nist henchman in a Vietcong uniformntosses a grenade into a primitive groundnshelter full of screaming Vietnamesenpeasants, a new perspective opens. ThenVietnamese ordeal of communist makingnsuddenly becomes a reality, no lessncompelling than My Lai. The linkagenwith the current suffering of the boatnpeople immediately becomes obvious,nregardless of the manipulations ofnAmerican TV, an antiwar medium. Andnin one’s post-show reflections, no onenshould have any difficulty in creditingnthese calamities to all the Chomskysnand Fondas of this land. The myth ofnangelic anti-imperialism bursts into annignoble, technicolor explosion; thenpanic-stricken howls of children slaughterednby communists fill our ears for anlong time.nAnd it is a true-born prole fromnPennsylvania, a working-class Beowulfnof Ukranian-Russian origin (to makenthings more overwhelmingly American)nwho’s busy on screen slaying the Asianmarxistndragon. He is an epic hero withnsome of Lord Jim’s sensitivities, differentnin nature from the latter’s torment,nand quite inarticulate to boot, but determiningnhis own id, his commitments,nhis courage. Here, the mystiquenof the American melting pot gets itsnmost idiosyncratic display: an Italian-nAmerican director in search of a nonconformist,nunfashionable revival ofnforgotten substances, turns to thenUkranian-American community for rawnmodels and value stimulation. An actornof Italian-American descent succeedsnin expressing the convoluted reverencesnfor man, life and faith that suffuse thenRussian-Orthodox religion and folkloricnheritage.nEvery bitter controversy in historynproduces fools. The Deer Hunter makesnthis mercilessly clear. The self-righteousnfriends of humanness and peace whonrefused to go to Vietnam, and insteadnspent their youth listening to fierynspeakers with noble idiocy in their eyes,nlook quite pitiable today—perhaps evennto themselves. Michael, the protagonistnwho went to war and went through hell,nSSHMIHHHMIBnChronicles of Cttlturcncomes home with his self-respect intactnand his humanness enriched. He’snneither a fool nor a victim—which realnfools so rabidly want him to be.nMichael is played by Robert DeNiro,nthe only actor in today’s America whoncan endow primitiveness and inarticulateness,nthe most common and painfulnhuman limitations, with dignity andndepth. He transforms a simplistic, butncoherent, vision of existence into a codenof honor and a sense of value; he’s pedestrian,nbut rich in the endless shadesnof man’s sensibility. We rarely write innthese pages about contemporary filmnactors, for whom we feel an utter contempt:nthe Redfords, Hoffmans andnNicholsons of today sell the plasticnmimicry of ear wiggling as art form;nthey’ve lost the sentimental magic ofnthe screen presence of the Gables,nCoopers and Bogarts, and they try tonmake up for it with the trashy mannerismnof a “pro,” and with an off-screenn”conscience.” DeNiro is an exception,nhe still tries to construct the immanencenof a person, to portray a person’snauthenticity not at the expense of hisnautonomy. This is why he was refusednan Oscar this year, Hollywood obviouslynpreferring cloddishness over reticence.nThis is also why critics devoted to thenmodish gospel have so stupidly demolishednthe image he created in The DeernHunter: in most reviews, his characternis intimated to be homosexual just becausenhe loves a friend and is reluctantnto go to bed with a girl he knows hisnfriend loves. Today’s critics do not knownhow to explain the meanings of emotionsnother than as sexual disorder. ThenNew Yorker went so far as to ask us notnto identify ourselves with DeNiro’s Michael.nWhy.’ Because he is loyal andnsane, and does not lose his fundamentalnwholeness in the face of the worst crucible.”nDeNiro plows through Michael’snlow-brow ego with all the inevitablengrunts and platitudes of an actor’s effortnto structure a realistic character,nand winds up with a rendition of a superbnman. He’ll never be forgiven fornnnthat by the radical-chic ideologists andnmovie gurus.nThe last scene is a masterpiece of subduedneffectiveness, the most poigiiantnmessage of the picture. The survivors,nand those whom they deem friends andnrelatives, sing an American anthem. It’snlogical and natural in its lack of affectation.nWhen grief and loss befall people,nthey huddle around the simplest sensenof existence: family, one’s own placenin the incomprehensibly cruel world,nand the country—the last rampartnagainst the riddles of destiny. A clusternof people in mourning clothes sing “GodnBless America.” There’s no bravado inntheir voices, no triumph, just a resolvento stick to what’s dearest to them—nfamiliarity of faces, houses, the heavynsteel-mill town’s sky. This is the onlynbeloved niche of their being, the simplestnof patriotisms. There’s no bombast inntheir singing, just distress and a cry fornconsolation. But to one Robert Hatch,nfilm critic of Nation, once an honorablenjournal, this sounds different:n”The scene that really shocked mencame at the end, when a small groupnof the survivors gathered in a neighborhoodntavern and raised their voicesnin ‘God Bless America.’ Despite allnthey have seen and suffered they arenstill true believers, good patriots.”nSo, Orwell comes to mind, when henwrote that the Royal Navy in 1940 wasnthe only savior of all those British radicalndolts who, for two centuries, hadndebased it as the epitome of evil andnhad clamored for its destruction. Sadnas it sounds, if Americans go to warnagain, sooner or later, millions of Michaelsnfrom mill towns will die to preservenMr. Hatch’s malodorous “right”nto feel shocked when he hears “GodnBless America” sung by people he disapprovesnof. And it won’t ever occur tonMr. Hatch’s framed mind that they willnhave died for him. And that he’s alivenand able to scribble his scurrilous diatribesnbecause there still are “true believers”nand “good patriots” of thisncountry. Does it make any sense? Dn