The rule of war in Stan­ley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory

The cin­e­ma of Stan­ley Kubrick hinges on con­trol, on char­ac­ters vying for con­trol over oth­ers, them­selves, and their envi­ron­ment. It’s a con­stant quest for per­fec­tion and dom­i­nance, the man­i­fes­ta­tion of which ranges from the reg­i­ment­ed rou­tines of a prize­fight­er to the psy­cho­log­i­cal suprema­cy of a mar­riage torn asun­der. Above any­thing else, author­i­ty in wartime is the pre­vail­ing the­mat­ic obses­sion among the director’s 13-fea­ture filmography.

Arriv­ing four years after his low-bud­get com­bat debut, Fear and Desire, 1957’s Paths of Glo­ry is a stir­ring tale of for­lorn fox­holes and cal­lous bureau­cra­cies, of blind ambi­tions and hap­less des­tinies. Adapt­ed from Humphrey Cobb’s nov­el of the same name, this World War One account con­cerns a group of French sol­diers tried for cow­ardice after retreat­ing or sim­ply remain­ing sta­tion­ary dur­ing fierce ene­my fire.

Ensconced in elite château con­fines, sur­round­ed by order­ly, salut­ing under­lings, a priv­i­leged dis­cus­sion between gen­er­als George Broulard (Adolphe Men­jou) and Paul Mireau (George Macready) revolves around a per­ilous por­tion of land, one cur­rent­ly occu­pied by the Ger­mans and desired by the French. Mireau recog­nis­es the objective’s treach­er­ous con­se­quence, but a dan­gling pro­mo­tion assuages any dif­fi­dence. Mil­i­taris­tic pow­er strad­dles a fine line between accept­able author­i­ta­tive rule and man­age­r­i­al extrem­ism. The field of war is iso­lat­ed, the obsta­cle is defined, and 8,000 pawns become part of an unscrupu­lous mar­tial pow­er play.

From the ornate, open spaces of the general’s estate, clean­ly illu­mi­nat­ed inte­ri­ors with unob­struct­ed aris­to­crat­ic civil­i­ty, Paths of Glo­ry descends to the dank, squalid, death-tinged trench­es, below ground and sink­ing in sta­tus. Mireau greets worn and weary sol­diers with patri­ot­ic pleas­antries, though his dis­missal of ​“shell shock” as an unpro­fes­sion­al lack of self-con­trol betrays his for­bid­ding inten­tions. Engaged to enact the ill-fat­ed mis­sion, Colonel Dax (Kirk Dou­glas) reluc­tant­ly accepts, for he is, alas, under orders.

Forged by the steel-jawed Dou­glas, Dax is poised, com­pe­tent, and con­fi­dent. Push­ing past waver­ing uncer­tain­ty, his sto­ic charge through the gut­ter labyrinth takes on a sub­jec­tive point of view, with fear­ful, deter­mined faces star­ing back at the cam­era. While Mireau’s men­ac­ing influ­ence yield­ed an aggres­sive progress chart­ed by the dolly’s frontal retreat, Dax’s assured motion for­ward empha­sis­es spir­it­ed advance­ment; his head­long march is unfazed and unflinch­ing, lead­ing by iden­ti­fi­ca­tion, not intimidation.

Valiant efforts only go so far, and Kubrick’s sweep­ing tracks sheathe the chaot­ic car­nage in a metic­u­lous illus­tra­tion of front­line bed­lam. As best-laid plans are abort­ed for sheer sur­vival, obscured bat­tle lines erupt in fren­zied for­mal may­hem. Kubrick’s sear­ing suc­ces­sion of dev­as­tat­ing imagery scat­ters cal­cu­lat­ed explo­sions, syn­chro­nised char­ac­ter action, and pur­pose­ful­ly fit­ful pans in mad dash des­per­a­tion. Mireau rev­els in the side­line fight, but rages when despon­dent troops oppose the attack (only abu­sive safe­guards pre­vent him from order­ing artillery fire on his own men). It’s a failed attempt marred by intol­er­a­ble insub­or­di­na­tion – exam­ples must be made. Dax evokes the offi­cer most respon­si­ble, name­ly Mireau, who in turn sharply con­tends it is ​“not a ques­tion of offi­cers.” Of course, Paths of Glo­ry is very much a ​“ques­tion of offi­cers” – it’s a ques­tion of agency and respon­si­bil­i­ty, of cov­et­ed sov­er­eign­ty run­ning counter to accountability.

A lawyer in civil­ian life, thus infused with a sense of judi­cial reg­u­la­tion and exac­ti­tude, Dax is the best defence for the accused. But his efforts are unpro­duc­tive. Exe­cu­tions pro­ceed, like every­thing else, with swift, pro­fes­sion­al cer­tain­ty. The men search for solace, the duti­ful­ly sen­tenced and the insti­gat­ing guilty alike. A priest prof­fers the con­so­la­tion of high­er pow­er deter­min­ism, while alco­hol pro­vides mind-numb­ing relief; despite their expo­sure to supe­ri­or exploita­tion, some still place their trust in a leader, believ­ing Dax will come through. In the end, how­ev­er, the con­demned recog­nise their defi­cient sway. Select­ed by chance to die, they are con­vict­ed by fate. Thresh­old out­bursts threat­en com­po­sure, and last-minute demands (“Pull your­self togeth­er, act like a man!”) are but a final, cru­el joke, indi­cat­ing one last deci­sion to be made, one they alone can actu­al­ly make.

In war, coor­di­na­tion is key: map­ping ter­rain, allo­cat­ing ene­my pres­ence, tac­ti­cal­ly dis­pers­ing per­son­nel. Sol­diers are in for­ma­tion with uni­for­mi­ty, dis­ci­pline, and sym­met­ri­cal care. Kubrick works the same way, employ­ing a method­i­cal manip­u­la­tion of shot design, cam­era move­ment, and edi­to­r­i­al intent, con­trol­ling view­er expec­ta­tion and expe­ri­ence, guid­ing pre­cise points of con­cen­tra­tion. Just as alter­nat­ing close-ups give respec­tive indi­vid­u­als the upper hand and two-shots sug­gest a fleet­ing sol­i­dar­i­ty, moments of hos­tile bat­tle­field bewil­der­ment jux­ta­pose with chess­board com­po­si­tions of court­room order and pro­to­col. It is an extra­or­di­nary work, and per­haps the ear­li­est exam­ple of a quin­tes­sen­tial Stan­ley Kubrick film.