Yet, neither of them is exactly comfortable with their mission. Buddusky, whose “Badass” nickname derives from his penchant for thumbing his nose at authority, especially sees the unfairness of Meadows’ punishment, a harsh sentence handed down only because he stole from his CO’s wife’s favorite charity. He sees the unfettered cruelty of it at all with clear eyes. His brief excursion with Meadows functions as an act of mercy more than anything.
There’s little recourse for them to channel their frustration. All he and Mule can do is complain. When the Marine officer at the barracks chews the two of them out for inflicting a head wound on Meadows, one he sustained after he tried to escape, they mostly take the abuse. Buddusky, the big-game talking, no-nonsense sailor with an endless supply of earthy wisdom, is forced to kiss the boots of a man he doesn’t respect. They only put their foot down when the officer notices that their orders were never officially signed, which effectively means they never “left” their post. “But we’re standing right here,” Mule complains when the Marine tries not to sign off on their assignment. He only relents when the two demand to see his Executive Officer. Their only leverage requires appealing to another officer’s generosity in the expansive military food chain.
Neither Ashby nor Towne explicates how Meadows’ situation stands as a microcosm of the war effort, but it reverberates in Chapman’s muted, bleak photography, the bureaucratic shenanigans, and, yes, the profanity, which is symbolic of the lifers’ powerlessness. Buddusky and Mule embark on hubristic, unjust mission that only reflects their leaders’ vindictive, deceptive nature. But they do it anyway, willfully choosing to be forever caught between their allegiance and their bone-deep skepticism. When asked by a hippie how he felt about going to Vietnam, Mule shrugs and says, “The man says go. You gotta do what the man says. We’re living in this man’s world, ain’t we?” Indifference towards active military service has rarely felt more weary and programmatic.
For “Last Flag Flying,” Linklater adopts a more openly ruminative approach to these same ideas. Though this tactic occasionally falls into didacticism and aphoristic speechifying, it not only befits Ponicsán’s novel but also the characters’ middle-aged reflective attitudes. The men may have moved on from their time in the service—Sal opened a bar, Mueller became a preacher, and Doc started a family—but the specter of Vietnam hasn’t left their hearts and minds.
In 2003, America embarked on another multi-billion dollar war under false pretenses and shoddy intelligence, only this time a media blackout shielded U.S. citizens from seeing the human cost of their government’s arrogance. As embellishments, falsehoods, and egregious lies trickle down from the mouths of leaders to the masses below, unvarnished truth becomes a valuable commodity. But when does the truth stop being a lifejacket and start being an anchor? In turn, when does a lie become convenient enough to serve as a replacement for the truth?
ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7s7vGnqmempWnwW%2BvzqZmn52RqcKzsdJonaWZo52ytHnOn2SkoZ6Zu6a%2F0magnZ2fobyotcKao2aZnZe2t63LnqWcnV2eu27Ax55kraCVYrmiv9Nmm56skZ65bq3NnWSlmaOpeqe4wKBkn6Spnruo