Chilly tribute to "our boys" in Vietnam -- chilly because the message is made plain that if you weren't there yourself, you're nowhere, man. (This would seem to include, among others, the director of the movie, John Irvin, who's English.) Except for that standoffishness, it's an altogether modest and formulaic combat movie, chronicling a costly eleven-day assault on an unimportant enemy stronghold. The method is journalistic, with particularly careful notes taken on G.I. profanity ("We got our cherries busted today, didn't we, Sarge?"). And while it all has a tinkle of truth, the scenes tend to be unshaped and unmemorable. These adjectives can't be applied to the face of Dylan McDermott, a newcomer of remarkable presence, who seems to embody the Soul and Essence of the American Fighting Man, from any war whatever, and who would have fit in just as well in The Story of G.I. Joe or Fixed Bayonets as here. Tim Quill, a ringer for the young Jeffrey Hunter, does all right by the American Rookie, too. Written by James Carabatsos; music by Philip Glass, sparse but stirring. (1987) — Duncan Shepherd
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