Civil War (2024)

America "in the Twilight Zone"

or

"You Never Know What's Coming Around the Next Corner."

There was part of me that wanted to write a long preamble prior to watching Alex Garland's Civil War and lead with that. I'm glad I resisted that idea. Because if there's one thing I've learned about Alex Garland is that he never makes the movie you expect he's going to make. That was true of Ex Machina and Annihlation and Men. None of those—two of them sci-fi and one out-and-out horror film—defied expectations and were something completely different from either your expectations or experiences. You may come out confused, or disoriented, but you would hardly be bored.

You might even walk out pissed off.

But, not bored.

But, Civil War is not science fiction, it's speculative fiction (and oblique speculative fiction, at that)...there's no fancy technology—this war is conducted with Humvee's, automatic weapons, and helicopters (there's not even a drone in sight!). It's speculative...but not the way you might think it is...like, with some recognizable political perspective that reflects the fractured state we appear to be in now. There's plenty of things for people to cherry-pick (we'll look at those), but just as many things to confound that perspective (we'll look at those, too).

The President (Nick Offerman) is preparing a speech to the Nation about America's latest victories in the war with the "Western Front"—a group of secessionist states at war with the government. "It is," in his words, "the greatest victory in the history of military campaigns."

That's hardly "The War to End All Wars" language. But, it is enough to raise literal questions among a quartet of journalists embarking to set off to Washington D.C. to try to interview the President, despite POTUS labeling the press as "enemy combatants." The group is Sammy (Stephen McKinley Henderson), a veteran reporter who writes "for what's left of The New York Times" and who labels the President's latest announcement as "nothing, he could have chosen words at random; Joel (Wagner Moura), a war correspondent from Reuters, who seems to have a "jones" for being in the thick of the action; Lee Smith (Kirsten Dunst), a award-winning photojournalist, also from Reuters; and Jessie (Cailee Spaeny), a young up-and-coming photojournalist wannabe, whom Lee saved from getting concussed by a bombing of an Environmental Protection truck at a New York City protest. Sammy walks with a cane and Lee thinks he's too old and too fat to be useful where they're going, and she's pissed at Joel for letting Jessie talk him into letting her go on their journey. She thinks all the "baby-sitting" will get in the way of getting the story.

Their passengers should be the least of her worries. The 857 mile trip to D.C. will be littered with evidence of a country in crisis. Major highways are clogged with abandoned cars, shopping malls appear to be ground-zeros for attacks with crashed choppers in the paring lot and the ubiquitous short-stay high-rise hotels are chunked by missile damage. Tracers dot the skies at night amid the muffled reports of automatic weapons fire. Snipers occupy roof-tops, and an abandoned stadium is a handy, if crowded refugee camp for Americans bombed out of their living quarters. Spielberg tried to depict the concept of "American refugees" in his version of War of the Worlds, but Garland's version has all the verisimilitude of the nightly news, only a bit tidier.

So, what happened to us? Nothing is spelled out—we aren't given a long opening crawl to read at the beginning—we're just plopped down in the middle of the chaos (not unlike Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool) to learn what we can. Some of it sounds plausible: possible questions the group might ask when they reach their destination are tossed around like "Mr. President, do you have any regrets during your third term?" (third term?) "How about your dismantling of the FBI?" "Do you regret ordering air-strikes on American citizens?" When they stop to get gas, the surly militia guys guarding the pumps won't fill the tank for $300...but they will for $300, "Canadian."

But, there are disconnects that take you out of direct parallels: Lee is most famous for "the legendary picture of 'the Antifa massacre'." The "Western Forces" moving into Washington D.C. are a combined unit of the states of California and Texas (with reinforcements from the "Florida Alliance"). Both of those concepts jolt you out of thinking Civil War has anything to do with reality, but its concept of a trigger-happy America with grudges around every corner skews a bit closer to the home we know. As is the section where they drive through a seemingly normal rural town—reminded that there's a civil war going on, a shop-clerk says "we try to stay out of it" while the roof-tops are scouted by snipers.

