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War of the Worlds July 3, 2005 |
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The nightmare scenario to end all nightmare scenarios is the one where you run and run, from an unstoppable force of unimaginable power, but the running never stops, and the force keeps on coming. In those awful “Friday the 13th” films, it was a psycho in a Jacques Plante old school goalie mask that caught up to his victims, no matter how fast they ran, and how slow he trotted, menacingly, with a knife in his hand, and a will for leisurely horror in his heart. Really, it could be anything; a giant marshmallow man, ala “Ghostbusters”, a squiggly forest creature, ala “Predator”, a giant mother-in-law, ala every man’s worst nightmare, or a giant moo-cow, ala a weird cheese-induced dream I had two nights ago, but it doesn’t matter what the villain of the scene may be, it’s the notion of hopeless life preservation that always makes the situation entirely frightening. In H.G. Wells’ 1898 masterpiece, “War of the Worlds”, the nameless narrator faces enemies from Mars who land on Earth with one thing in mind, the eradication of the human species, and in its constant movement, from London, to the countryside, back to London, the nightmare of never ending survival only resolves itself when simple biological matter wins out over all the man made weapons capitalism and democracy could possibly ever produce. The Wells book is a thinly veiled attack on British 19th century imperialism, and it works for the time, but Steven Spielberg’s huge new adaptation of the seminal Sci-Fi classic takes the frightening aliens vs. civilians premise, shifts it to a post 9/11 New Jersey littered with working class apartment housing and American flags, and softens the politics to mere terrorism implications, and if it suffers only slightly the not-so-thinly veiled symbolism, the original nightmare scenario is still overwhelmingly powerful, and let’s face it, downright terrifying. Any leftover warmth Spielberg might be carrying from “E.T.” has now evaporated like so much human remains by way of alien death ray, with this awesome spectacle of terror and destruction. Superstar, tabloid nutball, and Scientologist extraordinaire Tom Cruise takes the lead role of Ray Ferrier, a divorced mechanic in a Yankees hat and a cool hotrod whose weekend with his two, essentially estranged, kids is horribly disrupted when all hell breaks loose on the Jersey shore. The joke would be that Jersey is a pit anyway, but lets leave that to Dave and Conan, because for film purposes, the setting isn’t entirely important, since the aliens destroy globally, not town specific, and Jersey simply reminds us, as ashen faces stare up at the towering tri-pods, “missing” posters strewn over fences, and American flags fly in the face of devastation, of a time nearly four years ago when this wasn’t summer popcorn fare, but all too real reality. Spielberg stages the initial destruction- a slowly intensifying masterpiece of scare tactics and thump-thump sound patterns- of Ray’s neighborhood more like the storming of Normandy in “Saving Private Ryan”, than the shark attack in “Jaws”, as pre-placed alien tri-pods rise up from beneath the Earth’s crust- after lightening-riding aliens cascade down into them- to reek havoc, incinerate bodies, cultivate red weeds, and generally disrupt the ebb and flow of modern civilization. “They’ve been planning this for years,” says Tim Robbins as a crazed, gun-totting survivor, “this is a war as much as a war vs. men and maggots…this is an extermination.” I don’t know if there is irony to be found in a movie about the evaporation of the human populace, for entertainment, made by the man who made “Schindler’s List”, one of the best films ever made about actual human extinction, but the obvious 9/11 overtones (“Is it the terrorists,” asks little Dakota Fanning on the run) gives the thrill-filled picture deeper meanings than originally one may expect, not unlike the Cold War overtones of the ’53 film, and the WWII suggestions of Orson Welles’ infamous Halloween radio presentation in ’38. Spielberg’s film is a series of increasingly dire set pieces as the plot mirrors the London exodus of the book, with Cruise and his children traveling by foot, boat, and mini-van, constantly ducking the death rays to get to the safe-haven of Boston, Massachusetts. The zeitgeist of a Boston/New York rivalry is eluded to by Cruise’s Yankees cap, and his bitter teenage son’s Sox cap, as if baseball, the All American Pastime, is the only universal symbol of American division within itself (come on down Aliens, and feast on the land of petty grudges, for our major metropolises are still insecure puddy after the 2004 ALCS). The exodus scenario is always an important staple of mass paranoia, and Spielberg is wise to use it often, to its best effect outside of a lonely diner, where a gun is introduced into the mix (straight out of the book), and later when spots on a precious ferry are fought over like the last bone at a dog’s party (not out of the book), heightening the tension in an already tense and surreal situation. Tom Cruise has taken a beating in the media recently, and it’s probably all deserved, but it’s hard to deny his gifts as an actor, commanding the scene, even when impressive CGI shots tend to overwhelm the frame. Not many actors of his caliber, maybe Russell Crowe, could follow a ruthless performance as a hired gun (“Collateral”), with a blow-em-up’s father figure. Adorable Dakota Fanning is naturally warm and vital, with her big scared eyes and adult sense of humor, as the daughter, and Justin Chatwin, while less prominent, has a crucial role as the spiteful teenage son. Spielberg has been accused of overt sentimentality in the past, a criticism I’ve never fully understood, but the family troubles of the Ferrier’s makes for good background heft, as the world collapses around them. To say that Spielberg directs BIG is an understatement, he directs HUGE, like Billy Fucillo would say, with expensive explosions and neat lighting tricks (courtesy of master cinematographer Janusz Kaminski), properly justifying the $200 million price tag. With that kind of money, we better get at least one long tracking shot of a cracking sidewalk, and one quietly intense basement hideout scene- where the alien’s protruding tentacle is thwarted by it’s inability to understand the simple physics of a mirror, perhaps a nod to the kitchen sequence in “Jurassic Park”- and yes, if those were your two checkmarks going into “War of the Worlds”, than you won’t be disappointed. For everyone else whose checklists run longer, the best I can say is that Spielberg has delivered unto us the summer’s first blockbuster to pan out; a faithful adaptation of a classic work of Science Fiction that not only scares us to our core, but cuts the tension with humanist values and strong performances. By all means, “War of the Worlds” is the best disaster flick since “Titanic”, and a strong candidate for the best alien invasion film since “The Day the Earth Stood Still”. An endless trek through the Northeast, like a monster guided cattle drive, may be the epitome of hopeless life preservation, but as long as it’s on the screen, it’s the stuff that dreams, or, better yet, nightmares, are made of. by Adam Suraf “War of the Worlds” is playing at the Movie-Plex 59.
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