Alex Garland makes thoughtful, engaging and extremely disturbing films.
He clearly has a fondness for cautionary, intelligent What If? parables, hearkening back to his unsettling 2010 big screen adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. Garland then made his directing debut with 2014’s Ex Machina, a brilliant study of the nature of humanity, and the dangers of creating a synthetic being that learns the seductive allure of free will.
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| Jessie (Cailee Spaeny, left) and Lee (Kirsten Dunst), taking advantage of a welcome respite in a safe zone, get to know each other better ... and discover that they're more alike than the generational gap might suggest. |
But — and this is Garland’s master stroke — this dystopian, near-future dis-United States is mere backdrop to his story’s actual focus: on the insanely brave photojournalists who serve as war correspondents, risking their lives while embedding themselves in “hot zones,” in order to get The Perfect Shot that’ll bring meaning to the chaos of conflict.
The strong cast is headed by Kirsten Dunst as Lee, a seasoned war photographer who has seen it all. As we meet her, sitting in an abandoned parking lot amid the echoes of gunfire, she reflects on her life in dismay.
“Every time I survived a war zone, I thought I was sending a warning home: Don’t do this,” she says to Sammy (Stephen McKinley Henderson), an older colleague.
“But here we are.”
A preceding prologue found the U.S. President (Nick Offerman) rehearsing potential words and cadence, before delivering a stirring, “We’re on the verge of victory” speech. Garland doesn’t hammer the point, but subsequent details reveal that this is a Trumpian martinet who anointed himself to a third term, disbanded the FBI, regards journalists as traitors to be executed, and has ordered U.S. military forces to fire upon American citizens.
We’ve no idea what tipping point led to this war; Garland dumps us into the middle of what has become an extended catastrophe. In another canny stroke of scripting genius, the federal government is being opposed by an alliance of “Western Forces” states led collaboratively by California and Texas. Their goal: to remove the President from office, by whatever means necessary.
There is no “red” or “blue,” merely those determined to cling to power no matter what, those who righteously believe in restoring justice and sanity ... and thousands of scattered individuals eager to exploit this state of chaos, in order to indulge their personal, conspiracy-laced vendettas.
The latter faction is, without question, the most dangerous.
Events begin in New York, where peacekeepers are losing the battle against fanatics and angry citizens. Lee and her colleague Joel (Wagner Moura) join other journalists in a hotel thus far regarded as a safe haven for the press. New York’s streets notwithstanding, it appears as though the tide is turning against the President and his minions; Lee therefore is determined to get a final interview with the man, before he’s dragged out of office.
But that means a road trip through Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Virginia, in order to reach the Western Forces front line in Charlottesville, and then to D.C. They allow Sammy, their long-time mentor, to tag along; he does so warily, believing Lee’s plan sheer suicide.
They’ve also been “adopted” by 23-year-old Jessie (Cailee Spaeny), an aspiring photojournalist who has long admired Lee. The latter is reluctant to let her tag along, having already witnessed the young woman’s disregard for personal safety. But Jessie is adamant, so Lee acquiesces.
Garland’s film thus becomes a road trip, and the means by which these disparate characters bond. At first blush, they’re somewhat one-dimensional. Lee is world-weary and worn out; Joel is an adrenaline junkie who endures via alcohol and marijuana; Sammy is the voice of caution and wisdom; Jessie is reckless, naïve and has absolutely no concept of the danger they’re about to face.
But they don’t remain one-dimensional. Moura gradually reveals that Joel also has endured almost more than he can process, but recognizes the importance of telling truth to lies. Henderson wrings quietly heartfelt sagacity from every one of Sammy’s sober observations; we absolutely adore him.
The most interesting dynamic belongs to Dunst and Spaeny, as their personalities begin to shift. The pain and resignation in Lee’s gaze becomes worrisome: too many awful memories forever recorded on film. Jessie, in turn, becomes more like Lee: alert, determined, conscious of “the moment” for a perfect shot.
The journey is either quietly ominous — freeways littered with bodies and bombed-out vehicles, making passage almost impossible — or suddenly terrifying, as when they’re suddenly pinned down by a hidden sniper. It reaches a point where even passage down a bucolic forested roadway seems sinister; Garland definitely knows how to wind us up.
Caty Maxey’s production design, and the set design and art direction by Lizbeth Ayala, Mark Dillon and Jason Vignor, are flawless: shocking because these events take place not in some faraway or imaginary country, but in cities, towns and pastoral landscapes that we recognize.
Minor skirmishes — such as a noisy street firefight between a Western Forces squad and a handful of well-concealed opponents — are almost worse than larger sorties. Wary encounters with random, gun-toting vigilantes make our skin crawl.
What’s most fascinating is that the Western Forces soldiers willingly tolerate, chaperone, protect and respect these journalists. Lee and her colleagues clearly are a pain in the ass at times, but they’re nonetheless afforded courtesy. These soldiers understand the importance of Getting The Word Out.
Eventually, as always is the case in the midst of war, things turn surreal. When Lee and her colleagues pass through a bucolic community that seems wholly unaffected and unfazed by the war, Joel quite reasonably wonders if they’ve shuttled into the Twilight Zone. This interlude hearkens back to Lee and Jessie acknowledging that they have parents who are “working their farms and pretending this isn’t happening” in, respectively, Colorado and Missouri.
Later, a chance meeting with a camo-garbed, home-grown terrorist (Jesse Plemons, totally terrifying) sends our quartet straight to hell.
Plemons gets the film’s most alarming line, which he delivers with cold malevolence: “What kind of American are you?”
This film’s relentless intensity notwithstanding, Garland occasionally overplays his hand. An early conversation between Lee and Jessie telegraphs how this story will end, which mutes some of the suspense along the way. And while the score by Geoff Barrow and Ben Salisbury is deliberately jarring, as are the shrieking pop anthems and rap tunes that accompany action sequences, it’s too much aural overload. We don’t need to be deafened, to get the point.
A film ripped from today’s divisive events was inevitable, but I’m surprised that the first entry comes from a British filmmaker. Garland’s long-distance analytical gaze definitely works in his film’s favor (although it also makes me wonder if our cousins across the pond are getting nervous).
Like Lee and Jessie’s photographs, the best films mark a moment in time. Civil War won’t be forgotten quickly.
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