Years ago, I saw the movie Henry V (1944) with Sir Lawrence Olivier as King Henry (excellent movie, by the way). Filmed during WW II and released just as the war in Europe ended, it reflected the time. It was full of pageantry, trumpets, colorful banners, white steeds, and shining armor. Olivier wanted moviegoers to believe in the justness of the war. It reflected the mid-twentieth century far more than it did the early fifteenth century. The charge of the French knights to the accompaniment of the exciting musical score by Sir William Walton, and the sound of the flight of arrows unleashed at them by the English longbowmen was soul-stirring. War is glorious!   

Kenneth Branagh's 1989 version (another excellent movie) of Henry V reflects a different time and a different view of war. The time was post-Vietnam. The battle scenes, rather than panoramic views of a line of charging horsemen in shining armor with banners waving in the wind, were mostly bewildering close-ups composed of swinging swords and battle-axes, the clash of steel on steel, men slipping and falling in mud . . . screams . . . blood . . . dead bodies. The soldier's-eye view. In one scene, Branagh as King Hal carries a dead boy over the hacked-up bodies of both the English and French, and you can't help but realize that this battle—and war in general—is a panorama of blood and mud and death.

At least, in the Battle of Agincourt, King Henry, the man who decided to go to war, was there, not sitting safely behind his polished desk thousands of miles away.

Don Firth