The Hurt Locker
Reviewed by Edward Larsen Terkelsen

USA, R, 131 m, 2009
Directed by Kathryn Bigelow. Stars Jeremy Renner, Anthony Mackie, Brain Geraghty, et al.

The Hurt Locker begins with a quote from Chris Hedges’ War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning: “The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug.” Hedges’ ineloquence aside, that’s a ridiculous statement. Anything—and I mean anything—that gives men a big thrill can be addicting, but you wouldn’t classify, say, bungee jumping as a “drug,” would you? The American Heritage Dictionary defines the word “drug” as such: “A chemical substance, such as a narcotic or hallucinogen, that affects the central nervous system, causing changes in behavior and often addiction.” If we’re free to widen that definition to include certain chemicals within the human body, adrenaline is what we need to be talking about here—not war. Look, I share Hedges’ fondness for metaphor, but using “war” as the tenor and “drug” as the vehicle doesn’t ring true—it ascribes a less than noble motivation to those who are passionate about serving their country. What Hedges (a dyed-in-the-wool liberal who knows what he knows about combat from merely reporting on it) can’t seem to get his mind around is why a man would want to fight. Simple patriotism is unbelievable to him, much as it is for director Kathryn Bigelow, who is on the record as saying, “War’s dirty little secret is that some men love it.” Well, Kat, man’s bloodlust is hardly the skeleton in the cupboard that you make it out to be; it’s been an integral part of our nature since God eighty-sixed Adam from the Garden of Eden. But even good old-fashioned masculinity doesn’t appear to have a place anymore in American culture, which has been wussified to the nth degree by the twin forces of feminism and political correctness. (They get their talons into our testes pretty early these days: Any spirited schoolboy who doesn’t immediately kowtow to the emasculating shrews who run the show are diagnosed with ADHD and put on Ritalin.) But guys who have a hard-on for shooting things up are precisely the ones who should be put on the front line. After all, you can’t expect to take that hill if your company is made up of nothing but Abbie Hoffmans—or worse, Kathryn Bigelows.

Aside from its almost belittling depiction of our fighting boys (I think Bigelow sees them as victims of their conditioning), The Hurt Locker is, at times, compelling. But how could it not be? It follows around a US Army bomb squad as they rake through the war-torn streets of Baghdad for enemy IEDs to dismantle. Not knowing if and when one of these godforsaken things will go off and send body parts flying hither and thither makes you a nervous wreck from the first to last reel, and it’s fatiguing. The taut screenplay is by Mark Boal, who was inspired to write it while embedded as a freelance journalist during the current Iraq War. Naturally, he takes a few liberties with Army protocol, but even the most unyielding of nitpickers will have to concede that this particular combat picture feels more authentic than most. Much of it was shot in Amman, Jordan (Baghdad wasn’t an option, for obvious reasons), which not only flavors the action in a way that just wouldn’t be possible on a Hollywood backlot, but it also helps to keep the viewer’s head in the game by denying him any visual reminders of the First World. That sense of dislocation is trashed, though, when the movie shifts its perspective (however briefly) from a soldier who’s phoning home to his wife and baby on the other end. (Those faces should’ve been left to our imagination, like Radar’s Uncle Ed on “M*A*S*H.”) Taking us out of the shit and into the coziness of suburbia seems inconsistent with the director’s vision, though I’m sure there are those who will appreciate the breather. For the most part, Bigelow achieves a naturalism here that’s rather impressive, and yet I couldn’t help but pine for some of the loony grandeur that separates a pop classic like Apocalypse Now from a dud like Platoon. The Hurt Locker’s put-you-right-there approach makes for an engrossing experience, but it’s an experience that doesn’t stir up a whole lot of interesting debate afterwards. Black Hawk Down or The Deer Hunter or even We Were Soldiers can keep viewers going at it for hours, but The Hurt Locker’s lack of operatic flourishes causes it to fade from memory much sooner than it should.

In a shameful attempt to score brownie points with the NOW gang, some eunuch over at The San Francisco Chronicle said of Ms. Bigelow, “(Her) gender has always been an issue because she makes guy movies—and she makes them better than guys do.” In which alternate universe, my friend? Have you actually sat through Blue Steel, Point Break, or—Lord, help us—Strange Days? There is nothing, nada, zilch in this woman’s filmography that can touch even John Woo on his worst day. (Now, James Cameron might be a different story: The incoherence and utter tediousness of Avatar’s battle scenes demonstrates that Bigelow has a greater knack for action than her ex-hubby, whom she’ll be competing against for the Best Director honor at this year’s Academy Awards.) Though I haven’t been a fan of Bigelow’s film work, I did dig on a few of the episodes she directed for TV’s “Homicide: Life on the Street,” particularly the two-part season six finale, “Fallen Heroes.” But I’m loath to give her too many props for her “Homicide” gig; she was coming on to a show that had long since found its rhythm and style. And that style (which was influenced by the French New Wave’s most esteemed member, Jean-Luc Godard) seems to have found its way into The Hurt Locker, what with its jump cuts and shaky camera work. You can’t call Bigelow an auteur and keep a straight face; she’s a hired gun, a plug. As such, she doesn’t have much of a voice. I hate to say it, but I feel like I know Jackie Kong better. 

February 13, 2010 

© Copyright 2010 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.