#bright and murphy are the most fleshed out like real people and that's why I could write anything about them at all

[girlscience]

hmmm thinking thoughts. outside of waddles, all my oc's were built world first. either they were made for a world that already existed, like bright and murphy; or I was worldbuilding and came up with someone to live there, like zaz. waddles is probably the oc I draw the most (even if that isn't really very often either), I have written the most with bright and murphy, and I have done the most worldbuilding for the world where zaz lives. I need to find a way to combine all of these into one and I will create the master oc.

[graftonway]

we shall fight

It’s been hours since the movie ended and I’ve taken the train home and listened to music and washed up and eaten grapes and scrolled through tumblr and still all I hear is this:

tickticktickticktickticktickticktick

You hear it throughout the film. It stays with you, seeping into your brain until you’re conditioned to it, until everything ticks and continues to, until you’re hyper-aware of rhythm and even phone notifications blinking, your typing, remind you of it. A friend described it perfectly as taking a long breath and not being able to breathe while holding it. The feeling that’s dropped to the bottom of my stomach hasn’t left yet; I’m still waiting for something to happen. I don’t even know what, but it’s stifling, tense, overwhelming. And that is all of Dunkirk in a nutshell.

This isn’t, strictly speaking, a war movie. Frankly I’m not even sure it’s a movie. It seems to be - or at least pretend towards being - everything: horror, thriller, documentary, symphony, cinematography, emotion, art. Much like the way it spans all three branches of the armed forces (land, sea, air), it tries to be everything at once. Perhaps in the hands of a lesser director this would have ended a disaster, but - and forgive me if I’m being crass with this comparison - Nolan, like Dynamo, plucks salvation from what could have been absolute catastrophe.

The first thing that you take away from Dunkirk is the sheer scale. Of course, as a history student, I’ve seen the photos of the beaches before, long unyielding lines that stretch as far as there is beach. Nolan does it slightly differently. Instead of one snaking, scattered queue there are multiple short ones, cinematic as anything and yet still overwhelming in number. It makes for a great introduction to the film, sets the stage for what’s to come. The aesthetic beauty that war sometimes begets versus the horrific reality it encompasses. The constant push and pull between the patience of the body of waiting men, never heard once to complain, and lack of time that’s played out again and again. Tiny, moving human parts and the weight of the unmentioned German war machine.

Nolan’s movies are always clever, though here the cleverness isn’t as immediately obvious as something like Inception. It’s a layer that you peel back and revel in as you watch. It’s something that builds up, in all its scattered parts and broken pieces, pieces that you collect and store until they come together and make sense. Take the premise of time here, for instance. Words on screen that are always meant to provide context do the opposite here: ‘the mole / one week’, ‘the sea / one day’, ‘the air / one hour’ make no sense to the viewer as they settle in. But all it takes is for one shot - Cillian Murphy’s face in the dark on a boat, straight after his appearance in the bright sunshine on a different vessel - to realise what it means: the action is all taking place in a different time scale. And that moment hits you like a punch in the gut, even though it’s the most simple of revelations. A perfectly positioned callback. Without even knowing why you begin to watch the film differently, all because of the buildup that explodes with one miniscule yet incredibly powerful detail.

It’s this same kind of buildup that squeezes itself into the music. The movie lurches between sound from the get go - the quiet of walking down the street to the startling pops of gunfire, the brief moment before the torpedo hits to the jarring explosion. War sets in here without a single line of expository dialogue, the way it can weigh down other films (the “war is hell, boys” trope that even Hacksaw Ridge was guilty of). Instead all we get is the constant, jarring soundtrack, so loud and in your face that you are drawn into all of the violence and spectacular chaos (something that the multiple timelines also lend themselves to). This builds and builds until it ends, abruptly, twice: firstly, when the Little Ships come into view, and secondly, on the train that Tommy and Alex crumple into. The suddenness of the way it ends is as jarring as any explosion or loud dramatic orchestral note, all the more sharp for its absence. We get sweeping, nostalgic strings over the view of the flotilla, and pure silence (combined with the same sweeping music later) when Tommy falls into the seat.

Which is why so much weight comes to rest upon just these two scenes - the ships and the ending - and why I want to talk about those in particular. It will come as no surprise that they’re the two I cried at; as a kid I read about the Dunkirk spirit and the Churchill speech, and they both have special meaning for me. Add to that me just being a complete and utter sap for nostalgia, sentiment, painfully obvious emotional manipulation.

There’s enough emotional impact in the story of the Little Ships themselves that any film could pull it off with suitable heroic payoff, but it’s just done so very well here. The ticking of the pressure cooker and the fear of death instantly vanishes, replaced by the heartwarming, exceedingly British orchestra. For there is some measure of nationalism (I hesitate to say propaganda, but) with this, as with all war movies; it’s an unavoidable trope, yet one handled so well here. It’s muted - the only flag is the one in the small corner of a larger blue flag, blurred in the background of Mr. Dawson’s boat. Bolton (a place name in and of itself) calls out to some of them, asking where they’re from. And in the end the boats go by an approximation of Dover. But the real focus is on the humanity of the people who came to save the troops. No dialogues or stars in these scenes: just civilians, just ‘home’. Some reviews were critical about the lack of character names and the like, but I think that was done intentionally for this reason, to demonstrate how humanity is about being and not knowing. With the lack of the tickticktick in the background Dunkirk’s first message is, ironically, hammered through: in a movie so packed with tension, it isn’t actually the tension that’s important, but how we escape it. Only later do you get introduced to some of the characters’ personal lives - Dawson is so determined because his son died - but that doesn’t matter, because the heroism is already there. If the movie is a breath you’ve been holding then the Little Ships are the moment you breathe out.

