1917 · essays & theory

A reading · through the lens of theory

Keep the camera a single stride behind the running man and you have the whole film. It never quite catches him and never lets him go. Schofield runs, and the lens holds its distance like a held breath, and for two hours that gap — the body in front, the witness behind — is the only stable fact 1917 will give you. Sam Mendes and Roger Deakins built everything else to move.

Start with what the film is doing at its most basic level, because Deleuze gives it a clean name. A man perceives a situation and acts to change it: 1,600 soldiers are about to walk into a German trap, an order must reach the front by dawn, and a runner is sent. Perceive, then act. The whole structure bends toward a single decisive deed. This is what Deleuze called the action-image, and specifically its large form — a global situation that presses and presses until one act transforms it. The encompasser here is not a villain but a deadline and a number: the men at the Hindenburg Line, unseen for almost the entire film, who exist only as the weight pulling the runner forward. There is no fight to win. There is only the gap to be crossed in time.

What makes 1917 strange is that it delivers this most classical of structures — the last-minute rescue, pure sensory-motor cinema — through a technique that modern film had used to do the opposite. The long take, the duration that refuses to cut, is the grammar of the time-image: the cinema of waiting, of characters who can only look and endure. Antonioni's dead time. Tarr's bodily slowness. Mendes takes that machinery and harnesses it back to the chase. The result is a film that keeps slipping between the two regimes Deleuze separated. The mission wants you in the action-image. The unbroken shot keeps depositing you in something quieter.

Deleuze had a precise term for the large form's rhythm: respiration-space. The action breathes between two scales — the vast milieu that surrounds the figure, and the taut line of the figure's own trajectory through it. 1917 is almost a textbook of this breathing. The grey-green emptiness of No Man's Land opens out, a void that is no longer a setting for anything, only a field to be survived; then the frame tightens to the runner's back and the path narrows to a single thread. Out, then in. The world, then the line. That alternation is the film's pulse, and the oner makes it physical, because the camera has to actually travel the distance between the two.

Follow that thread far enough and it becomes what Deleuze called the line of the universe, or the vector — a zig-zag that stitches disconnected spaces into one continuous motion. Trench, crater, abandoned farmhouse, the flare-lit ruin of Écoust, the river, the field of charging men. None of these places connects logically to the next. The runner's body is the only connective tissue, and the hidden cuts work hard to hide their own seams precisely so that the vector reads as unbroken. Space here is not mapped. It is run through.

Écoust at night is where the film hands itself fully over to another concept: the any-space-whatever, a space emptied of its function, broken into fragments of pure light and shadow that no longer host action but simply press on the nerves. Deakins lit it almost entirely with fire and flares, sources that flicker and die unpredictably, so the town arrives as disconnected slabs of brightness and dark — a place that has stopped being a town and become an affect. Nothing is accomplished there. Schofield moves through it the way you move through a nightmare, and the camera, that witness a step behind, can do nothing but watch. This is the film at its closest to Deleuze's seer: the figure who can no longer master what he sees, only register it.

And once, the film lets go of the mission entirely. Wounded, Schofield slips into the river and floats downstream past cherry trees in bloom, white petals on black water. The body goes still; the world moves through it. Deleuze called this the movement of world — the moment the dancer stops and the dance keeps going without him. It is the one sequence where the relentless forward drive releases into pure duration, beauty arriving inside violence with no use, no payoff, nothing to do. The action-image dissolves for a breath into the time-image, and the film is briefly about time itself rather than the race against it.

The lineage is honest and worth naming. The grammar comes from Lubezki's combat Steadicam in Children of Men, from Birdman proving the hidden cut could carry a whole feature, from Russian Ark's single uncut take as the unreachable pole, and all the way back to Rope, where Hitchcock buried his cuts in dark coats. From Kubrick's Paths of Glory it takes the trench as a moving labyrinth; from All Quiet on the Western Front it inherits the infantryman's bounded horizon — no commanding overview, no map, the soldier who does not understand what is happening to him. That refusal of the strategic view is the deep reason the film works as the action-image: with no overview available, there is nothing to do but keep moving.

There is a film-theory argument folded into all of this. André Bazin championed the long take and deep focus as morally truer than montage, because duration preserves the real instead of carving it into meaning. 1917 is both the fulfilment and the quiet betrayal of that faith. Its continuity is engineered, its cuts merely concealed; the seamless real is a constructed illusion. What it proves, finally, is that the oner had become a stable instrument of mainstream cinema — that an aesthetic born to dissolve action could be tuned to serve it. Watch it again for the breathing. Notice how often the film stops being a mission and becomes a walk, and how much of its power lives in those held, useless stretches where nothing advances and a man simply crosses the ground.