War of the Worlds, A Film Review

Note: This review originally appeared on JustLuxe.com

Steven Spielberg is our greatest living filmmaker. He has been consistently superb in his element, which is delivering dramatic tales of survival. Some may argue that he lost his footing a few rare times along the way (Temple of Doom, 1941 and Hook), but not here. His latest film is a remake of the original 1953 film of the same title, and he brings the best out of everyone attached. Spielberg delivers the goods for an intense white-knuckled two-hour journey -- fifteen minutes in and we’re twisting uncomfortably for the remainder of War of the Worlds.

Spielberg is expert at helping us quickly understand the drama that is the Ferrier family (Tom Cruise, Dakota Fanning and Justin Chatwin); we see Tom Cruise’s Ray Ferrier as the wholly inadequate divorced, part-time dad that he is. We know instantly why Mrs. Ferrier left him and why his kids have no connection to him. He’s a selfish jerk, but not for long. Dakota Fanning is great as the youngest Ferrier trying not to mentally collapse or get vaporized by tri-pod aliens. Chatwin is equally good as her older brother who is more like her father helping her stay calm.

War is very similar in feel to Jaws, Duel, Close Encounters and Jurassic Park. In each of these films we track our heroes as they confront faceless, formidable and relentless pursuers. Whether it was the submerged shark, the faceless driver of a semi, or unseen alien pilots of large cloud-covered UFOs, we sit on the edge of our seats as our heroes try everything merely to survive. Indeed, when they make it back to shore, avoid the Jurassic mouth that is trying to bite them into equal parts, or finally get to a “safe” place at a roadside café, we relax only for a moment because we know that a semi is about to crash through the phone booth, a Great White is about to try and sink the boat, or aliens are about to unscrew the hinges on the front door.

And, so it is with War. We don’t see the alien life-forms for over an hour, and then only twice. Spielberg holds the reveal back here as well, and the tension is taut when it first occurs. This film is not for children. War of the Worlds is a sci-fi horror film, full of death, blood, and tense moments. We track the Ferrier clan as they innovate their survival scramble, unwittingly traversing headlong into foreign tripod invaders, only to use every ounce of their courage, mental toughness, and physical stamina to steer clear once again. We witness real deaths, not stylized violence a la Lucas’s Star Wars. As he used the red jacket in Schindler’s List, Spielberg here uses clothing here to hauntingly remind us that these garments were once occupied by neighbors, friends, and loved ones.

This film will remind you of many other end-of-the-world scenario films, like Signs, Independence Day, and Armageddon. But, it is done in a very earthy, real manner (Signs was excellent, but lacked the FX firepower and punch that this film has). When watching War, you feel like you are on Ray Ferrier’s block and that you’ve brazenly tagged along attempting to survive. We can’t help be drawn in rather than simply watch from some removed safe distance in our $13.50 leather stadium seating. The special effects are amazing, and you will not find a single defect on the FX front. The screenplay and score are both economical, serving the overall quality of War of the Worlds. There is no misstep on the plot with “quick-fixes” that save the day deus ex machina style. Instead, we watch our protagonists suffer and attempt to survive the old fashioned way, with gritty realism, and earthling know-how. If you loved the Saturday afternoon Sci-Fi festivals on your local television stations as a kid, you’ll love this film.

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the Fourth Hour in the shade of a tree

April No. 10

just stay, at this hour.  let the light stop where it is.

a moment more, and it is changed.

mood, sentiment, breathless hope exhaled.

pull on the razor sharp hands of the clock.  stop time’s train in its narrow gauge.

for when history’s momentum jerks back clanging against this perfect setting,

a hazard’s worth of future turns its gaze back toward us.

with all of his cousins of hurry-ups and urgents, plying us for

our moment.  here. lovely and never to be again.

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I Know You, A$$hole ... Putin's Russia

In the words of Gene Hackman from The Royal Tenenbaums:  "I know you, asshole!" Rather, we know you, Putin's Russia.  Royal Tenenbaum is having an early morning leisurely smoke, looking out the 3rd story window of his manse, joined by his aide-de -camp "the Pagoda," when he flicks a butt out the window and, looking down, spies Eli Cash (Owen Wilson) defenestrating himself through a lower-level window.  

