Dexter Filkins, perhaps the most knowledgeable American journalist when it comes to the war in Afghanistan, wisely establishes the subject of “Lost Soldiers” in two words at the beginning of the piece: “Just kids.” These kids, he notes, are just like the everyday teenager: Megan Fox lovers, M&M gobblers, with bodies “hard and soft at once, like youth.” The soldiers are on the brink of true adulthood, boldly fighting for their country. Nothing, however, can prepare them for when “death rides along,” and Filkins tries to rationalize the moment in the mind of a soldier. It is difficult not to admire the concise article, and though we tend to concentrate on the political side of war, it would be egregious to look past the day-to-day lives of these young men. Filkins’ use of sentence fragments to open “Lost Soldiers” adds a sense of immediacy, and the personification of death is especially powerful. He provokes emotional response through his intimate description of what the soldiers lose: childhood and innocence.
“The Shrine Down the Hall,” a suitable accompaniment, gives life to the cliché “a picture is worth a thousand words.” In a photo essay that speaks for itself, Ashley Gilbertson captures the desolation of rooms left behind, which are surprisingly painful to look at. No matter how many trophies litter the shelves or how many stuffed animals lay on duvets, these men and women could not escape roadside bombs, grenade attacks, or other catastrophes leading to the same fate. One’s room provides the greatest reflection of individuality be it unique interests or sexy posters. It also reflects general values, including emblems as ubiquitous as the American flag. The striking element of the rooms is how young its inhabitants were. Most likely never had the chance to establish a family and live life to the fullest, instead sacrificing everything for their country.
When offered the chance to direct a film that followed the lives of three National Guard soldiers, Deborah Scranton understood that it was an opportunity too incredible to resist. A surprising element of this talk is how affected Scranton has been from this experience. The “mutual journey” she undertook gave Scranton a unique perspective on the war, one that involved a deep personal connection with her subjects. A clip from the documentary revealed some of the brutality on the streets, and the powerful comment, “You walk and you hear the pieces of skin and that’s it, all that’s left” is haunting. Steve Pink, in his journal, also describes the strange relationship between the army and the media, as he “feels both exploited and proud at the same time.” Scranton strives to tell the story “from the inside out” and to “share an experience.” The personal stories she provides are heartbreaking and illuminate the hardships that soldiers face upon returning home.
No End in Sight is a nauseating film. This is far from an insult; it was likely Charles Ferguson’s intention. Leadership cannot be looked past in times of crisis, and he uses gripping interviews to link the disaster in Iraq to decisions made by influential men in the Bush administration. Few of the men signing important documents had considerable military experience. Most were deluded megalomaniacs. What is there to say about the incapable L. Paul Bremer? He boldly sought to disband the Iraqi army without any sense of what implications this might have. What about Donald Rumsfeld? As Secretary of Defense, he grew detached from the events taking place in Iraq, resorting to ludicrous statements. “The sky is falling!” he commented when the sky actually was falling. The Iraqi occupation may represent the nadir of American history, and No End in Sight rightfully chalks this up to a series of disastrous choices made by politicians.
