Spielberg: War of the Worlds part 2
At the end of Act I, Ray Ferrier sees his home — indeed, his town — destroyed by gigantic machines from another planet. In Act II, the longest of War‘s acts, he will take his kids on a road trip to find a safe haven. He will seek refuge in his ex-wife’s home (in the basement), then, when that home is also destroyed, he will flee toward her parents’ house in Boston. Before he reaches Boston, he will lose his son and be forced to take shelter in a third home, this one not his own (in another basement).
A number of commenters have noted the logic problems of War of the Worlds — primarily, the ending, which, for some, fails to satisfy (or is too maudlin), and the premise (or the "twist"), which is that the aliens buried their ships here on Earth thousands of years ago and are just now showing up, for no logical reason at all. The latter is what we screenwriters call a "gimme," a premise that, however ridiculous, we ask the audience to swallow. And yes, if you spend the running time of War of the Worlds trying to figure out the logic of the aliens’ plan, you’ll most likely end up with a headache. For the purposes of this analysis, I’m going to pose a gimme of my own: let’s say that Steven Spielberg is not some superficial hack with a knack for special effects, but is, rather, the most successful filmmaker in the history of the medium, and an impassioned artist in full command of his tools. Given this, the premise of the alien invasion and the ending of it are not some weird aberration — rather, they are central to what Spielberg is trying to say here, and are, I will argue, the things that elevate War of the Worlds from mere spectacle to serious art.
More on this as we go on. (In the meantime, check out this thought-provoking post from samedietc.)
But first, Act II of War of the Worlds begins with the most dreaded of screen conventions, the scene where one character tells another character stuff the audience already knows. Spielberg, understanding that this convention is cinematic dead weight, goes ahead and creates for it one of the single most flabbergasting shots in the history of movies. Ray tells son Robbie what he knows as he drives the Only Working Minivan In New Jersey down the highway, swerving through the road full of stalled cars and the camera dives, swoops and swirls up, down, around and through the van — Spielberg’s most imaginative expository scene since Temple of Doom.
So Ray, now homeless, begins his trial by fire. Having dodged responsibility all his life, Ray now has responsibility thrust upon him. (As stormwyvern pointed out, it is surely not a coincidence that eternal-adolescent Ray must trade in his teen-trophy muscle car for a drab blue minivan.) Ray is panicked partly by the incipient end of the world, but he is, seemingly, equally panicked about the onset of mandatory fatherhood. As such, his first impulse is to deliver the children to their mother — to rid himself of his responsibility.
He get’s to the mother’s house, and is greatly chagrined to learn that she is not home. Steeling himself, he puts on a ridiculous performance of "being a father," making poorly-improvised sandwiches for the kids while tap-dancing through lame jokes. The kids soundly reject his performance, leading Ray to give up and call it a day.
He takes the kids down to the basement for the night. Why? Well, in practical terms, his "disaster training" has taught him to head to the basement when world-threatening events occur (just as he instinctively "ducks and covers" under the kitchen table with Rachel during the initial electrical storm). In Act III, Ray will seek shelter in another basement, this one occupied by a man who’s spent a little too much time down there. A basement may be "safe," but it also leads to what Robert Fripp calls "basement thinking," the thinking of someone who literally has no perspective, can only see the garden from the point of view of someone below it.
During the night, a plane crashes on top of the house — another 9/11 signifier — destroying it and the rest of the neighborhood. The aliens of War of the Worlds, apparently, do not discriminate by class. His first home was destroyed, now this one is destroyed.
Ray ventures out into the wreckage and encounters a survivalist news crew, who helpfully provide Ray with another chunk of exposition — this one less imaginatively presented than the first. Here is where we learn that the aliens’ machines were buried here thousands — perhaps millions — of years ago. Why is this important? Why does Spielberg insist on this gimme? Contrary to samedietc, I don’t think Spielberg is suggesting that the aliens have more of a right to this planet because "they were here before us," because the narrative of War of the Worlds has no interest in the aliens’ motivations — they are, horrifyingly and irrevocably, "other." Spielberg is solely interested in Ray’s motivation — the alien invasion is something that happens to Ray. The notion that the alien invasion predates Ray’s awareness of it, to me, points to the evil of the aliens’ imperialism being something ingrained in America’s origins, or even in humanity’s origins. The enemy, as Pogo would say, is us. (The narrative makes it clear that the invasion is happening all over, but Spielberg keeps things firmly on the east coast of the US, and ends his narrative in Boston, with many US-centric cultural signifiers, more on which as we go along.)
Ray moves his family out of the wrecked house and heads back out onto the road. (If one of my intrepid readers could track Ray’s journey from Bayonne to Boston on Mapquest, I would be in his or her debt — I can’t make head or tail of it. He’s definitely heading south as the Newark Bay Bridge is destroyed, even though Boston is in the opposite direction. After that, I get lost.) Robbie, seeing the crashed plane, wants to "get back at them" for doing this. Ray sees this for what it is — an immature reaction, devoid of responsibility. Robbie wants to do something, no matter how ill-thought-out or ill-informed, rather than simply running away. This is fine — for Robbie, but Ray has more to worry about than what Robbie wants, he needs to worry about Rachel as well. (Robbie doesn’t call Ray "dad," even though Rachel is perfectly okay with that — as well he should, since Ray is as much of an adolescent as he is. Ray is his social equal.) (Although it’s worth noting that when Robbie threatens to go off and join the army, Rachel screams "Who’s gonna take care of me if you go?!" Obviously, Ray is not up to the task in her mind.)
