“Marxist Poetry: The Making of The Battle of Algiers” (2004)


As often happens with directors, I didn’t have a clear
or precise idea about the film. I thought it was a film
for film clubs or film festivals. I never thought it would be
a big hit with the public. This film taught us a lesson
that’s lasted a long time. It’s a film that’s still
talked about constantly and that made Pontecorvo
an international point of reference. He did it with really just one film. The only position taken in the film was an expression
of the right to freedom and the right to be free
in one’s own country. Pauline Kael, who at the time was
the star of American film criticism, wrote a marvelous review,
which she ended by saying that Gillo Pontecorvo
was the most dangerous type of Marxist: a Marxist poet. Gillo is an extraordinary person,
as he so often demonstrated in his life. It’s a little-known fact that he was the head
of the youth group of the Resistance in northern Italy. For a year and a half he risked his life
every day under the Germans. Later he discovered his talent
for photography. He had always liked it. In fact, his input regarding
the photography in his films is the fruit of a profound
knowledge of the subject. In any case, a love for handling
photographic material. You know he was
born to be a filmmaker. He was a bit unsure whether
to be a photographer at first. He didn’t really know
what he wanted to do in life. Then he saw Rossellini’s Paisa in Paris,
and he was thunderstruck. He said,
“This is what I must do. ” The picture he draws
isn’t just impressionistic. It’s not just a photograph
or a recreation of reality, but it’s also a reflection
on what caused it. At the beginning of the ’60s, when the whole world
of colonialism was in unrest, Gillo Pontecorvo and Franco Solinas
wanted to make a film about Algeria. They went to Algeria
even before the Evian Accords that would have sanctioned
Algeria’s independence. It was a fairly calm time. In fact, as witness to that moment,
there’s a famous photo of Gillo on the top of a hill with a soldier
from the National Liberation Front serenely looking down
on a French camp. It’s really a moment of transition, when the war was almost over,
so it was possible to do this. People followed political events
much more than you can imagine, “the affairs of others,”
and Algeria in particular. So not just me, but Solinas too… we both passionately followed the newscasts that reported
the daily events happening in Algeria. My relationship with Solinas
is characterized, above all, is marked by the word “gratitude. ” I owe a lot to him. Luckily, I’d say we had
the same tastes, the same way of looking at things,
both politically and aesthetically. What fascinated Pontecorvo
and Solinas at this point wasn’t the final victory in the war that led to the Evian Accords
and Algerian independence. It was the period between ’54 and ’57,
culminating above all in 1957, with the miraculously
organized strike by the FLN in an Algiers still under French rule, and the momentary defeat
of the supporters of independence that went down in history
as the battle of Algiers. The battle of Algiers was the central core of everything
that had happened in Algeria. Even though the war took place
in the Aures Mountains, the battle in Algiers was decisive. It was also decisive in influencing
that segment of the French people who had begun to call for
a different relationship with Algeria and an end to the war. What he was excited to talk about were the difficulties in waging
a civil and underground war, and above all
the will of an entire people, and the ability of the FLN
to set into motion, stimulate, and galvanize an entire population in
an event that ended in temporary defeat but that would continue unabated
until final victory. The film Pontecorvo and Solinas
wanted to make about Algeria… was completely different from what
The Battle of Algiers turned out to be. It was to be called Para and was a story seen very much
from a Western perspective. It was the story of an ex-paratrooper
who in one sense is converted after his brutal experiences
in Algeria, but who sees everything from a clearly
Western and European perspective. But this story, in fact,
was shelved. It didn’t suit the climate of the time. The history of the film picks up again
two years later in 1964, when an emissary
from the National Liberation Front went in search of a left-wing director
to make a film about their great war. I belonged
to the National Liberation Front. I was the principal leader,
with the rank of colonel, which meant
I was arrested, imprisoned, and sentenced to death three times. I was then transferred to France, and that’s when I wrote my memoirs. When you’re in prison, it becomes a place
of meditation and reflection. I wanted to send out a message
with this little book. I didn’t know what would happen to me.
