Premiering at the South by Southwest festival, Civil War arrived in US cinemas in mid-April, sparking controversy and division among audiences even before its release, with accusations of political propaganda.
Alex Garland ventures into dangerous territory by depicting a near-future civil war tearing apart the United States – divided between regions loyal to the President and secessionist states.
With an outstanding cast including Kristen Dunst, Wagner Moura (renowned for his role as Pablo Escobar in Narcos), Stephen McKinley Henderson (mostly known as a theater star), and the emerging talent Cailee Spaeny (who gained international fame with her acclaimed portrayal of Priscilla in Sofia Coppola’s film), the director of Ex Machina (2014) delves into a minefield with astonishing mastery.
Civil War is one of those films that keeps you glued to your seat for two straight hours – a film without a dull moment or a lapse in intensity, never descending into mere “enticement” like movies built on easy Hollywood formulas. Instead, it remains layered and complex.
The story follows a group of war photojournalists – the renowned Lee Smith, the reckless Joel, the elderly and overweight Sammy, and the young aspiring photographer Jessie – who find themselves embarking on what appears to be a suicidal journey from New York to a besieged Washington by the Western Forces, where the fall of the President is imminent. Their goal is, in fact, to reach him for a final interview before his certain demise.
The diverse generations traveling together in the same vehicle marked PRESS (which ironically seems more like a target than a guarantee of safe passage) prompt reflections on the role of war photography and more broadly on the power of images, in a profoundly deep and unexpectedly honest manner. Garland never seeks to reassure or provide answers; instead, he allows questions to arise on their own.
We are compelled to ponder the value of images, how far we can go to capture them, and their inherent power. It is undeniably a necessary testimony, but as Lee questions, does it truly serve a purpose or is it mere reporting? She had photographed war zones as a warning against repeating the horrors, yet now her own nation is torn apart by a cruelty that is unfortunately all too familiar.
The camera – digital for Lee and analog for the young Cassie, reflecting the purist idealism of the novice versus the veteran pragmatism – become double-edged weapons. It’s the eye through which reality is scrutinized, attacking those in power by forcing belief in what is seen rather than heard. But it also serves as a defense, empowering the individual who holds it as spokespersons (are they really untouchable though?), and also physically used for protection, such as when Lee employs hers as binoculars to scout hidden assassins and plan movements.
Here the eye of the camera effectively nullifies the concept of voyeurism, incorporating it into a philosophy of image truth, the only thing that matters because it endures. Thus, immortalizing – in its true sense of “making immortal” – even in the face of bloodshed, atrocity, death, and the photographers’ own demise, is deemed a moral imperative.
This transcends the realm of pain pornography, surrendering to a truth that not only belongs to journalism, but also to art.
The photographs must, in fact, first and foremost be beautiful, and this aspect of the film perhaps strikes the most, as we witness the protagonist seeking poetry in horror, an aesthetic of evil, order in chaos. We may be desensitized to evil to the point of indifference, but we cannot grow immune to beauty, which always strikes us viscerally.
This discourse is more crucial than ever in our current historical period, marked by daily atrocities and image bombardment, where the power of the latte, while seemingly ubiquitous, appears to diminish as we become accustomed to seeing photos of dead children and crumbling cities.
Therefore, Civil War is an essential film, not only to celebrate the figure of the reporter itself (rarely do we contemplate the human beings behind war photos and reportages) but to raise burning questions about the meaning and impact of images.
With ruthless, unsettling, paradoxically entertaining, chilling, relentless, and rock-and-roll direction choices, Alex Garland crafts one of his finest films, leading us to the heart of the White House and concluding with an epicness that may be the only discordant note in an otherwise rightfully bitter, tragic, and disillusioned work.
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