Robbie questions every decision Ray makes, shining a light on the nature of Ray’s "plan." Ray’s uppermost concern is to avoid conflict, from both aliens and human, while moving his children from home to home. Beyond that, he has no plan. Robbie wants to "engage the enemy," and Ray simply wants to stay out of the enemy’s way. In the tradition of American storytelling, this is a classic response — the protagonist who wishes only to maintain the status quo, until the fight is brought to his doorstep, at which point he is prepared to fight. Spielberg tortures this archetype by bringing the fight to Ray’s literal doorstep three times before Ray is finally prompted to defend himself.
(As Ray drives through the countryside, the only thing on the radio is a "test of the Emergency Alert System — if this had been an actual emergency," etc. The federal government, like Ray, has no plan.)
Ray, exhausted, turns the literal steering wheel over to Robbie. Robbie, who wishes to engage the enemy, gets his wish soon enough — he drives the car straight into a mob scene. The mob — represented by a "thousand points of light" of people carrying flashlights — descend on the minivan, provoking a fight to the death. The fight over the minivan, another piece of expertly choreographed mayhem, featuring a gut-churning shot of a man clawing his way through the broken windshield, also juggles a number of American cultural signifiers — the primacy of the automobile, the authority of the gun and the volatility of the people who possess either. Ray leaves the confrontation with only his children intact — again, seeking to avoid conflict in order to be a father. War of the Worlds has a lot to say about what it means to be an American, but its prime concern is what it means to be a father, and I can’t help but think that Spielberg feels that a man must be a "good father" before he can be a "good American." Rather, it seems that he thinks that being the former is a prerequisite for being the latter — one must be a good father before one can be a good American.
Ray arrives at a ferry, which will — theoretically, anyway — take his broken family across the river to safety. He meets up with another broken family, another single parent — his doppelganger — and forms a fleeting bond with her. Together, they try to get on the ferry, but only Ray and his family make it.
The aliens arrive, just in time to inflict the most damage on the situation, leading to the climax of Act II and the second most astonishing action sequence of the movie as issues of authority, security, compassion and practicality — that is, all the issues of parenthood — come to a head, with distastrous results. The issue comes down to: Ray, the father, wants to get more people to safety, but Authority (that is, the nation’s father) wants to act quickly to preserve the lives already on board. Robbie, who wants to act, valiantly tries to get more people on board, while the ferry captain throws the engines into gear, spraying water over the people clamoring to be let aboard.
I’ve often wondered why Spielberg dwells on the character of the ferry captain himself, why he puts emphasis on the man driving the machine instead of the machine itself. One reason could be to show a correlation, or a difference, between the ferry and the cold machines of the aliens — we don’t yet know exactly what’s driving the aliens’ machines, but the ferry is being driven by an ordinary human, and all that implies. But another reason could reside in the nature of Ray’s identity. "Ferrier," I’ve learned, is a scottish name meaning "guy who runs the ferry," which would make "Ray Ferrier" the king of the ferry captains, which would give him a legitimate beef against the actions of the ferry captain — as king, Ray should outrank him. The ferry captain, in a way, is a usurper of Ray’s authority. (Is that why the music playing at the ferry is "If I Ruled the World?") (Ray’s name is also ironic, considering that his job in the narrative is, literally, to ferry the children from broken home to broken home — and once he completes his task, the narrative ends.)
In any case, Ray’s argument with the ferry captain comes to nothing, as everyone — both those on the ferry and those on the shore — are destroyed, and Ray must flee again.
Now Ray and his broken family are simply lost, one more group of tattered humans on a refugee trail. It isn’t long before they come to an army unit (those blessed airplanes Spielberg sees as a symbol of freedom and salvation) attacking the aliens (unseen, on the other side of a hill). Robbie now insists upon acting to confront the enemy, forcing a crisis upon Ray — to accept Robbie’s desire and perhaps lose him, or to keep his family together and almost certainly lose everything. This is, of course, fatherhood distilled to its essence: a father must protect, but also must let go. Every father must face this dilemma, but usually not in the face of alien attack.
In any case, Ray chooses both — he lets Robbie go, in order to protect Rachel, thus propelling the narrative into its third, and most intimate, act. In Act III, the issues of War of the Worlds will get played out in a weird kind of miniature landscape of silences and coded words, and Ray will be forced to re-examine the nature of his antagonist.
The notion that the alien invasion predates Ray’s awareness of it, to me, points to the evil of the aliens’ imperialism being something ingrained in America’s origins, or even in humanity’s origins. The enemy, as Pogo would say, is us.
