Shooting the Elephant
All Quiet on the Western Front is a quality production, and that's the trouble
[Deeper now into my annual review of Best Picture Oscar nominees! So far I’ve done Everything Everywhere All At Once and Avatar: The Way of Water– now, this:]
There has been some bitchery about All Quiet On The Western Front — the new version from Germany that’s up for the Best Picture Oscar, based on the Remarque novel and first filmed by Lewis Milestone in 1930. At Slate, for example, Rebecca Schuman calls the new one “a high-budget Black Forest Chainsaw Massacre without any of the horror genre’s usual pleasures.” This strikes me as completely wrong; in fact director Edward Berger’s restraint is obvious and admirable (though the motivations for that may be mixed). But in the end the restraint may be what undoes the movie.
It didn’t surprise me when AQOTWF wound up with so many Oscar nominations; it’s the closest current equivalent of those elephantine quality pics that usually filled a nomination slot in the five-nominee days like Nicholas and Alexandria, Judgment at Nuremberg, King Solomon’s Mines, and Gandhi. These lead balloons used stunning scale, literary pedigree, and/or social significance (so long as it didn’t creep into social criticism) to make the product look sufficiently expensive and serious to justify the price of the ticket.
Now, some of those movies are pretty good, at least in their craft elements — quality will tell! — but there’s almost always something missing, because in this kind of movie-making the conceptual stuff that snobs like me go for is usually way down the list of priorities. (Look at Ben-Hur — perfectly lovely production, but when you compare it to most of William Wyler’s other movies it’s sort of a drag.)
The story, which I only know from Milestone’s version, is as elemental as it gets: The disillusionment and eventual destruction of Paul, a German youth caught in the maw of the First World War, played with appropriate callowness and horror by Felix Kammerer. Nearly all the drama is in the many opportunities All Quiet provides for Paul and his comrades to die. Though the comrades are properly introduced, most never get a chance to become more than “the one with the glasses” or “the one that looks like Andrew Garfield” — which makes sense, as war cuts so many down before they become fully themselves. But this vitiates the dramatic impetus, because besides Paul there’s no one we’re worrying about too much, as we expect everyone to die. Kat, the cobbler who becomes Paul’s best mate, is an exception, and his and Paul’s adventures and discussions are among the best scenes; but the usual war movie rooting interests are not much in play.
Thus Paul’s life is the film’s MacGuffin, in the old fashioned Hitchcock sense — we can’t really leave until he dies or gets out. What this MacGuffin pulls us through is a famously anti-war property, though, and for that to be effective it has to be more than a funhouse of horror and disgust, which (were it as Schuman describes) would quickly wear us out. And at times during the two-and-a-half-hour run it seems as if it will.
But there are incidents that broaden the palette: For example, in one scene (mild spoiler) Paul and Kat bring badly-needed food to their badly-wounded buddy and his sudden turn for the worse distracts them; after the buddy has died (horribly), Paul finds that another famished soldier has stolen and is eating his meal. The way Paul’s and Kat’s raids on a French farmhouse end up would be more spoilerish to reveal so I won’t, but I will say these are the kind of coldly observed realities that make the film’s “one damned thing after another” plot more bearable, because the one damned thing after another looks less like a movie plot and more like life itself.
I’ll add that while the violence is disturbing and its persistence grinds, it is remarkably tasteful considering what a meat-grinder the war is. That sounds ridiculous, but there’s good and bad to it. On the one hand, any fool can blow up heads and bloat dead bodies, but it takes an artist to give hell a unified visual structure. The blasted faces look like grotesque masks rather than destroyed flesh, more muddy than bloody, which apart from the suggestion of decay reduces the Grand Guignol factor, and leaves the relentlessness of the destruction rather than Famous Monsters of Filmland effects to do the work.
On the other hand, I also suspect another reason there’s less gore than there might be is that the filmmakers didn’t want to drive the audience out of the theater or into hysterics. But who knows — maybe, given the message, that’s just what they should have done.
The craft work is fine. I can accept the argument that the cinematography and art direction are too clean, but I find they make the devastation coherent and believable (and do a good job of showing the natural beauty it’s displaced as well). The discordances and weird noises in Volker Bertelmann’s score are surprising and just right. I’m less enthusiastic about the insertion of armistice negotiation scenes — especially since the ironic spectacle of well-fed politicians dithering while boys die is rather spoiled by Matthias Erzberger’ desperation to get the armistice done. (Maybe there’s a German thing going on there I’m not clear on.) The acting is all up to snuff, especially Thibault de Montalembert as an ice-hard General Foch.
I wonder how many AQOTWF viewers will make the connection with the war in Ukraine. I don’t watch war movies because they make me remember the Vietnam War. The part of the book that stays with me most strongly is Paul’s visit home, where the non-combatants fail to understand the reality he has been immersed in. Is it virtual signaling to say, I didn’t have to go to Southeast Asia to know and reject what America was doing over there in the 60’s? So much of the country’s fascist devolution, in my opinion, arose from deciding we should glorify that inexcusable war - sort of like 1930’s Germany, no? If real war doesn’t convince everyone it’s a moral disaster, how can a film.
I was put off by the changes from the original source material. This is admittedly shaped by my per-existing prejudice. I've read the novel several times, and the 1929 movie completely blew my twelve year old mind. I never looked at a war movie the same way after that.
Anyone making an adaptation has to weigh what to cut or add or outright change. They want to make a coherent film that hopefully keeps the audience engaged. In this case, they managed to miss Remarque's main points. Paul's death is set a few weeks before the end of the war, and is meaningless in the greater scheme of things. No big deal to anyone, not worth mentioning in the daily reports. And that is what impacts the reader or the viewer. In the novel, the first person narration simply stops. A final paragraph notes that he fell, but gives no cause. In the 1929 version gives us the wrenching butterfly scene, a masterclass in understated horror. Again, the banality of Paul's demise makes it's impact stronger. The filmmakers decided that a huge battle in the final moments leading up to the armistice would have more impact than Remarque's quieter original ending. They read abut the use of irony in school, and bludgeoned us with it. They forgot the maxim, "Sometimes Less Is More."
The new version gives us a stereotypical evil Prussian Officer sending his starving men out to die while he picks at his gourmet meal. We've seen this guy a thousand times. I guess they decided to use him to replace the much more effective Corporal Himmelstoss. The more life experience on has, the more one recognizes Himmelstoss as a real person. Or even someone like ourselves - what would we do if we suddenly had absolute power, backed by the state? Yesterday I was the village postman, smiling and nodding to people I despise. Now, I have a room full of kids on whom to unleash years of pent up sadism.
Another quibble, which I may have ranted about here, was the farmhouse raid. I just can't see farmers who want to survive the war taking potshots at occupying army troops, no matter how many chickens get stolen.
I'll give credit where it's due. The opening sequence of the uniform getting salvaged, patched, and handed to the next cannon fodder was masterfully done. Then I realize that it was a re-imagining of Remarque's tale of the expensive, (and cursed), boots everyone envies.