A Tale of Two Wars (and Two Worlds)
Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds exists in a sort of liminal space amidst the rest of his canon. Positively reviewed by critics and a box office success when released, it has since largely been forgotten by audiences. It has a “rotten” audience score on Rotten Tomatoes (though take that, along with everything else on Rotten Tomatoes, with a grain of salt), and recent reviews on sites like IMDB and Letterboxd are, at best, mixed.
That’s not to say Spielberg’s vision is totally shunned. Plenty have recognized the film’s merits — how it expertly navigates the fear and paranoia that defined America after 9/11 and the subsequent invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, its stark visual aesthetic, its splashy CGI (that, remarkably, still largely holds up today), and its focus on personal trauma over military bravado. But these positive responses are far from the median perception.
In other words, it’s a film that feels like it was released in 2005. To some, the incisive imagery and urgent storytelling is a lens into a changed America, reeling, lost in a traumatic miasma. For others, it’s an antiquated vision with lopsided pacing and an anticlimactic ending that undermines the previous two hours’ tension.
Personally, I fall more into the former camp, though I won’t deny that detractors have a point. I can wax philosophical about the paranoid, traumatized American all I want, but that won’t make every minute spent in Tim Robbins’ basement entertaining.
I’ve seen Spielberg’s film a few times before, and it’s grown on me with every rewatch. But I realized recently that I had never seen the original adaptation of H.G. Wells’s novel, directed by Byron Haskin and released back in 1953. After watching it, I was struck by the difference between these two films — not necessarily the comparison of modern spectacle and antiquated B-movie charm, but rather how different the visions are and how these two moments in American history — post-WWII and post-9/11 — suffused their respective films tonal and thematic elements.
Apple Pie & Dwight Eisenhower
It’s August 1953. A little under a year before, Dwight D. Eisenhower handily won the presidency, in no small part thanks to his popularity as a successful World War II general. Eight years prior, both Germany and Japan surrendered. America emerged from the war with the future ahead, and its pop culture reflected that “apple pie and baseball” mentality.
Of course, much of this has been distorted by nostalgia goggles so thick the lenses could be glass Coke bottles. America in the 1950s was still contending with McCarthyism, the beginnings of the Cold War, and the end of the Korean War, which was short but hard fought. But the truth remains that America, post-World War II, was an optimistic nation, jubilant in victory and positioned as the world’s premier superpower.
America was also beginning its love-hate relationship with science. Enamored with the development of a polio vaccine but well aware of the horrifying atomic power unleashed by J. Robert Oppenheimer and his team, post-war cinematic horror largely consisted of atomically mutated giant bugs and (here, I promise, we arrive at the point) extraterrestrial threats.
The War of the Worlds was far from the only “aliens attack Earth” movie released in the ’50s. The Thing From Another World (1951), Invaders from Mars (1953), It Came from Outer Space (1953), and Earth vs. the Flying Saucers (1956) are just a few other films released during this decade.
The giant bug films of the ’50s can be seen as America’s reckoning with its creation of the atomic bomb, with the unknown horrors and unintended consequences that invention wrought. But I think the “aliens attack Earth” films were the optimistic side of the coin.
They were a reflection of the unyielding nation that won the Battle of Okinawa and raised the flag on Iwo Jima. The UFOs, or the Martians, or whatever faceless alien entity filmmakers felt like throwing into the mix, came with unlimited resources, nearly indestructible UFOs, and a faceless fury, but the U.S. stood against them and managed to win (though how much of this is American post-war optimism and how much is the Hays Code can be debated), often by sticking together.
That is effectively what happens in The War of the Worlds. The film opens by highlighting both World War I and World War II as massive intercontinental conflicts, narrated by someone who likely did newsreels on the side, if not full-time. Then, BAM — we smash cut to the next battle: the war of the worlds.
What follows is essentially a military drama with some romance interspersed. Our main characters spend most of their time surrounded by generals and scientists, and we are treated to extended sequences of tanks, and bombs (even of the aforementioned nuclear variety) dropped on the Martians, all to no avail. By the film’s end, the Martians get a cold and pass out, Americans find solace in each other as they think they’re doomed, and we end on a final shot of a church steeple in front of the growing dawn while a swelling chorus sings “AMEN.”
But the image that struck me was not that final shot of the church’s steeple, nor even the preceding shot where Earth’s survivors clutch hands and sing amidst renewed greenery. It’s the multiple scenes of humanity sticking together, even in the face of certain death.
That’s the quintessential view of 1950s America, isn’t it? Not the reality, mind you, but the view you get when you look through those Coke bottle lenses (or, rather, the Technicolor glaze of Old Hollywood). God-fearing, hopeful, and perseverant. The church at the end does not deny our hero entry; they welcome him in with open arms, and it’s there he finds his sweetheart.
America, Divided
One does not need to explain the horrors of 9/11. For those of us who were alive when it happened — even people like me, who were in elementary school and only knew something bad had happened in New York — this event represented a tectonic, national shift. The fracture did not begin with this event, either. Just one year prior, the closest U.S. election in modern history — not to mention one of the most contentious — was decided not by votes but rather a 5–4 majority in the Supreme Court.
