film

General Order #1 and the Man Who Would Be King

This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of
God–Amen and so forth.

(One) That me and you will settle this matter together: i.e.,
to be Kings of Kafiristan.

(Two) That you and me will not, while this matter is being settled,
look at any Liquor, nor any Woman, black, white or brown, so
as to get mixed up with one or the other harmful.

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion, and
if one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.

Signed by you and me this day.

Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.

Daniel Dravot.

Both Gentlemen at Large.

After reading ‘The Man Who Would Be King‘ as part of the End of War Reading List, it was recommended to me by a friend that I watch the 1975 version of the novel starring Sean Connery and Michael Caine. I watched it over the weekend and I highly recommend it as both a good adjunct to the End of War Reading List and as a really good movie. It is a re-telling of the Kipling novella, with lots of details added in to fill out the film. Connery and Caine are terrific and there are so many good lessons that could easily be pulled from the movie and taught. It’s amazing how we are over a hundred years past the fictional events of the book/film, but the same prejudices and stereotypes persist.

“Different country, different customs. We musn’t be prejudiced, Peachey.”

What I found particularly interesting is the contract that the two adventurers drew up between them (posted above) and the way it sums up in a nutshell the same contract American soldiers adhere to when they go to Afghanistan as part of the infamous “General Order #1” which prohibits alcohol, drugs, pornography, gambling, the keeping of pets, and certain types of photography.

It is in fact, when the contract is broken, that Peachey and Daniel’s plan falls apart. So, there’s that.

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film

Thoughts on ‘Lone Survivor’

Lone Survivor is coming out this week. If you want a review or analysis, go over to On Violence. This is their show.

There are a few things, however, that I would like to say about it.

First, the trailer is really unsettling to family members of anyone who has someone currently deployed or will soon be deploying to Afghanistan.

I spent a good portion of my holiday leave cringing around family when the trailer would come on. I go to the movies a lot, and saw the trailer three or four times in the theater over the past month and just about as many references on television. For most of the movie-going audience, I imagine that the trailer hints at the possibility to escape, as in, escapism. Going to the movies is a place to escape from reality, even if they are escaping to the war in Afghanistan.

But what if you are one of the few that actually goes to Afghanistan? That’s not escapism. It’s more like voyeurism for the masses. A safe way to experience something terrible.

More so than Zero Dark Thirty, Lone Survivor gets the seal of authenticity. Marcus Luttrell wrote the book that the movie was based on and he played a role in making sure some of the details were right. It’s his story, and a true story, so how can it be criticized?

Is Lone Survivor the Green Berets of the Afghanistan war?

There have been a number of Iraq War movies over the past ten years. With the exception of the critical acclaim The Hurt Locker received, most of them have done pretty poorly. I can’t even remember a single war movie about Afghanistan, unless you count Zero Dark Thirty.

Now, here we are. A big budget Hollywood movie that is being marketed as “the best war film since Saving Private Ryan.”

It makes me think back to another movie that came out during the war it depicted: The Green Berets. That film, featuring John Wayne, was released in 1968 at the height of the Vietnam War. It is criticized as being insanely pro-military and simplistic in nature. In defense of the film, John Wayne said his “motive was to glorify American soldiers as the finest fighting men “without going into why we are there, or if they should be there.” His “compulsion” to do the movie was based on his pride of the Special Forces, determined to show “what a magnificent job this still little-known branch of service is doing.”

Lone Survivor’s tagline is ‘Live to Tell the Story.’ In press, Marcus Lutrell says he feels like his job is to get the word out about what these amazing men accomplished.

According to Metacritic, the film is getting average or mixed reviews. My sense (having not seen it) is that this isn’t our Full Metal Jacket, or Platoon, or Apocalypse Now. This is another Black Hawk Down. This is big budget. This is Hollywood. This is The Green Berets.

This isn’t the Iraq/Afghanistan war movie I’ve been waiting for.

film

Why I Really Want ‘Enlisted’ To Succeed

Back in the Army

One of my holiday traditions is gorging on old movies. I’m sure to see White Christmas at least once every December. Through the holidays, I’ll fade in and out of old movies, picking up bits and pieces along the way.

One of the things that I find interesting about those old movies is how prominently the military is portrayed. That is, the Army, or some part of it, is often a major part of the plot – often outside of war and combat. Common themes are new soldiers that have a hard time adjusting to military life and the hilarity that ensues, or guys who are coming out of the military or out of war and trying to make it for themselves in the civilian world. The military is weaved into the normal culture of everyday life. Military innuendos are made with the expectation that the audience is already read in.

More interesting to me, is that it was OK to poke fun at soldiers. It was socially acceptable. There was no false idolizing. Not everyone was blanketed with the term ‘hero.’  Most of the ‘soldiers’ depicted in these films are cynical, clumsy, or generally disinterested in military service.

Gee, I wish I was back in the Army
The Army wasn’t really bad at all

Three meals a day
For which you didn’t pay
Uniforms for winter, spring and fall

There’s a lot to be said for the Army
The life without responsibility

A soldier out of luck
Was really never stuck
There’s always someone higher up where you can pass the buck
Oh, gee, I wish I was back in the Army

As you can see, there was also a very healthy view on what military service might be. An easy ride. A safe space. A place where you could always “pass the buck.” No responsibilities.

