User Reviews

This film is of course the meeting of three artists. The poet Wilfred Owen, the composer Benjamin Britten and the film maker Derek Jarman.

Let's speak of Jarman here. He is perfectly at ease with this project because of many reasons but first of all because he is a visual painter and as such he is probably at his best in this film because he has to follow the music and the words, half of the latter being in Latin and the rest in English. He is not the author of this text that is sung to the music of Benjamin Britten. So Jarman must paint the music, paint the words, show us in striking live images the meaning of this oratorio or requiem and the strong trauma this war was and still is, even today when we are going to "celebrate" the one hundredth anniversary of the beginning of the most absurd human butchery, the most meaningless barbaric slaughter that leaves us senseless when we look at it.

He shows first of all the tremendous suffering this war was for the men, for each man and for the clusters of men that had to live the war through together, a fighting unit and within that fighting unit some smaller groups or couples that more or less got bonded by the absurdity of this suffering. The officer that was living with the men in the trenches was necessarily the empathetic and supportive "father" of his men, though he was hardly older than them and even at times younger. This bond between men in uncontrollable suffering, pain and inevitable death becomes superhuman and even divine. The real god for such men is the small gestures of help and compassion they find in the men they are sitting next to, they are fighting with not even against a common enemy, but for the sake of invisible industrialists and politicians.

Derek Jarman is a genius when he deals with suffering.

You can imagine the extremely high level of pictorial power the trenches, the mud, the snow, the ice, the blood, every soiled element of the soldiers' life can have under the brush of Derek Jarman's eyes.

But he is also a great color painter and he skillfully alternates total mud in nearly black and white, in fact in grayish brown on grayish brown, dark olive green on feldgrau kaki with other scenes out of the trenches. That muddy gray universe is the universe of the soldiers. Then you have the universe of the nurses which is brilliantly red, blood red for sure but also the red of fire, of molten metal, of the famous red poppies that have become the memorial of this war every year. That red is of course contrasting with the white and light blue of the nurses' uniforms. You can suffer and die in their arms, because they are your mothers at that moment, your lovers too, those in whose arms you can abandon yourself to go to eternal sleep.

But then there are two other moments in this war picture that Derek Jarman stresses out. First the religious sanctification of the war with church altars that are also used to deposit bodies waiting for their burial, or that even can become the top part of some anonymous and collective tomb for the dead that will never go back home. The church is the culprit here, or the accomplice, the accessory to a crime, and one priest puts on his butcher's apron to terminate one soldier who has been too traumatized by the death of his "friend" in front of his own eyes to be able to go on living. So the priest in his reddish "uniform" of sorts can cut his throat with a razor and then hold and let seep his blood through his fingers, retaining his life for just a few minutes more. Of what? Suffering? Or life? How can such suffering be in any way seen as life? The priest is retaining the man alive for him to suffer more, for the audience to understand the suffering such a war can be, but that is our easy interpretation. In the film the priest has an audience: the rich, the industrialists, the politicians, etc, standing or sitting in elevated alcoves overlooking the altar on which the slaughtering of the soldier is being performed by the priest.

The next element Derek Jarman is great at is painting the rich, the industrialists, the nobles, the politicians, the powerful and the vain when looking at the show of this man being killed with a razor by a priest we can imagine Anglican. Jarman is here again a genius at showing the hypocrisy and the barbarity of these men who are made up like whores and behaving in their fatness like hogs. He also has some cameos of the "king" that are worth the best images of the Sex Pistols about "God save the Queen it's a Fascist Regime," which came out as a song – and as a film that I cannot trace anymore – in the late 1970s. And I saw the film twice, and once with students I had taken to London, some Easter 1978 or 1979.

And yet there is one more phenomenal pictorial and picturesque artistic achievement. When at the end he widens the description of war to what it is today, what it was in his days, what it may always be, he finds the proper pictures to show the racism of war, and at the same time the racelessness of such events. Wars are probably waged to protect the interests of some and to destroy those who could menace these interests, be they religious, political, geographical, economic or whatever, but wars drag in mud and slime everyone without any distinction.[...]

Dr Jacques COULARDEAU