Steven Spielberg is often credited for bringing the fantastical down to earth, grounding his sci-fi stories in such a way that enables us to relate to them emotionally.
But just as important to Spielberg’s filmography is the way he depicts war. After all, there is no bigger existential crisis for us to process via the power of storytelling.
With that in mind, if we track the various ways in which Spielberg has explored this everlasting theme throughout his career, we will find that he has tackled it from every perspective. And by doing so, Spielberg has effectively brought war down to earth too.
Empire of the Sun (1987):
Innocents
Nothing will make you grow up quicker than living through hell, as Spielberg deftly shows us in this poignant coming-of-age tale about an English boy who must fight to survive on his own during the Japanese occupation of China in 1941.
First and foremost, Spielberg was at the top of his game here. He fills the frame with some truly astounding World War II imagery, expertly visualized via textured lighting and epic tracking shots, balancing a child’s romanticized view of war (Jim loves warplanes) with the harsh realities of life as a prisoner of war.
In short, every single shot speaks to theme and hits us in our guts, making this without a doubt the most underrated of Spielberg's films.
Christian Bale (yes, Batman!) made his feature debut here as Jim, and his performance cannot be over-complimented. Bale grounds the story for us, making us feel his pain and his growth all at once as he symbolizes the death of innocence inside us all. And just as he did with E.T. and Elliott, John Williams imbues Jim’s coming-of-age with the perfect score, revealing this young survivor’s enduring essence in the process.
Empire of the Sun also features one of the best endings in Spielberg's entire filmography: After Jim is finally reunited with his family, his grateful parents pull him into their arms, and the camera lingers tightly on our young hero’s gaunt face as his eyes slowly close.
And just for that split second, we see an old, broken soul.
Saving Private Ryan (1998):
Sacrifices
Spielberg easily could have segued from Empire of the Sun straight into Private Ryan, ending with the closing of Christian Bale’s eyes and starting with the opening of Tom Hanks’ eyes, because he eerily captures the same tortured soul in both characters.
Speaking of Hanks, this marks his first Spielberg collaboration, where he plays a wonderful everyman named Captain John Miller. And this makes for pitch-perfect casting because every time we see Miller’s shaky hand, and every time Miller quietly reveals details of his life back home as a school teacher, Spielberg and Hanks movingly remind us that heroism can come from even the humblest among us.
This also explains why Spielberg adopted a realistic aesthetic for this film as opposed to the classical style of Empire of the Sun. Actually, this is something we will see throughout all of Spielberg’s war films - he changes his visual approach based on the needs of each story and the point of view of their respective protagonists.
Hence, in Private Ryan, the colors are bleached out, the shutter speed causes onscreen movement to appear choppy, the handheld camera captures horrific moments seemingly at whim, and everything feels chaotic.
It feels like we are there.
And these are not just stylistic choices, but thematic ones as well. By keeping us grounded in every battle, right there in the dirt and the blood, Spielberg never loses sight of the men who form this story's heart. We experience their struggle at every step of the way.
As such, Spielberg expertly drives home the central theme of sacrifice here, from Miller’s rallying speech about why one man is worth it down to the emotional epilogue where that very man visits the graves of the soldiers who died for him.
And all of that is eloquently summed up with Captain Miller’s profound words: "Earn this.”
Side note: The opening twenty minutes alone of Saving Private Ryan had a huge impact on every war film that followed. It's not every day you see a single film change an entire genre, and that's exactly why it should've won the Best Picture Oscar back in 1999.
War Horse (2011):
Consequences
Shades of Black Beauty and All Quiet on the Western Front flicker across this film's canvas. The colors pop in an almost Technicolor way, the lighting is crisp and "artificial,” the vistas are lush, the compositions are painterly, the sweeping camera perfectly guides us through each scene, and John Williams’ rousing music soars.