And this was the Greatest Generation!

Then, of course, there was M*A*S*H, which was part comedy, part drama. But still part comedy.

Since then, war on television and film has mostly been all about big-budget action. Lots of death, lots of explosions, lots of destruction. Off of the top of my head, the only things in the ‘funny’ category I can think of is Pauly Shore’s In the Army Now and Major Payne. Not much more needs to be said about that.

Our inability to allow others to make fun of us is partly due to the civil-military divide and a decade of hero worship that has left us shyly accepting well-meaning ‘thank you for your services’ as the chief spoil of war.

But now, this week, Fox will premier Enlisted. It is a new sitcom about three Army brothers who are on ‘Rear D.’ I’ve watched the trailer, and it actually looks pretty funny!

Of course, the military community has already responded with incredulity at some of the glaring differences between real military life and what has thus far been depicted in the trailers. Most of the stuff is about uniforms and haircuts.

Which leads me to a quick aside. One thing I’ve noticed, being back in the Army in the age of social media is how any military pictures posted to Facebook or Twitter are scrutinized by other military folk primarily for uniform issues or the like. Content is secondary to pointing out uniform discrepancies or commenting on the current state of military gear. “Back when I was in, we didn’t even have X, Y, or Z!” Meanwhile, I could be standing over the still warm body of Osama bin Laden, which would matter naught if my chinstrap was undone or my index finger hovered lazily near the trigger. The whole thing is exhausting, and it has actually led to me to choose not to share certain photos – which are otherwise good  - just because I don’t want to have to deal with the onslaught of military people who can’t help themselves to comment on this or that.

Or, better yet, try watching a military movie with a new soldier or marine. They will be sure to tell you how everything is wrong, or how they would do it differently. A military movie near a base is filled with groans and grumbles as the mostly military audience reacts to what civilians would just watch and enjoy.

To Fox’s credit, when the angry military commenters started thrashing over the errors of Enlisted, they responded by announcing a ‘Spot Our Errors‘ contest which invites people to watch the show (surprise!) and spot all of the errors.

That’s all fine, but I think the actual problem in the first place is that we (as a military community) continue to demand rigid authenticity and militant adherence to things like uniforms in television and film, or we get bummed out. The military community is sensitive and doesn’t take well to outsiders (Hollywood) depicting them unless it is in a good light and there are no uniform errors.

A few years ago when The Hurt Locker came out (a movie I liked), folks in the military community, most prominently Paul Rieckhoff of Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America, criticized the film for not being realistic and depicting soldiers, especially the lead, as undisciplined and not representative of real soldiers. The movie went on to win Best Picture at the Academy Awards and for good or for ill, actually got some people thinking and talking about Iraq.

I’m trying to imagine how Enlisted might look if it were more ‘realistic.’ Probably pretty boring. And not very funny.

Timely, there is also this story which made the rounds over the weekend concerning comic Natasha Leggero who made a joke at the expense of Pearl Harbor veterans during a New Years Eve program. You can read the whole episode here, but essentially she made a joke, the military community attacked her for it, and she refuses to apologize. Good for her, I say.

Yes, I really hope Enlisted does well. We could all stand to take ourselves a little less seriously.

art, film

Joker’s Little Red Book

You can see Joker's little red book peeking out of his pocket in this scene. That's his diary. Also, I just noticed the Mickey Mouse figures in the background.

You can see Joker’s little red book peeking out of his pocket in this scene. That’s his diary. Also, I just noticed the Mickey Mouse figures in the background.

The magic of the internet.

Almost a year ago, I saw a tweet by @ftngleprechaun that led me to this post by Nathan Webster (Stanley Kubrick’s cowardice ruined “Full Metal Jacket” and betrayed Gustav Hasford’s “The Short-Timers.”). I had never read The Short-Timers but was a big fan of Full Metal Jacket. That post inspired me to read it, which I did, and then wrote a reaction.

In the process of writing that post, I came across a blog dedicated to the work of Gustav Hasford (the author of The Short-Timers) that is managed by comic writer Jason Aaron, who I then followed on Twitter.

Months pass, and then I see this retweet by Jason.

Matthew Modine, the actor who played ‘Joker’ was going to do a live-tweet viewing of FMJ to promote the release of an iPad version of his book, Full Metal Jacket Diary.

Without question, FMJ is my favorite movie. Like a giddy fan-boy, I jumped at the chance to watch it and pepper Matthew Modine with questions during the showing. If you follow me on Twitter, it was all probably really annoying.

My furious Tweeting paid off. I won a free copy of Full Metal Jacket Diary for iPad, which I was literally in the process of buying when I learned I had won. I read it over the holidays.

This isn’t really an App review, but if you are a fan of Full Metal Jacket, I’d highly recommend it. It’s a diary that you can read and listen to with pictures as accompaniment. It’s beautiful.

Mr. Modine kept a diary during the grueling filming process. He talks about the off-screen drama (there was plenty) and you’ll get his musings on what he thinks the film might be as he was filming it. You’ll also see lots of photos, many by Mr. Modine himself (he was experimenting with a camera at the time of filming). The photos are fantastic and revealing. You’ll also learn more about the elusive Stanley Kubrick, which is fascinating as Mr. Modine paints him as pretty plain, albeit dedicated to getting his craft right.