The war could last another 20 years. So I had to leave word
for a future generation, to tell them, “This was one stage
of what it took to liberate our country.” It was written with that aim. In ’62, when the war was over, I read an article about some Italians planning to shoot
a film about the war in Algeria, focusing on the city,
because it’s the heart of Algeria. That’s why I said,
“Hey, I’ve already written something. I have to put it in the language of film.” I went to Italy,
a Mediterranean country, in search of someone
to help me make this film. There were three directors
chosen as possibilities. One was Francesco Rosi, but he was busy
making The Moment of Truth, so he couldn’t accept. The second was Visconti, with whom
they couldn’t reach an agreement, and the third was Gillo Pontecorvo. The Algerians, who wanted to
make a film about their revolution, when they found out
what we were doing, came to us in the person of Saadi Yacef,
who later became a great friend of mine, and who brought me a story outline. I showed him my screenplay.
He told me to throw it out, because that’s not how films are made. It was like all story outlines
written by nonprofessionals, just a laudatory pamphlet
about their rebellion. I said, “If this is it, there’s no way
in the world we’ll make it.” Solinas said the same thing,
but in even harsher terms. “But since we’re drawn
to this subject ourselves, if you’re interested, we’ll try
and write something just for you. ” Not something about colonialism
in general, but about Algeria. Saadi brought himself
and his own experience and the truth of his existence
to the film. I invited everyone,
especially Pontecorvo and Solinas, to come to Algeria. They stayed almost two years.
Several months. Why? To see what it was like
for the freedom fighters, to interview everyone, to see how we ate, how we reacted. To experience it all in order
to understand the Algerian insurrection. I showed him all the places, and with my book I explained events
like the week-long strike and so forth, events that helped Algeria
advance on the path to independence. All that had to be respected. The search for the feeling of truth
was made easier by the fact that both Solinas,
the screenwriter, and I were completely convinced
that in a war, even if, from a historical standpoint,
one side is proven right and the other wrong, both do horrendous things
when they are in battle, when they wage war, one side as much as the other. So it was fairly easy for us
to be evenhanded. Though we didn’t hide the fact that
we were decidedly against colonialism and that we were
among those who hoped that Algeria would
gain its liberation from France, nevertheless we realized
France also had its motives that it felt were valid. The difficulties in making this film
were above all financial, because at that time, producers
were offering me a film a week, because my last film, Kapo, had made it
to the Oscars, so I was in demand. I kept refusing because…
and this is one of my faults… I have a very hard time
making decisions. Instead, when I went to them saying,
“Now I have something to propose to you,” they were all puzzled for a moment. Then they’d say, “Why have you decided
to make this particular film?” A producer… whose name I won’t mention
out of love for my country… said to me, “Do I have ‘idiot’
written on my forehead?” When I asked why, he said,
“Why would Italians care about blacks?” Finally, together with Franco Solinas
and several other friends, we decided to make it ourselves. Somehow we’d find the small amount
of money we needed to get going. I went to Antonio Musu, who had been my production director
on all my previous films, and to whom I’m very grateful, because he was an extraordinary
organizer in general. I told him, “Listen, Antonio,
why don’t you make a leap in quality and become a producer?” He said, “Sure, but with what money?”
I said, “We’ll sign some promissory notes. The Algerians will put up
45% of the cost of the film.” He called me the next morning saying, “Thanks, I thought about it.
It’s a great chance for me. ” That’s how we started out. Saadi Yacef was extremely helpful. He knew the Casbah
like the back of his hand, and he would say,
“Try that cafe, that district, ” so I could find the faces
I sought like a madman. I’m a maniac when it comes
to the physical resemblance between the person
who will play a certain role and the character we envisioned
while writing it. I prefer taking someone
off the street, someone who’s never been in films,
but who has the right face, over an actor with a face
that isn’t quite right. After searching for weeks and weeks among crowds,
among people you meet on the street, you end up finding the right one. For me it’s important in the same way it is
for a painter when someone says, “Here are your colors. Of course,
they’re not the ones you wanted.” Hell, if I want that color or that face,
I just have to find it. He wanted to cast me in the film. I didn’t know anything about movies. Except for Pepe Le Moko. When I was 12, they wanted me to be an extra, a boy in the Casbah. I told him I wasn’t an actor. I really did these things. This is a true story,
the history of Algeria. He said I had a face
that would be great for the film. I thought, “I’ll accept. That way I can keep an eye out and make sure the scenes unfold according to what I told them, so they don’t get off track
and romanticize the story. ” Gillo’s method is always
to make a film under what he called “the dictatorship of the truth.”
