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174 Chapter 8 ‘Race’, racism and representation

to accept the myth that there are Americans still being held in Vietnam is to begin to
retrospectively justify the original intervention. If the Vietnamese are so barbaric as to
still hold prisoners decades after the conclusion of the conflict, then there is no need
to feel guilty about the war, as they surely deserved the full force of American military
intervention. Second, Susan Jeffords identifies a process she calls the ‘femininization
of loss’ (1989: 145). That is, those blamed for America’s defeat, whether they are
unpatriotic protesters, an uncaring government, a weak and incompetent military
command, or corrupt politicians, are always represented as stereotypically feminine:
‘the stereotyped characteristics associated with the feminine in dominant U.S. culture
– weakness, indecisiveness, dependence, emotion, nonviolence, negotiation, unpre-
dictability, deception’ (145). Jeffords’ argument is illustrated perfectly in the MIA cycle
of films in which the ‘feminine’ negotiating stance of the politicians is played out
against the ‘masculine’, no-nonsense approach of the returning veterans. The implica-
tion being that ‘masculine’ strength and single-mindedness would have won the war,
whilst ‘feminine’ weakness and duplicity lost it. Third, perhaps most important of all
is how these films turned what was thought to be lost into something which was only
missing. Defeat is displaced by the ‘victory’ of finding and recovering American POWs.
Puzzled by the unexpected success of Uncommon Valor in 1983, the New York Times sent
a journalist to interview the film’s ‘audience’. One moviegoer was quite clear why the
film was such a box-office success: ‘We get to win the Vietnam War’ (quoted in H. Bruce
Franklin 1993: 141).
The second narrative paradigm is ‘the inverted firepower syndrome’. This is a narra-
tive device in which the United States’ massive techno-military advantage is inverted.
Instead of scenes of the massive destructive power of American military force, we are
shown countless narratives of individual Americans fighting the numberless (and often
invisible) forces of the North Vietnamese Army and/or the sinister and shadowy men
and women of the National Liberation Front (‘Viet Cong’). Missing In Action I, II, and
III, Rambo: First Blood Part II, and Platoon, all contain scenes of lone Americans strug-
gling against overwhelming odds. John Rambo, armed only with a bow and arrow, is
perhaps the most notorious example. Platoon, however, takes this narrative strategy on
to another plane altogether. In a key scene, ‘good’ Sergeant Elias is pursued by a count-
less number of North Vietnamese soldiers. He is shot continually until he falls to his
knees, spreading his arms out in a Christ-like gesture of agony and betrayal. The cam-
era pans slowly to emphasize the pathos of his death throes. In Britain the film was
promoted with a poster showing Elias in the full pain of his ‘crucifixion’. Above the
image is written the legend: ‘The First Casualty of War is Innocence’. Loss of innocence
is presented as both a realization of the realities of modern warfare and as a result of
America playing fair against a brutal and ruthless enemy. The ideological implication
is clear: if America lost by playing the good guy, it is ‘obvious’ that it will be necessary
in all future conflicts to play the tough guy in order to win.
The third narrative paradigm is ‘the Americanization of the war’. What I want to
indicate by this term is the way in which the meaning of the Vietnam War has become
in Hollywood’s Vietnam (and elsewhere in US cultural production) an absolutely
American phenomenon. This is an example of what we might call ‘imperial narcissism’,