And with those exquisite touches, Spielberg crafts a heartfelt, proudly earnest homage to the broad epics of yesteryear. At the same time, the theatricality of the piece feels as purposeful as the realism of Private Ryan - it’s as if Spielberg is commenting on the fact that we often romanticize war without dwelling on the consequences (like Jim did in Empire of the Sun). As such, here Spielberg shows us that war can damage anyone it touches, even if they are surrounded by splendor.
The story follows our titular horse as he moves in and out of the lives of both the people who are fighting in WWI and the people who are caught in the middle - and through him, we experience the many effects of war (the No Man's Land sequence in particular is exemplary). And the biggest compliment I can pay these characters is that I gladly would have sat through an entire movie that was solely about each of them and their time with the horse.
And speaking of Joey the horse (no relation), the performance Spielberg gets from this animal is truly extraordinary - there are times in which you swear you can see the beast's soul.
All in all, this is a marvelous piece of old-fashioned entertainment that just so happens to have something profound to say about courage, nobility, perseverance, devotion, love, and the stalwart heart that beats within all brave creatures.
Lincoln (2012):
Leaders
We often forget that our heroes aren’t saints, but mere human beings.
They have flaws as much as they have aspirations, and they can be shortsighted just as easily as they can be visionaries.
But the quality that defines the best of our leaders is empathy - they are wracked with guilt over sending people out to die for them, and they do what they can for the families who are left behind. To be in such a position, especially during times of war, must be an unimaginable burden.
How can we possibly retain our humanity as leaders?
That question is precisely what Spielberg was exploring here, as signified right away by the film’s opening scene. We meet our sixteenth President as he is having a quiet chat with two soldiers under his command, and this tells us everything we need to know about him.
We can see he feels these soldiers’ pain as if it was his own; he simply wants to make them feel better by sharing stories with them. And this makes the film engaging from frame one - the performances are great across the board, and the dialogue sketches out the characters perfectly.
In fact, this is the most dialogue-heavy, actor-dependent film of Spielberg's career. He also altered his directing style again for this one, opting for long takes, sparse music, and minimal camera movement. This all works quite effectively, as it puts us right into the mindset of Lincoln - the film is methodical, elegant, and pensive, much like the man himself.
But the main reason why the movie works as well as it does is because of Daniel Day-Lewis' world-weary, jovial, gravitas-drenched central portrayal. It's in the way he leans into the stories Lincoln tells with quiet glee, or the way he stares into the distance, bearing the weight of his duty. We almost forget that we're merely watching an actor and not the father of a nation.
Near the end of the film, as he walks away to go see that fateful play on that fateful night, Lincoln says the following prophetic line: “It’s time for me to go. But I would rather stay.”
And we certainly wish he could have stayed… if only to tell one more story.
Bridge of Spies (2015):
Unsung Heroes
Early on in Bridge of Spies, CIA Agent Williams addresses the men under his command with the following prescient phrase: “This war is about information.” And thus we are introduced to the unsung heroes who prevent war.
The men in suits, not the men at arms. The spies and the shadows they dwell in. The invisible workers who fill out seemingly innocuous paperwork. The silent observers who know exactly how close we come to the brink every time a conflict arises.
People like Tom Hanks’ James Donovan, an insurance lawyer who somehow finds himself negotiating a prisoner transfer between two enemy nations at the height of the Cold War. And here we have another Spielberg/Hanks everyman who shows us that wars are most often fought off the battlefield.
To illustrate this, Spielberg highlights an aspect of armed conflict we often overlook: the psychology of war. Namely, Spielberg uses the paranoia-drenched Red Scare of the late ‘50s to explore the inherent ugliness that is exposed after we’ve been conditioned to think the enemy is everywhere.
Spielberg reminds us of what a dark time this was in our country - we were showing harrowing films in schools that depicted how nuclear annihilation could rain down upon us at any moment, imprinting fear onto our kids with every flash of those stock-footage atom bombs.