So this meant real faces. Obviously, Saadi Yacef’s
was the most real. But the protagonist, Ali La Pointe… an illiterate thief and swindler, who grows politically until he becomes
the leader of the Casbah… he was in real life
very similar to his character. Brahim Haggiag was
an ordinary man with a wonderful face. He was completely inexperienced,
not just in acting, but everything else. Gillo has always
had this great talent for extracting very natural
performances from these people, almost as if they were
in a documentary. Using imitation,
he would teach them each shot, and in the end they would become
those extraordinary faces. The only actor…
if I may use that term… in the film was the man
who played Colonel Mathieu. This was Jean Martin, a stage actor whom Gillo had seen on stage
in a small theater and liked very much. Moreover, he was a leftist, ironically,
considering the role he plays. He was among those who signed
a famous appeal for Algeria. In this sense, he was a friend. Pontecorvo was looking for someone to play Colonel Mathieu
in The Battle of Algiers. He didn’t want a professional actor,
which I understand perfectly. I had acted in plays. I created Waiting for Godot. I had small film roles with directors who were fashionable
at the time but not very significant. We were looking for someone who could physically embody
an officer, someone who could command men and explain the pyramidal structure. A good actor. An amateur
couldn’t have done what Mathieu did. Pontecorvo came to Paris
from Rome one day, and he had a paratrooper uniform
in his suitcase. We met in a cafe near here,
on rue de Varennes. He told me to go
into the bathroom and change. I came out wearing the uniform,
to the surprise of the entire cafe. The cafe was on
a deserted little side street. He told me to walk down the street
so he could get pictures. The few passersby
were quite surprised. I thought,
“So this is what moviemaking is like.” A week later he said,
“You’ve got the part.” I didn’t need to prepare to play a soldier,
since I’d been a soldier myself in the French Liberation. I detest the military.
I hate soldiers. And there’s nothing
that interests me less than that world. Pontecorvo, with good reason,
didn’t want the character to be an “old iron pants”
as we’d say in French, meaning a dyed-in-the-wool soldier. In order to get the message across… The film isn’t anti-French at all,
if you watch carefully. We were both very careful… Pontecorvo
as an Italian and I as a Frenchman… to keep an even balance between
the French and Algerian viewpoints. The film was shot
in black and white, to the disappointment of many, including my coproducers. They wanted it to be in color, but I absolutely wanted it
in black and white. Not only because I prefer it…
but that’s a matter of personal opinion… but to give it a sense of reality. Also, because in those days, people learned about these events through newsreels,
which were in black and white. The photography on The Battle of Algiers
was a development, in a certain sense, of what Pontecorvo had already
experimented with on Kapo. Black and white
with lots of contrast, that brought to mind
the type of grain and the atmosphere of newsreels. Something as similar as possible
to a documentary stolen from reality. He wanted to take it
even further in this film. Gillo already knew me from Kapo
and Toto and Carolina, and he knew my love
for handheld camerawork. Gillo said over and over again,
“It has to be like a newsreel.” That’s why he hired me. I told him, “Since I want the film to closely resemble
a stolen historical record of events, I’m going to use an internegative
for the entire film.” Of course this increases
some contrasts and creates a certain graininess,
which was exactly what I wanted. But this terrified Marcello. He almost said he wouldn’t do the film. He felt using an internegative
meant that he wasn’t any good. So Gillo and Gatti decided to experiment
with a film that Pontecorvo describes as “dreadfully soft”, the Dupont 4, and to carry out
a series of special processes so that in the end
they were able to get this black and white that was
highly contrasted but still clear. In other words,
the look of a documentary. Kapo was grainier. There was more pain. The Battle of Algiers and Kapo
are brother and sister. They look like each other. There could have been problems,
but actually things went smoothly. One reason was that Saadi Yacef, the Algerian coproducer, had such prestige and power
that he could arrange almost everything. The Algerians gave them
troops, extras and vehicles. If you look at the vehicles used
from a historical viewpoint, you see they aren’t
quite historically accurate, since tanks arrived later,
and so forth. But they definitely
were very helpful. They even let Pontecorvo get
a petty crook out of prison, whom he had chosen
because he liked his face, and so the Algerian government
lent him, under guard, so he could be in the scenes
that Gillo wanted. He was a petty thief. It was his moment of glory. Many Algerians were used on the film
for a very simple reason: We filmed it in Algeria,
and even in the Casbah. We didn’t have any money,
so of course we preferred to hire people who were already there,
even if they weren’t very experienced, rather than having people
come over from Italy. It was amazing.
