The first surprise isn’t the aerial carnage — it’s how cheeky this thing is. Pre-Code Hollywood turns up like it’s had two drinks too many: Jean Harlow strolls in with a grin and a libido, and the film doesn’t rush to wag a finger at her. For a war picture, that’s bracing.
It’s also more tangled than the poster version of patriotism. The Oxford stretch with Karl, the German friend, lets you feel how quickly loyalties curdle once uniforms enter the room. And the Zeppelin raid over London isn’t just spectacle — even with the film pulling its punch at the last second, the threat sticks.
Then the dogfights arrive and they’re astonishing: clear, heavy, and frightening, like men wrestling in a sky full of metal. It’s the Royal Flying Corps, even if the American accents sometimes wobble the illusion. Hughes aimed for maximum and mostly got it — a mad, expensive swing that connects