The civil war isn't really the focus of the movie, either, but the back-drop in which reporters have to thread their way through "unprecedented times" to "get the story." And record truth in the same way they record conflicts in foreign countries. The good and the bad, but mostly bad. And they do it unblinking because someone has to look. And tell the tale. So others can decide. Although Lee admits that when she was covering foreign hot-spots, she was hoping to send home the message "Don't Do This."

 

For all the good it did. Most people ignore it or "stay out of it." Lucky them.

"Where's Joel?"

"Processing..."

For however preposterous the particulars, the general idea is that it can happen here...and might. And then the Constitution starts shredding, as people start to force their own interpretation on others. There is one cracker-jack of a scene—at some point it'll show up as a Sunday "Don't Make a Scene"—that features an un-billed Jesse Plemons as a militiaman in charge of a dubious operation that the quartet stumble upon that quickly escalates to a hostage situation, the "Are you American? What kind of American are you?" scene that is only hinted at in the trailers. He's crossed over where he doesn't need to know particulars ("Reuters? What's that?") nor does he care to learn. He makes decisions cavalierly and unhesitatingly and doesn't care if he makes a mistake—he'll just bury it. Plemons is so good at playing casually dangerous that the scene crackles with the authenticity of a body-cam and with escalating horror. Yeah, it could happen. It could definitely happen.

If there's a fault to be had, it's of the "Chekhov's Gun" variety—things talked about in the opening become significant in the second and third act as the stakes build. But, one can concede the point that this is veterans talking about the dangers and imparting wisdom to uninitiated. They impart that wisdom in the hope that it doesn't happen. But, it's happened before, so they talk about it, knowing full well that what's happened before...

The movie ends when the particular goals are met and things achieved. But like most Garland movies, it leaves you asking "What Happens Next", although the most typical scenario is discussed—as if by order of Chekhov. But, that is not Civil War's concern. It rack-focuses your mind back to the journalists and what has just transpired because at some point the movie has to end, and one is left contemplating the "Who" and the "What" and the "When" and the "How."

But, never the "Why."

Men

I was going to publish this earlier in the week, but even as I parsed out the film while writing this, I decided that it would best be left for Saturday, which is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day.

 

They're All Alike

or

Literally, I Don't Know What's Going On
 

Harper Marlowe (Jessie Buckley) wants to "get away from it all." She's just suffered a traumatic incident in her life: an argument with her husband James (Paapa Essiedu) over a divorce has resulted in his death—but whether it was a deliberate suicide or an accident is a matter of conjecture. Harper, however, feels responsible, even if the argument was a case of deflection, mutual accusations and a fight ended in her being hit. She had no control over James' actions and was locked in her apartment when she suddenly sees husband him fall past her window to be smashed on the pavement below. 

 

Some time has now passed and we watch Jessie drive away from London in her Ford Fiesta as the roads get narrower and the surroundings get more rustic. She is in the country, moving away from us to the background of Lesley Duncan's "Love Song" promising calmer surroundings and bucolic settings in which to recover, heal, and contemplate. She's alone now, and it appears that there will be plenty of time for her to get herself together.

Her destination is a country house four hours out of town, and its a lovely old structure, 500 years old—"Shakespeare. Or pre-" explains the owner, Geoffrey (Rory Kinnear)—but with all the modern conveniences like inside plumbing, gas range, motion-sensor lights outside, and a lovely orchard dominated by a large apple tree, which (of course) compels her to pluck a fruit and take a large bite—Oh, that never works out good in stories. Geoffrey even makes a joke out of it "No-no-no-no-no-no-no. Mustn't do that. Forbidden fruit" then, he smiles a wide toothy grin and says it's just a joke, eat all she wants "make a chutney if you want." He gives her a tour of the place and it's a combination of ancient and modern, the walls painted an earthy red. That'll come in handy later. Blood-splatter and all.

She's all by herself—although Geoffrey reassures her he lives right down the lane—alone with her thoughts. She's still going over the argument in her mind, and the image of James falling past her window. She's haunted by it, the image of him on the ground, ankle shattered and twisted at an odd angle, his arm impaled at the wrist by a wrought-iron fence. She can't shake it, so she takes Geoffrey up on a suggestion to go on a nature walk. The pathways are rough and she gets a little lost until she comes across an overpass that produces a long tunnel with some interesting echoing aspects. But, at the other end she sees a figure who watches her and then runs towards her. She turns and runs back the way she came, but she gets lost and when another blocked overpass stops her cold, she roughs it up an embankment and continues her way back to the B and B.

