‘The Thin Red Line’ and the ‘death of the protagonist’
Terrence Malick’s war epic strips out all hope of a happy ending by making every soldier its protagonist
The Soviet film Come and See is often hailed among the most hauntingly accurate war films ever produced. It pulls no punches and offers no reprieve from its relentless — and partially historical — tale of despair. Saving Private Ryan, likewise, is near-unanimously praised for the sheer horror of its opening sequence upon the beaches of Normandy, if nothing else. That said, if there is anything these films got wrong about war, it is their reliance upon a central figure whose survival — as far as the narrative is concerned — is more important than the survival of other characters.
In Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line, each character feels like they are vying for the role of protagonist. That’s not to say that the characters compete with one another as their company works its way across the island of Guadalcanal. There is little aggression or one-upmanship between the soldiers and they do not act in ways that would today be called ‘toxic masculinity.’ On the contrary, they aid one another when the moment calls, even if all they can give is a moment of comfort to ease another’s passing.
They are not competing for awards or glory, either — many of the lower-ranking officers seem repulsed by the idea that their actions in the field boil down to a piece of metal. Instead, their competition is a silent one: a fight for the attention of the audience on the other side of the silver screen. A significant amount of voiceover draws us into the film as if we have a greater part in the story than that of the observer — as if, somehow, our will to see these characters through the day might save them from death. After all, most protagonists are afforded the luxury of ‘plot armour’ come what may; the film’s greatest accomplishment comes in deconstructing this facade.
The Thin Red Line is cruel because it is inevitable that not all of these would-be protagonists will survive — that is simply the nature of war. In war, there are no protagonists, no supporting cast, no extras. Every soldier, officer and civilian is the protagonist of their own story that can end at any moment — such is the inevitable dread created by the film’s refusal to deny any of its characters their moment to shine. The number of big names playing small roles among the cast certainly helps to accentuate this sense: Woody Harrelson, Adrien Brody, John Cusack, John Travolta, John C. Reilly and George Clooney are among the stars who have only a handful of lines across the film’s three-hour runtime. All of them could be (and have been) protagonists in other major pictures, before and since. In The Thin Red Line, each is determined that we should grant them our undivided attention and treat their individual struggle as the paramount conflict of the film.
Even the Japanese soldiers, that traditional ‘enemy’ within the narrative, are treated mostly with sympathy, though they have no names and seldom speak words we may understand. They are not depicted as fearless warriors imbued with bushido and ready to die for their country at a moment’s notice, as is often the stereotype for Japanese soldiers throughout history. They, too, falter, surrender and weep for their lost comrades — in war, rarely is one side filled only with villains and the other with heroes, and so it is here, too.
That’s not to say there aren’t acts of heroism in the film. An American film about American soldiers naturally caves to the notion that we ought to be rooting for an American victory. However, the victories of the Guadalcanal campaign only feel as such when we see lives being spared from the onslaught. Captain Staros’ (Elias Koteas) decision to defy a direct order from Lieutenant Colonel Tall (Nick Nolte) and refuse to launch a direct assault potentially saves dozens of lives at the least and marks the greatest act of bravery in the film — he is ‘rewarded’ with a forced resignation and a bribe of several awards to keep the whole ordeal hushed.
Awards seem to matter a lot to those in command — a lot more than human lives, even. When Staros confronts Tall, asking him if he’s ever held a dying man in his arms, Tall cannot answer. Perhaps he has been extraordinarily lucky in his career and has never had to suffer through such ordeals, or perhaps he refuses to admit that such painful memories have been lost to him among the successes of his military career. His interior soliloquy is somewhat repulsive — we learn that he is incredibly bitter about a fellow’s promotion, having done all the service and boot-licking he thinks he needed to do for promotion. Frustrating as that must be, the deaths of the young soldiers around him place his grievances into perspective.
At times, it feels like an intrusion, to hear the private thoughts and discussions of so many characters in such a short time (relatively speaking — Malick manages to squeeze a lot into three hours). Perhaps these words are not intended for us after all. Some of them may be intended for their god — not a grasp for our attention after all, but a genuine plea to a higher power for salvation. Others, particularly atheists, seem to simply be searching for private, individual meaning among the chaos to bring them comfort. ‘Everyone’s looking for salvation by himself,’ muses Private Witt (Jim Caviezel), who is the closest thing the film has to a protagonist. ‘Maybe all men got one big soul who everybody’s a part of. All faces of the same man, one big self.’ Most of them seem to suffer the same.
Despite the film’s three hour runtime, military progress feels small compared to the number of lives lost. The film does not cover a grand campaign spanning the entire war; the plot revolves around a single campaign to capture Guadalcanal, a Pacific island which the generals declare ‘No one wants.’ By the end, there seems to have been little point to any of it. The war doesn’t end, nor does the end appear anywhere in sight. Awards are handed out, of course. Although the Allied victory at Guadalcanal was a strategically important one, the knowledge that the Pacific theatre of the Second World War was won ultimately not through battles but with nuclear weapons makes the company’s victories feel all the more bitter.
The Thin Red Line takes and takes and takes. Private Bell’s (Ben Chaplin) constant affixation with memories of his wife primes us for tragedy. By the end we expect this plot thread to end in death (or perhaps reunion if mercy permits) and we prepare ourselves mentally for the likelihood of this outcome. But a clean end would be too easy for such a film: the actual resolution is far messier and, in its way, more devastating. War takes more victims than the dead — The Thin Red Line excels like few others at its exploration of the widespread tragedy war inevitably inflicts.
Scope and story: 3/3. As an aside, I’d be very interested to see the original five-hour cut of the film.
Performance and production: 3/3. Every actor gives their small performance as if it comprised the entire film. Directing and cinematography are stellar, but not flashy.
Realist successes: 3/3. The film makes no attempt to glorify war, without detracting from the heroism of those who make sacrifices.
