In the February 13 & 20, 2012 issue of The New Yorker, David Denby wrote a side Critic's Notebook column: Soldiering On, in which he praised this film. He called it "probably the grimmest and most poetic and the least tied to genre clichés." Grim and freee of clichés it is, indeed; poetic I am not sure sure about, but I can understand what he meant.
"Sombre, slightly maddened, fatalistic," it follows a unit to which Ernie Pyle attaches himself, as it fights in North Africa, then Italy. There is little staged heroism, or any other clichéd action. The film catches the cruelty of war in both its random and fatal violence, and its endless boredom. Burgess Meredith seems miscast as Ernie Pyle, and does his best to rescue his effort. Robert Mitchum plays a lieutenant who handles his assignment (which includes sending men to their deaths) with a soft touch. A sergeant in the unit receives a 45rpm recording of his son's voice, but can not find a way to play it. When he finally finds a victrola, it has no needle. His attempt to fashion a replacement is not only futile but maddening: each time he tries to listen to it, the record plays at the wrong speed and his frustration builds and builds.
Interesting film-making. John Wayne stinks.
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