795. Private Ryan.
It was simple, a simple job. Billy took a sip of coffee; it was almost dawn and his head burned intensely. It was one of those periods in which there was far too much to do and far too little time to give, yet he felt happy in the midst of the relentless work he carried out without the anxiety of everything else—making films. Like a glass slowly filling with water, Billy poured into himself all the knowledge that remained, beginning from the very last piece he had worked on, James Francis Ryan, who had now become the character he most hoped to understand, even down to the smallest and most anticipated questions.
Being a young man in a war with three additional brothers—and all three of them dead. Billy therefore approached the matter with the understanding that Ryan was the sort of man who laughed easily; if that were the case, he could manage the way he communicated. It was known that people like that, quick to share and quick to fight, often tended to be sociable, so he shaped his expressions and gestures into something that might help convey that nature.
They had been planning the scene during the shoot for three consecutive days. Every person had to function like a clock, and the good side of it was that the take could be filmed anywhere from three to ten times, each in different angles, and later those would be cut and edited together into a single seamless image where, by skill and a little luck, everything aligned perfectly.
-Scene 128, take two.-
SOLDIER JAMES RYAN
Running from one end to the other, forcing his way toward them. Ryan is a classic American boy of nineteen—simple, handsome, clever, and slightly cocky. Though he is exhausted, unshaven, and stained with dirt and blood, he is intensely alive. His eyes shine, his face carries a spark. It is impossible not to love that spark; his face carries a spark. It is impossible not to love this boy.
MILLER’S MEN
They all watch Ryan running toward them. They all watch Ryan running toward them.
JACKSON: So that’s Ryan.
REIBEN: He looks like a complete idiot to me.
Their eyes remain fixed on Ryan as he reaches the barricade. He salutes Miller.
RYAN: I’m Ryan, sir. You wanted to see me.
Miller studies Ryan for a moment, astonished that he is finally face to face with him. Ryan waits. Miller hesitates, searching for the words. Then he speaks softly but clearly.
MILLER
Soldier, I have some bad news for you. Your brothers have been killed in combat.
Ryan instantly loses his breath. He struggles to breathe.
Somehow he manages to remain standing.
RYAN
All three?
MILLER
Yes. Yes.
Ryan sways. Miller grabs him and pushes him back, supporting him against a pile of sandbags.
THE PARATROOPERS
They are stunned by the news. They look at Ryan; there is nothing else they can do.
MILLER’S MEN
They also look at Ryan, but then, one by one, they turn away, avoiding his gaze, staring at their own boots, the debris of the bridge, the sky—anything that was not Ryan.
MILLER
We were sent here to get you out. You’re going home.
Ryan makes a weak gesture toward Miller for him to step back. Miller signals weakly to his men and to the paratroopers to step away. They do, giving Ryan a little space.
FORREST: Three brothers… the poor son of a bitch.
MILLER: Sergeant, we’re leaving, and I’m taking you and your men with me.
FORREST: But sir, our orders are clear: we are to hold this bridge until we are relieved by the advance elements of the Twenty-Ninth Division.
MILLER: I’m giving you new orders, Sergeant.
FORREST: Sir, you can’t do that. Those orders came from command.
MILLER: I’m not leaving you and your men here to get yourselves killed. Gather them up, we’re leaving.
A voice behind them speaks simply, clearly, and firmly.
RYAN (O.S.): No, sir.
Everyone turns and sees Ryan standing there. Miller is about to—everyone turns and sees Ryan standing there. Miller is about to thrash him for contradicting him, but he quickly calms himself, gently touches his arm, and speaks softly.
MILLER: Come on, soldier. You’re going home.
Ryan pulls sharply away from Miller.
RYAN: No, sir.
All eyes turn to Miller and Ryan. Miller remains patient.
MILLER: Soldier, I’m sorry about your brothers, but staying here and getting yourself killed won’t help them.
RYAN: Sir, if the Germans hold this bridge when the division arrives, our men will be easy prey.
MILLER: This bridge can’t be defended. The Germans have two companies less than three miles from here. They’ve got tanks.
That news clearly affects Ryan and the other paratroopers, but Ryan stands firm.
RYAN
Sir, I’m still not leaving.
Miller speaks with restrained but growing anger.
MILLER: Soldier, if you want to commit suicide, that’s your decision, but you’ll have to wait until I get you back to the beach.
And you’re not taking these men with you.
Ryan looks Miller straight in the eyes.
RYAN: I’m not leaving, sir. I’m not leaving.
Miller begins to boil.
MILLER: No way! You’re coming! No way! You’re coming with me even if I have to drag you all the way. You hear me? All the way. Do you hear me, soldier?
RYAN: I hear you, sir. But I’m not leaving.
Miller grabs Ryan by the lapels and shakes him. Ryan does not resist.
MILLER: Listen here, you little son of a bitch.
