Spielberg's ability to capture the palpable madness of all this borders on the incredible. From the spillage of viscera, the shearing of limbs, the gushing of blood and the psychotic whimsy of the bullets, to a final kind of fog of panic and soul-deep fear, he makes you glad it was your daddy's job, and not yours. He who shoots from the best position and brings the most fire to bear, he's the winner. It's mean, terrifying, exhausting and quipless. There's no spunk and very little humor.
Morale is nonexistent.
It's Bill Mauldin's Willie and Joe without the punch lines, but with a lot of dead GIs and a crushing melancholy hanging over everything like smoke. But this will become evident only in time. Mrs. Ryan, of Every Farm, U.S.A., will get three letters on the same day. In a spirit of decency and in accordance with what seems to be his career-long recognition of benevolent authority, he makes us see on what basis Marshall makes his decision, and how, no matter how it plays out, it represents the best of the American spirit, not the worst. Or bring back his dog tags.