Like a latter day Ayn Rand, Bigelow is la major muy macho in her depiction in the film of a few tough American hombres stuck in Iraq defusing roadside bombs set by the ruthless, relentless, child-killing Arab terrorists. As Bigelow posits the Iraq war as the backdrop of the grand stage of human drama, one veteran bomb expert gets blown up and another shows up to replace him in the dusty, hot, ugly rubble that is Iraq, and a new hero is born.<br /><br />The new guy is what John Hershey described in his book, and later the movie, The War Lover, as a sadistic wingnut who actually isn't fit for civilian life, and requires the stimulation of war to sublimate and suppress his errant sexual desires. The war lover can only fully function in war, peacetime suffocates him. While Hershey chastised the war lover, (played in the film by Steve McQueen in one of his greatest roles) Bigelow glorifies him. The army needs war lovers, they are the bulwark of defense against our enemies. We can't handle the truth, that it is war lovers who are the best soldiers, the toughest men. According to the unironic Bigelow, regular men are pussies, the war lover is a special breed, the last of the cowboys. So what if he wants to bare-back his men, or fondle an Iraqi boy? He is a throwback to the sex-and-death cult of war. In war, sex is a thankless, loveless, don't-ask, don't-tell kind of male bonding. Bigelow has no opinion on this; she just limits the options of masculinity in this ham-fisted attempt at realism. Only a war-lover can win the moral struggle between right and wrong, between American innocence and Arab perfidy. Bigelow disguises her racism and arrogance behind the ingenuous facade of journalism. She's just another gung-ho yahoo depicting a brutal war against civilians as a moral triumph of the spirit.<br /><br />On the political front, Bigelow returns to the western genre and its relentless clichés again and again, ad nauseam: the wonderful world of the open frontier, which happens to be some one else's country. ("You can shoot people here" says a soldier ); the tough but human black guy companion, the soldier with a premonition of death, the gruff, possibly crazy commanding officer, the college-educated fool who tries to befriend the enemy. You name it, Bigelow resurrects it.<br /><br />The man-boy love is palpable in scenes with the cute Arab boy who befriends the war lover, but Bigelow plays it straight; she doesn't consummate the sex, just sanitizes it. What Bigelow really wants to show us is the ugly, sneering face of the Arab enemy. Any Iraqi who isn't pure evil is either demented, hostile or up to no good, anyway. They all deserve to die for their impudence, and many of them do in this glib gore-fest film. The Iraqi women are all hysterical, they only make their presence known by screaming. They could be male stunt men in drag for all I know, you never see their faces. There is no female presence at all on base or in battle, although female casualty rates in Iraq would certainly disprove this.<br /><br />Bigelow goes through all the motions one by one. She glorifies war, she canonizes the sadist nut-case hero. The cowboys, surrounded by the subhuman Indians, prove their mettle by doing God's work and subduing the wretched terrorist-infested hellhole with sheer bravado and suicidal mania. Toward the end, I felt like rooting for the Indians. In Bigelow's world, though, no mercy or understanding ever makes it through. The Iraqis are dehumanized par excellence. The slaughter of civilians is just the dramatic backdrop to our hero's psycho sexual struggle. Every U.S, bullet finds its mark. You have to love the guy, the war lover. It's just his way, he is the true hero. He's just a guy trying to get things done the hard way, and so what if he lusts for boy tang on the side.