TWENTY SEVEN MINUTES

If we're talking about a pure cinematic flow state, the first twenty-seven minutes of Oliver Stone's Born on the Fourth of July are truly something special. I choose to isolate this opening section from the rest of the film not because the remainder isn’t brilliant, but because, in terms of a seamless prelude or overture of themes, I can't recall a better-crafted beginning to a mainstream Hollywood movie.

As easy as it might be for some to pour scorn on the slick Hollywood approach to biopics, Stone and his cast and crew are operating at such an exceptionally high level of craft here that it's impossible to deny. All the elements align perfectly—from the noble yet portentous John Williams score, to the sun-flared cinematography of Robert Richardson, to the exquisite art direction by Richard L. Johnson and Victor Kempster, to the judicious flashbulb editing of David Brenner. As soon as the first titles appear on screen, we're immediately seduced into this Norman Rockwell-like portrait of patriotism and the quintessential Americana of small-town life in Massapequa, New York—a suburban town on Long Island—where young Ron Kovic is perched on his father’s shoulders, watching a military procession on the Fourth of July (which happens to be his birthday).

Observing armless veterans walking in uniform down Main Street while majorettes twirl batons and American flags are waved enthusiastically by the townsfolk, the symbolic contrast between fairytale patriotism and the grim reality of its cost is quickly established.

Throughout this crucial twenty-seven-minute opening, Stone wisely emphasises the physical aspects of young Ron’s life—from hitting baseballs out of the park and sliding into base to sharing his first kiss—as we, along with the film's protagonist, have yet to realise how easily we take these simple, archetypal moments of childhood for granted. It’s only later, when Ron becomes a paraplegic, that we recall these candyfloss memories with heartache, feeling the burden of his sacrifice to his country and the loss of his former identity as a healthy young man.

As teenage Ron (now played by Tom Cruise) appears, asserting himself in physical activities at school—including wrestling, running, and rope climbing—we begin to see how Stone is laying the groundwork for the film’s central themes. His mother’s discovery of pornography in his room foreshadows the later complexities surrounding sex and intimacy after his life-altering injuries. His younger brother singing The Times They Are A-Changin’ down the hallway subtly signals the growing countercultural protest movement across the country. And Ron’s competitive drive to win the school wrestling match (which he loses) reveals a determined spirit that will prove to be invaluable when he’s later forced to face extreme adversity.

JFK’s iconic inaugural speech in January 1961 further ignites the young man's desire to serve, a fire stoked by the impressive Marine recruiter (played by Tom Berenger) who visits his high school. Later, conversations with friends at the local diner reveal just how deeply ingrained the idea of military service is in Ron’s psyche—even when one dissenting voice among the group urges him to think twice.

Ron's desire to fight grows even stronger when Donna (Kyra Sedgwick)—the girl he hopes to take to prom—tells him she’s already spoken for. Left at home while rain pours down outside, he discusses his military intentions with his more skeptical father (a veteran himself), explaining his deep desire to protect his country abroad. Returning to his bedroom, Ron prays, the reflection of moonlit rain falling across his face as he asks Christ for clarity in silencing any remaining doubt.

Cut to Ron running through the rain to the school prom, where Henry Mancini’s Moon River plays as couples slow dance. He finds Donna amidst the throng and persuades her to finish her dance with him—much to the irritation of her official prom date.

In this blissful moment, Stone crystallises to perfection the happiest point in Ron's young life, as everything seems perfectly in place—just before the tragedy that is to befall him. Innocence will soon give way to bitter experience, and Kovic will spend the rest of his life trying to find a way of getting home, in the ultimate sense, once again.