Memorial Day isn’t just about cookouts and parades, of course. It’s also about remembering those who have given their lives for this country through the form that suits this remembrance best: bombastic war movies. In the current wave of greatest-generation swooning, we’ve decided to bring back the jolly war-time propaganda movie. Even Saving Private Ryan decided to stop its visceral display of the horrors of war — even the last good war — in favor of a ridiculous morality tale in which the moral is "Just shoot the prisoner." It’s a wave of sentiment about the WWII-era sacrifice this nation went through without any underlying understanding of the myriad downsides of that period. My grandfather was a navigator during World War II; he didn’t tell war stories. He hid his Purple Heart in the basement; we only found it after his death. I don’t know if he was embittered about the war or reluctant to dredge up memories or just intent on proceeding with his life. But on this Memorial Day, I’d like to salute his memory. I worry that my grandfather’s reluctance to talk about the war is being replaced by second-generation revisionism, that our collective memory of the war is going to dwindle to rah-rah jingoism and a sort of Hogan’s Heroes notion of a relatively clean war. Great aerial combat sequences and the lovely Kate Beckinsale notwithstanding, that’s just not right. Let’s leave Michael Bey’s vision of the war, told "with such high zest / To children ardent for some desperate glory," to another weekend next time. None