Miracle at St. Anna

Spike Lee's latest film is a first in his canon: an epic combat film, murder mystery, spiritual fable, and Italian neorealist drama rolled into one slightly ungainly 160-minute package. Working from a screenplay by James McBride – adapting his own novel – Lee's experienced eye catches moments of subtle grace but fails to smooth over some of the script's more literal touches, and, unfortunately, allows his burden of "telling a story that needs to be told" to occasionally eclipse the on-screen drama.

Miracle at St. Anna is mainly the story of a four-man squad of African-American soldiers trapped behind enemy lines in 1944 during the campaign to retake Italy. When one of the men, a gentle giant named Train (Omar Benson Miller), adopts an Italian boy (first-time actor Matteo Sciabordi), the squad must take shelter in a Tuscan village allied with local partisans who, inevitably, bring the wrath of Hitler's army to bear upon the town. This brief summary only captures the main thrust of the film's story, which also incorporates: a harrowing riverside battle, several different subplots among the villagers, a Nazi massacre of an entire Italian village (the titular St. Anna), an examination of institutionalized racism in the segregated American armed forces, and a murder investigation in 1980's New York that serves as the film's framing device. Some of Lee's segues between these disparate elements and frequent digressions are smoother than others – a lengthy flashback from the perspective of an Italian partisan supplants the four G.I.'s story for so long, it is momentarily jarring to see them again on screen – but no one can accuse Lee of lacking ambition. With Miracle at St. Anna, Lee works on his largest canvas since Malcolm X, but instead of probing deeply into one man's soul, he skims lightly across a large, diverse cast of characters.

Nevertheless, Miracle at St. Anna is the work of a humanist, a film that seeks to present its characters chiefly in moral or spiritual terms. Every group and sub-group with an interest in the war – Americans, Italians, Germans, etc. – is represented on-screen by at least one virtuous character and one villainous character, a balance that sometimes feels forced. The American army is commanded by well-intentioned officers alongside racist, incompetent ones, and the Italian partisans fight for liberation but with morally questionable means. What ultimately strains credibility is the inclusion of a "good" German officer who demands fair rations for his soldiers, condemns Hitler, and appears in a critical moment of the film to perform an act of kindness without precedence in the history of modern warfare. If the audience had not yet accepted Lee's thesis that all belligerents in war are fundamentally created equal, he offers a scene of prayer that cuts between a company of African-American soldiers, the Italian villagers, and a lone German soldier reciting the exact same prayer in English, Italian, and German, respectively. Conversely, Lee and McBride make a better case for human nature with their subtler portrayal of Ludovico (Omero Antonutti), an ideologically promiscuous "fascist" who hosts the American soldiers in his home. The film also benefits greatly from the casting of Derek Luke as Sgt. Stamps, the leader of the American squad. Although his role is woefully underwritten, Luke possesses the air of innate, unimpeachable decency found only among the likes of Tom Hanks or Henry Fonda. His Sgt. Stamps is instantly relatable and often grounds the film when its dramatic or thematic ambitions threaten to push it off course.

Also working in the film's favor is its visual design. Lee and his cinematographer, Matthew Libatique, frame the actors against vast, gorgeous Tuscan scenery and intricately detailed sets. Although the Italian countryside dazzles more than enough to convey the soldiers' growing affinity for it, the picturesque setting also has the unfortunate consequence of occasionally aestheticizing the film's war violence. However, Lee, Libatique, and Second-Unit Director (and former Spike Lee cinematographer) Ernest Dickerson work especially hard to keep the fighting and slaughter realistically brutal. Costumes and production design by American and Italian crews are stellar, as well.

In spite of the technical prowess on display in Miracle at St. Anna, the film's ultimate faults lie with its storytelling. Lee is a fantastic visual storyteller when he wants to be – the riverbank assault sequence and the film's opening murder in a post office are only two of the film's many stunning episodes – but then indulges himself in moments like the film's first line of spoken dialogue: an elderly, dark-skinned man (it is revealed later that he is Puerto Rican, not African-American) watches a John Wayne World War II film on television and grumbles bitterly that "we fought, too." In another jarringly literal moment, a character is reintroduced through the repetition of a memorable gesture. Although anyone who has been paying attention to the film is sure to know this character's identity, he then introduces himself by name – twice. Finally, the film commits an unforgiveable narrative sin with a sudden jump in time between the end of its climactic battle scene, which leaves one character dangling precariously between life and death, and the arrival of Allied reinforcements. Lee and McBride strip the film of what should have been its dramatic peak, and this omission creates a gap in credibility that derails the film as it enters the concluding half of its 1980's bookend.

Miracle at St. Anna should be epic but trips over its own ambitions. Although James McBride and Spike Lee fall short in aspects of their screenplay and direction, the cast is solid – Michael Ealy and Laz Alonso are very good as the other members of the core group of soliders; as is Valentina Cervi as a local woman with strong ties to the soldiers and partisans. For its flaws, Miracle at St. Anna is ultimately a good film that could have been great.

                                                          Stuart Weinstock