T h e N o r t h C o a s t T im e s E a g l e , F r i d a y , Bambi Meets the Deer Hunter b y M ic h a e l M cC u sker Bambi and the Deer Hunter have something in common. Neither movie is about the Vietnam war. The Deer Hunter is about three guys who grew up together in a Pennsylvania steel town. 3ambi is about three guys who grew up together in the woods. All three guys are white, but the animals are a mixed cast; a deer, a rabbit and a skunk. The three guys go to war after a drunken wedding and a deer hunt. The war comes to the woods in the form of a hunter and the forest fire he caused. The forest fire and the excape of Bambi, Thumper and Flower thrilled me with more horror than the escape of Mike, Steve and Nick from the Viet Cong. As a war movie Bambi was more plausible. The catastrophe of man the hunter was certainly more realistically por trayed. The Deer Hunter is not so finely drawn. It pretends to be an anology of the catastrophic effects of war upon three men, and its apologists explain that it was not intended to portray Viet nam except as an example of war itself. If that is indeed the case, then I find it not only a badly conceived effort, but a complete disservice to the Amer ican public that is de manding, finally, after lognjranh lânb Con cho ¿ re l?inh;Vat moi’ Khac Vietnam ese D O lD O lO U la D C O IO P P a (¡Dirait Jhittrry understand they often were, my memory is that those portrayed in the movie such as throwing a grenade in a bomb shelter overflowing with mothers and child ren, or the machinegun H e m lo c k & 2 n d Cannon a 10 year sleep, to know what happened in Vietnam. I found the movie to be a pack of lies. I do not know the finer points of cinema criticism. I know something about war, how ever. And the Deer Hunter disturbed me be cause after they all sang God Bless America and the lights were turned on in the Seaside theater, some youngsters of teen age asked me if that was the way it was in Vietnam. Trying to explain that it was not, I found myself almost shouting in rage, perhaps because those same youngsters were fodder for the next one, and the lies of this movie might ultimately, kill them. Let's start with the big deal made about the single shot theory. Mike, the movie's main man, will expend only one round to get a deer. If he was that chary in returning fire in Vietnam, his first fire fight would have been his last. I remember that even a fire cracker would be answered with a torrent of fire. One of the ma jor criticism by warfare experts was that we threw rounds around like water out of a hose. Then we move on to the game of Russian rou lette, which was the device the entire plot revolved upon. If it ever happened, no veteran of Vietnam I ever talked with knew about it. We used to hear a lot of wild stories about what what Mr. Cong would do to us if we were captured — same stuff the Japanese were told if captured by Americans a generation and two previous wars ago — but none of them in cluded roulette. I found it an irony, perhaps a contempt for the average moviegoer by the producer or director, that Russian Americans were the sup posed victims of Russian roulette played upon them by Vietnamese. That moves us to a racism so explicit in the Deer Hunter that it is a stench. Nowhere within the movie are Vietnamese portrayed as human beings, and cer tainly not as a worthy foe. "Their Vietnamese" and 'Our Vietnamese' have no redeeming qual ities whatever« and the symbol of their dec adence is based on a fiction— the aforemention ed roulette. Even the atrocities the movie shows committed upon Beach jlj T dl j T l jli I lj û lo n lt j u I cj n lo tJ lc irjn MOPEDS 125 MPG T3° Pm SP“hD T h e i n t e l l i g e n t a n s w e r to e c o n o m ic a l t r a n s p o r t a t io n TEST RIDE o n e to d a y M IK E'S BIKE SHOP 4 3 6 -1 2 6 6 C A N N O N BEACH ning of a mother and her child— were actually committed by us children of redblooded American mothers. Or have we forgotten My Lai? No matter how badly any movie portrays the Vietnamese— and I am sure the ground has been broken for many more— no amount of sour grapes will diminish the fact that those people whipped the hell out of us, not because they were better soldiers, but because they fought us in the same manner our ancestors, for the same reasons, fought the British 200 years ago,' and like the 3ritish, the Americans were too inflexible to adapt. America, with its bombers and battalions, tried to play chess in the Land of Go, and lost. But there was another form of racism in the Deer Hunter, perhaps less notic ed. Contrary to the script, the American soldier was not entirely white. In fact the greater percentage of actual combat troops were off-white. The rear areas were filled with caucasions, but the closer to the bunkers the more America's racial stew was in evi dence. Some of the more cynical have noted that nations always ensure that a goodly number of their lower orders are killed off in combat against another nation's lower orders, so no mat ter who wins or loses, there are less potentially troublesome 'niggers' left in either. I could go on, but I am getting mad again. I am getting tne reeling that once more we are being used. For almost 10 years the Vietnam vet eran has borne the nation al guilt for the war be cause the rest of the nation refused to face its responsibility for the war. Even President Carter, in a New York Times interview has ad mitted that the country's spiritual malaise is a result of its cowardly failure to realize that we lost the war and that it was immoral. The veteran, after suffering the intense losses and anguish of combat, and the terrible guilt of this war in particular, was given no help when he returned homo. Instead he became the leper, the repository of all our sins. He was treated like dirt because he did the coun try's dirty work. not - -healthy against a common foe. To day's war movies present a more invidious propa ganda. They seem to de sire revising history so that the distortion will not only disguise the fact we were defeated in a war, they intend to jus tify the war and the gov erning of us still by the power structures that got us into the damn thing to begin with— you know who they are: the guys who are holding back on the gas and robbing us at the supermarket. Maybe that is why I felt distress in my lower tract when the two sur viving veterans sang "God Bless America" after drop ping the third into a hole. Even Bambi had better taste than to stretch credulity so fan tastically. 3 A u g u s t, 1979 Tlie^BrokeiiWhisper Anton Webern was an Austrian composer, conductor and a leader in the country's socialist movement in the early years of this century. He was born Anton von Webern in 1883, but dropped the aristocratic title during the 1918 revolution which followed the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire during World War I . Webern began his professional career in 1908 as conductor of various orchestras throughout Austria. He joined the Social Démocraties Party in 1920 and became conductor of a workers' orchestra. He con tinued to compose music and conduct orchestras dur ing the Nazi occupation of Austria and during World War II. His son was killed in battle and his home was destroyed by bombs. Webern's fortunes took a brighter turn in the final days of the war. He received an official letter from Vienna requesting that he take a major role in the postwar reconstruction of Austrian cul ture . At the end of the war the allies occupied Vienna. A curfew was imposed. One night Webern returned home in ovservance of the curfew. He stopped out side his Vienna apartment to light a cigarette. An American sentry shouted an order at him, but by this time the 62-year-old composer was partially deaf. He did not respond to the order. The soldier shot him. Though his work was largely unknown to the gener al public, Webern was widely esteemed by classical musicians and by socialists throughout Europe. Ro berta Schanek, who lives in Cannon Beach, wrote the following poem mourning his tragic death the slender fingers crumble textured as flesh, preserved in tannic acid each ganglion each tortured final harmony the hand turns on its side, raw side out exposing varicolored fluid tendrils the trumpet screams in horror mutilated fractions of gestures graspings at the cold wings sear and sever the air and the music falls in jagged bloody pieces thin sour fragments lodged between the sharp enamelled points sir, does each star assign itself to name and number? but hear the lone, the broken whisper foreign anger diminished to a contraction of crystalline iris at last, motionless the composer's neck hairs bristle at untuned scrapings on a sunless window gunmetal, dense behind a heavy door R o b e r ta S c h a n e k ‘Hey, Anybody —I'm Back!' c * « toom av to u emcMtot Page 7 Bald Eafife Cdfe and Espresso Bar South H^rtJoch.Canim Beach.