This article was originally written for and published by Good Faith Media.
If this were a normal film review, I would begin by dazzling you with a synopsis. I would give you a brief and condensed version of the plot of the motion picture in question, “Civil War.
I would describe, in Orwellian fashion, how the movie follows a team of journalists making their way down the east coast of a very divided and at-war United States of America. I would describe the main characters, their plights, agendas and the stereotypes they play into and ultimately destroy.
I would follow this by detailing their journey together, listing what they experienced: inner turmoil, tension with each other and the looming presence of John the Revelator’s second horseman—war, conflict, and bloodshed.
Then, if this were a typical film review, I would walk you through the major scenes, drawing you a map of their significance. I would finish with an anticlimactic ending to not deter you from viewing the movie yourself.
If this were a standard film review, I’d pivot and draw your attention to the team of artists who made it happen.
I would tell you about the filmmaker Alex Garland, author of one of Generation X’s most esteemed novels, “The Beach” (1996) and screenwriter of such works as “28 Days Later” (2002) and “Sunshine” (2007), and director of Ex Machina (2014).
Afterward, I would mention the stellar cast. I would tell you how Kirsten Dunst, Wagner Moura, Cailee Spaeny and Stephen McKinley Henderson all brought continuous fine acting moments. I would write about how they all came too close too often to their art mimicking real life, their shared situation and an honest and possible future.
Maybe then I would mention a few other names, such as Nick Offerman and Jesse Plemons, who, with limited screen time, chillingly stole their respective scenes.
That is what I’d do if this were a normal film review.
But this isn’t a normal film review. Instead, it’s a story about my trip to the cinema to see “Civil War.”
What follows is a story about what I saw, heard, and felt, both on and off the screen.
In a day when talking about feelings produces an apathetic, “[expletive] your feelings,” listening to someone’s elation, disconcertment, sensitivities and peeves might be the change we need.
For a mid-afternoon matinee, I am surprised to see as many people in the parking lot and lobby. I will find out later that the film racked up an impressive opening weekend, clearing $25 million, putting it in line to possibly surpass A24’s most successful production, 2022’s “Everything Everywhere All At Once.”
Time will tell.
I’m alone on this day, which is unusual. Standing in line to purchase the ticket, my family’s absence is palpable.
No popcorn.
No candy.
No overly priced large soda.
No animated musical offering a catchy Broadway-worthy score.
My attention isn’t on an excited child but on other moviegoers.
I look around and silently wonder what has brought each of them here.
Two early teenage boys and a man I take to be their grandfather chat back and forth about giant monsters. They’re undoubtedly enjoying the lighter fare flick of a tag team for the ages: Godzilla and King Kong. Somehow, a world being destroyed by kaiju seems less disturbing than what I’m about to walk into.
I spot a young man in the lobby with his back to me. He appears excited. He’s wiry. His clothes hang off his frame like a coat on a rack.
I don’t know if he knows the group he’s talking to, but he’s entered their circle. He’s wearing a red snap-back hat.
If I’m ever so honest, my first thought is that I expect him to turn and confirm my MAGA suspicions. Before coming, I prepared myself for those who wanted to see such a movie.
I suspect some are like me—those who believe we are glimpsing into one of Tolkien’s palantirs, a crystal ball projecting a time yet to come, hoping and working to prevent what feels inevitable.
Others are stockpiling, preparing for doomsday with told-you-so glee, and have November 5th circled on their calendars. I sort through these thoughts as I locate my seat in the quarter-full theater, ashamed of how easy it is to categorize people.
After previews and advertisements, I huddle in a comfortable lounge chair, obscured by darkness. There are people near me, some an aisle away, others separated by a few seats.
For some reason, I feel like I’m on a New York City subway. There’s a strong impulse to try and look at those souls near me, see their expressions, catch their eye so that we can pass an unspoken “Can you believe this?” with nothing but our raised eyebrows after a particularly gruesome scene, but I can’t.
What if I catch a smile? What if the “woah” I heard behind me was done out of unhinged anticipation?
Or what if they ignore me altogether? Too enthralled to be bothered, chomping on realistic violence, right along with their Sour Patch Kids and Junior Mints.
My empathy can’t stomach the chance of encountering apathy right now.
My eyes stay forward; they remain on the screen and I watch.
I struggle to figure out who the good and bad guys are. By the end of the movie, I’m still not sure. The loyalists of Washington or the usurpers of California and Texas, known as the “Western Front,” are indistinguishable.
Both sides appear as trained soldiers. Some are decked out in standard army fatigues, while others secure buildings and checkpoints in Hawaiian-print shirts. I don’t know who the enemies of democracy are because they could be anyone.
There are rogue groups. Outlaws answering to no one. Self-governing with enough firepower to secure lifetime memberships in the National Rifle Association.
Dunst and Spaeny’s characters mention family members living in states where the war is as far away as Gaza. They choose not to acknowledge what is happening. A fragile privilege is present even in a dystopian future.
And as with all war, there is the least of these. Those whose lot is to wander unwarned between a bullet and its target. Lives laced with casualties even if they never officially join a side.
Finally, numb journalists, their reality skewed through the lens of a Nikon FE2. They exist in daily levels of unpredictable havoc, seeking to capture the chaos, forcing people to see the tragedy they have created unfold. All the while, Pax Americana gets buried under another pile of rubble.
Between the interactions of each group are explosions—bombs bursting in the air, but not the romantic ones from the National Anthem. Modern means of warfare erase any sense of past patriotic nostalgia.
A repetitious “dut, dut, dut” from automatic weapons. Blaring single shots, scenes of callous executions, jarring me in my seat, courtesy of the theater’s state-of-the-art surround sound.
I jump more than once.
The movie ends around the two-hour mark. I am not giving away the ending—no spoilers—but if you need a description or takeaway, “Civil War” is a brilliantly unsettling prophetic piece of cinema.
I drive the twenty minutes home in silence, continuing to process and break down what I witnessed.
Art should move us, be it film, music, or the written word. It should make us think and feel.
I’ll tell you, as a pastor, what I don’t feel I need to do after watching “Civil War.” I don’t feel the need to buy a gun, construct a bunker or join a militia.
However, as a pastor, I confess there is an appeal to retreat into the hills with my family. I want to relocate to the middle of nowhere, on a farm, away from everyone. Collards will become my new company; deer, chickens and chipmunks will be my neighbors.
But as quickly as this tempting thought makes me smile, an overcast-like heaviness settles upon me.
Violence and lonely futures follow such abandon-filled ideas. The desire for isolation is the fallout of war and detachment is its alluring toxic waste.
I want to believe I’m better than succumbing to such fears.
I want to believe we all are.
I don’t yet see my neighbors as the enemy.
I pray I never do.