What I enjoyed most about FMJ Diary was getting into the head of the actor who played Joker. He became Joker, and it is refreshing to read that this movie, in and out, is everything I wanted it to be.

This is what he writes after Kubrick urges him to “be” Joker as opposed to “play” Joker:

Okay, as of today, I am Joker. I’m not playing or interpreting. I am bringing my life and all my experience to this role. Not someone else’s I will take the information I’ve read and a childhood of watching war on television and “be” the role. I will use Michael and Gus’s books to understand the terrain and put myself into the world they created.

I now reject the traditional movies about war and its nobility. I honor the stories about soldiers’ dedication toward each other, but I question the motivation of the governments that send young men to battle.

I confirm my choice not to work on films that glorify war and perpetuate lies about other countries and cultures…

One of my favorite parts of FMJ is the sharp transition from the basic training sequence to Vietnam, with Joker and Rafterman being approached by a Vietnamese hooker. Joker’s hair is long and wild, his uniform sloppy. It is the transition between the order of military training and the chaos of war. There it is.

Mr. Modine saw this too:

Order. Disorder.

The military’s goal is to create order.

To the military, the world is chaos.

The military recognizes this and imposes conformity.

There is only one way, one god, one country. You do not belong to yourself. You are part of a machine. Theirs.

Directors are the same way.

The diary goes on like that. Minutiae and detail. It’s a story.

If you’re a fan, check it out.

FMJ Diary at the App Store.

film

Katniss Could Have Carried Peeta: Catching Fire, PTSD, and Women in the Infantry

Last year I kind of reviewed The Hunger Games shortly after seeing it because I enjoyed it so much. Shortly thereafter I borrowed the book from a friend at IBOLC and bought the other two, read all three, and now I consider myself a fan. I’m glad I didn’t read the books before seeing the original movie because it made the original viewing experience much richer.

Catching Fire was fantastic, but only because it met my imagination and expectation – not because it surpassed it.

I’m not going to do a full on review of Catching Fire, but I will mention a couple of things that stuck out to me that seem relevant to write about here.

If you haven’t seen the movies or read the books, you will find spoilers below Caesar Flickerman.

caesar flckerman

Very early in the film, we see that Katniss is suffering from her role in the 74th Hunger Games. She has an early flashback of killing one of the contestants and is obviously disturbed by it. She also dismisses any help offered by those around her when they recognize that she is suffering. I’m not the first to point out that she’s likely suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Haymitch (Katniss and Peeta’s mentor) also seems to be suffering from PTSD and is often found self-medicating with alcohol. The same can be said for some of the other ‘victors,’ specifically the ‘morphlings‘ from District 6 who, upon winning their games, turn to drugs and become addicts.

One of the most powerful scenes in the movie (and certainly the book, when it came at a complete surprise) was when President Snow announces that the tributes for the 75th Hunger Games would be reaped from the remaining victors. When I first read it I remember my stomach sinking and wanting to throw the book across the room. In the theater, that reveal had been numbed since I already knew it was coming, but I could hear the collective gasp from audience members around me who didn’t know. The Hunger Games is such a traumatic and terrible event, that only the thought of a peaceful life of luxury afterwards seems appropriate. To have to do it again, fully knowing you’ve passed an almost impossible test and will be tested again feels like a powerful punch right in the gut.

While not quite as dramatic as having to fight in the Hunger Games a second time, the concept of having to do it again reminds me of the repeat deployments soldiers often endure. The reactions of the victors are the same reactions I’ve seen (and felt) in the faces of friends I know. While there are some who relish the opportunity to go and prove themselves again (District 1 and 2), there are some who feel like they are getting screwed (Johanna - “Fuck that!” she screams. “And fuck everyone that had anything to do with it!”). Then there’s Katniss and Peeta, who just won The Hunger Games in dramatic fashion, and are going right back in (stop loss/combat tour extended).

There was one specific scene in the film that ensured I would write about the movie, and that came when Katniss turns to Finnick and pleads with him to carry Peeta (who was injured). “I can’t carry him,” she says, looking to Finnick and letting those words hang in the air as an absolute truth. Of course she couldn’t carry him, she’s a girl after all. Powerful Finnick helps carry Peeta and everything works out just fine.

Instantly, I was ripped out of the movie and my mind turned to that common trope used to argue against allowing women in the infantry – the “she has to be able to carry a 220lb soldier with combat equipment under fire” argument. It was unfortunate, because I was enjoying the movie until that point and was immersed in the world, but I can’t help where my mind goes. I imagined other people in the audience – probably other infantrymen, since I was at a theater near post – thinking, “See? She can’t carry him, women shouldn’t be in the infantry.”

I’ve argued previously that the “she can’t carry” argument is an argument of extremity. It’s a scenario that rarely occurs, and even when it does, good leaders will always point to the biggest guy in the squad to do the heavy lifting.

Also, I think Katniss (as played by 20-something “beast mode” Jennifer Lawrence) could have carried Peeta on screen, as opposed to 16 year old, malnourished Katniss from the book.

Lastly, I just want to comment on one of the things I love about the first two movies – the music. From the Panem anthem to the intro music to Caesar Flickermann’s show, through the first two movies I really believed that these tunes were well known throughout Panem and the people in the Hunger Games universe knew how to react to them. Like, the way that when the music starts in the arena the victors instinctively look up to the sky to see the fallen. They know this because they’ve watched The Hunger Games on television throughout their lives and know all the little rules and cues. All of this is weaved into the films seamlessly, which makes the whole world believable and frightening.