The people were really fond of us. Sometimes they’d trick you, like if Gillo asked for 300 people,
400 showed up, this type of thing. But they always welcomed us
into their homes. They’d give us tea, or their very bread, if they had it. The film was made for them,
and they felt it. Gillo was like a holy man
walking through the streets of Algiers. I’m not certain they understood
what Pontecorvo’s ultimate goal was. Something that mustn’t be overlooked is that an extremely emotional climate
persisted in Algeria. Don’t forget that they’d achieved
independence two or three years earlier, so it was still very new. So when we shot the scenes
of the revolts and the riots, the people didn’t feel
like they were acting in a film. They felt they were reliving events
still fresh in their memory. Gillo will tell you that at a certain point
the camera and the film didn’t matter. It was simply the people
fully reliving past events, ready to destroy
anything in their way. For the scene in the Casbah,
where the bomb kills 75 people, we rebuilt the houses. We rebuilt it, and the bomb blew up
the neighborhood, just like before. I said, “This is where Ali la Pointe died.
We’ll rebuild it.” “What?”
I said, “I’ll pay for it. That’s where he died,
and that’s where we’ll film.” The man in the film… they do this to him…
was being sent to death. They’re taking him,
and he says, “Long live Algeria.” Then they do this to him. He had really been
condemned to death. In real life,
he was condemned to death. Baadji was his name. He had been condemned to death,
and I gave him the role because he knew what it was like. I remember the first scene I shot, the very day I arrived in Algiers. It was the scene where Colonel Mathieu
comes to get this man, this Algerian who has been tortured. This man had revealed
the address of Ali La Pointe. I must say I was impressed because the scene was filmed
in the Barberousse prison in Algiers, and the scaffolds were still in place
from the execution scene they’d shot the day before. I must say it brought me
right to the heart of the subject. It was difficult
to play myself, in fact. I had really done those things. I had risked my life. But in the film, it became a game in which I let myself
be guided and directed. We had a few arguments. For example, the scene
where I’m disguised as a woman with Ali la Pointe. We rehearsed that scene countless times. I almost quit that day. “Are you trying to kill me?” I said, “Out of seven takes,
at least one must have been good. Why do I have to keep doing this?” Later, I understood. There was a scene
where the paratroopers come to arrest Ali la Pointe. There’s a girl asleep
on a chair nearby. He made her climb up and down
the stairs at least 20 times. I said, “Gillo, why?”
He said, “You don’t understand. If I don’t make her do it,
if I don’t tire her out, she’ll climb up, fresh as a daisy. But if she climbs up and down,
she’ll start sweating. That’s when I roll the camera.” Sometimes he’d do
50 takes of one line. I understood his method.
He wanted me to be so exhausted that I’d no longer
be able to control myself. In the end, we didn’t have
problems over it, but we had
some heated discussions. I have an anecdote about the shot
where Colonel Mathieu enters Algiers. First, I’d never paraded
at the head of 300 paratroopers. I was afraid of messing it up, especially since all the people
were shouting, “Vive la France!
Long live Bigeard! Long live Mathieu!” It was quite stirring. Suddenly I saw the camera car
in front of me, and they said, “Stop.” We really needed to feel
his strength as a military commander. He’s leading his paratroopers,
who are following behind, and all of a sudden
I felt he wasn’t up to it. I felt desperate because
I couldn’t change it. Also, as happens while filming,
the sun was setting, so we needed to continue filming. I didn’t know what to do.
Then an idea came to me. Gillo came over and asked me
if I had a handkerchief. I said, “No. There’s nothing to cry about.”
He said, “I need several.” Finally he found a few and they stuffed
the handkerchiefs under my jacket to make my shoulders higher. I already had them up
as far as they’d possibly go. He said, “Now you look like
a paratrooper colonel.” The role of women in The Battle of Algiers
corresponds somewhat to the situation that was developing
very quickly in Algeria. That is, a woman’s role
of being marginalized, relegated to the back seat,
that is always a part of Arab countries, was diminishing day by day. You could almost
see it happening. For this reason, and also because of
their roles as underground fighters, roles they actually played out
during the resistance, I wanted to end the film
symbolically with one woman. You always have to make
small changes when you’re filming. But the screenplay
I wrote with Solinas… or the screenplays
I wrote with him… in general were strong enough
not to cause second thoughts. So I rarely changed anything. Those times when I did, it was because of the music,
as usual. There’s a crucial scene
in The Battle of Algiers. This is the preparations
the three women carry out who have to go into the city
and plant bombs. In the initial screenplay
there was some dialogue that Gillo didn’t feel sure about, but Solinas, as the screenwriter,
insisted on keeping it in. In the heat of filming, Gillo felt even more strongly
that it rang false, that it wouldn’t work. So he came up with something
that Solinas didn’t like at first, but after seeing the end result, he did.
