Robert Altman’s M*A*S*H* released in 1970, the same year as Mike Nichols’ Catch-22. Both filmmakers were seen as part of “New Hollywood,” an evolution from the Golden Age that took a more independent-minded aesthetic toward form and subject. In that vein, both films are anti-war in that the hallmarks of the war film – melodrama, battles, debates over strategy – are outside the point. War is a constant hell, a fact of everyday life, which is why the characters in these films are so screwy. Despite those similarities, only M*A*S*H* is seen as success – it did inspire a beloved sitcom – whereas the consensus is that Nichols (who just won an Oscar) overreached with his adaptation of Joseph Heller’s novel. More than 50 years later, the irony is that what was subversive about M*A*S*H* seems quaint, and bears a stronger semblance to another influential film from the 1970s, albeit one with a more dubious reputation: Animal House.
It is not just that Donald Sutherland appears in both films. The similarities are deeper than that: M*A*S*H*, like the frat boy classic, is essentially about smart-alecky rebels who use pranks to communicate their disgust with the hypocritical status quo. Many of the pranks are similar nature: there is a scene where Hawkeye (Sutherland) and Trapper John (Elliott Gould), for example, gather all their pals for a “show” wherein they humiliate their head nurse Hot Lips (Sally Kellerman) by exposing her naked body while she showers. In terms of framing and payoff, this is similar to when the John Belushi climbs a ladder so he can ogle cute sorority sisters. The key difference, however, is that Belushi’s character is a broadly stupid comic force of nature, while Hawkeye and the others are disaffected army surgeons. Altman, along with screenwriter Ring Lardner Jr., want us to celebrate their anti-heroes. It is not always convincing.
That is not to say, however, that M*A*S*H* and Animal House have the same overall value, or deserve to be forgotten as a “has not aged well” artifact from a bygone era. What makes the Altman film so fascinating is how he is still fine-tuning the signatures of his work, whether it is his use of ensemble casts or his overlapping approach to dialogue. In this case, in a field hospital during the Korean War, the overlapping dialogue adds to the verisimilitude because the setting is defined by urgency, where doctors decide life and death (mostly the latter) on a regular basis. We can see why Hawkeye, Trapper John, and Duke (Tom Skerritt) persist with their adolescent conduct. They need to blow off steam somehow, and in their minds, sexist hijinks are a better alternative than the moral hypocrisy from the God-fearing Frank Burns (Robert Duvall). That verisimilitude also extends to the surgery scenes themselves, which have more gore and viscera than most horror movies. M*A*S*H* is often thought of a black comedy, when it would be more accurate to say it’s an ordinary comedy with surgical forceps.
Another element of M*A*S*H*’s ongoing endurance is the innate likability of its cast. In particular, Sutherland and Gould are convincing as both jokesters and surgeons. Gould chews through the scenery, using his excellent mustache almost like a prop, which gives us the strange reminder that the actor was once a convincing sex symbol (he would also go on to star in Altman’s The Long Goodbye, one of the director’s all-time greats). Even the antagonist of the films like Frank and Hot Lips seem in on the joke, standing outside their characters to suggest that Duvall/Kellerman have a similar distaste for hypocrisy and puritanism. Also, it is easier to make the antagonists the object of fun when they’re willing participants, rather than victims who are sexually harassed in outrageous public displays. Other standouts are the hospital’s chaplain (René Auberjonois), who serves as a hapless kind of moral compass, and Fred Williamson as a surgeon who is also a ringer at the climatic football game (his character is named “Spearchucker,” probably the thing about M*A*S*H* that’s aged most poorly).
Although the football scene is energetically shot, unfolding like barely contained chaos, it is a strange way to conclude a film that is still ostensibly about war. Maybe there is a bitter subtext, and Altman (who wore his left-wing politics on his sleeve) wants to suggest the military-industrial complex is as mature or sophisticated as a slapdash sporting event. It is also important to remember Vietnam is still on everyone’s mind in 1970, and while it is never overtly referenced in M*A*S*H* or Catch-22, cynicism toward that dominating aspect of American life was relatively more justified. The football game culminates with a trick play, a strange irony because Altman eschews cliches from one genre in favor of another, suggesting a self-awareness about the low stakes and easy resolution. Most films about war have little truth to them, and it takes the juxtaposition in another kind of film to show how they’re so shallow.
But for all the “aged poorly” critiques and innovative techniques, the most important legacy to M*A*S*H* happens in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. In the football game, Altman includes something genuinely subversive for its time: the f-word. That’s right, M*A*S*H* is the first American studio film to drop an f-bomb. Its humor may have lost its edge and the film must be presented with a handful of caveats before it can be properly appreciated, but for that tossed-off flourish of genuine profanity, as movie fans we should remain forever fucking grateful.
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