Power, Privilege: `Prisoners Of The Sun' Looks At Etiquette Of War

----------------------------------------------------------- XXX "Prisoners of the Sun" (a k a "Blood Oath"), with Bryan Brown, George Takei, Terry O'Quinn. Directed by Stephen Wallace, from a script by Denis Whitburn and Brian A. Williams. Metro Cinemas. "R" - Restricted, due to strong language and violence. In English, with some Japanese with English subtitles. ----------------------------------------------------------- The etiquette of war is a tricky business, and the standard by which war criminals are judged is certainly open to question.

When hapless civilians can be slaughtered by errant bombs without anyone being brought to trial for it, does the notion of military justice make any sense? Or is it a misguided, impractical enterprise?

In Australian director Stephen Wallace's new film, the answer to both questions is "Yes."

"Prisoners of the Sun" explores an instance of military justice being put into practice under the Geneva Convention. The script by Denis Whitburn and Brian A. Williams is based on fact, but condenses three trials into one.

In late 1945, on the island of Ambon, Indonesia, a mass trial of Japanese officers and soldiers is being held by an Australian tribunal. The crime: the brutal execution of more than 300 Australian POWs.

Capt. Robert Cooper (Bryan Brown) is the prosecutor, but he's having trouble adjusting to the fact that, with the war over, he's now a rational lawyer and not a vengeful soldier. Even as a lawyer, he's at a disadvantage. He's got little in the way of evidence. Witnesses and necessary documentation are in short supply.

A further complication arises when Cooper learns that the Americans have plans of their own for his chief defendant, Vice Admiral Baron Takahashi (a nearly unrecognizable George Takei, from "Star Trek," giving the role an icy, elegant turn). American Maj. Tom Beckett (Terry O'Quinn) explains that there's a bigger political picture to consider. But Cooper, who "never had much use for barons in the best of times," isn't buying it.

The trial takes an almost comical spin when the Japanese defense lawyer (Sokyu Fujita) complains that he, too, lacks evidence and that his clients are having trouble grasping the concept of presumption of innocence.

It's no laughing matter, however, when the local Indonesians nearly riot against the slow pace of the trial proceedings. They want retaliation against their former occupiers and they want it now.

Wallace manages to keep the story's political context and the behind-the-scenes power-struggles comprehensible - no mean feat in itself. At first he seems headed for a belated exercise in Japan-bashing. But the complications soon multiply, especially when signal corps officer Tanaka (Toshi Shioya), a Christian Japanese with his private notions of conscience, appears on the scene.

Brown - more workmanlike than inspired in his handling of the central role - is upstaged by several members of the supporting cast. Shioya captures Tanaka's inner conflict to perfection, while Kazuhiro Muroyama brings to life a young soldier who followed orders out of fear. Tetsu Watanabe exudes a frighteningly playful evil as a sadistic Japanese officer: He goes so overboard with his crazed militarist stereotype that he's somehow convincing.

On a drier and less hysterical plane, Deborah Unger offers a tart mix of sarcasm and sympathy as an Australian nurse who is torn between wanting to see justice done and wanting to protect her patients from the rigors of standing witness in the trial.

Russell Boyd's lush cinematography evokes both the beauty of the locale and the horrors that took place in it. Unfortunately, the film is undermined in several places by exaggerated directorial touches, especially in a scene where Cooper tries to beat evidence out of a Japanese POW - not the only instance where Cooper violates procedure in ways that would surely get him dismissed from his case.

The script eventually overcomes these flaws, gaining both in subtlety and power in its final stretch. By its end it artfully illustrates that the trial, as Cooper says, is not about the difference between two cultures but about "the way in which power and privilege make victims of those who have neither."