Film Review: Kelly's Heroes (1970)
The Vietnam War cast a long shadow over American society by 1970, particularly among Baby Boomers who rejected militarism amid escalating anti-war protests. This generational shift posed a dilemma for Hollywood: traditional war films, once box-office gold, now faced backlash for glorifying conflict. Kelly’s Heroes, directed by Brian G. Hutton, navigated this tension by blending WWII action with countercultural irreverence, offering heist-film thrills while satirising military bureaucracy. Its success lay in balancing explosive set pieces with a sly critique of authority—a formula that resonated with audiences weary of both jingoism and overtly grim war narratives.
The film’s premise, though ostensibly fictional, drew from a real—and hushed—WWII incident. Screenwriter Troy Kennedy Martin took inspiration from a Guinness World Records entry detailing the 1945 theft of the German National Gold Reserves in Bavaria by U.S. soldiers and German civilians. Classified for decades due to its embarrassment to military officials, the event provided a template for the film’s central plot: a ragtag unit seizing Nazi gold behind enemy lines. While Kelly’s Heroes relocates the action to 1944 France, its irreverent tone mirrors the audacity of the real-life cover-up, transforming a historical footnote into a subversive caper.
Set during the Allied push post-D-Day, the film follows Private Kelly (played by Clint Eastwood), a demoted lieutenant who finds out information about German gold stash worth $16 million. To claim it, Kelly assembles a motley crew: black-market hustler Sergeant Crapgame (played by Don Rickles), pragmatic platoon leader Big Joe (played by Telly Savalas), and the anarchic tank commander Oddball (played by Donald Sutherland). Their mission—a 50-kilometre dash into Nazi-held Clermont—faces hurdles from Allied airstrikes and German resistance, all while General Colt (played by Carroll O’Connor), a blustering caricature of military hubris, misreads their greed as patriotism and pursues them for a “heroic” photo-op. The narrative’s tension stems not from battlefield glory but from a race against institutional interference—a metaphor for Boomer disillusionment with authority.
The film’s dialogue drips with late-’60s vernacular, its characters embodying anti-establishment tropes. Oddball, played with scene-stealing eccentricity by Donald Sutherland, is a proto-hippie tank commander who smokes hashish, sports a beard, and dismisses orders with Zen nonchalance. His crew’s psychedelic-painted Shermans and disdain for rank epitomise the Boomers’ rejection of hierarchy. Meanwhile, Kelly’s crew views the war as a means to personal gain, not duty—a stark contrast to the noble G.I. archetypes of 1940s cinema. General Colt’s buffoonish patriotism, lampooned by O’Connor’s over-the-top performance, becomes the ultimate “Man” to stick it to.
Fresh off Where Eagles Dare (1968), Clint Eastwood delivers a trademark stoic performance as Kelly, his quiet determination anchoring the chaos. Yet, he’s eclipsed by Sutherland’s anarchic charm and O’Connor’s satirical bravado. Savalas and Rickles provide gritty comic relief, but the film thrives on its ensemble chemistry rather than individual star power—a deliberate choice reflecting the collective anti-hero ethos of the era.
Buoyed by a $4 million budget, the film’s authenticity benefited from Yugoslav People’s Army support. Locations near Novi Sad and Vižinada doubled convincingly for rural France, while T-34 tanks masquerading as German Tigers, used a year earlier in Yugoslav WW2 epic The Battle of Neretva, together with authentic Sherman tanks, added gritty realism. Lalo Schifrin’s score, featuring the haunting “Burning Bridges” theme, juxtaposes melancholic harmonies with upbeat rhythms—mirroring the film’s tonal shifts from comedy to carnage.
The first act revels in Ocean’s Eleven-style planning: Crapgame bribing supplies, Oddball’s tanks dodging bureaucracy. Yet, once the unit crosses enemy lines, the mood darkens. Minefield deaths and strafing runs inject sobering violence, culminating in a climactic tank battle that sacrifices quips for pyrotechnics. This shift, though jarring, underscores the film’s duality—lampooning war’s absurdity while acknowledging its human cost.
The film’s brilliance resurfaces in its climax. Facing a stalemate with a German Tiger tank, Kelly bribes its commander with gold, resulting in an improbable alliance. As GIs and Wehrmacht soldiers divvy loot, General Colt arrives—only to be mobbed by French villagers mistaking him for de Gaulle. The ending winks at Eastwood’s “Man With No Name” persona, framing Kelly not as a hero but a rogue who outsmarts the system. It’s a triumphant middle finger to authority, cementing the film’s countercultural credentials.
Flawed yet inventive, Kelly’s Heroes succeeded by mirroring its era’s contradictions. It catered to Boomers’ anti-war sensibilities without abandoning spectacle, using humour to mask deeper cynicism. While its tonal unevenness and bloated runtime drew criticism, the film’s box-office triumph proved that audiences could relish action while scoffing at its futility—a balancing act few Vietnam-era films achieved. Today, it endures as a cult classic, a reminder that even in war’s darkness, greed and absurdity shine through.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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That report cannot be complete without an unforgettable theme song:
Burning Bridges by The Mike Curb Congregation
Absolutely. One of the greatest theme songs in history of cinema.