The camerawork of 1917 – that it is filmed in one continuous shot – has been one of the film’s (understandable) main selling points. It’s one of the first things mentioned in any review. And fair enough; it’s a logistical feat pulled off impeccably well. But these kinds of tricks can be gimmicky, Oscar-baity, done for the sake of being done rather than for any kind of artistic reason. So I appreciate that 1917 has a reason for this trickery – to immerse us in the intricate and detailed creation of the First World War. Taking several minutes to walk through trenches, passing by the sick and the mad, the dead and the dying, gives us an appreciation for the physicality of these locations akin to few war films. This kind of sensibility sits this film squarely in the Dunkirk camp, more of a cinematic experience than a narrative one, and it is impressively done.

But despite this general focus on the somewhat ostentatious camerawork, what struck me is the deftness of the storytelling. It’s a simple narrative that masks surprising depth. The basic thrust of the film is that if the message to call off the attack is not delivered in time, the Second Battalion will be slaughtered. The further emotional impetus – the emotional stakes – is Blake’s knowledge that if he does not succeed, his brother will die. This is a fairly simplistic way of personalising larger, inconceivable stakes – we care more about Blake’s brother than we do a faceless mass of soldiers. But where the film really soared, for me, was the death of Blake. It was utterly unexpected and served to complicate the stakes in a nuanced way. Now, the previously reluctant Schofield must deliver the message – not just to save the Battalion, not just to save Blake’s brother, but to ensure that his friend’s death was not in vain. He’s doing it for somebody whose relationship we have seen develop throughout the film, not just an unidentified brother or faceless mass. The film smuggles in higher and better stakes without us realising, and it is incredibly effective.

Blake’s death illuminates the sheer futility of it all. An instinctive moment of kindness amid the madness – diving into the flames to rescue a downed German pilot – is his undoing, a moment too banal for the film to even bother to capture on camera. Because it wasn’t significant. Millions were killed during the war, and Blake is just another casualty. Dying isn’t anything special or interesting – it’s their job description. The film’s ships-in-the-night style – of Schofield drifting through various units, telling his story or simply listening – underscores that Blake is just another statistic, a forgotten figure held only in Schofield’s (and our) memory as the larger war washes over him. Eventually, the trappings of soldierhood – his weaponry, backpack, coat – are literally washed away. He loses his militaristic focus and becomes dedicated only to delivering the message – he’s no longer fighting a war, he’s fulfilling a promise to a friend.

But, as Colonel Mackenzie notes in the film’s climax, he’s seen it all before. The music is soaring, we’re utterly relieved – but what’s the point when next week’s attack order comes in? By its own conception, the film can only give us a temporary moment of reprieve – it is, after all, only 1917. What’s a week more? Many of the characters we met in this film might well be dead by the end of the war. So the final shot of the film feels right; not triumph, not safety, but a bleak realisation that, even if Schofield somehow does manage to defy the odds, he won’t be the same person. He can never ‘come back to us’. None of them can.