G.I. Joe critics

How I talked four Army infantrymen from Fort Benning, Ga., into seeing "Fahrenheit 9/11." And telling me what they really think of Michael Moore.

By Bill Warhop

Jul 14, 2004 | In a Fourth of July message on his Web site, Michael Moore recapped "Fahrenheit 9/11's" phenomenal debut. He cited record-breaking ticket sales, claiming the film "beat the opening weekend of Return of the Jedi." (True, if you're talking about Jedi's 1997 rerelease and not its 1983 premiere.) Moore ended his holiday message with a note of thanks to the men and women of the U.S. armed forces. "Theaters in military towns across the country reported packed houses," he wrote. "Our troops know the truth. They have seen it first-hand."

As those who have seen the film know, "Fahrenheit 9/11" subjects audiences to graphic, stomach-churning images of screaming, maimed soldiers who really do know the truth about the war in Iraq. By Moore's account, service members and military families wholeheartedly support his film. But numbers tell one story; soldiers another.

The Army and Air Force Exchange Service operates 159 movie theaters on U.S. military bases throughout the United States and the world. So far, AAFES hasn't booked "Fahrenheit 9/11" for any of its theaters -- but that doesn't mean it's shunning the film. "All of our bookings are based on popularity and availability," said Judd Anstey, a public affairs specialist for AAFES. "So far, no firm decision has been made on 'Fahrenheit 9/11.'"

Fort Benning, home of the Army's infantry since World War I, is spitting distance from Columbus, Ga., a city of 186,000 located just across the Chattahoochee River from Alabama. The state highway that cuts through Columbus is called Victory Drive, with American flags dotting its grassy median. There's even a Veteran's Square on Veteran's Parkway. The city's prosperity follows that of Fort Benning; this is a military town if ever there was one.

"Fahrenheit 9/11" is showing at only one theater in Columbus, the Carmike 15, located 17 miles from the base. But finding out how the movie is doing there is like trying to get President Bush to invite Moore to a White House dinner. I called the corporate office of Carmike Cinemas, which owns four other theaters in town -- including the Wynnsong 10, located on the base itself -- several times with no answer. And no one in a management position at either the Carmike 15 or the Wynnsong 10 would speak to me about the film for fear of a sudden, drastic change in their employment status. Why "Fahrenheit 9/11" is playing at the Carmike theater located the farthest from Fort Benning will have to remain a mystery.

I spent two days trying to sweet-talk Elsie Jackson of Fort Benning's public affairs office into doing my dirty work -- putting together a group of infantry volunteers who were willing to see Moore's film with me. Not even my best lines could budge her: I told her I was an Air Force veteran myself and knew what it was like to be deployed. I told her that if she would only forward my request to the soldiers, they could contact me directly. Nothing. So in desperation I asked which of Fort Benning's gates I should stand outside with a handmade sign begging for volunteers. Thankfully, Elsie had a better idea. She told me to check out Ranger Joe's.

On Victory Drive, a couple of miles from the fort, Ranger Joe's is a soldier's general store/warrior emporium. Troops from private to general stop in for everything from haircuts and dry cleaning to knives and gunsmithing. When I arrived at about 4:30 on a blistering South Georgia summer afternoon, it was a Mecca for off-duty soldiers, who were trying to take care of errands before evening formation or the next day's duty. Green soldiers still in training had town passes and milled about the store with their proud families in tow; regular troops stood in line to drop off dirty uniforms while those with a shadow of hair around the crown waited to be shorn at the barber shop.

With a manager's approval, I made an announcement on the store's intercom. "May I have your attention, please," I said, loud enough over the store's speakers that even I was a bit startled. Everyone in the store looked up and froze, probably anticipating some kind of grim message. I quickly introduced myself as a writer and offered free tickets to soldiers who were willing to attend that night's showing of the film at the Carmike 15. I waited around but no one came. "Everybody heard me, right?" I asked the manager with the silver beard who had let me use the intercom. He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah," he said with a nod, "they heard you, all right."

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