And with those sobering images, the film’s message is clear: When propaganda causes us to turn on each other, the true threats to our liberty will come from within our homeland (as exemplified by the intense drive-by shooting that tears up Donovan’s home shortly after he takes up the prisoner exchange case.)
As such, Donovan represents the champions of due process who uphold “America’s rule book,” the Constitution. Moreover, Donovan’s subtle friendship with Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy he vowed to protect, also shows us that if we can just come to understand the other side, then finding common ground will prove to be more powerful than any weapon.
At the end of the film, as these two men bid a silent farewell to each other and go back to their respective shadows on either side of that titular bridge, I’m reminded of something else Agent Williams said to his men: “You do not exist.”
That may be true, but just like James Donovan himself, our honorable unsung heroes at least deserve a nap.
Munich (2005):
Beginnings and Endings
How do wars begin?
Is it ideology? Is it fear? Is it grievance? Is it a thirst for power?
And once wars begin, how do we end them? Can we end them? Or does our bloodlust only perpetuate the cycle?
Those questions drive the story engine of this taut thriller about a team of Mossad agents (one of the best ensembles in any Spielberg film) pursuing the terrorists responsible for a devastating attack during the 1972 Olympics.
This means that, from a thematic standpoint, Munich doesn't really follow the usual Spielberg trends. Specifically, the film’s ambiguity and harshness are atypical - Spielberg usually is very sentimental, and he usually imbeds very pronounced messages within his films.
Spielberg also stylistically reinvented himself yet again here. Munich's cinematography apes the '70s espionage-thriller style of filmmaking to a tee, from the editing to the production design to the shot selection. As such, it’s very hard to pinpoint the various directorial trademarks Spielberg typically likes to impart.
The end result is that other than a tracking shot here and there and a scene or two that sports blown-out lighting, Munich doesn’t ever really feel or look like a Spielberg film. In fact, I’d say this is the least Spielbergian Spielberg film*.
*In retrospect, 2005 was a very experimental year for Spielberg. War of the Worlds saw his biggest ever self-reinvention when it comes to his popcorn films. And Munich saw what was arguably his biggest self-reinvention when it comes to his dramas.
And as always, there’s a purpose to this visual change-up and thematic ambiguity: Spielberg creates a space for us to fill in the blanks and ask ourselves those same evergreen story-engine questions he presents to his characters.
Furthermore, as the movie progresses and we see how violence begets more violence, Spielberg also wants us to question our own motives for wanting the evils of the world to be punished - namely, where does justice end and revenge begin?
We just have to be okay with the fact that there may not be any answers.
In this story about the perpetual state of conflict that makes our universe go ‘round, Spielberg doesn’t take sides so much as present alternatives to war. He shows us how bloodlust can chip away at the victims, the instigators, and the hunters. And in so doing, Spielberg reminds us of that timeless adage: "An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”
And this is all brilliantly summed up in the film’s final exchange between our protagonist Avner and his handler Ephraim:
Avner: “Did we accomplish anything at all? Every man we killed has been replaced by worse.”
Ephraim: “Why cut my fingernails? They’ll grow back… You killed them for Munich, for the future, for peace.”
Avner: “There’s no peace at the end of this, no matter what you believe. You know this is true.”
There’s a long pause. So much is said in that deep silence.
Then, clearly still at odds over their failure to see eye to eye on the future of Israel, Avner tries to make amends and invites Ephraim over for dinner.
Avner: “Break bread with me, Ephraim.”
Ephraim: “…No.”
As Ephraim abruptly walks away, Spielberg closes the film with a lingering image of the Twin Towers, years before 9/11.
A premonition preserved in memory.
And this haunting scene seems to suggest that the less we are willing to simply talk to each other - even people who are ostensibly on the same side - the more of our blood will be spilled.
So, in the end, to say that Munich is a thought-provoking film is an understatement. Spielberg makes it impossible not to think about our world, both past and present.
And this only makes the future even harder to see.