Before the four strapping young men headlining “The Mosquito Bowl” leave their hometowns for Marine training, they bid farewell to kith and kin. A mother trembles while serving her son a final slice of bacon. Girlfriends shed dainty tears. It is clear that the women’s worry for their men brims with worship, a feeling that flows freely in this bluntly drawn historical drama that is held aloft by two pillars of American identity: war and football.
The movie, directed by Peter Berg and rendered in a palette of grim gunmetal gray, pairs these national traditions clumsily, even queasily, as it spotlights a true event from World War II: On Christmas Eve, 1944, two Marine Corps regiments stationed on the mosquito-infested island of Guadalcanal competed in a game of football. Several of the pickup players were previously college football stars who might have gone on to professional careers. Instead, they faced the Japanese Army in battle.
It is supremely unsurprising that this tale of blood sport whetted appetites in Hollywood, and less surprising still that it tickled Berg. The creator of “Friday Night Lights” (and the director of a recent pigskin-packed commercial for the betting platform Polymarket), Berg is a believer in football as an American religion. He is also an action aficionado with a flair for brute force and blockbuster spectacle. What could be more awesome, more worthy of esteem, than young athletes who sacrificed football for the flag?
“The Mosquito Bowl” begins with glory days on the field. Our hero, John McLaughry (Nicholas Galitzine), rules the gridiron at Brown University; Bob Bauman (Bill Skarsgard) and Dave Schreiner (Tom Francis) are stars at the University of Wisconsin; and Tony Butkovich (a captivating Ray Nicholson) is a sensation at Purdue. In an early muddy clash, Butkovich sets a touchdown record on Bauman and Schreiner’s home turf, inciting a rivalry that stalks the men to boot camp at Parris Island in South Carolina.
There, in montages that nod to “Full Metal Jacket,” the sportsmen command attention for their celebrity and sinewy brawn, and show shades of hubris. That confidence sputters out once their boat crashes ashore at Tarawa, giving the boys and the audience a first taste of hell in a meticulously graphic coastal tableau. Bullets whiz through surf, bodies lie limp and heads explode. Rattled and humbled, the men emerge in a daze. When a Marine who arrived after the carnage professes to be a star-struck fan, Butkovich, formerly a showman, looks on with troubled eyes.
In this moment and others, the movie positions itself as a reckoning with the horrors of war, a melancholic portrait of innocence lost. Set against slaughter, what was once sacrosanct — pride in one’s game and team — looks quaint, naïve. But this critical distance dissipates later on, when Berg gets around to showcasing the Mosquito Bowl. Instructed to play two-hand touch, the men gleefully relapse into tackling, and we are invited to cheer on their aggression. If, as François Truffaut once argued, war movies cannot escape their glorification of the battlefield, then celebrating the vigor and valor of the football field sure doesn’t help.
The Mosquito Bowl Rated R for grisly images. Running time: 2 hours 7 minutes. In theaters.
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