Fantastic movie. You should see it.

film

I’ve got your back, Tom Cruise

I am angry about this whole Tom Cruise thing that has blown up since Veterans Day.

For those not tracking, a story was released by TMZ with the headline: Tom Cruise – My Job’s As Hard as Fighting in Afghanistan.

If you are like most people and you are just scrolling through Facebook or Twitter early on Veterans Day, and your eyes glide over a photo of Tom Cruise next to that headline, you are likely to feel your blood pressure rise and anger generate deep in your chest. That’s what happened to me. I thought – “No way would he say that, what an idiot.”

So, I clicked the link to learn more.

At that point, I’d gather, I’d already done more than 90% of the people who reacted to the headline.

Here is the damning quote, which TMZ says it got from legal documents it obtained:

First, the Middle East — Tom says his location shoots are just like serving a tour in Afghanistan, “That’s what it feels like. And certainly on this last movie, it was brutal. It was brutal.”

And that’s it. That is the quote that warranted TMZ to write the headline claiming that Tom Cruise exclaimed that his job is as hard as fighting in Afghanistan.

I read that line and I thought – “Well, it sounds like he’s simply saying that making a movie can be exhausting.” As someone who has been on the set of a major blockbuster, I would agree.

I clicked away from the TMZ piece, happy to have discovered the truth, knowing that it was just TMZ being inflammatory.

Hours later and the damage had already been done. Outrage from the military sphere. Mock articles on the Duffle Blog. A scathing video from Action Figure Therapy. Tom Cruise became the perfect heel for Veterans Day. A wealthy Hollywood type who is already known for being eccentric, supposedly claiming he has it as bad as American soldiers fighting in Afghanistan. It serves as the perfect story to capture how removed from reality people can be, and helps shine a light on the civil-military divide.

Only, the whole thing is spectacle and manufactured outrage. I was able to tell from the TMZ story itself – BY READING IT – that the claim made in the headline was hyperbole. And then, the next day, more information emerged explaining the context in which Tom Cruise said what he said:

The comments come in a section of the deposition where Cruise is being asked about time he has spent away from daughter Suri, either because of film or other commitments.

“Now your counsel has publicly equated your absence from Suri for these extended periods of time as being analogous to someone fighting in Afghanistan,” opposing counsel asks him. “Are you aware of that?”

“I didn’t hear the Afghanistan,” Cruise replies. “That’s what it feels like and certainly on this last movie it was brutal. it was brutal.”

“Do you believe that the situations are the same?” Cruise is asked.

“Oh come on,” Cruise says, “you know, we’re making a movie.”

So not only was Tom Cruise simply responding to a question asked in regards to the feeling of separation that comes about from being away from his family while making movies, which is indeed analogous to someone being deployed, but he even goes on to scoff at the idea that those two situations are analogous: “Oh come on,” he says, indicating how silly the comparison is in the first place (even though I don’t think it’s that silly a comparison).

Facts don’t matter. The damage was done.

People – veterans especially – love to get outraged. Ranger Up posted an article naming Tom Cruise as the “Douche of the Week” and to their credit they removed the article once more information became available.

And now, Mark Wahlberg, who is out promoting his new movie Lone Survivor, is the hero of the internet because in an apparent reaction to what Tom Cruise did not say, he rants:

“For actors to sit there and talk about ‘Oh I went to SEAL training,’ and I slept on the — I don’t give a fuck what you did,” Wahlberg exclaimed. “You don’t do what these guys did. For somebody to sit there and say my job was as difficult as somebody in the military’s. How fucking dare you. While you sit in a makeup chair for two hours.”

“I don’t give a shit if you get your ass busted,” the tirade continued. “You get to go home at the end of the day. You get to go to your hotel room. You get to order fucking chicken. Or your steak. Whatever the fuck it is.”

It’s all nonsense because people aren’t actually reading these stories and thinking critically about them – they’re just reacting to the headlines in the way that they want to react so that whatever worldview they hold is validated.

As it turns out, Mark Wahlberg was asked whether his comments were a reaction to Tom Cruise, to which he said they were not.

As you know, facts don’t matter. Only outrage matters.

film

Veterans on the Set of World War Z

Me and Brad Pitt.

Me and Brad Pitt.

Update, September 29, 2013: Finally got a screen grab of me from the movie. Above.

Update, June 21, 2013: I saw the film last night and I’m proud to confirm that the scene that I describe in the paragraph below made the cut. I spent the morning searching for it online but came up short. When it comes out, I’ll get the screen-grab and put it up.

No shit, there I was, knee-deep in the the zombie apocalypse.

Pushing my way through a dimly lit, dank labyrinth deep under the USS Truman, I dodged refugees, aid workers, and other marines. I’ve been awake for two days. I haven’t shaved, and wondered if my sergeant was going to give me shit for it. I found the family of three I was looking for, a small child and his grandparents – his parents were dead. Grandpa looked wealthy, with neatly combed silver hair and a blue blazer. I know how he got on board – money. “This is bullshit,” I thought to myself. “This isn’t my job.” His arm was around his wife and his hand rested on the child’s shoulder, lovingly. I pressed up close to them, allowing others to pass behind me. “Sir,” I said, my voice dripping with hate, “we’re still looking for a space for you and your family. They’re clearing out some room in the lower decks. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

He nodded, understandingly. His family looked to me, pitifully. In the corner of my eye, I saw him approaching, holding his daughter, getting briefed by that guy from the United Nations. So this is the guy who’s going to save us, I thought? I nodded to the family, ready to head back. I really should shave.

