Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, occasional profanity, mild sensuality and fleeting drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.20.17
Everything that makes this
fact-based drama compelling — and its qualities are many — also will make it a very difficult experience for Northern
California viewers.
Serendipity is a curious beast,
particularly when cinema collides with the real world. The China Syndrome was disparaged as alarmist fantasy when released
on March 16, 1979; twelve days later, the film proved eerily prophetic when
Pennsylvania’s Dauphin County experienced its Three Mile Island nuclear
accident.
Similarly, the folks at
Sony/Columbia couldn’t have known, when they scheduled Only the Brave for release today, that California still would be
struggling to contain the worst and deadliest series of firestorms in state
history. Director Joseph Kosinski and scripters Ken Nolan and Eric Warren
Singer simply wished to venerate the Granite Mountain Hotshots, whose heroic
efforts to battle Arizona’s Yarnell Hill Fire made headlines in late June 2013.
The filmmakers achieved that
goal. Only the Brave is intelligently
scripted, persuasively acted, and sensitively directed: a thoroughly engaging
example of heartstring-tugging melodrama. The gripping narrative blends angst,
suspense and humor with a spirit of comradely bonding that succeeds because of
the care with which the actors tackle their parts.
Numerous characters populate this
story, all of them depicted as distinct individuals: a rare thing, when so many
high-profile Hollywood projects feature a few stars who overshadow
one-dimensional supporting players, who do little but take up space.
At its core, this is a war movie:
Instead of man against man, it’s man against nature. Josh Brolin’s Eric Marsh
has a telling line, early on, when he leads his team to a mountaintop forest
overlook, and encourages the newest recruits to savor the view in the manner of
civilian innocents, who admires the majestic ocean of gently swaying green.
Because after having endured a
battle against flame, Marsh warns, the next time “You’ll only see fuel.”
As the story begins, Marsh is
supervising a crew of trainee firefighters based in Prescott, Ariz., who chafe
at the insulting pecking order that limits them to scut clean-up while “real”
federal firefighters do the actual work. Marsh has long viewed this as
frustrating, even inefficient; he and his crew know the local terrain to a degree that can’t be matched by
outsiders, and yet his advice is not only ignored, but unwanted.
Political intransigence is the
culprit, and the dramatic hook during the film’s first act: No U.S. city has
ever funded its own team of specialty “hotshot” firefighters. Marsh wants
Prescott to sponsor the first: a desire shared by the city’s Wildland Fire
Chief Duane Steinbrink (Jeff Bridges). Trouble is, Marsh’s analytical calm —
during a battle in the field — is matched by his impatience and unwillingness
to tolerate civilian bureaucracy.
Brolin slides smoothly into this
man’s skin, granting him a degree of spiritual reverence — respect for his
friends and family, and for nature’s often cruel power — that contributes to
Marsh’s rugged charisma. He’s completely credible as a respected leader,
because we sense that he accepted — rather than sought — such a role. As we
meet him, it’s obvious that his men would (and often do) follow him into hell.
Marsh’s rougher edges are
softened by his wife, Amanda (Jennifer Connelly), a feisty and fiercely
independent woman who runs their ranch and has a gifted touch as a “natural
horsemanship” farrier. Their strong mutual devotion notwithstanding, Eric and
Amanda share a prickly dynamic that likely evolved from her suppressed terror.
Connelly’s performance is impressively
shaded, particularly when Amanda slides from tender sympathy to outraged fury.
Her scenes with Brolin are memorable for their poignant authenticity; her
occasional solo moments are even more powerful.
Miles Teller supplies additional
melodramatic angst as Brendan McDonough, whom we meet as a local slacker and
stoner on the fast track to an early grave: a late twentysomething with no
respect for anything or anybody. Teller makes Brendan thoroughly contemptible
in a few deft scenes, most notably when he blows off the news that a former
casual girlfriend, Natalie (Natalie Johnson), is pregnant. She, in turn, orders
him to get lost.
But the birth of their daughter
proves an epiphany for Brendan ... assuming he can clean up his act. His
decision to enlist with the hotshot crew comes wholly out of the blue — only later
do we learn that Brendan had prior firefighting training (which seems a mild
scripting oversight) — and Marsh’s willingness to give this numb-nuts kid a
chance seems even less likely.
But there’s a valid reason, as we
eventually learn. Wheels within wheels: always the sign of a well-constructed
narrative. As are the little touches, such as the manner in which Brendan faithfully
tries to regain Natalie’s respect.
Redemption sagas are just as
captivating as underdog tales; Brendan’s evolution qualifies as both. If the
initial shift seems improbably rapid — akin to an alcoholic simply quitting one
morning — Teller eventually, doggedly wins our hearts and minds, just as
Brendan slowly, inexorably earns the trust of his comrades. (Although not until
after they’ve hazed him mercilessly.)
Taylor Kitsch stands out as Chris
MacKenzie, who knows Brendan the best, and therefore has the lowest opinion of
him. Kitsch’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and Chris frequently is the first
with a snarky comment. At the same time, Kitsch carries the aura of field
experience wielded by Brolin and James Badge Dale, equally memorable as Marsh’s
thoroughly dependable right-hand man, Jesse Steed.
Bridges exudes dignity and
battle-hardened wisdom as Steinbrink. It’s the sort of role at which Bridges
excels: a soft-spoken cowboy with a dry sense of humor, and an unerring talent
for saying — and doing — the right thing, at the right time. Steinbrink also
has a rowdy side, as the guitar-playing lead singer of a popular local band dubbed
The Rusty Pistols.
(The actual Duane Steinbrink, who
served as one of this film’s many technical advisors, allowed Bridges to
“borrow” the band for a lively performance.)
Ben Hardy stands out as
22-year-old rookie Wade Parker, a wide-eyed, fresh-faced idealist determined to
impress. Geoff Stults is equally fine as crew boss Travis “Turby” Turbyfill,
whose rugged exterior softens when — while away from home — he reads Goodnight Moon aloud to his two younger
daughters, over the phone.
Almost all of the other members
of Marsh’s 20-man team have brief, but similarly defining moments.
The one disappointment is Andie
MacDowell, given almost nothing to do as Duane’s wife, Marvel. Connelly and
Johnson blow her off the screen.
Kosinski’s film significantly compresses
events that actually occurred over a span of six years; aside from that, the
rigorous devotion to authenticity is palpable. Nolan and Singer built their
script from journalist Sean Flynn’s harrowing feature article “No Exit,”
published in the September 2013 issue of GQ
(and available online here).
Production designer Kevin
Kavanaugh faced an impressive challenge, as even cutting-edge CGI can’t
entirely capture the fury of full-blown forest fires. Five actual fires are
portrayed as the story progresses, their often raging intensity conveyed via an
ingenious blend of controlled burns, special-effects fire, and visual-effects
blazes. The result is often uncomfortably realistic, particularly given the
manner in which the actors sell these sequences.
Kosinski orchestrates everything
in the manner of classic Hollywood storytelling: first and second acts devoted
to character development and bonding, followed by a third act that has us on
the edge of our seats, because of the degree to which we’re emotionally
involved. Those who followed the news in June 2013 will know what’s coming,
although that doesn’t dilute this film even a little.
If you’re entering this saga
cold, keep it that way. Save Flynn’s source material for later reading.
The full house at Monday
evening’s preview screening laughed, cried and applauded when the film
concluded. We — and the Granite Mountain Hotshots — couldn’t ask for more.
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