World War 1 vs World War 2, and the arts

  On 7/10/2009 at 8:08 PM, ezkerraldean said:

read BIRDSONG

 

  On 7/10/2009 at 5:12 AM, lumpenprol said:

but I'll just repeat the recommendation of Gallipoli, as I think it is an underappreciated film. Lacks mustard gas, but packs a powerful punch nonetheless.

it also has a Jean-Michel Jarre soundtrack (wtf...)

yeah, Oxygene...I remember even back when I saw it for the first time at 12 or 13 I thought "what the hell are all these spacey bleeps and bloops and zaps doing on a period war movie soundtrack?" Definitely an original choice though; now I can't think of Oxygene 2 without picturing Mel Gibson running...

  On 7/10/2009 at 5:27 AM, chaosmachine said:

World War 2 has Hitler, the best villain ever.

World War 2 has The Nazis, the best enemy ever.

World War 2 has nukes, the best weapon ever.

And America Wins, so it's the Best Story Ever.

 

Also, Boomers love ww2 because their parents were in it, and being the television generation, they irreversibly shaped pop culture forever more.

A+

WWI has airship bombing raids, that's as fucking steampunk as it fucking gets

  On 7/10/2009 at 3:04 PM, theSun said:

but it seems more like ww1 = europewar1 (+US later to make sure the good guys won)

yo ancre,

translate this for me please... i dont understand some of the words.

FUCK YOU

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.