“And, CUT!”

Brad Pitt stepped out of the door and walked past me, less than a foot away, and moved back to his starting point. We all watched. I saw him up close and he still looked handsome, but older than I ever remember seeing him on screen. The director came in and said he wanted to do the shot from a different angle. On cue, a team of burly construction men immediately entered the set and began smashing a wall, knocking it down. Drills buzzed. Paint came out and was expertly applied to dull spots. They worked quickly. Time was money.

I looked around the hallway. Another “marine” leaned against the wall, tall and in full fake kit. He looked about my age, but probably younger.

I approached him, “So, do you do this often?”

“Yeah,” he responded, cooly, “I’ve done a few movies.” Before long he was showing me pics of him on his cell phone in War Horse and the Dark Knight.

“Wow,” I said, “that’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, I’m just doing this for extra money,” he said.

My brow furrowed. He didn’t have an accent. “Are you American?” I asked?

“No, Canadian.”

“Oh,” I said, kind of surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to school, and I’m in the British Territorial Army,” he replied.

My interest piqued and I turned to face him a bit more, “Oh, cool. I was in the American Army. I’m here now for graduate school.”

“Cool,” he said, cooly.

Two summers ago, with the help of a ragtag bunch of veterans (and Brad Pitt) I helped save the world from a zombie apocalypse.

I was studying in London when I saw this article looking for US service members or veterans in the United Kingdom to act as extras in a zombie flick. My classes were over, I could certainly use the extra money, and I had never been in a movie. Visions of being discovered and starting my new life as an action star swirled in my mind. I sent them a picture and was thrilled when I received an email asking me to be an extra. I would play a marine.

Later that week I boarded a London train to some distant place, a compound out to the west of London. I walked past giant warehouses where other movies were being filmed. The sounds of saws cut the morning air, flowing out of warehouses where sets were being created for our enjoyment.

I found my building, checked in, and took a seat. After a few minutes I was called and sent to wardrobe for fitting. The place looked like a military Goodwill. Rows and rows of uniforms hung from mobile hangers. The wardrobe guy took my little slip of paper and looked at it for a moment and then looked up at me. “Marine, eh?” he said in a thick British accent.

“No, I was in the Army,” I responded, matter-of-factly.

He let out an annoyed laugh, “Nah mate, you’re playing a Marine, right?”

“Ah, yes,” I said, embarrassed.

He looked at me again, sizing me up. “Do you know your sizes?”

“Medium Regular, top and bottoms, eight and a half regular for boots,” I said confidently.

I imagined that my precise knowledge of military sizing conventions impressed him and saved him precious time. He set off to find the uniform.

“Your name’s Gomez, eh? How about Gunnery Sergeant Gonzalez then?” he asked, approaching holding a uniform on a hanger.

“Sounds good to me,” I said, taking the uniform from him. Marine desert cammies.

“You’re going to have to roll the sleeves, like Marines do,” he said as I was slipping on the top. “You know how to do that?”

We did something similar in my old days with the 82d Airborne Division, when we still wore the green camouflage uniforms. “Yes, I know how,” I said.

I didn’t. He was going down a checklist, annotating what sizes I would wear. I was panicking, trying to get the sleeves to fold just right. I felt my face get flush and I started to sweat. I didn’t want this to look bad.

Sensing that he was finishing up, I did the best I could and put the top back on and stood up. One sleeve was slightly tighter than the other. It didn’t feel right, but I think it looked okay.

He looked me over, studying. “Okay,” he said, nodding slowly, “Go over to makeup.”

I marched out of the building and started toward the makeup trailer. This was the first time I had worn a military uniform in five years. As my foot stepped over the door frame, I dutifully placed the marine cap onto my head and placed two fingers on the bridge of my nose, the tips barely touching the brim, ensuring a proper fit.

Five years and old habits die hard.

I stepped into makeup and two middle aged women ushered me in. It was like Ab Fab. “Well, look at you soldier! Go ahead and take off your cap and sit in the chair.”

I took off my cap, revealing a freshly shaved head. They chuckled. “Well, nothing we can do there, luv.” I climbed into the chair and smiled. They studied my face in the mirror and applied some makeup, dulling the shine of my head.

“Go ahead and stand against that wall, luv,” one of them said, the other handing me a placard to hold with my information written on it. They snapped a Polaroid and handed it to me.

“Bring that back to casting,” she ordered, “and when you come back for filming, make sure you don’t shave for a couple of days. You’re supposed to look tired. Zombies, you know.”

I nodded and stepped out of the trailer, heading back to casting. I thought it strange that I wasn’t supposed to shave. I was there for the invasion of Iraq, and in the craziness of the rush to Baghdad, our leaders made sure we shaved every morning. I couldn’t imagine that even a zombie apocalypse would interfere with the duties and obsessions of wicked sergeants throughout the military.

I went back to casting and handed my slip to the young woman at the desk. She smiled and said to come back next week to start shooting.