He cut out all the dialogue, and this scene where the women
dye their hair, put on makeup, try and look Western, all in silence… This scene of people
preparing to go out and kill was accompanied only by
traditional Algerian music, Baba Salem, that took the place
of any need for dialogue. So they were continually creating
throughout the entire shoot. Something a little unusual happened
when we were editing. I had chosen Serandrei, who was considered
the best Italian film editor. But I had given him
a few suggestions. I said that when
he was doing a rough cut, he should remember that
the sense of truth was more important than the effects usually considered
paramount in filmmaking. Serandrei sent me
the first two reels to look at. It was the rough cut,
but it was almost completely finished. But unfortunately he had followed
the classic system of perfect editing like they do in Hollywood. But it didn’t have anything to do
with the style I wanted: “the dictatorship of truth.” I was working in the same location where The Battle of Algiers
was being edited. I was editing another film,
with my wife as assistant. I remember that Serandrei fell ill.
He was the prince of Italian editors. He fell ill, and Gillo said to me,
“Let’s do some editing together.” Just like that.
No promises, nothing official. Then Serandrei came back. He was very angry
that I had done some editing. Gillo said to him, “I’m going to do the rest with Morra.” He objected to this,
and so Gillo said he was sorry but that he’d have to terminate
their working relationship. So it ended. Serandrei passed away
a few months later. He had finished editing
three-fourths of the film. Gillo said to me,
“Do you want to do the film with me? I’m taking a risk here,
because you’re so young.” Then he said, “Let’s edit the film.”
And so we started. I don’t think Gillo and Solinas
agreed beforehand about whether or not to emphasize
one thing or downplay something else. I remember the child
who is eating an ice cream, the woman… Maybe at that particular moment he wanted to critically call attention
to certain expressions. It’s just something
that helps to give the film a sense of impartiality
and truthfulness, which we wanted at all costs. Mario Morra understood perfectly
how fundamentally important this was, that it was the DNA of the film. The part of my work I like best is when I’m almost finished editing. I shut myself in with the Movieola
and I start watching the film again and I whistle the musical themes
I’d like to use. That’s the moment
when I truly begin to like the film. One of the greatest
disappointments in my life is that I did not become a composer. I wrote the music
for all my documentaries. I also helped write the music
for several of my films. In The Battle of Algiers,
the problem was that, since I needed to have
a real composer to write the music, I found myself with one
who had a very strong personality. He was young at the time,
but he already had this personality. It all began when he asked me to do
the music for The Battle of Algiers. I was surprised.
I was still a newcomer to cinema, and I was very surprised
by his request. I already knew the film
he had done previously, Kapo, which was a marvelous film. And so I asked him,
“What made you think of me?” Surprising me once again, he told me that
he had seen Sergio Leone’s film, For a Few Dollars More,
Leone’s second western. He said he had really liked the music
and so he decided to call me. Anyway, I agreed to do it, because
I was certain I could do a good job. We not only have a great friendship,
but he was best man at my wedding. And since we both love
classical music, there’s this great bond between us. In general there’s
a tension between us, because when I bring him a motif
and he doesn’t like it, he won’t just accept it. And if he brings me one I don’t like,
I don’t accept it either. We struggle until we find one
that we both like. I was rather proud in those days,
and I still am, and I didn’t want the director
to have control over the music. But he intuitively understands
what kind of music the film needs. His musical imagination
and his knowledge of music have been very useful to me
on all the films I’ve done with him. Gillo always had a theme
in the back of his mind, a theme that went like this… It repeats over and over like that.
