The war, ironically, has outmoded the military. These officers are commanding men who, in their terms, are not even soldiers; the fighting itself has become a series of base humiliations. They have lost sympathy with the world; they have lost even their self-respect. All they have left is their sense of the rules of the fool’s game — and they play by them. Von Rauffenstein’s grief at his slaughter of de Boeldieu is so moving and painful because von Rauffenstein knows the stupidity and waste of it. When he cuts the sprig of geranium, the only flower in the fortress, it is for the death of nobility — and his own manhood. (Von Stroheim had used the geranium in the fortress scene of Queen Kelly — but the flower wasn’t cut off, the whole picture was.)...

La Grande Illusion is a triumph of clarity and lucidity; every detail fits simply, easily, and intelligibly. There is no unnecessary camera virtuosity: the compositions seem to emerge from the material. It’s as if beauty just happens (is it necessary to state that this unobtrusive artistry is perhaps the most difficult to achieve?). The characters, the dialogue, the fortress, the farm, the landscape, all fuse into the story and the theme. The result is the greatest achievement in narrative film. It’s a little embarrassing to state this so baldly, but La Grande Illusion, like Renoir’s earlier, but very different, Partie de Campagne, is just about a perfect work (in fact, I can’t find a flaw in it).