A week later, there I was, sitting in the corner of a large room inside of a warehouse. We self-segregated. Extras who were playing civilians and refugees huddled together on one side of the room and extras who were playing uniformed military personnel huddled together on the other side of the room. The two groups didn’t interact. It was stupid and childish. We ate cheap cookies and drank cup after cup of coffee and tear as we waited to be called in.

Most of the military guys already knew each other. They lived there in the UK and did ‘extra’ work on the side pretty regularly. They moved from set to set, like vultures. One guy from the Air Force took leave for two weeks in order to do this. They shared “war stories” from other movies they were in. iPhones came out and they boasted over pictures from War Horse and Dark Knight.

I kept quiet, mostly. I was embarrassed by the whole thing. I never did this before. Eventually we got around to telling everyone our stories – what service we were in, what we did, and whether we deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan or not. I felt superior because I had actually deployed and fought. No one else in the group had. I was an infantryman, a grunt. These guys were just support personnel, mechanics and engineers. I felt like I deserved to be on the set, next to Brad Pitt. I earned the right to be there. They were going to play infantrymen in a Hollywood blockbuster but hadn’t actually done it for real. I was angry and disgusted.

The only guy I got along with was the Canadian guy who was an aspiring actor. He was in the British Territorial Army, which is kind of like the US National Guard. He was infantry, but hadn’t deployed. Close enough, I thought. I told him stories about Iraq and he told me stories about picking up girls on different movie sets. It was a mutual admiration.

Later in the week, as I stood in a very depressing line with the other extras, waiting to sign our payment stub for the day, the man with the silver hair asked if I wanted a ride to the train station. “Sure,” I responded.

After signing my stub, I left with him and we walked out into the parking lot to his car.

“So, you’re military?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “Well, I was… I mean, I’m a veteran. I got out in 2006. I’m here for school.”

“Oh!” he said, sounding impressed. “Did you.. go overseas?” he asked, with some trepidation. When people find out you were in the military, they want to know if you went to Iraq or Afghanistan. Then they want to know if you killed anyone, in that order.

“Yes, twice. I deployed twice. To Iraq,” I said, opening the passenger side door and sliding into his car. He drove a nice car.

We started driving. “You know, I served in Vietnam. I was a pilot,” he said.

I looked at him, surprised. “No kidding! That’s amazing. What did you fly?”

“AC-130 gunships,” he said proudly, turning his head slightly to make eye contact.

“Cool!” I said with like an excited kid. I saw the magnificence of the AC-130 when I was deployed to Iraq, and infantrymen everywhere respect its raw power.

“Yeah,” he said, remembering.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, suddenly more surprised at his being here.

He rattled off something about the State Department, and some kind of business. I really didn’t understand, and I really didn’t care. My mind was still focused on what it must have been like to be an AC-130 pilot in Vietnam, and how weird it was meeting him like this.

On the quiet ride from the studio to the train station, we spoke about how strange it was that here we were, two American veterans from different eras, just outside of London, filming a zombie movie with Brad Pitt. We talked about how odd it would be to tell our old selves, at war, that one day we would be doing what we’re doing. It didn’t make much sense, but we loved it.

I asked him if he does this regularly. “No,” he said, “this is the first time.”

He dropped me off at the train station and we said goodbye. After that week of filming, I never saw him again.

Next day on set. I knew I looked right. I contacted one of my friends who had served in the Marines and he gave me a lesson through a Google+ Hangout on how to properly roll the sleeves. I looked sharp. We lined up for inspection. Most of us were military, or ex-military. There was me, the old-paratrooper turned Middle East Studies student, the Air Force guy from Columbus, Georgia who believed in every conspiracy theory he ever heard, the hard looking British Army Engineer who had firm instructions not to say anything because his accent was so thick, and the suave Canadian who told me stories of picking up girls on the sets of different movies. There we were. A bunch of military-esque faux actors, lined up, ready for fake inspection.

Then our master walked in, lower lip protruding, filled with tobacco. He was shorter than me. He looked like a hundred sergeants I had seen before; grizzled, confident, angry. He was white, with close cut hair, crows feet around the eyes. He wore a white t-shirt, jeans, and old combat boots. Hands in his pockets, he walked past us, looking us up and down.

“Fix your helmet, it’s fucking crooked,” he said to one of us.

He moved down the line, stopping at another, looking down at his boots. “Seriously,” he asked, “tuck your pants into your boots. Goddamn, marine!”

He passed me without making any comments, thank god.

He was the on set military advisor. An ex-marine that somehow found his way into the most amazing job in the world. His role was to ensure that everything military seemed realistic, or at least as realistic as possible. It is the job that only a grizzled junior sergeant could do. Someone whose eye was trained for stupid details, things that other people would think insignificant, but would ruin the movie for veterans and military folk. He also served as the de facto mother-fucker-in-charge for all of the extras playing military roles on set, something he seemed to enjoy. We liked him and admired him, but were also deeply jealous that somehow he landed that job, and we didn’t.

He appeared on set between shots to make sure our uniforms still looked right and to suggest we stand a certain way, to make sure we looked like we were really marines, and not just ex-Army guys trying to play a marine in a movie.

