THE FLYING LEATHERNECKS: Blu-ray (RKO, 1951) Warner Archive

At first glance, liberal director, Nicholas Ray and ultra-conservative superstar, John Wayne may seem like very strange bedfellows to helm a patriotic flag waver, but they come together spectacularly in Ray’s The Flying Leathernecks (1951) – a rough and rousing WWII actioner/drama that pits Wayne’s rugged Maj. Dan Kirby against co-star, Robert Ryan, as Capt. Carl Griffin. Indeed, Ray had hand-picked Ryan to spar off of Wayne, as Ryan, an ex-boxer, seemed to be the only man who could “kick Wayne’s ass!” Ever the experimentalist, and, the hell-raiser, with a streak of self-destructive masochism coursing through his veins, Ray might have hoped for genuine fisticuffs to break out on the set – good for the picture and the performances. After all, Ray empathized with the social outcast – perhaps, even to blame American conservatism for their plight, and, increasingly to consider himself among that cherished lot, despite his rising reputation in the biz. While Ryan and Wayne remained polar opposites in their political views, the two had previously costarred together, and, for the most part got on professionally here, leaving their more antagonistic relationship depicted on the screen a byproduct of pure fiction and their respective acting prowess.

We pause a moment here to doff our caps to Robert Ryan – still, a sadly underrated name. Ryan’s harsh looks – at 6-ft. 4-inches, a taut tower, atop which sat a pair of soulless and agate-esque eyes, wickedly angular nose and perpetually sour scowl that could melt steel; Ryan’s unique physicality otherwise precluded his consideration for leading man roles.  Still, he made the best of things – with 70 movies to his credit, a few choice roles on TV, and even, a series. Ryan’s post-war arrival in Tinsel Town bowed well in an era of crime stories and war pictures. And, his name above the title – when rarely the moguls deigned to rest an entirely production squarely on his shoulders – illustrated what a staggeringly unique ball of darkly lit and pent-up energy he remained – emotionally distant, and electrostatically charged to explode. We love Bob Ryan at our house, an actor of immeasurable intuition who clearly understood his craft has to come from within. There is a lot more going on inside Ryan, almost telepathically communicated, indelibly creepy, oft’ vial, and always roiling with a bent of self-loathing.

Perhaps, it was the contradiction of the man himself that shone through the parts he played. Ryan resisted the lure of Tinsel Town glamour, but toiled harder than anyone within it to cut a swath as men of the lowliest and viscerally repugnant aspirations.  Though he obviously could act, he rarely gave the impression, his, was a performance.  He wanted the work, but desired no fame. His tenacity churned with danger and volatility yet, rarely to be fully exposed, thus preserving his integrity as the unstoppable menace. In life, Ryan was staunchly passionate about the rights and freedoms of others, but frequently found himself playing the bigoted racist on the big screen. His best moments are exemplars of this prejudiced, disenfranchised and disassociated individual, capable of callously inflicting maximum terror on the unsuspecting ‘heroes and/or victims’ of the piece. Almost without fail, Ryan was typecast as the perilously flawed tough guy, barely able to micromanage these sadistic tendencies.  

The Flying Leathernecks catches Ryan at the beginning of the end of his fruitful period in front of the camera and in a role playing against this typecasting. Increasingly in the 1950’s, Hollywood would be hard pressed to partition or even attempt to morph Ryan’s rare gifts on the screen to suit their needs. Though he appeared – as the antagonist, yet again – in such classics as The Naked Spur (1953) and Bad Day at Black Rock (1955), like Nicholas Ray, the golden period for Ryan’s rakes, roués and cads was fast coming to an end. The Flying Leathernecks also marks Ray’s zenith in pictures – a brief decade-long run of mega-hits to include such diverse product as the offbeat western, Johnny Guitar (1952), James Dean’s biggest hit, Rebel Without A Cause (1955), and, Party Girl (1958), which was meant – but never quite came around – to testing the boundaries of screen censorship. Ray’s hedonist lifestyle would get the better of him by the mid-sixties; his collapse on the set of Samuel Bronston’s gargantuan epic, 55 Days in Peking (1963) forcing him into nearly a decade long hiatus. Ray, who always denied claims about his own bisexuality (though he suggested everyone has had at least one unfulfilled fantasy about a member of the same sex), would be ‘rediscovered’ by youth counterculture in the late sixties – later, even to be educated by him from 1971 to 1973 at the State University of New York in Binghamton.  If not for his chronic affliction - pills and booze - Ray might not have had the gates of the ‘new’ Hollywood suddenly flung in his face.

