The Patriot: Mel Smokes Redcoats!

Written by Godfrey Cheshire on . Posted in Arts & Film, Posts.



The Patriot
Directed by Roland
Emmerich


Although it’s squarely
tailored to the heroic shoulders of star Mel Gibson, the movie was not produced
or directed by him, as the film containing his most famous epic role, Braveheart,
was. Rather, The Patriot unites two teams associated with some big summer
movies of years past: screenwriter Richard Rodat and producers Mark Gordon and
Gary Levinsohn, who collaborated on Saving Private Ryan, and the director-producer
team of Roland Emmerich and Dean Devlin, the duo responsible for Independence
Day
and Godzilla.


Although anomalous as hell
on the face of it, this teaming suggests an interesting logic. Despite coming
on the heels of hits like Dances with Wolves and Braveheart, Saving
Private Ryan
deserves credit as the film that solidly returned the broad-stroke
history spectacle to the front ranks of American moviemaking; it was certainly
the first to venture into the fluffy territory of summer with such weighty themes.
In doing so, it established an upward arc that was in marked contrast to the
downward curve of the Devlin-Emmerich sci-fi extravaganzas, which, though hugely
popular, showed every sign of collapsing into self-parody.


So it makes an odd sort
of sense that the creators of ID4, which delighted in dynamiting our
national monuments, would set about, as it were, to refurbish them. The Godzilla
team learned the lesson taught by Saving Private Ryan: that, box-office-wise,
there’s now a renewed future in the past. And in bellicosity pro patria.


They weren’t the only
ones to take the point. The studio run by the director of Saving Private
Ryan
kicked off the summer with Gladiator, Hollywood’s first
return to the classical age in more than three decades. Chances are that it
and The Patriot, with their counterposed Aussie stars, will end up squared
off against each other at next year’s Oscar race. If so, my money will
be on The Patriot, and not because of any preference for American over
ancient history. Emmerich’s is simply the better movie: richer in emotions,
ideas and characters, less homogenized by digital effects and committee writing,
more resourceful in deriving big-screen excitements from gnawing inner conflicts.


Which is not to suggest
that it’s perfect, even by flag-waving, popcorn-movie standards. As Saving
Private Ryan
showed, Rodat has a gift for mainstream approaches to America’s
embattled past, but an unsteady sense of how to convert those ideas into a solid
dramatic whole. The Patriot, similarly, is as ungainly as it is bold
and engaging. It has a first hour that’s absolutely terrific; a subsequent
75 minutes that’re bloated and frustratingly erratic; followed by a final
half-hour that, thankfully, ties up the story’s fraying ends in a blazingly
cathartic and gripping battle sequence.


The premise is as old as
countless westerns (and as new as Ridley Scott’s Rome): a man who wants
only to cultivate his homestead and family is forced into battle by the world’s
intrusion. Like Private Ryan, the film begins strategically on a note
of elegiac regret and mortifying self-accusation, which together suggest an
attitude that might be called Christian stoicism. Benjamin Martin (Gibson) is
a widowed South Carolina plantation owner who, when war ignites in 1776, has
seven children to protect and a haunted past to forget. As a hero of the French
and Indian War, he committed acts that dog his memory and compel his bitter
opposition to the enlistment plans of his oldest son, Gabriel (Heath Ledger).


Most surprising in the movie’s
opening scenes are its calm confidence in portraying a period that American
filmmakers have tended to treat as either sacrosanct or unfathomable, and its
willingness to touch on actual historical issues. None of this aims at the kind
of high-toned poetic realism pursued in, say, Michael Mann’s Last of
the Mohicans
. Rodat and Emmerich embrace the more traditional, storybook
strategies of John Ford (whose unrealized Revolutionary War project April
Morning
might well have anticipated The Patriot), in which foursquare
pictorialism and forthright sentiments are carefully aligned. Yet The Patriot
anchors both in thoughtful complexities. When Martin sternly tells the South
Carolina assembly that putting parental duties above principle keeps him from
joining the rebellion’s cause (he doesn’t confess the guilt that is
perhaps a more important motive), you realize not only how deep his emotional
stake is, but also how exactly it evokes a dynamic that was surely crucial to
the Revolution: the seesaw between narrowly defined individual self-interest
and the ideal of collective political liberty.


