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Flyboys (review)

Oh, those rickety biplanes, all canvas and wood and held together by spit and a prayer, come taxiing out of the early morning fog and there’s the sad tin whistle music and the eager young men jumping to get up in the air and get themselves killed, and I’m a basket case from the get-go, all tears and sobby and having just the best time I can have at the movies: I. Am. Moved.