Ironically, Ray chose Ryan to play the more humane role in The Flying Leathernecks, perhaps, eager to tear a little into the façade that, until this movie, was John Wayne’s public persona. There is little doubt the fictionally conceived Capt. Griffin (originally intended for Tim Holt) offers a more compassionate counterpoint in this movie, the perfect foil for Wayne’s more Teutonic Maj. Kirby. The role of Kirby had been tailor-made from the reputation and exploits of real-life Maj. John L. Smith and his missions over Guadalcanal in 1942. The similarities between Smith and Kirby were uncanny; both, awarded Medals of Honor and promoted to Lt. Colonel, with Wayne bearing a striking resemblance to Smith, duly noted by the critics when the film came out. By 1951, John Wayne’s reputation could withstand a performance that leant towards making him ‘the heavy’; Wayne, born Marion Robert Morrison, under the tutelage of mentor, John Ford, having evolved into the quintessence of America’s frontier legacy. This Teflon-coating on Wayne’s public image would remain intact for decades yet to follow, and only in more recent years, has come under scrutiny and criticism, chiefly due to an interview Wayne gave to Playboy Magazine in 1971 – distinctly to outline his ultra-conservative views that, even by then, were to have considerably fallen out of fashion with the young, radical left, who considered him of the ‘dinosaur’ class. To his detractors, Wayne remained staunchly defiant, “The average college kid idealistically wishes everybody could have ice cream and cake for every meal. But as he gets older…he finds that it can't work out that way—that some people just won't carry their load…I'd like to know why well-educated idiots keep apologizing for lazy and complaining people who think the world owes them a living. I'd like to know why they make excuses for cowards who spit in the faces of the police and then run behind the judicial sob sisters. I can't understand these people who carry placards to save the life of some criminal, yet have no thought for the innocent victim.”

Interesting, however, to reconsider Wayne – a Republican, who nevertheless supported Democratic President Franklin Roosevelt, as well as his successor, Harry Truman. A zealous anti-communist, Wayne backed the House Un-American Activities Committee as a proactive inside enforcer of the Black List and supported Senator Joseph McCarthy in what later became known as ‘the witch hunts’ to weed out communists and communist sympathizers in Hollywood. Implored to run for public office, Wayne declined, joking that no one would take ‘an actor’ seriously in the White House; though he backed fellow actor, Ronald Reagan in his bid for the governorship of California in both 1966 and 1970, and lent his support and voice to Richard Nixon’s campaign with a passionate address during the 1968 Republican National Convention. Despite his views, John Wayne has endured these many years since his passing, as a galvanized, indestructible and emblematic part of America’s patriotism, even that even his harshest critics have eventually come around to acknowledge: a sort of stoic, prideful integrity, unbowed by personal attacks on his character, and, stubbornly refusing even to bow with the popular opinion of these changing times.  

If not for maverick producer, Howard Hughes’ fascination with some rare Technicolor footage of wartime combat, The Flying Leathernecks might not have been made; Hughes’ insistence on using the actual combat footage in the movie, boding with Ray’s desire to achieve a grittier verisimilitude. Principal photography began in Nov. 1950, at Camp Pendelton and El Toro Marine Corps bases before relocating to soundstages on the old RKO-Pathé backlot in Feb. 1951. Despite Hughes and Ray’s verve for authenticity, the fighter aircraft used in the movie were not the Grumman F4F Wildcats of their time, but Grumman F6F Hellcats, as the F4F’s did not continue in U.S. service after the war and had since been scrapped. More F6F’s were used, painted white to mimic Zero fighters. In the picture’s last act, a Vought F4U Corsair played the prominent role. During these last days of shooting, disaster was narrowly averted when noted air racing and stunt pilot, Paul Mantz and his crew were ambushed by a premature dynamite detonation. While the B-25 camera platform was all but destroyed, Mantz miraculously managed to bring about a safe landing. Mantz’s luck would hold out until July 8, 1965 when, while working on Robert Aldrich’s The Flight of the Phoenix, his plane struck a small hillock, breaking in two and nose diving into the ground, killing him instantly. Miraculously, his co-pilot, Bobby Rose, escaped the wreckage, recovering from his serious injuries.

Our fictional story begins with flourish of Roy Webb’s orchestral underpinnings and main titles to suggest another grandiose WWII flag-waving/crowd-pleaser. We are introduced to Maj. Dan Kirby (John Wayne) as the new commander. Previously, it was anticipated Capt. Carl Griffin (Robert Ryan) would inherit this post. Alas, Kirby’s strict adherence to policy is a jolt to the system of the men about to serve under him. Kirby makes no apologies for his hard line approach to managing flyers. In fact, he takes a rather sincere pride in remaining steadfast to principles he expects everyone else to live up. After all, this is war, and Kirby, well aware of the troop’s rather loose command thus far, is determined to make a success of his Cactus Air Force during the Guadalcanal campaign. Kirby is also reticent in acknowledging how much his meager force is outnumbered by the Japanese.  Furthermore, he is disgusted by the adolescent and daredevil approach of his men who foolishly take risks that have, thus far, cost his division far too many human and plane casualties. Kirby lays the blame squarely at Griffin’s door. Griffin is too close to his ‘boys’ – too much ready to back their intuition, and especially attached to his brother-in-law, Vern ‘Cowboy’ Blithe (Don Taylor). All this, Kirby views as Griffin’s innate weakness.