My biggest moment came late in the week, when a panicky production assistant came into our room and pointed to me, splayed out on the floor reading a book about Vietnam. “You, Marine, follow me,” he said. I quickly got up and followed. The others looked at me jealously.

The on set military advisor fitted me with fake body armor and a fake helmet. They looked real but had none of the weight. He also gave me a fake 9mm pistol which went in a leg holster and a fake M4 rifle which I held.

He gave me a once over once my kit was on. “You were Army, right?” he said in a thick southern drawl, lip full of tobacco. “Yeah,” I said, not wanting to take any shit.

“Don’t make us look bad, roger?”

“Yeah, roger,” I said. I wasn’t in the Army anymore and this wasn’t even the military. This was stupid.

I was whisked onto set and placed in front of a door. My production guidance was to “guard the door” which meant standing in front of it, looking natural – don’t stand completely still, move around a bit, but not too much! Really, it meant me shifting as much as possible to try to get in the shot so that I might see myself on the big screen when the movie comes out.

I stood in that hallway for a couple of hours, shifting, but not too much. It was hot and I began to sweat. The fake body armor wasn’t heavy, but it fit tight against my body. Finally, we were put on break and I walked off set and into a hallway, finding a folding chair to sit down in.

As I sat down, the body armor slid up slightly creating a small pocket of space between my chest and the armor, forcing up a super-charged hot stream of air that swooped into my nostrils.

Boom.

For an instant I was whisked away from this fake zombie world straight to bright and sunny post-apocalyptic Baghdad, 2003. The smell of body armor, uniform, and human perspiration, compressed for hours and suddenly released straight to my nose fucked me up. It’s not that it’s a bad smell. It was just painfully familiar. The smell hits hard and only lasts a second. The air is hot and it smells like me, scared and gross. Primal.

I sat there in the chair for a moment and looked around, suddenly dizzy. I laughed slightly, because of how weird it felt. Here I was, a well-adjusted veteran, in graduate school in London, playing a marine in a movie, suddenly weirded out because of a stupid smell from underneath some fake body armor.

That smell activated feelings inside that were dormant for years. Bio-chemical feelings. Visceral stuff inside of my bones, muscles, and cells that knew just what to do in terrible situations. Feelings that helped me survive in one environment that had no place in this one. My body ached dully for a moment, and then it was gone.

The production assistant came in, “We’re starting in a few minutes, come on in,” he said, waving me forward.

I stood up, adjusted my armor, and stepped back on set and in front of my zombie door. Shifting, but not too much.

film

Jacob’s Ladder and the need for “serious talk” for veterans

I watched Jacob’s Ladder last night. I saw it once when I was a kid, probably around ten years old. My parent’s had HBO and I it was on television. It was a sleepy Saturday afternoon and I had control of the television. I remember being chilled to the bone when I saw it then and I was surprised by how much of it stayed with me some twenty years later. It all felt very familiar.

It’s a great movie and before its time. Seeing it now, as a veteran, it gripped me in a way it didn’t – it couldn’t – the first time. The movie is still terrifying, but less so because of the psychological/horror aspect of it and more because of the similarities some veterans face on homecoming.

The scene above (not in its entirety, unfortunately) was especially powerful for me. Here are two Vietnam veterans in New York City who haven’t heard from each other in years. One calls the other and pleads, saying he has to speak to him. Without question, they meet at a bar. They speak in whispered tones, and admit to each other that they are both being chased by demons that others can’t see. Worse, they can’t talk to anyone about it, because no one else understands.

But they understand.

You can sense the relief they feel, just knowing there is someone else out there that gets it.

It reminds me of one of the key findings from my dissertation, that many veterans need “serious talk” in order to successfully transition from military service.

There’s another scene – of which I can’t find the clip – that demonstrates this perfectly. The group of vets are together at the funeral of a buddy and Jacob begins to talk about the demons. Most of the veterans pause and look up at him, wanting him to say more, to confirm that what they’re facing is real. One of them nervously makes a dick joke, not wanting to deal with it. None of them find it funny. The time for jokes and war stories has passed. These are older men now, out of Vietnam and trying to get on with their lives but still haunted by demons from the jungles. They want to get better and figure out. They want to move on.

I don’t want to spoil the movie for those who haven’t seen it – so if you want to call me out on some major plot points, don’t bother – I know.

For a movie that really isn’t about war or homecoming, it manages to capture both of those things in a way most movies don’t. There are some stereotypical Vietnam images in the film, but nothing that stood out as offensive.

Sometimes fiction speaks the truth better than the truth.

film

Zero Dark Thirty: I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit

“What time are we going on the raid?”
“Zero Dark Thirty, bro.”
“You are such a tool.”

These are my unfair thoughts of Zero Dark Thirty, a movie I have not seen. A movie I am not against. A movie I will see when I get the chance.

Zero Dark Thirty has already been the subject of skepticism and pre-emptive statements from government officials. Besides the inaccurate depictions of “enhanced interrogation techniques” and their futility, there are a number of other things that worry me about Zero Dark Thirty, a tightly shot, beautifully cast, suspenseful punctuation mark to close ten-plus years of real drama, neatly packaged in an easily digestible 160 minutes.

I go to the movies almost every weekend, and I’ve seen the various trailers for Zero Dark Thirty at least a half dozen times. Like any good Hollywood customer, my body has been trained to respond to the cues I’ve been fed. The eerie music, the fading cuts, the crescendoing sounds leading to a quiet scene of night vision-fueled monochromatic green, showing what I know to be the OBL raid, what I assume to be one of the final scenes of the movie.

