War of the Worlds

Once upon a time, Steven Spielberg was an exciting young film-maker. Duel still stands up well, and The Sugarland Express isn’t without its visual charms (excluding Goldie Hawn). Even Jaws and Close Encounters have their moments, excluding the mechanics of the fish, and the silly closing light show the aliens produce.

Somewhere along the way, Spielberg learned the formula, and now that's all he can do. The result is films with all the charm and variation of a mechanical bird warbling out a tune in a gilded cage. I think it happened just after 1941, a box office turkey which in fact is more engaging than a lot of his recent shows, where Spielberg faced his commercial mortality, and decided to stop experimenting. This was followed by an even more unendurable period when he decided he wanted to add Oscars to his cash flow, and started making tosh like The Colour Purple (and the more interesting, if still flawed, Empire of the Sun).

Worse still, somewhere along the way he decided he needed the superpower charms of Tom Cruise, an actor with a range that makes going from A to B an expansive journey. In War of the Worlds, the height challenged Cruise plays a container crane operator in a broken family, and as usual he likes to demonstrate he runs hard and fast, in a very funny way unrelated to any half decent athlete. (The only thing you can say about Tom is he knows his away around blue screen, and can pretend he's reacting to something that isn't there. Like a top gun reacting to cous cous).

Anyway, cue plenty of bickering and resentment as Tom is faced with a surly older son, and a smart, sassy younger daughter, and an ex-wife, who pauses long enough to make you think you're seeing Miranda Otto before she biliously disappears off with her new squeeze.

After we've done the obligatory dysfunctional American family a la The Incredibles (what is it with American families?), with the son (Justin Chatwin) driving off in dad's car without a licence and the daughter (Dakota Fanning) ordering strange food, the Martians arrive to stiffen up the action. Of course all this is like short order cooking for Spielberg - but instead of the cartoons deployed in Close Encounters, he brings things up to date with a reference to Spongebob Squarepants. Such a knowing, elegant, ever so intelligent cultural guru.

As soon as the Martians arrive, they do so in spectacular fashion, gouging their way out of the earth, and creating mayhem, which Cruise manages to avoid with supernatural Joe Everyman, super star skill (he even manages to steal the one working car in the neighbourhood, to go on the usual journey of salvation, while all around him are smited mightily). No one seems to think of nuking the Martians (or even trying to nuke them) and instead the inexplicable entities mainly seem to be there to carve out a healing space for Mr. Cruise's unhappy family.

Tim Robbins hangs out in a basement for a brief while to provide evidence that Cruise is very normal, but that Spielberg can handle the quirky. Unfortunately, the effort would fail in front of any kind of grand jury interested in convincing drama.

It's the kind of show where people say that they know the story is hokey, but they go along for the special effects. And it's true that the special effects show a spectacular amount of money has been spent on them. But they don't connect to the characters, they don't evoke fear, they just look nice for geeks and nerds who like that sort of thing.

Even the design’s pretty dumb. The Martians float around in strangely inefficient structures and send out long tentacles in search of humans. Yeah, I know it's a period thing, except the way it's done here, it looks neither fish nor fowl, neither cute Disney period a la Jules Verne nor convincing actual invasion force capable of real action (like those dumb elephants in Star Wars).

Usually, if you read the right kind of literature, this kind of design might even result in a bout of tentacle sex as the evil, promiscuous Martians roam with rampant lust across the earth, seeking comely women to fertilise and have their way with, at the same time helping dress up the covers of pulp sci fi magazines with comatose half covered female shapes. Here the best the Martians can do is send the tentacles into darkened spaces as if they’ve overdosed on too many viewings of The Abyss, peering around in search of Dakota and Mr. Cruise. Sheesh. They only want the humans for food, or blood or whatever.

Yep, it’s puritan mainstream America, with an emphasis on the jingoistic and militaristic. The son, you see, when he sees the US military take on the Martians, decides that a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do and wanders off to join the action (why he might even decide to go to Iraq). It looks like the Martians might take him down, just like they might have to take down the daughter, who is required to scream at regular intervals as if she's auditioning for the Fay Wray role in King Kong. No offense intended, but Dakota screams so hard, and is sassy in such a krispy kreme way that it's hard not to hope the Martians might do her an injury.

In the end, it's impossible to care for any of these people. Take that back. Do we care about Mr. Cruise? Sure do. Enough to cheer on the Martians, and pray they nail that Scientologist to the wall. Nail him, nail him hard. Of course, if you follow this line, you're doomed to disappointment, but what's new in the world of Americans v. Martians. All we can do is cheer on Marvin. Don't let those Daffy Ducks get you down.

Poor old H. G. Wells would be rolling in his grave to see what Spielberg has done to Americanise, distort, and debase his original vision. There's a difference between updating and making relevant, and just turning a show into a sub-Jurassic Park exercise in cornball CGI camp. Even Orson Welles would be doing the odd revolve knowing that his radio show captured more of the essence of Wells (with real fear and panic abroad in America) than this tawdry exercise in post September 11th hysterics. After A.I. and Minority Report, this show confirms that Spielberg must surely be the most feared and loathed sci fi director in Hollywood, a rough equivalent of Bill Gates in the computer world.

Back in the old days of the French new wave, the equivalent of Spielberg - the classic French cinema - was bitterly attacked, and for a time driven out of the cinemas. Now that teenage boys are leaving the theatres, and the box office is tumbling, it's time for a new revolution, one that will make Hollywood blockbusters shrivel the way the musicals made the studios turn up their toes in the late sixties. By happy chance, this saw Hollywood in the seventies turn into  an exciting hunting ground for new and ambitious film-makers, including Spielberg. Bring on the germs, bring on the viruses, aux armes citoyennes, we have nothing to lose but boredom and meaningless CGIs.

If you want a real Martian movie, go check out Mars Attacks! again. It's funny, visually interesting, completely over the top, and curiously more convincing than what you can find in any single frame of War of the Worlds. Some might even argue you'd be better off watching Ray Milland's indie pic End of the World (aka Panic in Year Zero) which is about nuclear attack rather than Martians, but has a charming period quality to it.

Did I mention the portentous, sententious voice over that Spielberg uses to introduce his show, and even encapuslate the turning point which results in the demise of the Martians? Ahh Morgan, how could you, you who can give gravitas even to a reading of the telephone book, but can't save Spielberg from his folly.

Enough already, you know the drill, no spoilers here. The Martians lose and Tom Cruise wins. And you call that entertainment?

By the bye, now it's theatrical run is well and truly over, War of the Worlds will be turning up for dvd rental in Australia November 17th. Walk don't run, and if truly wise, wait until the show hits the dollar bin. Coolsville, and worthy of a space on this site? Or simply pukeville? Your call, but the show's got all the suspense of a decomposing week old fish rotting from the head down. As Yoda would say, unhappy it is, that something should so much cost, and so little mean.

 

Get free email now!