It's interesting that 1917 is not just a Dreamworks production, but an Amblin one too...

Rating: 10/10 (6 February 2020)

...Much more than Dunkirk, 1917 feels like a compliment to Saving Private Ryan, and, if you'll pardon the obvious connection, a brother film to it. While Spielberg houses Saving Private Ryan in a groundbreaking, bombastic and terrifying shell to shock a reminder to the world of the sacrifices made in recent history to afford us our freedom and complacency, 1917 is a love letter to those who never gave up, and enlisted a purity of spirit to see their missions to their end. And like Saving Private Ryan, Sam Mendes does this with no less bravura and potency.
In many ways, despite the comparisons, 1917 is the antithesis of Dunkirk, a film that is more of an exercise than a cinematic experience, one that strains the limits of its medium in a different way, a finely tuned watch turned out and rearranged in front of you, and with a sadistic and pervading intent to accost and unbalance you immediately and not let go until the final moments.
1917, however, goes out of its way to show you the linearity and simplicity of its thrust; the trenches, such as they were designed to be, are the perfect proof of concept to get the audience on board and lulled to this new version of cinema presentation with the long takes. The film takes the time to show you the world through environmental storytelling (not the first time in this review I'll reference video games!) and whereas Gravity put its bland characters and dialogue front and centre, 1917 carefully uses the extra characters and dialogue as a subconscious layer or normality, to draw you in to a hypnotic trance as Deakins' camerawork and lighting slowly pulls out of the faces of the leads their grief or exhaustion, wracked with unimaginable thoughts we are blessed never to have to think.
And as such, and due to its vibrant camera work and unstuffy photography, it doesn't feel twee or old at all. The approach of ensuring 1917 didn't feel rote or samey and instead feel exceptionally present and modern and human also allows it to be relatable and less of an archive document and more resonant to now.
Many of Deakins' shots are incredible. In fact almost all of them are, not content with stitching multiple long takes together, Mendes/Deakins et al have crafted a million moving paintings. And the long takes are a thing of beauty; a few conveniently placed rocks or cuts to black in the cloth of someone's back notwithstanding, this is the absolute best I've seen this kind of technology and approach being used. It's a far cry from the awkward shoehorning of some of Birdman's obvious cuts and even pips Cuaron's Children of Men for most impactful use of long takes.
This is most felt in moments of real loss. The camera, lingering there as we know it will, injected into me a deep sadness at the normality of death, the general lack of significance or theatricality. The acting then benefits greatly from these long takes, the characters feeling like they are ebbing and flowing physically and emotionally towards and away from us as if we're running to keep up with a busy friend, afraid we'll lose them. As they draw away they seem to emotionally retreat into themselves, and when we're gifted a close up, it's such a palpable and tacit moment that it eclipses theatre (the medium compared to 1917 most in early interviews) by proving us with the heartbreaking simplicity of looking into another's face. Mark Strong acts up a treat in the small part he's in and he's an enigmatic and welcome role and one that proves he can still act beyond generic villains with unconvincing American accents.
1917 owes a great debt to video games; the walking simulator, the first person shooter and the stealth game. Certain moments feeling like they are ripped directly from video games; the tense barren walk listening for gunfire or footsteps, twitch finger on the trigger ready for when that enemy rounds the corner in Call of Duty, will you shoot or flee? Or those moments of respite and story in Metro, between the gunfire and struggle, as you wander through an enclave of survivors, or silently taking down an enemy as you spin the camera around to see if his mate can see you in his cone of vision. All these moments are fresh and immediate in a way that's missing from something like Dunkirk. However, I don't think that's the only reason for this, I think that using much more of a recognised first person perspective approach mirrors the diaries and letters and journals chronicling World War I and so 1917 manages to be authentic my borrowing from a very modern medium and arches backwards by reaching forwards.
I'm intrigued why, besides in order to advance the timeline, that Mendes chose to put that single obvious cut in the film. And I'm not sure I liked or needed the subtitles, it pulled me right out of the experience and reminded me I was watching a film and it served little purpose, especially because the French was designed to be simple and he didn't really understand it anyway. I'm reminded of Polanski and his one regret with Chinatown when he wished he'd put the image on a camera lens upside down as it would have been in real life but for studio pressure he relented and put it the incorrect way for clarity. I wonder if Mendes would look back on this the same way.
But that notwithstanding the film is close to flawless. And despite being half an hour longer than Dunkirk, it doesn't feel it and I wouldn't have taken anything out. Interestingly it must have been tight and bold screenplay to allow for almost no wiggle room and little retiming. I guess that's Mendes' theatre experience kicking in. The film is full of little moments but they are the most meaningful parts. In some slim ways I thought Tarkovsky may be proud of it, and I had partial and welcome Stalker and Andrei Rublev flashbacks.
The film is essentially about you and this soldier. And how much you really connect with him is a testament to how earned and fist-pumping the more (brief) saccharine moments are. There's a close up towards the end of the film and I felt as if I could read the characters mind and I was completely urging him to make the decision I knew he would make anyway. That's powerful stuff and a feeling I never really get in cinema very much anymore.
Those moments are swept up, bolstered, underscored or otherwise lifted by Thomas Newman's incredible score. Newman, not a stranger to iconic, recognisable and listen-to-able scores manages to do the impossible (for him) and creates a powerful score that doesn't immediately sound like his work. It's a score that tells all that's missing in a scene without the film having to resort to exposition. It's not an an obvious score until it wants to be. And it's a world away from Zimmer's now predictable cacophony even though it sometimes scantily resembles it in places.
There was a moment in the film, a very deliberate moment of drama and arch-power when I realised what an aural and visual treat this movie was. It was like being on the stage of an opera; it was grandiose and energetic and flamboyant and iconic and at the centre was this small figure running through what for many could have been their afterlife. This "afterlife" moment felt like adrenaline itself; not shock, just awe; danger, fragility, beauty and purity. I have never wanted a moment in a movie, without realising it, more. It was cinematic bliss. Good job 1917. My day started and I was at work. But by the end of it, I was exactly where I wanted to be.