Character development is hardly present in the movie, which makes it all the more impressive that we still manage to feel for and care for every single one of them; I think this is one of the greatest achievements of the film, in that Nolan somehow gets to the heart of war and the rawest of our emotions. Too many war movies get bogged down in character development, the false belief that you need to know the character in order to feel for them shifting the focus away from showing actual war itself. But Nolan understands this, and makes the choice not to identify his characters. The three Mole soldiers look the same; the French soldier’s real name is never given; and Tommy’s name is a generic epithet for all British soldiers. They have no personal characteristics at all. And yet, when Gibson is drowning inside the boat, your heart seizes; you want him, desperately, to get out. Here Dunkirk takes on the shape of the great war novels, like the nameless French soldier in All Quiet On The Western Front. This is the horror of war - that everyone dies - and the real way to experience it is being frightened of death itself, not just fleshed-out characters you have come to feel for dying.

In fact there’s barely any dialogue in the movie, either, except for necessary communication; Bolton is the most heavy-handed in exposition, but otherwise words are limited to observations about the tide, speculation on target practice, explanation for locking the door. Which is why everything that isn’t technical carries so much weight. Collins’s breezy ‘afternoon’ regardless of his near-death experience might be played for laughs but it’s also a conscious remarking on the stereotypical British spirit. One that struck me deeply is Peter’s ‘he’s fine’ to the Shivering Soldier (or something to that effect) - in just one phrase the dilemma of shell shock, the question of blame, and the soldier’s innocence are perfectly captured. But my favourite, of course, as someone weaned on Churchill, is the speech.

As a twelve, thirteen year old I memorised that speech, word for word, all the way till the end. I’ve listened to it many times. And I can’t even begin to explain how emotional I got when Tommy began to read it out and all the cuts from each time period began to intersect with each other. If ever the movie was disparate (and I don’t think it was, and I don’t agree with people who did) it came together at the end, each thread drawn together by possibly the most iconic, recognisable historical device. The sense of unity, of destiny, of a swelling, growing belief in the job left. The two last images of the film - the burning spitfire and Tommy’s face - cleave so perfectly into each other; I don’t think I’ve felt that kind of breathtaking momentousness from an ending for a very, very long time. Farrier gets captured but he’s also arguably the biggest hero of the film, saving countless numbers of people on the beach that hour. He ends up captured and his plane ends up burning, but the Germans didn’t burn it - he did, and in doing so it becomes a symbol of defiance in the face of defeat. We are always reminded that this is a defeat. But that doesn’t signal futility and devastation.

One of the reasons I say that this isn’t a war movie is because the enemy is never really there. Besides the last scene, where Farrier is captured, you don’t see any German soldiers (and even those are blurred out). That gives you the impression that this isn’t about triumph, in any way, but about survival, as the old man in the end so neatly put it. All we did was survive. That’s enough. Many horrors of war are depicted here. Drowning in the locked hull of a torpedoed ship, waiting patiently on a packed bridge for Messerschmits to strafe you. Violence, while not graphic, is never shied away from. Tension and impending doom is built masterfully, whether through Collins’ helplessness watching Farrier or Bolton closing his eyes to wait for death. But while you get the feeling that it is inescapable, you never get the feeling that it is insurmountable, and that is what Dunkirk is about, really. My major qualm with the movie before I watched it was how they were going to turn it into a triumphant, gun-waving kind of thing when it was a defeat. But it’s not about defeating the Germans, because as Churchill said wars are not won by evacuation. Not even about the end of a battle given the continuous references to what is yet to come. It’s about what matters most to us, what the ‘Dunkirk’ used in modern British parlance now refers to: human spirit and endeavor. Battling on.

Dunkirk is probably not the greatest war movie I’ve ever watched (although that is a topic for another time). It has, of course, its problems. I’m not sure how much credence the lack of poc claim has as I haven’t had the time to go look it up yet, but other tiny things niggle here and there. Yet one of the major criticisms I’ve heard about this movie is that it’s too intense and action focused and, of all things, I think that that’s the least concerned anyone should be about it. You can’t capture all of war in a single movie. You can barely capture certain experiences. If other movies are allowed to develop other aspects, like character and the mundanity of war, why shouldn’t Dunkirk be allowed to dig deep into the terrifying tension and uncertainty that is so fundamentally a part of it (being shelled while in foxholes is another example that comes to mind)? There is emotion in intensity, and humanity is found everywhere. Even in the most painful, most terrible of times. 

There’s a trope in Waiting For Godot about the weary, fallible hero, the human struggling to create meaning and stay alive in the most downtrodden noble sense. It’s a trope I’ve always thought applies to the way the British view themselves and certainly something that applies here, weary soldiers and civilians alike picking themselves up with the haunted promise in Tommy’s face. Youthful and yet tattered, dark and hollow yet with a measure of steel that lends backbone to that famous line: we shall go on to the end.