What followed were several jolts to the national system: an invasion of Afghanistan, new federal surveillance legislation, and an invasion of Iraq.
Spielberg’s War of the Worlds came out just four years after 9/11 and two after Bush declared “Mission Accomplished” — and it shows.
There’s one sequence toward the end of the first act where Tom Cruise’s character, Ray, sprints away from the Martian as it fires its devastating heat ray. While the 1953 film opts for a much cleaner demise when people meet this weapon, with objects and people fading out of existence (likely due to technological and budget constraints), Spielberg’s vision of this laser’s power is far grimmer. People puff into ash all around Ray. Vehicles explode as unfortunate souls try to start their dead cars. Windows shatter. People trample each other.
While, narratively, this all happens in Bayonne, New Jersey, there is no mistaking the imagery Spielberg and writers Josh Friedman & David Koepp are recalling. This is especially noticeable when a dazed Ray finally gets home and his children ask what he’s covered in. Ray walks into the bathroom and stares into the mirror at the ash all over his face and body, the powder caked into his hair. Frantically, he brushes it off.
There is no Kumbaya circle to be found, either. When Ray and his family flee New Jersey, heading to Boston to find their mother (as with many mid-2000s dramas, Ray is an estranged dad) he is attacked by strangers because he has a working car. When they get on a ferry to cross the Hudson River, a woman Ray knows is left behind as the boat driver opts to leave suddenly, ripping cables out of the dock and hurting innocent people in the process.
Even when they reach Boston and we realize Ray’s wife and son (who earlier dashed off to join the military) are still alive, there isn’t a huge communal embrace. Ray hugs his son, but he stands at a distance from his ex-wife. Aside from his wife’s parents (who also do not bridge the distance for a hug), nobody else is around them.
This imagery, to a certain extent, was intentional, as Spielberg explained in an interview at the time.
“We don’t often see images of American refugees, except after local and national disasters like hurricanes and people fleeing — and approaching hurricanes in the Florida Keys. And of course, the image that stands out in my mind the most was the image of everybody in Manhattan fleeing across the George Washington Bridge in the shadow of 9/11, which is something that is a searing image that I haven’t been able to get out of my head. This is partially about the American refugee experience, because it’s certainly about Americans fleeing for their lives, being attacked for no reason, having no idea why they’re being attacked and who is attacking them. — Steven Spielberg, interview with Chud.com
Let’s return to a few choice scenes that illuminate these comparisons, though.
The Army vs. the Aliens
As I mentioned earlier, the military plays a heavy role in the 1953 adaptation. Not only does the movie open with footage of both WWI and WWII, but it goes so far as to recognize the astonishing weaponry humanity had created both during and in the wake of both wars. When the Martians attack, our main character meets the valiant Major General Mann (talk about an on-the-nose name) who sips coffee from a paper cup while explaining exactly how they’re going to hit the Martians.
Even in the face of failure, when they realize none of their weapons — not bullets, not artillery shells, not tanks, not even an atomic bomb — can penetrate the Martians’ electromagnetic shields, Mann does not relent.
One of the scientists declares, “It’ll end only one way. We’re beaten.”
Mann immediately fires back, “No. Not yet.”
After all, this is the military that beat back the Nazis, that ended fascism abroad and came home heroes. They’ll kick the Martians back over the celestial river; it’s just going to take some more time.
Compare this optimistic and fierce view of the military with Spielberg’s version, where infantry rarely shows up. When it does, it is in specific cinematic pockets, and there are only two scenes in the entire film where the military directly interacts with our main characters.
In one, Ray begs his son, Robbie, not to join the fight. He begs him not to go. He clings to him, and he only releases him because Rachel, his daughter, is being dragged off by (well-meaning) strangers. Robbie joining the military’s fight against the Martians is not viewed as a brave, noble act — it’s viewed as a death sentence. And sure enough, moments later, the ridgeline Robbie runs up explodes in fire as tanks are driven down the hill and a giant Tripod pierces the smoke and flames like a Devil straight from the Old Testament.
The second time they see the military is after the Martians begin to succumb to Earth’s germs. They get a brief moment of heroism — after Ray points out that birds are sitting on a Tripod’s frame, they shoot it with rockets until it falls. But this military, while arguably mightier than that of America’s in 1953 (at the very least from a technological perspective), is not painted as hyper-competent. No Major General Mann comes swaggering into frame with a cup of coffee and a knowing smirk. Nobody swaps one-liners about “welcoming the Martians to California” (as they do in the 1953 version). This isn’t to say that the military is painted as weak in Spielberg’s vision, but it’s clear nobody’s under the assumption that an M16 is going to take down a Tripod.
Us vs. Me
The other scenes that come to mind as stark comparisons are the 1953’s ending in the church, where everyone huddles together and hugs one another as they await their certain demise, and the 2005 version’s sequence in Harlan’s basement.
