Perception and Reality

In Barry Levinson's 1999 spoof, Wag the Dog, a slick-talking Washington spin doctor (Robert DeNiro) backs a famous Hollywood mogul (Dustin Hoffman) into an egoistical corner claiming the filmmaker's talent can resolve a dicey situation looming on the horizon. Somewhat confused, the bespectacled director—unable to make heads or tails of the fast-talking rhetoric bouncing off his palatial walls—innocently inquires, "I'm in show business, why come to me?" Without missing a beat, the quick-thinking opportunist explains, "War is show business, that's why we're here." And for nearly two hours, this zany motion picture never lets up, taking one pot shot after another, lambasting the media for its inaccurate portrayal of politics, conflict, and resolution. After all, as Dustin Hoffman reassures his new partner in crime about forging a war drama, "All combat takes place at night, in the rain, and at the junction of four map segments."

Written by David Mamet, Wag the Dog offers many laughs pushing the relationship between war and media right over the edge with its many roman-à-clef scenes (especially the President Clinton, Monica Lewinsky romp) and recalls similar episodes in Catch-22 and The Americanization of Emily. As entertainment, these photoplays grasp a viewer's attention; they are witty, caustic, and sardonic and certainly grab the jugular vein. But are they sound? Do moving pictures mirror a nation's war or merely embody a life (or truth) of their own? Is there a relationship between perception and reality in darkened theaters? Are audiences being manipulated in front of their wide-screen televisions every time John Wayne dashes across a South Pacific sandbar? Has fiction-as-fact become a modern-day reality?

To answer (or dispel) some of these questions two established historians spent long hours first compiling, organizing, and then editing twenty-three essays that deal exclusively with the media's portrayal of foreign and domestic wars. Beginning with the July 4^th declaration and concluding with the post-9/11 period, Why We Fought: America's Wars in Film and History examines Hollywood's depiction of its nation's conflicts and tackles head-on the thorny issues of accuracy, distortion, and profit. Clearly this new title—which received the coveted Ray and Pat Browne Award for the best essay collection of 2008—offers much information about a popular genre that, for better of worse, enthralls most male viewers. Once again, Peter Rollins and John O'Connor have demonstrated their subject mastery and editorial skills with this innovative anthology.

Each essay offers a unique approach. Beginning with the American Revolution, such titles as Drums Along the Mohawk and The Patriot explain the difficulties of a faraway period with modern audiences while the Mexican-American War with its rousing Alamo defeat (victory?) screenplays pushes every viewer's emotional button into overdrive. Moving on to the Civil War, Ken Burn's elaborate documentary juxtaposed with good-looking Jude Law's interpretation of the South's Lost Cause, Cold Mountain, sheds much light about this war of secession. The Great War (later called World War I) looks at two silent features, The Big Parade and Westfront before culminating with All Quiet on the Western Front.

Following the Treaty of Versailles, the isolationists and anti-interventionists worked assiduously to mold public opinion. Pearl Harbor changed everything. World War II, with its rousing call-to-arm screenplays, projects its own image in such storylines as Hitler—Beast of Berlin, From Here to Eternity, The Longest Day, and Saving Private Ryan, while other titles, Battleground, A Walk in the Sun, and The Best Years of Our Lives, reiterated the human cost. Frank Capra's Why We Fight series educated the wartime audience with his subtle but persuasive propaganda.

The Cold War allowed features such as The Big Lift and The Day the Earth Stood Still to warn stateside audiences that their onetime ally, the Soviet Union, now threatened global security with Stalinist expansionism. Mired in...