As the dust settles on the 18-hour documentary “The Vietnam War,” it seems unlikely that the longstanding debates engendered by the conflict will abate much in the film’s aftermath. As is so often the case, most reviews, some written even before the first episode of Ken Burns and Lynn Novick’s epic aired, reveal more about the reviewer than the film itself. When it comes to the war in Vietnam, there are plenty of hobbyhorses to mount.
It will take time for American viewers to process this documentary (on which, full disclosure, I served as a historical adviser). Old wounds are reopened. Death is relentless. Passionate, sometimes vulgar, voices are transposed on top of duplicity at the highest levels of government. If nothing else, “The Vietnam War” intimately exposes its audience to the trauma of war.
It seems, though, there is something important not to take away from this documentary: lessons. At first blush, this may seem counterintuitive. Former Secretary of State John Kerry and Senator John McCain, both Vietnam veterans, already have outlined their own lessons after viewing the film. Yet arguably, this is the least valuable way to come to grips with such a multifaceted topic.
“Lessons” tend to compartmentalize history, hewing off the rough edges of complex human experiences, so that they can be packaged into neatly readable lists. They also reduce, if not disregard, the numerous, interdependent variables so common in war. Looking back, doesn’t the French military officer David Galula’s famous eight-step procedure for winning in counterinsurgency, which American planners in the 1960s (and even today) thought was the last word on the subject, now seem a bit formulaic? Clearly his “lessons” from the French wars in Algeria and Indochina proved impractical during America’s more recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Historical lessons rarely play out as anticipated.
Rather, viewers of the Burns-Novick saga, Americans in particular, should seek to gain newfound perspective from this complex story. In short, the film should stimulate new conversations about the war in Vietnam rather than serve to end debate because two of our nation’s finest directors have spoken. This documentary should not become the accepted gospel of Vietnam.
Arguably, the best way to gain much-needed perspective is through empathizing with the multitude of voices we hear in the film, and perhaps most important the voices from those with whom we reflexively disagree. Empathy helps us fathom how competing motives drive humans to make difficult decisions, both good and bad.
Empathy leads us to better appreciate why so many Vietnamese saw foreigners as “invaders” and why so many Americans in the early 1960s were unwilling to question their nation’s sense of exceptionalism. It helps us better grasp why soldiers and Marines like Mogie Crocker and John Musgrave defined their sense of manhood through service in combat units, or why Bill Ehrhart pined at the chance to become a star in his own John Wayne movie.
Empathy involves seeing American protesters as more than just “spoiled, privileged kids,” to considering that the deserter Jack Todd might have been more courageous by heading to Canada than Tim O’Brien, who came close to deserting but ultimately deployed reluctantly to South Vietnam. It forces us to wrestle with the uncomfortable proposition, voiced by both the American Marine Karl Marlantes and the North Vietnamese soldier Nguyen Ngoc, that there can, in fact, be a “savage joy” to combat.
And empathy even can prompt fresh questions asking whether senior American leaders, like Lyndon Johnson and Robert McNamara, were indeed shaped, in George Kennan’s words, by “illusions of invincibility on our part.” After these grueling 18 hours, we might also ask ourselves if we agree with the journalist Neil Sheehan’s supposition that far too many Americans feel as if history doesn’t apply to them.
Of course, seeking perspective from history does not mean you have to agree with the views of these historical actors, or the narrative choices made by Mr. Burns and Ms. Novick. Even as an adviser, I left the film feeling the writers had vastly oversimplified American military strategy and unjustly reduced its objectives to the well-worn tropes of “attrition” and “body count.”
Others may be troubled by the Saigon government being painted as little more than a corrupt band of thieves. And still others might question why young military officers who were young at the time are the ones speaking on decision making at the highest levels of government, either in Hanoi or Washington. Is Mr. Marlantes, a former Marine lieutenant, best equipped to speak on the inner workings of the Johnson White House? [Phải khen tác giả hỏi những câu quá "độc". Đấy, đã bóc-tách ra những "fake news" gài vào bộ phim với những gian ý của hai đạo diễn. "Mẹ vỗ tay reo mừng xác con. Chị vỗ tay hoan hô hòa bình (TCS)"]
Still, any displeasure with the directors’ choices should not lead to handy checklists of lessons. Viewers should resist temptations to see the documentary simply as an indictment of those with whom they disagree. Such an approach leads, inappropriately, to an “if only” formulation of history. If only Americans had found a better local leader than Ngo Dinh Diem. If only Johnson had allowed his military officers to expand the war into Laos and Cambodia. If only the antiwar movement had been silenced. If only … Americans could have won the war.
Yet war — not just the one in Vietnam, but war more generally — rarely accords to such simple counterfactuals. War is inherently chaotic, traumatic, horrific. Some might rightly see it as a dynamic phenomenon that too often breaks free from the control of the humans who unleash it. Few assumptions rarely play out as expected in war.
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