Often artistic objects exceed themselves. The object intends one interpretation, lends itself to one specific angle, but ultimately either undermines or entangles itself in thornier questions which perhaps surpass the intent of the creator. The importance of noticing this fact about cinema is that it opens up the possibility of criticism and exploration in a properly charitable mode. If the object always outruns its creator, always exceeds its presumed intentions, then that means that ostensibly “bad” or “politically wrong” movies can be more interesting than they appear at first blush. It also means that directors we are often quick to pan are frequently more interesting than we give them credit for. To that end, the following essay considers one of the stalwarts of recent American cinema: Michael Bay, master of subtlety.
Specifically, I look at his film 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi, starring hunky John Krasinski. On the face of it, the film is a patriotic one with a bias that aligns with the rightwing criticisms of US governmental failure at Benghazi. This failure is depicted in astounding detail, executed marvelously, with action so consistently clear that one always knows where one is in the geography of the movie.
My initial reactions to the film were hardly positive. I initially gave the film 1.5 stars on Letterboxd only to raise it to 4.5 within five years. It required reading Collin Brinkmann’s review for me to understand what the actual stakes of the film are. In his review of this film, Brinkmann argues that one could trace a consistent, basic humanism in Michael Bay's cinema. Not only in Ambulance or 13 Hours but also in the Transformers films: just people trying to get home or salvage a home. As Brinkmann notes:
“…there ARE NO GOOD OR BAD GUYS in Bay’s cinema, there’s just humans trying to get home, individuals in the world just trying to survive.”
I want to push Brinkmann’s correct observation further and argue that beyond merely being humanist 13 Hours retains a critical undercurrent. Intentional or not the film juxtaposes a generalizable human desire to go home/salvage a home (Krasinski stating at the end "we get to go home") with an absolute failure of the American apparatus to do anything other than worry about its own interests. Pablo Schrieber at the end, just after Krasinski's line, states "still no Americans.” Schrieber’s comment is an observation that no Americans have come to pick up their countrymen. It is precisely at the intersection of the US military’s desire to protect its brand that the movie embraces a questioning posture towards naïve patriotism.
The American empire would rather delay, cover up, and disavow an illegal CIA base than save the humans tasked to defend that very same base. One could indict those humans who chose to join the CIA or the contractors who re-upped. Why would they join an operation which was unsanctioned and illegal? How dare they? But not everyone in the US forms their moral calculus by being chronically online and many firmly believe in the goodness of their actions, that they might do a bit of good in the world by joining the CIA. At an even more basic level many believe that they can best provide support for their family by being a contractor using the only skills they have after years at war. Where else can an elite soldier go if all they’ve known is war? What job would be appropriate for them? The problem of transitioning back into civilian life is a difficult one. Perhaps this is why every former allegedly “quiet professional” has a podcast about leadership now: it’s easier to speak about something adjacent to your career than to abandon it entirely and venture into something new and different, like MrBallen has done. Back to the movie and the “Libyan transport” picking up Krasinski and company.
So, instead the US empire saves face, the failure of the empire to save human life from an avoidable conflict, and any critique of the institution is thrown off as conspiratorial or misguided. This is the case even beyond Benghazi. Most recently, in the newest episode of the extremely popular podcast, The Shawn Ryan Show, Captain Brad Geary is interviewed. Geary was in command of BUDS when Seaman Kyle Mullen died. In the episode, Captain Geary and his lawyers repeatedly emphasize that the Navy is more interested in brand protection than truth. Whether Captain Geary is recounting an accurate assessment of facts is irrelevant. The point is that the US military would rather scapegoat someone to cover up its own failure than tell the truth. Telling the truth is never convenient for the brand. But Bay’s film takes the critical humanism a step further.
13 Hours also emphasizes a shared humanity destroyed by the hubris of preemptive risk-calculus informed military operations. Mothers and children must bury their husbands, brothers, and sons while defending their home country and city from US contractors who were, themselves, defending an illegal operation and themselves. US contractors must bury friends and tell family members they won't ever see their dad or brother again–all in the name of defending an illegal operation and subsequently being thrown under the bus by the nation who put you there. The apparatus the US war machine is the object of critique. Humans are its victims, differentially distributed, but victims, nonetheless.
“The American dream is a killing machine.”
This is not a naive patriotic film. It's oddly complicated in interesting tense ways. And perhaps it is naive but it is naive in a way which is refreshing and formally competent. No one can do chaos and action in service of critique of empire like Bay.