We'll make the g**** play the indians.
On re-watch, this holds up, maybe even a good deal more than I expected. There are all kinds of "anti-war" movies: the Burdened White Man, paternalistic "war is hell" kind; the unprincipled liberal, fake-pacifist "everybody does bad stuff" kind [some with admittedly more nuance than others]; or better yet, "shit's complicated, but boy am I glad the CIA is out there making the 'tough calls' [somebody's gotta do it!] and getting their hands messy/propitiating for us [you know, kinda like Jesus]" kind. Then there's FMJ.
Truly razor-wielding and savage, with a painfully and quintessentially post-modern protagonist whose military rapes and kills for the gospel of Mickey Mouse. From the dynamic and commonly lauded first half to the [spoiler]absolutely -devastating- final reveal of the lone, woman sniper,[/spoiler] the score is understated and haunting. The halves are brilliantly in dialogue-- each being the absolutely necessary prelude or postlude for the other-- in this justly blunt and beautifully simple penultimate feature from ol' anti-humanist Stan.
"Full Metal Jacket" [Kubrick, 1987].
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