Out on patrol in the war-time desert a Canadian corporal reminisces about the woman he has left behind in London and ponders whether she will fall for the charms of his rival in love. At the same time he worries about how he would get on with his outfit if his crack sergeant was not there to guide him. Circumstances combine to give answers to both questions. Written by
Jeremy Perkins <firstname.lastname@example.org>
1943's The Immortal Sergeant is a tedious and overly melodramatic bit of dullness that makes you glad we won WWII. But how?
I never got a chance to suspend my disbelief with this movie. Every moment I saw characters running hither and yon, pursuing Nazis or being strafed, I reacted with a dull, throbbing irritation. The movie is so drab that whatever does get done right gets lost in the wrong.
Henry Fonda, the young Canadian soldier in the Royal Army, is such a wussburger, he's willing to let Maureen O'Hara go to a teddibly uppa-crust war correspondent (Allyn Joslyn) instead of popping him in the nose. He whines to his sergeant (the immortal one--Thomas Sullivan) that he can't have a rank of responsibility. When he takes over the patrol, he has to quell a mutiny, slaughter a bunch of Italians and Germans, and make it back to base, all the while being crippled by some of the most boring flashbacks I've ever seen.
By the time our hero gets a medal pinned on his hospital robe (yeah, he makes it), he has turned in to a nasty, kill-em-all-and-let-God- sort-them-out candidate for a commission. He tells the teddible war correspondent that if he doesn't get a letter to O'Hara telling her he wants to marry her, he'll murder the journalist friend.
Sheesh, not "I'll smack ya in the kisser" or "I'll dance on your head, but "I'll murder you."
So much for Mr. Nice Wussburger. I think I liked him better.
The Immortal Sergeant didn't teach that to Corporal Jackass.
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