You’re coming with me or you’re coming with me or I… I… I…
Ryan speaks quietly.
RYAN
What are you going to do, sir? What are you going to do? Shoot me?
Miller considers it.
Then REIBEN SPEAKS from behind.
REIBEN
(politely)
Uh, excuse me, Captain.
Miller slowly turns and stares at him.
REIBEN
(continuing)
So what’s a couple of tanks, sir?
Miller looks more astonished than angry. Reiben smiles.
REIBEN
(continuing)
He’s right, we can’t shoot him… well, we could, but we’d get into a hell of a lot of trouble. And he’s right about the bridge—it’s far more important than he is.
JACKSON STEPS FORWARD
Captain…?
Miller stares at Jackson.
JACKSON
(continuing)
Seems to me we’ve got a chance here to kill two birds with one stone. Command seems to think keeping this kid alive is worth something—if living is worth anything. If we did that and held this bridge, chances are we’d all end up with a lot of medals. Maybe I’d even get one of those big fancy ones like you’ve got, so I could insult any Army officer I wanted—including you.
Miller begins to simmer.
UPHAM STEPS FORWARD
I’d like to stay too, Captain.
MILLER
You don’t count.
SARGE STEPS FORWARD
Yeah, and personally I’d rather get the hell out of here, but somebody’s got to stay and watch over you and those delicate parts of yours.
Miller looks at FORREST and the PARATROOPERS.
FORREST: We weren’t planning on going anywhere, sir.
Reiben grins.
REIBEN: See, Captain? The vote’s unanimous.
Miller’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.
MILLER: Vote? What the hell are you talking about? We don’t vote.
This is not a democracy. This is the Army. I give orders, you follow them. We do not vote!
REIBEN: Yes, sir, of course, sir. I was speaking hypothetically. IF this were a vote, then the vote would’ve been unanimous. But of course it’s not a vote—you’re the captain and you give the orders, sir.
MILLER: That’s right. I give the order. Vote! Jesus Christ! Vote!
Listen to me, you miserable bastards—I’m the ranking officer here, and what I say goes.
Is that clear?
Everyone nods quickly.
JACKSON: Yes, sir.
REIBEN: Of course, sir.
EVERYONE ELSE
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
Miller looks each of them in the face.
MILLER
In that case…
(pause)
I vote we stay.
That’s what you wanted to hear.
Miller gives them no time to enjoy it; he immediately begins issuing orders.
MILLER
(continuing)
Reiben, the B.A.R., over there. Jackson, get up to the bridge keeper’s shack with your sniper rifle. Sergeant, you and Upham move that machine gun so it covers the left flank—it’s useless where it is. Forrest, I want a full inventory of all your weapons and ammunition. Move!
Everyone runs off except Ryan, who stares at Miller for a moment.
RYAN
Thank you, sir.
MILLER
(brusquely)
Yeah, yeah. I want you right next to me.
Right next to me, wherever I go. You understand?
Ryan salutes.
RYAN
Yes, sir.
MILLER
All right. Come with me.
Miller shakes his head and strides away to check the defensive perimeter with Ryan at his side.
-CUT.-
It was a short take, yet it involved a great deal of movement from many people. The intention had been to give depth and substance to every person appearing in the scene, and when that is the goal, reaching the right point is never simple. Billy understood that even if he did everything well—or badly—he had to move carefully and observe everything around him. Perhaps there would be many historical inaccuracies, but when it came to storytelling, Spielberg had given it a total touch, a touch of life that refused to turn the film into a hollow spectacle.
-We have to shoot another one.- Michael Kahn replied, a loudspeaker hanging around his neck. Unlike Billy, he was not subjected to military-style training, yet he understood how each part of the work should be done, and in the end that was how everything came together. Spielberg only needed a performance that told the story, though that created a certain quiet resentment. Many people carried a faint hostility toward the golden boy who seemed to slip away from everything—the privileged one—and the irony was that the film itself was about a privileged boy.
And the Ryan brothers were inspired by a real idea. It seemed tragic, and it seemed as though nothing ever unfolded the way one might expect.
He looked at Tom Hanks—thin, worn down, exhausted, almost gaunt. Everyone looked sick. The cold pressed in, the sun burned down, no one was allowed chairs, and they had already been standing for two hours. It was utterly exhausting.
-How much do you think this set cost?- Tom asked, shifting restlessly.
-A lot. I heard everything was built from scratch.- Billy replied. How complicated filmmaking was, and how exhausting the machinery of cinema could be as it moved life itself—the emotional heart of watching films.
-They haven’t told me the number.- Tom replied, scratching the back of his neck. Now the tanks would arrive. Billy could hardly believe it would take three full weeks just to film the battle itself, and in such an exhausting manner. Every detail carried a kind of painful weight, as if each small piece contained a life of its own.
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