I don’t think I follow you across that leap, unless it’s based on details I have forgotten. (Which is entirely possible, since I remember almost nothing of the movie.) Based on your analysis so far, I think it mostly just serves to highlight the contrast between Ray, who does not plan, and the aliens, who plan and then some.
Hopefully I’m not repeating what someone else has already said but the two things that have always bugged me about WotW is Ray managing to find the only working car in Boston (something to do with solenoids or other) and the ending when the family is successfully reunited.
As described in the script the solenoid solution always struck me as under explained and overly contrived. Ray is mechanically inclined so it’s believeable that he would figure it out but it seems implausible that there’s only one car with a solenoid in Boston. Also, if the EMP wipes out all electrical systems then how do the military’s vehicles continue to function? Surely they’re not all running on obsolete solenoid technology?
Since Koepp and Spielberg never shift the focus away from Ray it’s conceivable that other people elsewhere came to the same conclusion as Ray; we just never get to see them do it. Which leads me to my other nitpick: like many others I found the ending to be a bit too neat and reassuring. I’m not referring to how the aliens are defeated – Welles’ ending is too classic to alter – but rather Robbie’s miraculous survival. I think it would have been fascinating to split the focus between Robbie’s journey and Ray’s, sort of like Finding Nemo in reverse; with the father trying to get home and the son trying to find the father; neither ever knowing what the other is going through. I can’t help but feel that seeing the hell Robbie had to endure to make it home would have somehow validated his return. While much of WotW’s strength comes from Koepp and Spielberg totally committing to a Ray-centric narrative it means that the protagonist has no active part to play in his son’s survival and it makes Robbie’s return feel forced and unearned. Maybe in a post 9/11 world Spielberg decided he had to offer up some glimmer of hope, no matter how hokey but, in a film that mercilessly refuses to pull any punches up until then, the ending feels like a bit of a cop out. I look forward to the rest of your analysis and I’m curious to see what you make of the ending.
Also, if the EMP wipes out all electrical systems then how do the military’s vehicles continue to function? Surely they’re not all running on obsolete solenoid technology?
Some military electronics and electrical systems are, by design, shielded against EMPs; after all, Cold War military planning included operations during or after the use of nuclear weapons (which produce EMPs). So it’s not totally inconsistent to have at least some military equipment still functional.
I got the feeling that the EMP only affected things in the immediate area of the lightning storms — military vehicles not in the area at the time wouldn’t necessarily be affected.
Whoops, I didn’t mean to post anonymously. The above posting was mine.
It may be stretching the point a little, since it’s also a perfectly reasonable place to go in the face of a crisis, but maybe it’s worth noting that the basement is the traditional domain of the adultolescent.
And actually, it’s fitting that Ray’s last name is “Ferrier,” not ironic. It would be ironic if his name was “Ray Guy Who Stays In One Place and Doesn’t Take Anyone With Him” or something along those lines. If you keep this up, I will be forced to call the dictionary police.
You win this round, stormwyvern — but in my defense, Ray did spend the bulk of his life staying in one place and not taking anyone with him before the aliens showed up. So, ironically, the aliens create an opportunity for Ray to find his true calling.
I was going to call it “apt,” but you beat me to it.
Re: The whole mapping the journey thing, this is starting to become one of my big beefs with movies that involve road trips. I’m guessing that the reason that they’re heading south across a bridge has more to do with ‘it’s a more dramatic/pretty shot’ than any sort of real thought.
For example, “Little Miss Sunshine” had a scene of the family driving east through Phoenix in order to get from Albuquerque to LA. Great cinematography, underneath a freeway stack and all, but didn’t make a lick of sense.
Worst of all, in Temple of Doom, Indiana Jones flies from Shanghai to India — by way of the Great Wall.
The mob … descend on the minivan, provoking a fight to the death. The fight over the minivan, another piece of expertly choreographed mayhem, featuring a gut-churning shot of a man clawing his way through the broken windshield, also juggles a number of American cultural signifiers — the primacy of the automobile, the authority of the gun and the volatility of the people who possess either.
My favorite scene. But I was hoping you’d include the closing note, when Ray and the kids regroup in the diner. Our viewpoint gives us a devastated Ray in the foreground, contemplating his utter failure as a father, having lost both his automobile and his gun, essentially castrated and left to dwell on his failures. And, through the diner window, the background shows us the man who has Ray’s gun, brutally shooting the man who has taken Ray’s car. The sound of the gunshot even elicits a flinch from the traumatized Ray. There’s so much crammed into that one little moment that I just get sucker-punched right in the gut every time I see it. In the face of massive disaster, it’s Ray hitting bottom right as society itself is completely dissolving. That’s the movie for me, right there.
Perhaps my favorite image from the movie is in this act (the flaming train).
IIRC, Robbie doesn’t say he wants to fight, he says has “to see” what’s happening over the hill. Basically, he splits up the family and risks his life for the ultimate act of rubbernecking.
I was almost disappointed that he is shown to have survived at the end. Anyone that dedicated to Darwining themselves should be allowed to succeed.
It is perhaps telling that when I see the picture above, I hear the monster from Cloverfield. No idea what it is telling of.