She passes by a ramshackle house in terrible disrepair and decides to take a picture. But, when she views the snap...standing in front of it is a naked man (Rory Kinnear). She looks up from the camera and there he is, scratched up, scarred and watching her. She runs back to the B and B and calls a friend (Gayle Rankin), but while she's talking to her she doesn't notice that the man is now in the orchard and staring in the windows at her. When she finally notices, she calls the police and the man is arrested by a couple officers (Rory Kinnear and Sarah Twomey) and he's taken away—a vagrant, apparently, and considered "harmless."

But, he's not, is he? After her estranged husband's death, and then this creep, Harper no longer feels safe, not even in the house. But, the guy's in jail, right? So she goes on another walk around and comes across an ancient church. No one there. So, she sits and contemplates and the grief comes pouring out of her. The church vicar (Rory Kinnear) observes from afar, but does not approach. Outside, she encounters a tween (Rory Kinnear) wearing a Marilyn Monroe mask and starts hectoring her. The vicar interrupts, words are exchanged, and the kid stomps away, leaving Harper and the vicar to discuss her break-down in the church. But, the conversation leans into the accusatory even as the vicar leans in to touch her leg.

Ew.

Alex Garland's third film, Men, is a creepy, methodical horror film that finds dread in even the most innocent-seeming circumstances. One starts looking around corners of the screen for the out-of-place and off-putting, every note, every beat, every sound designed to put you on your guard. All that detail and all that deliberateness stands in the service of putting us in Harper's head-space of grief and isolation, where inner thoughts and outer appearances are mutual threats to the being. Then, when these men (Rory Kinnear) start showing up, all of them are passive-aggressive or just plain aggressive, not passing up an opportunity to imply, or judge, or man-splain, or dismiss...or accuse...or invade. It's clear that Garland is saying something about the lot of women, and the guarded world-view of threat that is endured on a day-to-day basis.

All well and good. Up to a point. As good a job as Kinnear does playing multiple roles in distinctly creepy ways, the fact that all the men are him creates a sense of false narrative to the point where we start questioning not them...but her and her state of mind. These guys can't be all the same person—there's a bar scene where everybody is played by Rory Kinnear (Rory Kinnear)—so, is there something wrong with her, with her perceptions? If the point was to show her threatened in a toxic man-verse, adding the doppelganger casting undermines it...and her.

The problem is compounded in the film's closing moments when the film escalates into gory/grotesque assault mode with stuff that surpasses the creepiness factor of John Carpenter's version of The Thing. What are we to make of these manifestations popping out of each other's orifices? Is it real? (Probably not). Is it some sort of alien manifestation...ala The Thing? (No evidence of this has been implied). Is it a manifestation of her guilt and just her imagination (Which throws her character under the bus and doesn't explain all the blood that shows up in the house).

This is the danger with "metaphorical horror." In trying to make a point, you lose the thread of the story. Is it real or is it imagination? Is she to be believed or is she a false narrator? I tend to be sympathetic with the view that a world of men—all with their instincts and neuroses and phobias and fetishes—can be a challenging, even a frightening challenge for women (I've heard and sympathized and emotionally grumbled over too many stories of men in cars keeping silent pace with a lone female walking a street and witnessed the predatory nature of men in all sorts of situations not to be). Perhaps it's a matter of a studio wanting a "wowser" of a third act to sell a movie—I've heard a lot of that, too—but A24 is an art-house studio with a track record of leaving projects alone. No, I think it's a matter of an unreliable writer/director trying to make a point visually that has already been made...and betraying the lead character that sympathy has been built around. 

I mean, even if all the gory manifestations were true, would anyone believe her? Or will they blame her, obsessing, say, on what she was wearing? Or whether the timeline of her story held up. Or, whether, by their reckoning, such a thing could be possible, and so, her story must be false. What about her body language, for God's sake? I've seen too many trials and confirmation hearings to believe otherwise.

And that's a true, more pervasive horror. Nothing metaphorical about it.