Let’s take the latter first since we covered the former above. After Robbie rushes off to join the fighting and seemingly dies, Ray hides away from the Tripods in a survivalist’s basement. This man, Harlan, totes a shotgun and is mad as hell, and he’s got all sorts of theories about the Martians (in 2005, this was what passed for a conspiracy theorist; oh, the good ol’ days). Most of all, he wants to fight back. He even goes so far as to call Ray’s manhood into question because he won’t join in on the idea.
Tensions come to a head when the Martians send a tube-looking probe into the house searching for signs of life. While Ray and Rachel successfully hide from the probe, Martians then infiltrate the house. As one might expect, they’re funny looking things, with spindly arms and 0% body fat. They start poking around the house, spinning a bicycle’s tires, and this is when Harlan decides he’s going to take a shot at the Martian with his trusty shotgun. Ray and Harlan fight over the weapon, and Ray manages to hold the survivalist off long enough for the Martians to scatter when their ship calls them.
Later, Harlan has a mental breakdown, and he attempts to dig out of the basement with nothing more than a shovel and some elbow grease. Recognizing Harlan is a threat to his and Rachel’s safety, Ray kills the man in cold blood while Rachel covers her ears and sings a song to herself.
So much for communal hymns in the church.
But America, post-9/11, is a paranoid place. It’s been baked into our everyday life without us fully realizing it — see something, say something is a fine phrase. If you see something dangerous and/or suspicious, you should say something. But it’s also an invitation to pry, to view the man behind you in the TSA line with a canted glance because his bag looks a little bulky. This is far from the “let just any old person into the church” mentality we saw expressed in 1953.
IDEAL VS REAL
It’s very possible that the differences between these visions has less to do with the America they were formed in and more to do with the Hollywood system that created them. While there were certainly impressive and impactful dramas made throughout the 1950s that “kept it real” — 1956’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which not-so-subtly dealt with the advent of McCarthyism throughout the 1940s and ‘50s, is a good example of this — Old Hollywood under the Hays Code was not interested in selling you reality, especially not after World War II. It was interested in selling you fantasy. And sure, that fantasy may have the trappings of a reality you recognize, but it’s an idealized version of that reality. It’s a reality where the good guy gets the girl, the bad guy is punished for his misdeeds (either by jail or death), and America is a robust engine of entrepreneurship and piety.
Even in a film where you’re essentially going to blow up the Earth, in 1953 those tenants must hold true. And while both films have roughly the same endings, it’s the 1953 version that ends with a shot of everyone holding hands in a lush field, followed by the closing shot of the Church’s steeple in front of a glowing sunrise.
The 2005 version is optimistic, don’t get me wrong, and one of the complaint’s about Spielberg’s version is that it’s too happy at the end.
But is it truly happy?
On an individual level, sure. We learn that Mary Ann, Ray’s ex-wife, is alive and that Robbie did not die in the huge explosion. Not only that, Mary Ann’s parents are also alive and well and whatever suburb of Boston they’re living in seems largely intact. Robbie and Ray hug.
But then we cut away to a shot of ruined civilization, razed and war-torn, barely recognizable as a city. Morgan Freeman narrates the ending of H.G. Well’s novel, detailing how Martians, for all their fancy electromagnetic shields and heat rays and Roto-Rooter probes, couldn’t handle our germs. A leaf on a branch begins to bud, and we zoom into the leaf so we can parse it apart, right down the germs’ DNA. But there’s a moment where this budding leaf is superimposed over the ruined devastation. A hopeful note, yes. An image of renewal and rebirth. But, compared to 1953’s version, it’s decidedly more tempered.
It’s more individual.
The difference between these films is not that the 1950s were hunky-dory and everyone was happy. Far from it. People of color were fighting for the ability to drink from a water fountain. Rosa Parks was fighting for the ability to sit on a bus. Women did not have the ability to open a checking account (and even when they got that right, there was still a period of time when they needed their husband’s signature). And even aside from this, while America as a nation was jubilant in the wake of the Allied victory, men came home with severe PTSD, many of whom self-medicated with drinking, some of whom took their own lives.
But who would want to go see a movie about that?
Well, we did, sort of. As I mentioned, Spielberg’s film was a huge box office hit, grossing over $600 million worldwide. Accounting for inflation, that’s almost $1 billion today. Spielberg’s film isn’t explicitly about 9/11 or about the Iraq War, but it’s not not about those things, either. They are infused into the celluloid, whether consciously or unconsciously.
I don’t think Hollywood in 2005 is more “real” than it was in 1953. There’s still a lot of movie magic going on (let’s be real, Robbie shouldn’t have survived all that). But I think, more than anything else, Spielberg’s version of this story represents an America that is willing to acknowledge difficult truths, if only when they’re baked into an entertaining package.
Spielberg’s film may be entertaining, but I don’t think it’s entertainment — not, at least, in the same way the 1953 version is. And that, beyond the other comparisons made herein, is what sets them apart.