalleled kinetic genius to create an excruciatingly sustained cataclysm of carnage, nausea, and death.
Spielberg is making a perceptual statement about World War II: He’s saying that it was every bit as merciless and agonizing, as “insane,” as Vietnam. Still, among the anonymous faces of the soldiers, we can’t help but cleave to a familiar one — the calm, somber visage of Tom Hanks as platoon captain Miller, who wriggles to a safe spot on the beach and lies like a trapped animal, then starts to cobble together a survival strategy.
Saving Private Ryan is Spielberg’s vision of what war is — all war, even America’s fabled Good War. Yet the film is no pacifist tract. It’s a portrait of nobility and grace amid the madness of technological slaughter, and it melds these elements together with an organic intensity that Schindler’s List, for all its brilliance, didn’t. Spielberg records what the sacrifice of World War II actually entailed: ordinary men diving into an existential inferno. Captain Miller receives an assignment to locate a certain Private Ryan, the only one of four enlisted brothers who is still alive. As Miller leads his squad into the French countryside, the dread of that opening massacre haunts their every move, and, in a sense, it recurs every time the film erupts back into violence.
We get to know the soldiers slowly, eavesdropping on their wary camaraderie, so that when one takes a bullet, the platoon’s loss is ours. Among the sterling cast, Tom Sizemore as the rumpled, devoted Sergeant Horvath, Barry Pepper as the stoic marksman-sniper Private Jackson, and Giovanni Ribisi as the ghostly, haunted medic Wade all have indelible presences, and the scrawny, pale, slit-eyed Jeremy Davies, from Spanking the Monkey, has more. He shows you the creepy-crawly anguish of the cowardly Corporal Upham, who has barely fired a shot in his life and is like a stricken angel struggling to stay aloft.
The platoon finally stumbles onto Ryan (Matt Damon), who turns out to be a likably stubborn kid who refuses to leave his platoon behind. They’re set to defend a bridge in the middle of a bombed-out village, and as Miller and his men join forces with them, and the Germans roll up in their jeeps and tanks, the film becomes a true Armageddon, with Spielberg’s camera seemingly everywhere at once. The epic battle that concludes Saving Private Ryan may be the greatest episode in any war film. Saving Private Ryan says that only by confronting the pitiless horror of World War II can we truly know its heroism. For the first time, a movie has shown us both. A