War Horse: beauty in stark relief.
- February 14th, 2012
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I wanted to wait until I’d seen War Horse twice before writing a review. I watched it with eager anticipation back at Christmastime, and my gut reaction was to love it. (I can’t say the same for my philistine family who joined me in the theater…the less said about their artistic tastes, the better!). I had reason to expect great things; Steven Spielberg, to this point still my favorite director, crafting a story about nobility and bravery amidst war (one of his specialties), with a new and stirring score by John Williams. But four years ago I was burned by such high expectations with the fourth Indiana Jones movie, so I had as much reason for doubt.
And not everything in War Horse works. There’s a two-dimensionality to some of the characters—perhaps because we don’t spend enough time with them (and because the story isn’t really about them in the end), perhaps because of casting. Some of the interactions don’t ring completely true. The early scene between Albert and his buddy Andrew, for example, feels like a rejected scene from the Shire. But in the end these weaknesses are transcended by what the story is really about, and there is also a larger sense that we are watching a fairy tale, and the characters are no less two-dimensional than a Pinocchio or Peter Pan.
What the story is really about is that in war everybody loses, but against the backdrop of an incomprehensible hell goodness stands in stark relief. War (here World War I) is more than just the backdrop of War Horse; it is the subject. Spielberg chose a war that resonates in our time, a war of ambiguity, of faceless adversaries, of interminable duration, of confusion and a prevailing sense of senselessness. Perhaps Spielberg simply painted this war as ambiguous, but it’s true that there is no Hitler here, no Holocaust, no clear moral imperative to rally other than patriotism. There is no demonization of any nation or side here. There is simply war—bloodshed and gunfire and pointless suffering.
That is what our attention is directed at, and in the foreground is a series of vignettes, characters tangled in the unmerciful barbed wire of war. Here is the British officer who promises to look after a boy’s horse, only to be undone with enemy gunfire; here are two German boys trying to escape combat, only to be executed as deserters; here is a French girl who wants to ride, only to die in some vague way connected to the fight; here is her grandfather who will pay any price to cling to the shadow of her memory, only to find himself squared against a British soldier—not in combat, but in devotion. In war, everyone loses. Victors limp and bear the scars left by extinguishing a life; two good people stand in opposition over a valued horse, whether in No Man’s Land or in the auction ring.
War pits man against man, and he doesn’t always know why or who he’s fighting. It calls on human beings on both sides to murder. It leaves no one unscathed, whether man or horse. Caught up in the senselessness, men try to adopt bravery, deny cowardice, to fight with steel and valor. The smallest acts of compassion or courage stand as solid silhouettes against a blood red sky. In War Horse, war is revealed as nothing but hell, and every tiny flicker of heaven (displayed by gestures of kindness, sacrifice, loyalty, and humility—from the offer of wire cutters to the mercy of a coin toss) gleams all the brighter. The epitome of this contrast is Joey the horse—galloping through hell, showing no partiality, inspiring goodness and grace in every camp he passes through. Nor can he escape the cost of war, ensnared as he becomes in the very bowels of the fight. No one escapes, everyone loses, but the redemption is found in the contrast, in every bit of beauty seen against the mess. The goodness hardly justifies the war—it is simply more vivid because of it.

It’s no doubt disproportionately philosophical to think as deeply and agonizingly about The Muppets as I have the past few days, let alone write a critical essay about it. But the Muppets—being Jim Henson’s wonderfully dexterous family of puppets led by Kermit the Frog—played a huge role in my happy childhood days. We inherited a love for the Muppets from our mother, and while I only saw bits and pieces of the original Muppet Show growing up, I fed on a steady diet of The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, The Muppets Take Manhattan, The Muppet Christmas Carol, Muppet Treasure Island, and Muppets from Space—not to mention Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock, Muppet Babies, and far lesser known offshoots (Muppet Classic Theatre, anyone? How about the album Kermit Unpigged?). I should hope I qualify as a fan.
Last night I watched Inception again (it was only my second viewing). I was, once again, sucked headlong into Christopher Nolan’s engrossing dream—my heart and mind fully engaged in the cinematic thrill ride. The film only improved on its second viewing, and I sat in awe of Nolan’s imagination and its expert, artful execution.
The Tree of Life begins with a tragedy, before we really care about the characters to whom the tragedy happens. Then, after watching a married couple grapple with their fresh grief—crying out to God for answers—we are jettisoned back into time to the beginning of the universe, where God’s enigmatic response begins to take shape. We witness the birth of all life, God speaking something from nothing…and then we return to the small Texas family, where we watch the birth and growth of the individuals whom the story is concerned with.
I typically don’t see or get swept up in the gales of polarizing art films. But few “art” films penetrate the bubble of pop culture quite like The Tree of Life. The top Cannes winner was foamingly anticipated before its release, and has been much pondered, discussed, and critiqued in the weeks since. Some found it overrated, some the second coming of cinema, and some a pretentious pile of camera droppings. I salivated over the film’s prospect simply because Terrence Malick’s previous film, The New World, is one of the most gorgeous, contemplative applications of sound and moving images I’ve ever seen. If Tree of Life was anything close in its offering—and with its broader, more cosmic story, it had the potential to transcend even higher—I knew I would love it.