Four stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity and crude remarks
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.17.17
This may be the most unusual road
film I’ve ever seen.
The genre is characterized by a
trip undertaken by two (sometimes more) individuals who initially don’t get
along, and often bond — if only to a degree — by journey’s end. “Great truths”
about the travelers are revealed along the way; the more thoughtful scripts
also include perceptive social commentary, sometimes speaking to the human
condition.
 |
| When another snag interrupts their melancholy journey, Sal (Bryan Cranston, right) naturally drags his companions — Richard (Laurence Fishburne, left) and Doc (Steve Carell) — to the nearest bar. |
The approach can be straight
drama, high comedy or a combination of the two. The best examples employ gentle
laughter to illuminate human foibles.
Director Richard Linklater has
co-scripted — with Darryl Ponicsan — a deeply moving road film that builds to
an almost unbearably poignant conclusion. Last
Flag Flying has much to recommend it, starting with a clever narrative that
is punctuated by often hilarious dialogue. Linklater also draws deeply moving
performances from his three stars, and equal mention must be made of the two
key co-stars.
But the film is too long at 124
minutes, the pacing too deliberate, many of the slow takes too lingering.
Whether in cars, bars, restaurants or trains, this is essentially a “talking
heads” experience, and — no matter how well sculpted the drama — that’s hard to
sustain for two full hours.
Which is a shame. Tightened by
even 10 to 15 minutes, this film might have been a classic for the ages.
The story, set in 2003, begins
when soft-spoken New Hampshire family man and former Navy Corps medic Larry
“Doc” Shepherd (Steve Carell) unexpectedly shows up at the Norfolk, Va., bar
owned by alcoholic former Marine Sal Nealon (Bryan Cranston). Three decades
removed from their shared tour in Vietnam, Sal doesn’t immediately recognize
his former buddy; once past that snag, smiles abound.
Doc asks a favor; Sal doesn’t
hesitate a blink before accepting. Doc drives them a few hours away, where
they’re just in time to catch a church service led by Pastor Richard Mueller
(Laurence Fishburne), a mutual comrade-in-arms remembered as an unrestrained
Marine tear-away. The unexpected dichotomy is almost more than the giggling Sal
can stand.
Later, sharing a sumptuous meal
prepared by Richard’s wife Ruth (Deanna Reed-Foster), Doc confesses the purpose
for this reunion. He has just learned that his only son, a young Marine, has
been killed in Iraq; Doc hopes that his two friends will accompany him on a
road trip to attend the 21-year-old Larry Jr.’s burial at Arlington Cemetery.
They agree.
This process begins with a brief
“coffin ceremony” at Delaware’s Dover Air Force Base, where military coffins
are de-planed clandestinely, to avoid the public glare (a shameful media
blackout orchestrated at the time by the Bush administration, in an effort to
recast the Iraqi conflict as a “good news” story).
They meet Lance Cpl. Charlie
Washington (J. Quinton Johnson), Larry Jr.’s best friend and fellow Marine, who
has accompanied his buddy’s remains back home. The suspiciously cynical Sal,
forever seeking to illuminate even the most painful truths, wheedles some
details from Washington that cast doubt on what Doc has been told about his
son’s death.
Stunned by this revelation, Doc
impulsively decides that he’d rather bury his son near his home in Portsmouth.
Which means transporting the coffin that distance, which in turn greatly
expands what Sal and Richard thought would be a brief act of kindness.
As befits the genre, what follows
is laden with unexpected hiccups.
The three-way dynamic proves
unexpectedly complicated, which (of course) is what fuels the narrative. We
immediately wonder why Doc isn’t accompanied by Portsmouth friends he has made
during the past 30 years, and instead turns to the never-seen-since Sal and
Richard. We chalk it up to the everlasting bond of military solidarity, but
it’s not that simple.
Indeed, nowhere near that simple, as we eventually
learn; Linklater and Ponicsan drop hints and details in tantalizing bits and
pieces.
Cranston and Fishburne have the
showier roles, because Carell’s lugubrious Doc spends most of the story in a
muted, withdrawn state of minor shock. His grief is palpable, his silent
anguish depicted with heartbreaking verisimilitude by Carell. But Doc isn’t
consumed merely by sorrow; his shy, frequent sideways glances suggest
uncertainty in his present company. And we wonder why.
The scruffy, ill-kempt Cranston
is a force of nature. Whereas Richard has abandoned his former sinful ways,
found God and resolutely embraced a nobler path, Sal has cheerfully abandoned
himself to vice. He’s unapologetically profane — regardless of setting — and
relentlessly confrontational, determined to probe and expose any and all “dark
secrets” in the hopes of scoring a laugh at somebody else’s expense.
Sal is rude and crude: at times thoroughly
unlikable. But his candor and persistent demand for truth has its upside, even
as we gradually realize that this insistence on painful honesty may have less
to do with moral righteousness, and more to do with atonement.
Regardless, Sal gets all the best
and funniest lines, and Cranston delivers them with superb comic timing.
Fishburne’s (initially) unruffled
dignity is hilarious merely by comparison. Richard’s raised-eye slow take — in
the midst of a sermon, when he first spots Doc and Sal — is the first
indication of the delightful trouble to come. The harder Richard tries to
retain his composure and civility, the more Sal pokes at him. Watching the
gravely formal Fishburne gradually crumble, in the face of this merciless
onslaught, is poetry in motion.
Johnson is appropriately
spit-and-polish as Washington: the absolute epitome of military honor. The
young Marine’s respect, politeness and generosity of spirit feel absolutely
genuine; Johnson virtually exudes nobility. At the same time, he’s by no means
a stiff archetype; the story gives Washington numerous opportunities to loosen
up, at which point he becomes even more
captivating.
The scene-stealing Medal of
Honor, however, goes to Yul Vazquez, as the officious Col. Wilits: the officer
in charge of the Dover Air Force Base ceremony, who repeatedly argues in favor
of the intended burial at Arlington Cemetery. Vazquez absolutely deserves an
Academy Award nomination for this role; the insufferable Wilits is both
hilarious and scary, exuding — while trying to check — arrogance, impatience,
hostility, resentment, contempt and intolerance for any and all who’d dare even
think of defying him. Vazquez’s
withering gaze is to die for.
Bruce Curtis’ production design
is uncomplicated but effective: from the warmth of the home that Richard and
Ruth share, to the dilapidated filth of Sal’s bar. (A visit to the men’s room
is the stuff of nightmares.) Graham Reynolds’ music is understated and sparse;
Linklater uses very little underscore, preferring brief, telling and
well-placed extracts from songs such as Sil Austin’s “Slow Walk” and Bob
Dylan’s “Not Dark Yet.”
Linklater could — should — have
allowed editor Sandra Adair a firmer hand.
The overly reverential tempo is
mitigated, at times, by unexpected revelations: not the least of which is the
painful recognition that well-intentioned lies can be kinder than truth. But
the film still moves too slowly ... although I suppose we should be grateful;
Linklater’s Boyhood clocked in at 165
minutes.
Pacing aside, there’s much to
enjoy about Last Flag Flying, a
respectful, earnest and undeniably touching dramedy that, yes, speaks volumes
about the human condition.
And manages to be quite
entertaining, in the process.
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