In many ways we should have seen this coming. As an actor, Clint was always obsessed with pushing the boundaries of what it was people thought of him. Gentle cowpoke popular with audiences on television’s “Rawhide?” Go to Italy and shake up that image working with Sergio Leone on “Fistful of Dollars.” Stoic good guy always dishing out punishment to those who deserve it? Play a misogynistic lothario in Don Siegel’s Civil War gothic classic “The Beguiled.” Refuse to understand women or their problems thanks to violent action pictures like “Sudden Impact” or “High Plains Drifter?” Direct the romantic classic “The Bridges of Madison County” with Meryl Streep and have it be better and more moving than the derivative book on which it was based.

Now Eastwood tackles what may be his most difficult challenge yet, directing two movies about WWII from both the American and Japanese perspectives. The first of these is “Flags of Our Fathers” based upon the book by James Bradley and Ron Powers opening today. The second is “Letter from Iwo Jima,” based partly on the Japanese bestseller Picture Letter of Commander and Chief by Tadamichi Kuribayashi and opening here domestically next February.

While one gets the feeling that these two films added together might just be the definitive examination of the effects of a single WWII battle in cinematic history, at the moment all we can talk about and assess is the first portion of this double feature, the American-centric “Flags of Our Fathers.” Granted, if this one is any indication of the worthiness of the follow up, then I can already assume that “Letters from Iwo Jima” is going to be a masterpiece.

Not that I can quite say the same for this one. While it comes quite close to perfection, some of it is just too aloof and distant to ever achieve the full weighty meaning of which I am certain Eastwood and screenwriters William Broyles, Jr. and Paul Haggis intend. The narrative structure is too herky-jerky, too much of a talking heads piece to ever maintain the emotional momentum generated by the subject matter. The whole thing is almost a bit too staid and old fashioned for its own good, the director keeping the pace so leisurely at times I almost wondered for a sec if old age was finally getting the motion picture icon.

I shouldn’t have worried. These problems mean very little by the time “Flags of Our Fathers” comes to its shatteringly heartfelt coda. Clint is tackling the very notion of heroism here, trying to decipher and figure out what it means to countries, their citizens and the fighting men (and women) who many times far too quickly end up branded with the label. It is about how are impressions of what is and what is not a heroic act are shaped by political leaders in times of war and paranoia, the propaganda stemming from its implementation a steady beat of the drums urging a weary populace to maintain the course.

The film does this by examining the fates of three of the soldiers who hefted up the flag on Mount Suribachi during the battle for Iwo Jima. The photograph of this event taken by Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal on February 23, 1945 might be the single most famous snapshot ever taken during WWII, its impact upon those back home in the United States an indelible image signifying that our fighting men were going to win the war.

What they were not told was this was the second flag put up that day, the first returned to a battle weary Colonel before an eager-beaver politician could steal it and plaster it to his wall. They were not let in on the fact that this flag raising took place on the fifth day of a 31-day battle. It was not important to disclose that the names originally assigned to those putting it up were not necessarily the ones who actually did the deed.

Instead, for John “Doc” Bradley (Ryan Phillippe, who is fantastic), Rene Gagnon (Jesse Bradford) and Ira Hayes (Adam Beach) it is the end of fighting for the trio and the beginning of helping sell war bonds. The surviving members of the group of six who put up the flag, they are sent all around the country to make speeches, smile handsomely and do everything that they can to convince the American public the war has not gone south and that they are, in fact, going to come out victorious.

But these men don’t want to be involved in such propaganda. They look on it as a dishonor to the men they served with and a disservice to the grieving parents who won’t see their children ever again. More, they bristle at being called heroes. The word does not suit them, their actions in war too brutal, too inhuman and grotesque, for any of them to feel remotely comfortable carrying that particular moniker. To them, what they did on Iwo Jima and in other battles had nothing to do with winning but everything to do with the comrades standing next to them, the friendships forged under fire bonds so strong even death could not shatter them.

This is the world “Flags of Our Fathers” travels within. It is a land of muted grays and shadowy blues, of sacrifice and doubt, of honor and, yes, heroism. Most of all it is a world where the deeds done under the rapid rhythms of gunfire and the booming cacophony of mortar blasts are ones best left unspoken, and while history looks upon many of these fighting men as the so-called “Greatest Generation” to themselves they were just doing the job their country had asked them to do.

For Eastwood, this is not the rah-rah-rah war movie many people might have expected. As he gets older, the director becomes more introspective, more cerebral in how examines the world and its problems. While the battle sequences here are extraordinary (maybe the best I have ever seen, and considering this film’s producer Steven Spielberg did a pretty darn good job himself depicting the carnage of battle that’s saying one heck of a lot), it is the people and their internal workings that matter most to him. The filmmaker takes no prisoners, holds nothing back, just observes the goings on of the political and military establishment as they try to sell their product to a tiring populace.

For me, “Flags of Our Fathers” doesn’t have quite the emotional resonance of “Million Dollar Baby” or “Unforgiven.” What it does have is an immediacy and a weight that is impossible to ignore. The battle being depicted may be being fought over the black sandy beaches of Iwo Jima, but they could just as easily be skirmishes inside the dusty thoroughfares of Baghdad or the mountains vistas of Afghanistan. There is a purposefulness to it all impossible to ignore and even more difficult to forget, Eastwood achieving a level of intimacy with his audience filmmakers strive for but very seldom achieve.

Film Rating: êêê1/2  (out of 4)