War of the Worlds

reviewed Sat, 09 Jul 2005


Maybe two days after the London Tube bombings was not the best time to go see a movie that exploits many of the most haunting images of the September 11th attacks – people fleeing down a street as billows of smoke chase them, clothes and other debris from incinerated people and buildings wafting gently through the air, posters with missing people’s photos and names (which doesn’t even make sense, in the context of the movie).  But I wasn’t thinking that clearly; I was more concentrated on overcoming my distaste of putting any more money in Tom Cruise’s pocket (but I saw a matinee, so that’s $2 less he’s getting).

War of the Worlds is maybe too good, in the sense that it’s incredibly evocative, tense, and quite scary.  The scenes of the initial invasion, from the literal gathering storm to the eruption of the ultimate sleeper cells, are outstanding – realistic and gripping.  If you saw the 1953 War of the Worlds, you remember that the Martians lasered a person, he glowed, and then there was a pile of ash.  In this version, it’s quite a bit more disturbing.

The more I thought about the 9/11 references, the more I felt angry at Spielberg for using them so blatantly.  He’s trying to kindle a certain reaction or feeling from the audience, and instead of creating it himself, he’s cutting corners by resorting to images that hold a tremendous emotional resonance for most of us.  I think it’s in poor taste, especially the posters with missing people’s photos; the other 9/11 images actually work in the context of the movie, so I’m willing to accept them as a way of linking the story with actual events, but those posters just make no sense and are so plainly there only to pique a specific reaction that it makes me angry.  (Slate had a back-and-forth about this, Timothy Noah taking my position and film critic David Edelman, whom I usually like, disagreeing.)

That critique notwithstanding, it is a good movie.  The only time I can tolerate Tom Cruise in a movie is when he’s a loathsome character, and here he’s almost breathtakingly selfish, put into greater relief by his sullen teenage son who turns out to have unexpected savior urges.  So that’s good.  One of the things I like about the movie is that, as Spielberg put it, if Cruise's character, Ray, doesn’t see something, neither does the audience.  Which makes Morgan Freeman’s omniscient narration that bookends the movie seem very out of place, although it’s probably necessary (at least at the end) to answer the main question that Ray couldn’t know.  The movie wraps up very abruptly (much as this review will), with a fairly unbelievable segue from a situation of extreme peril to one of almost utter calm.

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