Of course, such conflicts
don’t stay on the level of oratory. After Gabriel spurns his father’s
wishes and joins the rebels, Benjamin redoubles his efforts to safeguard his
children and plantation. A couple of years transpire, but eventually the British,
led by the best movie villain in recent memory, the superlatively cruel Col.
Tavington (a terrific performance by Jason Isaacs), invade the family’s
sanctuary. Wantonly killing wounded soldiers and black freemen alike, they also
capture Gabriel, who has just returned home, and send him off to hang. At which
point the long-awaited finally happens: retiring, guilt-hobbled Benjamin Martin
becomes…Mel, enraged.


If this is what you paid
your $9.50 for, consider it well spent. Next to the volcanic fury of Mel’s
rage, Eastwood is a disgruntled flatfoot, Harrison Ford a kvetch with acid reflux.
Only with Mel can we count on the hero himself, not just the baddies, being
christened in blood. So it is here. Martin’s attack on the British, assisted
only by two of his younger sons, ends up a stupendous setpiece that’s all
the more resonant for being so troublingly orgiastic–proof not only of
the hero’s suppressed urges, perhaps, but also of revolution’s undeniable
sexual charge.


There’s a problem here,
though. Current moviemakers delving into the past seem to know only one motive:
personal revenge. The villains sweep in to endanger/kill/rape the hero’s
family, and then he strikes back in righteous, scene-splattering retaliation.
So it was in Braveheart, and so it is (as I complained at the time) in
Gladiator. In The Patriot the all-too-familiar device provides
a predictable, if effective, turbocharging of audience emotions in the first
and third acts, but it also accounts for the sputtering effect of the movie’s
protracted middle, which wavers between efforts to rekindle Mel’s wrath
("this time it’s really personal") and attempts to find
equal dramatic thrust in other story elements.


Although this is a significant
failing, it’s far from fatal. There’s a tremendous assurance in the
way The Patriot is made that animates even the plot’s vagaries and
that comes across in countless moments uniting historic detail with impressive
storytelling punch: the way Martin makes ammo from the lead soldiers of a slain
child; the recurring jokes about two Great Danes owned by Lord Cornwallis (Tom
Wilkinson); the concern over the slippery battlefield morals of the rebels’
Lafayette-like French ally (Tcheky Karyo); the efforts of a black slave (Jay
Arlen Jones) to gain his freedom by fighting; "bundling" and other
quaint customs witnessed in Gabriel’s courtship of Anne Howard (Lisa Brenner);
and others.


The movie’s press notes
say that Rodat based Martin on a number of real-life figures–Thomas Sumter,
Andrew Pickens, Daniel Morgan, Elijah Clark and Francis "Swamp Fox"
Marion–which indicates a commitment to 18th-century realities that’s
also evident in Kirk Petruccelli’s superb production design, Deborah Scott’s
costumes, Caleb Deschanel’s cinematography and the authentic textures of
the weaponry and fighting, including the large-scale battles of Camden and,
climactically, Cowpens.


For most audiences, the
movie’s appeal will surely lie not only in its story’s emotional torque
but in seeing this part of the past come alive for the first time. Why did it
take so long? I’ve had a theory that the America cinema’s realistic
orientation has made it difficult for filmmakers to envision the way Americans
lived before the invention of photography, when fashions made them seem (to
us) more like Europeans anyway. There’s also the fact that the West gave
Hollywood certain unbeatably archetypal landscapes for its classic myths of
history and nation-building; how could the effete East compete? In recent years,
even outer space looked like a more promising place to meditate on the national
character.


Perhaps no less significant
is that the kind of proud, positive myth that The Patriot constructs–or
honors–was once a matter of implicit national faith. It hardly needed illustrating.
In recent decades, that faith has been so challenged as to vanish from many
arenas, which gives the movies the chance to reassert a truth that belongs to
ideals, not polemics. Just as Saving Private Ryan resurrected mythic
WWII without the lacerating retrospection imposed by Vietnam, Rodat’s latest
gives us Revolution-era America (the South, even) minus the coruscating aspersions
of political correctness and academic leftism. It constitutes a reaction, perhaps,
but one that recovers a kind of understanding that binds and encourages rather
than divides.


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