That’s all it is. Ennio created a symphony around this. These four sounds were very simple. It was the starting point from which
I created the music of the film. After the massacres, the music is mine. I didn’t want this part to be influenced
in the slightest by Gillo. It’s the same music
as during the massacre in the Casbah, and during the bar scene. The first one is the longest
and also the most touching. Gillo cried while I was recording it. In the spring of 1966,
I got a phone call from Antonio Musu, the producer of
The Battle of Algiers. He told me about the film
they made with Gillo Pontecorvo, and that it absolutely had to be presented
at some important international venue in order to get
the word out about it. It ended up in Venice because there was
an enlightened and intelligent director like Chiarini who wanted to see it
and immediately grasped its importance. Thanks also to Tullio Kezich,
who was on the committee and who said right away
it should be accepted. Regarding the film’s content,
the way the story was told, both ideologically and artistically, neither Chiarini, the head of
the committee, nor the other members had anything to find fault with. The problem was the poor timing
in making an enemy of the country that produced the greatest
number of films in Europe. Chiarini said to me, “We can accept this film, but it’ll be
the start of a war with the French, and Paris is a heavy supporter
of the Venice Festival, so it will be
an irreparable catastrophe.” So, miraculously and with very little time,
because editing hadn’t been completed, they took it to Venice. We got to Venice about midnight, and we screened it
almost immediately. Early the next morning
we screened it in the large hall. At first there was a moment of silence
that terrified Pontecorvo and Picci, who naturally were tremulously
waiting to hear the reaction. They remembered the nine-minute ovation
that Kapo had elicited two years before. After this moment of silence,
a thunderous applause broke out. While we were in the booth,
I heard that everyone was up onstage, Ennio Morricone, etc., and I hear them repeat my name. So I left the booth
and went down onstage. It was one of the most
emotional moments for me. There was thunderous applause,
really thunderous. I remember I came down from the
projection room into the jubilant crowd, and Gillo, himself very moved,
was walking down towards the screen. But the reaction wasn’t unanimous. To begin with, the French delegation
walked out of the theater, indignant and angry,
and threatening diplomatic retaliation. Even the critics weren’t unanimous. The morning the jury got together
for the Venice Film Festival, I was swimming with my wife
in front of the Excelsior. The sea was calm. We were happy as larks, satisfied if the film received
even the slightest bit of attention or got mentioned at all. He was there splashing lazily about
in a Pontecorvian way, perhaps because there were
many strong films in Venice that year, such as one by Kluge, Bresson’s Au hasard Balthazar
and Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451. So perhaps Gillo
wasn’t expecting to win a prize, despite the applause and success
of the previous evening. Then he suddenly saw
a swarm of photographers approaching who told him he’d won
the FIPRESCI Prize. A little later,
when they returned to the hotel, Bassani, the writer
and head of the jury, told him he’d won the Golden Lion. It was a magnificent evening. You know, when you win a prize… The film deserved it, but the film that deserves first prize
doesn’t always gets it. But it did happen this time, because it really was
a great and extraordinary film. What struck me most
was seeing the Algerian flag, 16 feet long,
at the Venice Biennale. I said, “After five years of freedom, my country is here competing with Fahrenheit 451
and many others. But they chose our film.” The film had been
scheduled to be shown in several movie theaters in Paris, and the night before the film was
to be shown, the theater was firebombed, the screen slashed, and so forth. That was the start of the unanimous revolt
against the film in France. The French didn’t want to hear
about the battle of Algiers or the Algerian War. They had been
painful experiences for them. Especially since I’d made it. I was Public Enemy Number One. So, the film was
never shown in France. But I was given distribution rights
by the French government. I could distribute it tomorrow.
But what distributor would dare? Then, Louis Malle,
who is unfortunately now deceased… a great French director
who adored the film… He and several of his friends
who felt the same way about it got together with several
democratic youth groups of vaguely leftist leanings to get the film released
in four Parisian movie theaters. So the film wasn’t released
in France until ’71, when Louis Malle
found the courage to do it, by which time the controversy and
passions had been sufficiently quenched for the film to receive
the reaction it deserved.

5 Replies to ““Marxist Poetry: The Making of The Battle of Algiers” (2004)

  1. We must keep the fantasies of lefties out of this film. The Pentagon showed this a few years ago, big mistake without me to explain it.First, the music is not in the original release shown to Muslim nations. Let's take one sequence,the bombing of the bar. A woman is in the bar, doing her makeup. A baby is in the bar. People are shown smoking and drinking. THESE ARE ALL CRIMES BY THEIR WAY OF THINKING. Thus the blast, without the music, was cheered across MidEast nations.

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