How Hollywood confronted the Vietnam veteran… | Little White Lies

How Hol­ly­wood con­front­ed the Viet­nam vet­er­an experience

05 Jul 2018

Words by Lillian Crawford

Two soldiers in camouflage uniforms, one with a beard, holding rifles in a grassy field.
Two soldiers in camouflage uniforms, one with a beard, holding rifles in a grassy field.
Forty years ago, direc­tor Michael Cimi­no set a mas­ter­ful prece­dent for com­ing to terms with the trau­ma of war in The Deer Hunter.

In his mem­oir Born on the Fourth of July’, Ron Kovic recalls his teenage self watch­ing in awe as real-life World War Two vet­er­an Audie Mur­phy guns down Ger­mans atop a flam­ing tank in the 1955 bio­graph­i­cal film To Hell and BackHe was so brave I had chills run­ning up and down my back, wish­ing it were me up there.” The cin­e­mat­ic promise of a sim­i­lar lega­cy in Viet­nam saw Kovic and thou­sands of like-mind­ed young Amer­i­cans hur­ry to join the fight.

Seek­ing a fol­low-up to the hell­fire of Pla­toon, direc­tor Oliv­er Stone used Kovic’s sto­ry to chan­nel his own pas­sions and pol­i­tics as a return­ing Viet­nam vet­er­an. In con­trast to the cohort of war hero’ film­mak­ers, includ­ing William Wyler and Frank Capra, who came back from World War Two, Stone was the lone direc­tor to expe­ri­ence the Indochi­nese con­flict first-hand. Deter­mined to avoid chimeri­cal grounds for hope, Stone’s Born on the Fourth of July over­whelms the view­er in widescreen Panav­i­sion with the vis­cer­al dam­age inflict­ed on Kovic. Por­trayed in the film by Tom Cruise, he hollers Penis!” repeat­ed­ly in the face of his mid­dle-class Chris­t­ian fam­i­ly to bypass the usu­al euphemisms for loss of sex­u­al func­tion. Look on, he tells us, and despair.

Stone’s depic­tion of the vet­er­an expe­ri­ence arrived rel­a­tive­ly late, how­ev­er, allow­ing the trau­ma of Viet­nam to seep into the pub­lic con­scious­ness. Michael Cimino’s The Deer Hunter, by com­par­i­son, picked at these scabs while they were still fresh, being released only three years after the US mil­i­tary with­drew its final remain­ing troops from Saigon. Hol­ly­wood was now pre­pared to tack­le the futil­i­ty of con­flict felt not only by vet­er­ans, but by Amer­i­cans as a collective.

Even before he enters the abyss of war, the film’s cen­tral char­ac­ter, Mike Vron­sky (Robert De Niro), is at odds with his com­mu­ni­ty in Clair­ton, Penn­syl­va­nia. He finds his friends’ lack of appre­ci­a­tion for the art of killing a deer with one shot” unbear­able, vent­ed through his refusal to lend Stan (John Caza­le) a pair of boots. Indeed, Stan embod­ies Mike’s cri­tique of soci­ety, a promis­cu­ous nar­cis­sist with­out a care for the raw­ness of real­i­ty. Wav­ing a bul­let in front of him, Mike declares this is this, this ain’t some­thing else” in a vain attempt to force him to face their sit­u­a­tion and not embell­ish brute facts with false opti­mism. This seems hyp­o­crit­i­cal giv­en Mike’s obses­sion with the beau­ty of the hunt, made clear by a bru­tal cut to the muti­lat­ed ani­mal strapped to the hood of a dent­ed Cadil­lac. It is a grotesque tableau of wast­ed life.

A man with short dark hair wearing a green t-shirt, standing in a forest setting.

