April, 1945. As the Allies make their final push in the European Theatre, a battle-hardened army sergeant named Wardaddy commands a Sherman tank and her five-man crew on a deadly mission behind enemy lines.
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"This ain't a Mexican tank, speak American gawddamnit." Grating, self-important hogwash. No one is likable or even the least bit interesting; just a pack of (overacted) grumbling, grizzled cliches. Everything in the narrative is shit, was shit, or soon will be shit, so don't expect any sort of arc. Excise the excessive cornucopia of establishing shots and you'd cut at least 25 minutes from this bloated shitshow.
All I remember is explosions and men dying for other men. Oh, and a near rape which was totally forgiven, because of men dying. Chicks! Am I right? Black and white attitudes. Nazi's bad! You can kill an unarmed man who surrendered, just like you can torture people that you rendition today. Because you have to! This hero porn is so commonplace in movies today. Propaganda for the masses.
Over a decade removed from "Training Day," I never would have imagined it would be the writer of that film, not the director, who was experiencing a flourishing career as a Hollywood filmmaker. David Ayer rebounds from the dismal misfire of his Arnold vehicle "Sabotage" with this mud-caked WWII film that succeeds as a hyper-masculine ensemble drama...at least until the protracted and predictable ending battle.
David Ayer cagily casts Hollywood man Brad Pitt in the role of a rather severe soldier that can (and does) kill for pleasure; someone who's also an American patriot. The irony is not lost on anyone that Pitt's character—brutal, efficient—is exactly the hero America needs to win. With impressive cinematography and sound design, Ayer unashamedly brings his personal vision to a kind of film done many times before.
Well shot film with some staggering visual effects but lacks any real kind of soul or meaning. This is your basic 'war is hell' film for the 'Call of Duty' generation. Point and shoot. The characters are cyphers at best with the depth of a Sgt. Rock comic book. Save a quite wonderful scene set in a woman's apartment after the chaos of battle there is nothing here to set it apart from many better told war tales.
Ayer pulled his sleeves and gave us some real filmmaking until (and including) the dinner scene. Anything after that was bloated Hollywood patriotism - overlong, overscored and, at many levels, ludicrous -, which ultimately killed any real chance "Fury" had to be great. Also, Jon Bernthal was the best of the Fury bunch by a longshot.
I don't know what peoples' issue is. The visual style was beautiful and dated feeling - echoing countless war films from the 70s. Every scene was shrouded in smoke and fog, or soaked in sweat and blood. The characters were gritty and mostly unlikable, but were entertaining. It may be about the fiery crucible from which hardened men are forged... but that's entirely what was expected. Hyper-masculinity at its finest.
There's a fleeting sense that the mechanized agony seen via periscope, the exaggerated focus on trauma, may approach Vertov's poetry of machines, an elongation of the indiscriminate rending of human flesh seen at the end of Cavani's 'La pelle'... then: third act, pedestrian narrative of sacrifice, boys become men by fucking & slaughter, re: IDIOTIC... Peckinpah laughs at this in whatever hell forces his attendance.