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The Taliban are, of course, alerted and a gun battle amid the mountains’ scrub and scree follows. It’s frantic but also largely coherent: we mostly know where each man is, what their objectives are and roughly how many enemy combatants separate the two. The bad guys are felled with a gunshot or two to the head, but the Americans, their bodies smashed, pulped and punctured by rocks and bullets, fight until their last breath. (The film’s title should give you a rough idea of the final score.)
This elongated second act, which takes us from that hard choice to its harder consequences, is the core of the film, and it works very well. What falls on either side has been designed to support it, but comes close to achieving the opposite. Berg opens with (presumably real) footage of Navy SEALs plunging into icy water and scrambling through dirt, as if he doesn’t trust his script to convince us of his characters’ strength of spirit.
Worse still, he closes with a toweringly crass series of photographs and home-movie clips of the actual soldiers who perished in the operation the film recounts. This is not just a series of family snapshots, either: it’s a sustained ogling session of now-dead men marrying their wives, embracing their children, meeting their newborn offspring with tears in their eyes.
When Lone Survivor was released in America earlier this month, it became the first war-on-terror film, for want of a better expression, to become a mainstream hit. I wonder if that might be because it isn’t really a war-on-terror film at all, but just another Peter Berg action movie. Unlike Kathryn Bigelow’s , Berg’s film doesn’t dare ask its audience to weigh the same moral considerations that trouble its characters, and that closing montage, in all its tear-stained, echoing-rock-guitar ludicrousness, is there to give us an emotional escape route.
As such, a story with potentially universal significance becomes a plea for very specific grief, and we’re saved the trouble of further thought. So much for terminating the compromise