Just prior to Royal's highly appropriate vituperation toward the unctuous Eli, he asks his pal Pagoda (RIP, Kuman Pallana), "what's that jackass doing?"  And so it is with Putin's Russia.  We first wonder what is this third-world jackass doing?  Then we remember all too well that we know this boorish turd in the punch bowl all too well. We're all too familiar with the current Russian kleptocracy of corrupt oligarchs and former Soviet apparatchiks who have been and will always be happy to keep Russia a third-world coulda-been-a-contender -- albeit one that retains an atavistic and powerful hegemony in the region.  

Statecraft is the expert policy maker's chess game. And, Obama is not a nuanced policy guy; sorry, but he isn't.  And, he doesn't have the best folks around him to fill-in the gaps as most recent presidents have had.  He's got Rice, Clinton and Kerry.  Whilst Hillary and Kerry are terrifically smart, in my opinion they're policy wonks domestique, more comfortable at home carving out a beachhead for their power bases.  And, as much as I admire the career track of Susan Rice, she's not of the same caliber as these cats:

• Carter had Warren Christopher and Z. Brzezinski;
• Reagan had Schultz, Powell and Poindexter;
• Bush 41 had Baker and Scowcroft;
• Bill Clinton ("Inter-Bush" as Alec Baldwin once observed) had Christopher and Albright;
• Bush 43 had Powell and Condi Rice.  

Obama 44 remains an activist and a great speechifier, but he's also the first ADHD president the US has ever had -- why hasn't anyone opined on this yet? -- who doesn't have the stamina, nor the attention span to play this foreign policy chess game out to its required long-game length.  Give Obama a few setbacks on his ObamaCare and before you know it, the family is off to a vacation, or, more likely, BHO is off on another record-setting round of golf (not for his low scoring, but for the number of rounds he's gotten in over the last 5 years).

The Bush doctrine, as ably articulated by Sec. Condi Rice around the world, was to support nascent democratic movements in their respective climes and environs.  Especially those trying to shake free the shackles of tyranny and despotism.  However, Bush's foreign policy wasn't a 70's style CIA backed sub rosa, seeking to undermine sovereign governments, but he was in the business of nation building, which ultimately cost taxpayers at home untold billions still to be calculated.  But, Bush was strong and played the long-game to its logical end.

Now, am I advocating US involvement in the Crimea or the region?  Uh, no.  I wasn't in favor of Syria involvement, nor was I really all that keen on Iraq, truth be told.  Afghanistan was a tough call, but a necessary quagmire, and I'm glad we're getting out of Dodge as we speak.  If there is a distinct, limited, and well articulated US interest, with enumerated goals, then let's cowboy up and get the fugly done and done, because in this big, bad world, the grownups have to make tough decisions and move on.

Because Obama has been sized-up by Putin and his cadre of former KGB hacks now "legit" entrepreneurs, as being skittish on US involvement -- especially in light of Syria -- Putin will do whatever he wants in Ukraine and Obama will do little to nothing to reply in-kind.  Obama needs to realize that Ukraine and Poland are similar in their beginnings.  A feel-good ground swell, accompanying street demonstrations, with leaders from within risking life and limb to speak out -- not puppet proxies placed in Soviet Satellites by Russian leaders arrogating for themselves strategic territories.  Putin wants 1989 to go away.  He wants to pretend it never happened, and that the "domino theory" can never work in reverse, with regions and people groups laying claim for the first time a right to representative governments, whatever form they may take.

Note, Dear Reader, if you haven't seen this quaint Wes Anderson mise-en-scène, you owe it to yourself to give it a shot.  The Royal Tenenbaums can be found on eBay or Amazon.com for purchase or rent. 

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Boys are silly. Thank God for that.

Sometimes you come across an old photo or a home movie and you think: "My God, I'll never get this time back." But we really do have it, don't we? In our hearts, and on our desktops, and in our sepia filtered remembrances (like all good memories are) to remind us of our loved ones. Some who passed away too young (like my little brother, Chad). Some who have been missing for far too long (like my sons' great-great-uncle Ralph, missing since the Korean War). And, of course those whom we just miss and haven't seen in forever, like friends from grad school, or neighbors from a previous home, or childhood friends who are in fact closer than a brother or sister, but somehow we haven't spoken to them in 10 or 20 years. Good gawd, I sound like a Kodak commercial! (which, believe it or not, is what I shot this little bit of footage on; an old personal 5 megapixel Kodak digital camera).

I recently found this little 30-second video clip from when my boys were eight and six (I think), and they just exude boyhood. Boyhood: when a scrap of throw-away cardboard box, and a towel tied into a cape, and a shoehorn for a sword can fill an hour of a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Boys are silly. Thank God for that.

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