Fury
Brad Pitt, aka 'Wardaddy' is the commander of a Sherman tank, and an exceptionally good one-he's kept the same crew together since Africa, and that's an almost unheard-of feat.
Fury picks up the crew after a particularly bloody and devastating battle, and they've suffered their first casualty. There's "Bible," played by a mustachioed Shia LeBouef, who must ask everyone he meets if they're saved.
This is the toast members of a tank crew all offer to each other at the end of a particularly intense battle sequence in the new World War II drama Fury. They're being sarcastic and/or ironic-all of them would rather be somewhere, anywhere else-but you get the sense that, even in the midst of the joke, they're also speaking the truth.
The adrenaline rush of a kill-or-be-killed situation is addictive, and there's nothing like putting everything on the line for a cause that you believe in. And so even though every one of them would whoop and holler at the chance to go home, you get the sense that they're going to find any other job startlingly anticlimactic.
It's 1945, D-Day is over and done with, and the Allies are marching through Germany, waiting for Hitler to quit fighting. It's not at all clear if the soldiers know that they are fighting so hard not to defeat the Nazis, who are already beaten, but to race the Soviet army to Berlin, that their lives are lost in a mad dash to keep Russia from becoming the dominant political power in Europe. But maybe it doesn't matter.
Brad Pitt, aka 'Wardaddy' is the commander of a Sherman tank, and an exceptionally good one-he's kept the same crew together since Africa, and that's an almost unheard-of feat. Fury picks up the crew after a particularly bloody and devastating battle, and they've suffered their first casualty. There's "Bible," played by a mustachioed Shia LeBouef, who must ask everyone he meets if they're saved. Also "Gordo," played by Michael Pena, and the monosyllabic "Coon-Ass," who's supposed to be from Alabama or something.
The whole crew is shell-shocked and grieving, and none-too-happy when their dead partner is replaced by a typist with no combat experience or training. That's Logan Lerman, in the role Shia LeBouf would've played five years ago, the fresh-eyed kid, wet behind the ears (and in the eyes) who you know from the moment he's introduced will be the only one left alive by the time the credits roll. LeBouf isn't the gee-gosh kid anymore, but if he's learning to act, it's slowly. He can't seem to get through more than three lines without tearing up, and he very nearly ruins in more than one scene by turning on the waterworks. The guy seems to have the acting range of a chef in a kitchen full of onions. In contrast, I will watch Michael Pena in almost anything. He has the rare ability to be goofy one moment and tough the next, to tell a joke and then bark an order seamlessly. His repertoire with Jake Gyllenhaal in "End of Watch" absolutely saved that movie, which would have been unwatchable with a more dour, less verbally acrobatic actor in the role. Someone like Shia LeBeouf, for instance.
Fury boils down to a series of action sequences, with moral proclamations (some heavy-handed, some lighter and better) interspersed in between. There's not really much time for characterization; aside from one extended scene involving a dinner with two shell-shocked German women, there's hardly a moment outside of the tank. We learn what we learn about these guys through their behavior in combat, which means that, by the end, we both know almost nothing about them, and everything we need to know. I think this is on purpose; it reflects how these men know each other. They may not know one another's wife's name, hometown, or favorite baseball team, but they know exactly what to expect from each other in a fight. Their shared experience is going to be something that will bond them together forever-and something they'll spend the rest of their lives trying to forget.
But oh, those action sequences. The ending is thrilling, an effects-laden blowout, riddled with tracers screaming through the night air, but even better than that is an earlier showdown between three American tanks and one giant German behemoth. The tanks whirl around each other in an open field like predators battling for territory, executing breathtaking turns and fighting for an angle, an edge, a way to get a shot off. It looks like something out of Top Gun. It's hard to imagine these giant blocks of steel and mud ever looking quick or graceful, but that's exactly what makes this scene so exciting and memorable.
Fury is the best war film to come along since Letters of Iwo Jima. It's significantly better than Monuments Men or War Horse or that tonally confused Spike Lee joint a couple of years ago. A lingering sentimentalism keeps Fury from elevating to the rare ranks of the very best war films, like Saving Private Ryan. Director David Ayer is a little bit too willing to linger on horrific images; he extends beyond showing us the horrors of war and, at times, feels like he's elbowing us and saying "horrible, isn't it?" It gets a little irritating; I know a shocking image when I see one; I don't need the camera to linger on it and make sure I take in all its horror.
Willie Krischke lives in Durango, Colorado and works for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship with Native American students at Fort Lewis College. To read more of his reviews, go to http://www.gonnawatchit.com