The trailer got me pumped up for a movie I never really wanted to see, a movie that will undoubtedly become known by the American public as the definitive story of the ‘Global War on Terror.’ A movie that was originally being written as the failure of that endeavor, and was pretty much completely re-written after the OBL raid as a thriller.

You know, to reflect victory.

I’m sure that it’s going to be a great, fun movie. It’s going to be exciting. It’s going to make me anxious, and like Kathryn Bigelow did in The Hurt Locker, it will probably make me feel things that I’ve felt before. Fear, tension, frustration, anxiety, and maybe relief. I’ll probably leave the theater with my chest out, proud to be an American!

In fairness, I liked The Hurt Locker. I thought it was a film that captured the “feel” of being an American soldier on an Iraqi street better than anything else I’ve seen. The scene of the main character overwhelmed by the colors, choices, and ultimate insignificance of the cereal aisle resonated with me and many other veterans I know as a snapshot of “what it’s like” to come back from war. I forgave the movie’s caricature of American soldiers and the details of uniforms and equipment as trivial and insider knowledge that just wasn’t that important. It was a movie, after all. Not a documentary.

Over time though, my thoughts on The Hurt Locker have changed. Because of the film’s success (it won Best Picture in 2010), it became the de-facto Iraq War movie. When I was still in college, people would respond with “Oh, I’ve seen The Hurt Locker” upon meeting me and learning that I was in the Army and had deployed to Iraq. The fact that they’ve seen The Hurt Locker was their way of connecting with me, to let me know that they understood what it must have been like. And that is a little unnerving.

It’s no fault of theirs, though. As a culture, we learn from movies. Most of my imagery of the Vietnam War comes from movies; Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Platoon. I’m sure those are gross characterizations of “what it was like.” I’ve gone further and read about the war, but the images from the movies still color what I learn.

A successful movie based somewhat on reality will become the reality for those who see it. There is already so much buzz surrounding Zero Dark Thirty, it will undoubtedly be successful. This story will become the historical record. Not just for Americans, but for people across the world who will see it and accept it as the way “it” happened.

So here’s why I’m a little concerned:

For those who don’t know, “Zero Dark Thirty” is military vernacular for extremely late at night or extremely early in the morning, a time when it will almost certainly be dark. It’s one of those military terms that is overused by gung-ho new recruits during basic training and discarded by more weathered troops because of how lame it is. Like “hooah, “squared-away,” “get some,” and “hurt locker” (a term that I never even heard until it was the title of the movie).

It means you've been fooled.

It means you’ve been fooled.

To the general public, it sounds cool and ominous. I’m sure that one of the screenwriters came across the term during time spent with US troops, and scribbled it down in a little notebook. I’d be curious to know what the original title was going to be, before the successful OBL raid, when the movie was about the failed manhunt for OBL. But this is the crux of what bothers me about Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal’s work. They take something mysterious to the public, like a piece of jargon, and then sell it to the public to satisfy that craving for something authentic. A piece of the war that a tiny few actually experienced. The title is just the icing. The film is the cake. It feels like they are taking something inside, controversial, and complicated, producing it for general consumption with beautiful stars and effects, and packaging it as the legit, authoritative experience.

Only it’s not.

It’s exploitative, voyeuristic, and pornographic.

Maybe I am off here, but there is something that rubs me the wrong way about a journalist who on one hand writes a story that needed to be written – The Kill Team in Afghanistan exposé - and then on the other hand writes a couple of films that tell a caricatured version of war that is marketed as the authentic story. Wearing the serious journalist hat in the morning, exposing atrocities of the Army, and then wearing the Hollywood screenwriter hat in the evening, making big money telling hooah stories about war.

Of course, the filmmakers can always deflect any criticism by saying “It’s a movie, not a documentary” which is true. But that ignores the reality of how it will be consumed – how they know it will be marketed and consumed. That, to me, is irresponsible.

I’m not boycotting Zero Dark Thirty. I’m actually looking forward to seeing it and I’ll see it when I get the chance. But I won’t accept it as anything but a fantasy.

film

“If the shit gets too thick I’ll go to the rifle.”

Time Magazine’s Battleland blog ran a photo gallery yesterday titled “I Shot 29 Bullets and 212 Images.” I imagine this is a quote from the combat photographer who took the pictures. The title immediately reminded me of one of my favorite scenes from Full Metal Jacket. It’s the scene where the marines had just taken Hue city and were giving interviews to the media. Most of the marines appear jaded, uncomfortable, sarcastic, or aggressive in front of the camera.

But not the “combat correspondent” who stands squarely in front of the camera, weapon held in the crook of his elbow so that he appears in complete control of it, camera hanging around his neck. He boasts:

“Well it depends on the situation, I mean, I’m here to take combat photos, but if the shit gets too thick, I mean, I’ll go to the rifle.”


Note: Our hero begins at 2:20 

Every other marine giving interviews was being honest. It is only the combat correspondent who said the words he thought he was supposed to say. Polished, with just enough aggressiveness to warrant praise but not so much to invite scorn. Whenever I hear someone boast about how brave or hard they are (or will be), I like to quote the combat correspondent.