All Quiet on the Western Front

The more things change . . .

This film is guilty of two things that regularly annoy me today.

Annoyance the first: Labeling something "good" (or even "great") because some individual part of it meets those standards.  There were a few things about this film that were well done--the cinematography, certain technical elements, the production design--and there were individual scenes that were either well done, or good ideas on paper.  But, and my bonnet admittedly still has a bee in it from trying to convince a coworker this very day that Gower and Middleton, while they succeed marvelously on some levels, do not deserve to be mentioned alongside Chaucer and Shakespeare, who succeed on every level, moments of brilliance do not justify overarching mediocrity.  Modern offenders: David Lynch, Ryan Murphy, Drake.

Annoyance the second: richly layered and highly talented ensembles being spoiled by the bland, wooden, inoffensively attractive lead actor.  Lew Ayres gives every last one of his lines, even those few that are not already dangerously top-heavy, with the same earnestly mild reading that one would give to a detergent commercial.  At no point does his character change, react, or express anything that could not have been given perhaps better in a telegram.  More's the pity, as Slim Summerville and Louis Wolheim give depth and texture to even the maudlin, didactic teletype that serves as a script.  I am positively disgusted by the troops of vaguely pretty boys in leading roles who clearly are there because they dampened a casting director's panties, and remain there because of the flooded undergarments of their fans. My frustration is only sharpened by the often vibrant ensembles that are forced to prop them up. Modern offenders: Stephen Amell, Henry Cavill, Kit Harington, Dominic Cooper, et al ad infinitum.  Taking the movie in question here as evidence, it would seem that the trend is nearly a hundred years old in film, likely even longer in other media, and potentially immortal.