First thoughts on A Burning Dog.
Well, first off, it’s safe to say we’ve moved into politics. Encino Man (“Whoo! Whoo!”) doesn’t quite get it but everyone else does. Fick:
“It’s all on that guy’s passport. Two weeks ago he was still a student in Syria. He wasn’t a jihadi until we came to Iraq.”
Last week’s metaphor, masturbation, was about waste and futility and missed opportunities. Compared to tonight’s episode, Combat Jack seems like a walk in the park in retrospect. Person’s Stevie Wonder joke was ironic, given that more than in any ep so far, the blinders have come off. If there was any doubt of their mission, it’s gone. They are there to drive into ambushes and draw fire. If there was any doubt about the ineptitude of Encino Man and Captain America, it’s gone. One’s as dumb as a rock, the other is a hysterical menace. If there was ever any doubt that innocents were going to get blown to bits on a daily basis, it’s gone. See, when I saw them surveilling frolicking children and old ladies baking bread this time, I thought it was a narrative device to simply heighten the tension. Which, I guess, it was after all. Another day, another hamlet obliterated. Time to dig a hole.
Even Ice Man and Fick are at odds, though they are both coming from more or less the same place, which is that this war is not one of the good ones, is not played by the rules, is not the war they trained for, is not going to be winnable, is not ever going to leave them alone, its dead children haunting their dreams forever. If the assembled clowns running the show don’t get them killed, that is. To Afghanistan, gentlemen!
That thing about being the last man to die for a mistake? Imagine dying because there aren’t enough batteries? Even though I knew the outcome, that nighttime sequence leading up to the bridge ambush was terrifyingly effective. Imagine rocking through pitch blackness toward a certain ambush, the dark out your window illuminated only by artillery fire, knowing that the guy driving your humvee can’t see what what he’s doing? No wonder Scribe can’t stop the shakes.
I know I’m flogging this parts of a body idea a little hard but let’s go there again. These guys are all parts of the same body. You see now the importance of calling in the shots, the constant back and forth communication about even taking shits, it’s the nerve impulses that let the body operate effectively. The supplies, and the lack of them, that’s the blood flow. Guys like Colbert, Kocher, Pappy, they’re just the arms, the legs. The officers are the brains. So these guys have Encino Man at the top, so already their brain is mostly gone. I don’t know the name of the Lt. in Alpha company, the one that called in the massive artillery strike on a bare patch of desert? At that same level, in Bravo, there’s Captain America. No matter how good and steady and reliable his counterpart Fick is, there’s Captain America skittering around, like a bad case of epilepsy, with a little bipolar thrown in for good measure.
Oh man, they are all so fucked.
I’m going to revise that arms and legs thing, just for Colbert. He’s the eyes. In the book, Wright notes that Colbert, especially, was obsessed with figuring out small visual details in the distance, and the film’s borne that out over and over again. Colbert watches, looks, sees. Last night’s ep was about seeing, and not seeing. How awful and appropriate then, that last shot. Colbert looking into the face of this war, a dead civilian looking back at him forever, through one eye, the other shot out by one of the Marines on his team.