Page 2 June 21, 2018
Entertainment
Film Review
Soldiers Endure Trauma
of War in The Yellow Birds
By Ryan Rojas for www.cinemacy.com
As American military presence in the Iraq
war has fallen out of the more day-to-day news
cycle, so too have war dramas that continue
to explore the traumatic effects war has on
those in the field. In The Yellow Birds, based
on the 2012 novel of the same name by Kevin
Powers and adapted by David Lowery (Pete’s
Dragon) and R.F.I. Porto, director Alexandre
Moors (Blue Caprice) explores the traumas
of war through the story of a disappeared
soldier and his fellow comrade who must
keep his mental health in check for the sake
of his own freedom.
The Yellow Birds opens with silhouetted
shadows of weapon brandishing soldiers
wading their way through a barren Iraqi
landscape. Voiceover monologue describes
how these young men may already be dead,
long before they could have been killed.
Such ghosts are what two young soldiers,
Brandon Bartle (Alden Ehrenreich), who is
all of 21 years old, and Daniel Murphy (Tye
Sheridan), even younger at 18, face as newly
enlisted soldiers in the Army. When these two
are deployed to Iraq under the command of
the progressively unhinged Sergeant Sterling
(Jack Huston), the more hard-shelled Bartle
takes to looking out for the more sensitive
Murph in this war-torn landscape.
Yet, as the stresses of war mount, with
combat and killing becoming a more prevalent
and consuming reality, cracks begin to show
in the fragility of Murph’s toughness. His
mental stronghold begins to wane, leading
to a physical and emotional instability that
worries Bartle and company. It eventually
becomes the root cause of Murph’s disappearance
in the field.
What starts out as a war drama, The Yellow
Birds cuts back and forth from flashback to
the present, as the wartime events in Iraq are
interspersed with Bartle’s return home. This
creates a vacuum of a story in which Murph
disappears, adding intrigue to the mysterious
circumstances. It certainly alarms Murph’s
mother, Maureen (Jennifer Aniston), who
pleads her case to the Army. And a rattled
Bartle is clearly shaken after returning home to
his mother, Amy (Tony Collette), who tries to
console him. Bartle’s depression soon becomes
inescapable and all-consuming, leading him to a
breaking point as he finally addresses Murph’s
mom with what actually happened overseas.
One of the strengths and most defining
parts of The Yellow Birds is how it really
gets into the heads of its characters. While
it’s a bit stilted in its mechanics of cutting
back and forth, Ehrenreich gives a fine
performance and Sheridan adds a quietly
moving performance as well. The perspective
of The Yellow Birds is an emotionally
engaging one that offers a fresh, new look
at wartime films from the perspective of its
young and impressionable soldiers.
The Yellow Birds is rated R for war violence,
some grisly images, sexual material,
and language throughout. 110 minutes. Now
playing at Laemmle’s Royal Theatre. •
The Yellowbirds, Courtesy of Saban Films.
Ryan Rojas.
Check It Out
Hither and Ho-Hum: Heeding the
Heights of Himalayan Insights
By Tommy Vinh Bui, MLIS, Associate
Librarian, Inglewood Public Library
The frigid howl of subzero gales whip across
my wind-bitten cheeks as I gaze out upon an
expanse of cerulean sky that burrows into
the horizon and beyond. Ice axe armed and
climbing harness slung low across my torso,
my body sags with the gravity of 20,305 feet
of Himalayan peak snug under my cramponlaced
snow boots. Altitude-addled and Khumbu
cough are constant companions. Lungs lumpy
with lassitude, but still inflated enough to sigh
Tommy Vinh Bui at Everest Base Camp holding an Inglewood Library card.
a breath of relief at making it to the summit
somehow…
This little tableau was earlier this month
when I climbed Island Peak with very little
technical mountaineering experience. The
origins of this sanguine-soaked sojourn was
a tale as old as time: I languidly looked over
at a globe and spun it and stabbed a yawning
finger vowing to book a flight posthaste. Destination
be damned. And “Nepal” was where
the wayward appendage landed.
Being a full-time librarian sitting behind a
desk for a majority of the day, I was undeterred
and determined to try my book-burnished hand
at scaling a mountain that dwarfs any elevation
offering here in the United States. This was
ill-advised, minimally-prepared and otherwise
unwise decision-making in full fruition. I
packed a couple of light sweaters and swiftly
did I find myself spiriting away to Kathmandu.
Rhyme nor reason in tow.
And what a swashbuckling adventure did
await me. There was Kathmandu with its parade
of brilliantly-hued prayer flags festooned and
flapping ceaselessly. Surly yaks trudging along
macadam pathways lugging freights of necessary
mountain sundries like propane, climbing
equipment and tubes of Pringles by the bundle.
Amidst all the turmoil and political unrest
found in Nepal’s capital, I was also able to
espy a culturally rich and visually verdant city
bustling with far-flung allure and urban charm.
I was entrenched, entranced and endearingly
eased into the Nepalese quotidian of lentil
soup, Tibetan tea and the dulcet serenade of
whirling twilight prayer wheels.
Perhaps I speak too insouciantly about my
lack of adequate preparation. In all actuality, I
didn’t just lumber into this undertaking blithely.
I’m a librarian. A paucity of muscle mass,
sure… but an overabundance of foresight is
my occupational burden. I read voraciously
about the country and excursion on which I
was to embark. And a multitude of the library’s
resources did I put to immediate good use.
Reading really does take you everywhere. And
a library card acts as a worthy substitute for
a passport any day of the week.
My appetite for all things Himalayan was
insatiable and I was able to sate that ravenous
reading jones with a plethora of audiobooks,
periodicals and journals about climbing expeditions
in the Khumbu region. I studied up
the Devanagari script and picked up a raft of
useful Nepalese phrases using Mango, which
is a language-learning app available through
the library. I listened to traditional Nepalese
music and versed myself in the country’s
geopolitical history by utilizing the wealth
of databases and electronic resources accessible
with my illuminating library card. I was
spoiled for research materials and by the time
my departure flight was looming, I was both
buoyed and bolstered by all the newfound
insights gleaned from library shelves.
Fast-forward a few weeks and I’m a writhing
and withered mass of exhaustion stuffed into a
frosty tent at base camp -- my arms aching and
my legs a clutch of brittle, pre-cooked spaghetti
sticks. Air thin, but sense of accomplishment
turgid. Half-corpse, I cogitate on the inscrutable
nature of existence. I am pushed to my limits
of physical endurance and I cleave to one
lingering thought left alone rattling around in
my miasmic medulla:
Maybe next year’s vacation can incorporate
sunshine and daiquiris. Spinning globes and
wayfaring fingers conveniently disregarded. •
The Khumbu Icefall at Everest Base Camp. Photos Provided by Tommy Vinh Bui.
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