GALLIPOLI review: Remember where you’re from

War is a stupid, ugly thing, entirely pointless in every way, which is why war films are so compelling. All the death occurring on screen is so unnecessary, it renders the war film a deep sense of tragedy, while observing the motivations of the young (usually) men engaging in heroic, cowardly or just plain ordinary deeds makes us question what we would do were we forced into their position. American war films are seemingly a penny for ten, and I’m getting sick of hearing about how goddamn awesome America was in World War II, so it’s nice to see not only an Australian film about war, but an Australian film about the first, forgotten World War. Peter Weir’s Gallipoli is that film, largely concerning a pair of larrikin mates from outback Western Australia as they struggle to find their respective places in the conflict. Gallipoli is also one of the most wrenching, emotionally draining films I’ve seen, and is probably the single greatest Australian film of all time.

Weir’s steady hand guides us through a potentially slow film with just the right touch to keep us constantly amused. I can’t vouch for international viewers, but seeing local culture presented on-screen is a wonderful, welcome change of pace — every line of dialogue, every sun-drenched vista seems right and familiar, and this definitely helped my emotional investment in the characters, and therefore the narrative. Seeing a couple of blokes from up north come down to Perth an enlist to fight in a war they barely understand hits home with remarkable accuracy. Australia is presented as a simple, content nation, a little uneducated in the ways of the world, but willing to have a crack at this “war” thing, if that’s what everyone else is doing. I don’t know if it’s part of being brought up here, but it’s hard not to get behind this mentality.

The performances in the film are great, and help to transcend the potentially melodramatic plot. Mark Lee plays cheery young athlete Archy, with Mel Gibson playing his darker, more reluctant mate Frank. You forget pretty quickly that you’re watching Mel Gibson — the accent sells it — but I’ll admit his face (recognisable but young) jars for the first couple of scenes he appears in. The chemistry between the two leads is palpable, and the subtle differences in character are consistent and thoughtful enough to provide a nice contrast in personalities. More importantly, they just seem like a couple of blokes, the likes of which you wouldn’t mind catching a beer with if the opportunity arose. The laid-back nature of all the characters even carries over into the military discourse in the film — the AIF seems a lot less disciplined and more flexible than the notoriously brutal American boot camps of later periods, and again, this is a nice change from the established American cliche, and fits with the laid-back, casual personality adopted by the Australian nation.

By the time the shit hits the fan, we are comfortable and cosy with the characters, and as the bodies start hitting the floor you feel personally affronted that these stand-up fellas should be mindlessly slaughtered like this. This is probably an over-intellectualisation of the emotion you actually feel watching these scenes, but the fact that these guys are so fun, simple, honest and optimistic and scarcely question their morality or motivations for fighting just feels right, and helps to make their senseless deaths feel even more wrong.

A quick round-up of technical departments — the cinematography is suitably gorgeous but restrained, letting the emotions on screen speak for themselves rather than zoom in and chop them to pieces as is the modern style; the visuals are just a means to an end, a storytelling tool, and Weir knows when to pull back and let the emotions represent themselves. The music is a mix of poignant film-score-type stuff and horrendously dated 80s synth garbage. The music can jar, but if you accept that it’s part and parcel of the film, you should be okay. The art design is amazing — the attention to period detail is extremely immersive, and lends a kind of historical authenticity to the picture, which is only shaken somewhat by the mythic interpretation of events at Anzac Cove employed by the script.

Unfortunately, facts are fudged in favour of supporting the noble Anzac Legend that permeates our national consciousness: naive Aussie “diggers” were sent to their deaths by cruel, uncaring posh Brit commanders in one of the biggest military blunders of modern history. The fact that the diggers went over the wall with a smile and a wink is just the cruel icing on the irony cake — nobody here seems to question the historical validity of this idyllic perception of events, for whatever reason. But vitally, even knowing and questioning the authenticity of the Anzac Legend, Gallipoli is still a personal, wrenching film, because it’s more about the characters than the nation they act as a prism for.

It’s hard for me to separate my enjoyment of Gallipoli as an Australian from my enjoyment of the film as a movie-lover. Thankfully I’m under no obligation to do so, so let me wrap up by reiterating just how amazing Peter Weir’s landmark Aussie opus is. I really hate patriotism, because it’s just another form of baseless bigotry, but I think it’s okay to take a little pride in the efforts of people from your own milieu, as vicarious representatives of yourself, and as such I’m all too glad to add Gallipoli — the film, the story, and the battle itself — to the short list of things that make me proud to be an Australian.

GALLIPOLI
92/100