The shal­low sym­bol­ism Mike sees in Stan is dis­pelled more thor­ough­ly by the drug-fuelled boat ride of Fran­cis Ford Coppola’s Apoc­a­lypse Now. Cap­tain Willard (Mar­tin Sheen) and his pla­toon tear down the riv­er flaunt­ing their Cal­i­forn­ian cul­tures of surf­ing and rock music. The prospect of mean­ing in the lit­er­ary mum­blings of Colonel Kurtz (Mar­lon Bran­do) has dri­ven Willard back into the jun­gle, hav­ing already returned to Amer­i­ca to find the home he knew didn’t exist any­more”. Upon dis­cov­er­ing that Kurtz’s phi­los­o­phy is equal­ly hol­low, he realis­es that the evils he has seen in Viet­nam are just as pre­scient in his own sup­pos­ed­ly peace­ful society.

Mike’s dream trans­forms into a sim­i­lar­ly hideous night­mare when he enters the con­flict with guns a‑blazing in The Deer Hunter – a staunch reminder that human­i­ty can nev­er be mas­ter over nature. The rapid­i­ty of a scene change that flings him from the calm of a bar to the fren­zied raid of a Viet­namese vil­lage holds a mir­ror up to Amer­i­can cor­rup­tion, an illog­i­cal exten­sion of the fron­tier into what was then known as the Third World’. How are Mike’s friends gut­ting a deer dif­fer­ent from the pigs eat­ing the entrails of dead sol­diers? Why should we dis­tin­guish their drink­ing and bet­ting on foot­ball from the gam­bling of the Viet Cong in Russ­ian roulette? When Mike returns home, the illu­sion that Amer­i­cans are more eth­i­cal or cul­ti­vat­ed than the Viet­namese is shat­tered, iso­lat­ing the vet­er­an in his enlightenment.

This real­i­sa­tion of US immoral­i­ty was more explic­it­ly tack­led by Paul Schrad­er in his screen­play for Taxi Dri­ver. Elect­ing not to depict Viet­nam mem­o­ries of Travis Bick­le (De Niro) through flash­back, direc­tor Mar­tin Scors­ese instead plagues the film with a haunt­ed atmos­phere – while Travis is dis­tract­ed from a café con­ver­sa­tion, an effer­vesc­ing Alka Seltzer sub­tly evokes the fore­bod­ing ter­ror of a rain­for­est down­pour. Like Mike and Willard, here is a vet­er­an who sees cor­rup­tion every­where, observ­ing on his long neon-lit dri­ves that all the ani­mals come out at night: whores, skunk pussies, bug­gers, queens, fairies, dop­ers, junkies, sick, venal”. As in Sen­a­tor Charles Palatine’s cam­paign slo­gan, We Are The Peo­ple’, Travis believes that there is an Oth­er in Amer­i­ca who sim­ply does not belong.

When he is back in Clair­ton, Mike goes on a sec­ond deer hunt. This time he refus­es to fire his gun and shouts Okay” off a water­fall, mak­ing a com­pact with nature as the word is echoed in response. While the scene offers poten­tial for his own future, it comes too late to the divert the con­se­quences of US mil­i­tarism. Hop­ing he can res­cue his best friend Nick (Christo­pher Walken), Mike races to Saigon only to watch him shoot him­self dur­ing a game of Russ­ian roulette. As he cra­dles Nick’s bloody head in his arms, Cimi­no crafts a poignant visu­al metaphor for Amer­i­ca, hav­ing gone into Viet­nam blind and gam­bled every­thing on a game of chance that has hor­rif­ic ramifications.

In the film’s final scene, the peo­ple clos­est to Mike gath­er once again in their local bar, the hub of their sins and wast­ed for­tunes. They band togeth­er to con­tem­plate and accept the loss they have suf­fered, unit­ing in a ren­di­tion of God Bless Amer­i­ca’. There is a hint of irony to their patri­o­tism, reignit­ing the nation­al fer­vour that land­ed them in Viet­nam in the first place. But it also con­tains the prospect of reha­bil­i­ta­tion, of a future that has learnt from expe­ri­ence. At the end of the 1970s, what else could ordi­nary Amer­i­cans hope for? After all, it was their home, sweet home”.

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