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War not as philosophy but as "a problem in applied physics," a line of thought continued from The Secret Invasion. Baron von Richthofen (John Phillip Law), descendent of the Teutonic knights, a dandy who takes to the skies and remembers his every kill. His opposite number across the lines is the Canadian farmer in the British squadron (Don Stroud), who has little use for gallant "horse shit" and refuses to toast the enemy. Tradition and modernity crossing paths in 1917 France, two sides of a destructive coin. "Colonel, I'm afraid the cricket match is over." Hawks and Wellman material given a wry Seventies coating, a spectacle of mordant rigor, Roger Corman at his most opulent. The empire seen from childhood is a music box, boyish ideals never leave the aristocrat who proudly paints his airplane red for all foes to see. ("It's where I live," he tells a fräulein admiring the cockpit.) Brown by contrast is pure twentieth-century pragmatism with a morbid streak to connect him to the Poe protagonists, his doppelgänger might be the upstart Göring (Barry Primus). "What's the difference? We're already dead." Muscular aerial footage, fulminating spirals amidst clouds, a camera fastened frontally on the pilot as backgrounds seesaw. No room for romance, the daredevil's flirtation with the Gallic maiden is promptly and sharply curtailed. Baudelaire's albatross is mentioned early, Mallarmé's "Toast Funèbre" is felt throughout. "There goes St. Francis of the Machine." One massacre answers another, the upshot of the gentleman's war is a corpse floating in metal—survival lessons for a historian, or perhaps a director turning producer. With Corin Redgrave, Karen Huston, Hurd Hatfield, Stephen McHattie, Robert La Tourneaux, Peter Masterson, David Weston, Maureen Cusack, and Ferdy Mayne.
--- Fernando F. Croce |