Secretly, Kirby despises the hard decisions he has to make, recognizing some are sending good men to their imminent death. Alas, Kirby continues to embrace the broader view of his mission – to win the war in this part of the world, whatever its human cost. This sober consideration he keeps hidden from the rest of his squadron. However, as the Japanese hunker down and combat becomes even more grim, Kirby is forced to apply even more inflexible methods, pushing his already physically and mentally depleted pilots to the brink of complete collapse. He even denies men with malaria to retire on sick leave and orders planes he knows not to be in peak condition to continue in their combat maneuvers.  While Griffin respects the terrible position Kirby is in, he cannot abide these Kamikaze tactics. Kirby’s low-level ground attacks, in support of the Marine units, do not meet with HQ’s approval until the Marines are precariously jeopardized by the Japanese. Tweaking his strategies, Kirby engages in a perilous attack on a massive Japanese convoy and, despite some thought-numbing losses, is victorious in his efforts. Promoted to Lt. Colonel, Kirby disseminates his expertise in the US before returning to the front, now equipped with F4U Corsair fighters to finish the job. Kirby leads his squadron into the hellish Battle of Okinawa in which, forced to avoid splitting his formation, Griffin makes the impromptu decision to deny assistance to Blithe, resulting in his death. While Kirby is also downed and injured, he is rescued by a Navy launch. Reassigned, Kirby appoints Griffin as his successor as he can now place the lives of his pilots second. Their once tenuous alliance is softened with a more approachable pledge to meet again, although Kirby confides to Griffin, in the days ahead, more nightmarish decisions will be required if the war is to be won.

The Flying Leathernecks is a mostly somber affair, intermittently elevated by its thrilling combat sequences; also, by Jay C. Flippen’s performance as Kirby’s comrade-in-arms, MSgt. Clancy – played strictly for laughs (and very much in the vein of the roles once played by John Wayne/John Ford alumnus, Victor McLaglen in so many of the Ford/Wayne westerns). Flippen is a bit rough around the edges here, and does not possess the same ballast as McLaglen to charm us with his blarney. Still, he provides a welcomed respite from the otherwise chronic adversarial atmosphere between Kirby and Griffin, permeating the picture from end to end. James Edward Grant and Beirne Lay, Jr.’s screenplay indulges Wayne and Ryan in some heady debates that always infer their alter-egos might come to blows. But the picture’s real strength remains its skillful combination of vintage and newly shot aerial sequences, seamlessly to generate the necessary spark of exhilaration and make the dramatics at least appear worthwhile. William E. Snyder’s cinematography greatly enhances the proceedings, bringing to life what is essentially – and usually – thought of as a B&W war, into the raging and ravishing hues of 3-strip Technicolor. There are finer examples of the wartime drama, but The Flying Leathernecks offers one of the most richly saturated and colorful of the lot.

The Flying Leathernecks arrives on Blu-ray via the Warner Archive (WAC) and, true to form, it is a winner from beginning to end. One oddity to consider. The picture - on home video, at least - has always opened with a B&W RKO logo.  Not exactly certain if this is how the movie premiered theatrically as RKO’s Technicolor logo was already well in use by the time of its general release. And beginning with a B&W logo does not segue into B&W footage of the war; so, there really is no logical reason for its inclusion – as if, to preserve the ‘vintage’ look of the piece before moving into true 3-strip glory.  As Nicholas Ray’s first Technicolor feature, The Flying Leathernecks offers us a prelude to the director’s deft use of color to enhance the moody magnificence of his artfully staged melodrama. WAC’s due diligence here is what is most commendable of all; the 1080p image, culled from a new 4K scan, derived from original camera negatives, positively glows. Flesh tones are superb. The palette favors a brown/beige, and blue/green mix, with the occasional splash of red. Arguably, and in projection, this Blu perfectly mimics a vintage – if lovingly preserved - 35mm dye transfer, with excellent contrast and not an age-related artifact in sight. The 1.0 DTS mono audio delivers a surprising amount of bombast and clarity and will surely not disappoint. Wonderful stuff. Apart from a theatrical trailer, WAC offers us nothing by way of extras. We can overlook this, given how great the disc looks. Bottom line: a sincere, but only so-so wartime actioner, looking utterly spectacular in hi-def. For those reasons – very highly recommended!

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

3

VIDEO/AUDIO

5

EXTRAS

0