Fury

Sadistic circumstances, engendered by power mad xenophobic imperialistic bombast, retreating, hunted by freedom fighters, the Fury of the Allied Forces, annihilating the remnants of Nazi Germany, near the end of the Second World War, still, mired in combat.

Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) was amazing.

My favourite character to emerge from war-related American cinema in the last 30 years.

By 30 years, I mean ever.

Let's make another film starring Aldo Raine, once again, killing Nazis, but this time stick him in a tank, once again, in command of loyal subordinates, dedicated to reasserting, the magnanimity of the free world.

The free world is not always magnanimous.

One of his loyal subordinates is new.

Green and foolhardy, he is unprepared for battle.

Yet battle engulfs him, and he must quickly acclimatize himself to its demented terrors, its requisite insanities, to become part of Aldo's team, thereby taking responsibility for his own actions.

His acclimatization permeates the film, which is generally another, mass produced somewhat cool entertaining ra-ra we won World War II flick, focusing on the greenhorn's shock, Fury, then saved by an unexpected scene.

Suddenly everything stops, and domestic bliss is upon us, patient and forgiving, miraculous medicinal mercy.

The scene shifts from the blissful to the hogtied, however, as the confines of the present, tacitly shriek euphonics in memorial.

Unexpected and outstanding.

The Germans are divided into the good and the bad, the civilians and the SS, the former, liberated, the latter, condemned.

Perennially.