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Byline: James Wolcott
As if to make amends for the cheap heroics that Hollywood war movies have flexed over the century-the beachhead assaults led by John Wayne, squinting with solemn resolve as he clutches the dog tags of a slain supporting actor; the aerial sagas with bomber crews cracking jokes in the cockpit as enemy fighters buzz in to spoil their picnic; Clint Eastwood, a golem of pure gristle, liberating the tiny country of Grenada in Heartbreak Ridge-other filmmakers present the flip side of playing soldier, the puking realities. They produce anti-war movies that resemble ghastly hangovers that never lift, nightmares on endless replay. The traditional ...