You should be forgiven, along with the people like you who walked scoffing out of the theatre to leave seven thousand different versions of the same review, for thinking that Alex Garland’s Civil War (2024) “says nothing.” It’s true that it takes no sides; it has no commentary on contemporary American politics, makes no attempt (other than a throwaway line about a third presidential term) to explain why Americans might one day in the near future be shooting at, stringing up, or summarily executing each other by the millions. But dear viewer, do not mistake the decision not to say what you want to hear for a decision to say nothing.
From the opening montage of nameless, placeless, contextless violence, all quietly and beautifully captured by our battle-hardened protagonist, Lee, the point should have been pretty clear. The pleading look of a man with arms bound by a tire, about to be burned alive, watching her immortalize him in print instead of extending a hand, was pretty on the nose. It’s made again when Lee walks calmly out into a smoking field of blood and viscera, camera in hand, to snap a few gory front-page candidates. After that, it’s much less jarring to hear Jamie, the predictably bashful and carefree apprentice, refer to an image of a massacre as (positively, in young-person slang) “totally sick.” It kick-started Lee’s career, after all, and Jamie’s fascination with her work.
These are not good people, at least not in any meaningful sense of the word, but they’re not necessarily bad. Joel doesn’t get a massive rush from looking at dead bodies per se, just from watching people try to kill each other. Lee probably feels terrible when her shutter slides open just in time to catch a bullet ripping through your chest. Not terrible enough to stop you from bleeding out, though. It’s easier, as she explains to the uninitiated and, in her eyes, pathetic girl, just to not ask questions about whether or not the wretched lives in front of your camera can be saved by the hand that holds it. She does care about Jamie, though, an innocent, naive mirror image of herself, and forbids her (futilely) from accompanying her into the belly of the beast—Washington, D.C.
Everything they do is for the perfect shot. In Joel’s case, maybe the perfect interview. Just how Lee and Jamie seem unable to put down their cameras, Joel seems physically incapable of not asking questions. When the group comes across a sniper standoff, he can’t help but pester one pair for their thoughts on the situation. Their response boils down to, “are you fucking stupid, dude? We’re trying not to die.” When Jamie, in the company of a thrill-seeking friend of Joel’s, gets taken prisoner by some soldiers digging a mass grave, Joel of course takes the speaking role. Sadly his silver tongue can’t wriggle its way out of the jam, and his two friends are shot. The main group are only saved by Sammy’s timely intervention, though he unfortunately is hit while escaping and dies before reaching help.
Sammy’s death, however, is a turning point for Lee. We see that she has snapped a gorgeous, heart-rending picture of her mentor’s corpse. Through the van window, his face is peaceful, and dissolves seamlessly into the cloud-dappled sky’s reflection off the glass. It practically has “In Memoriam” already embossed in gold right underneath. But what does Lee do? She deletes the image. Why, we ask ourselves? Wasn’t the whole point to capture the perfect shot? Well, as we are able to piece together from her uncharacteristically panicked face as she hunts down a pic of the death of the president, maybe that’s not worth it anymore. Maybe, deep down inside, Lee still has a heart, and a soul, and the horrors she’s stared at down the barrel of a telescopic lens have finally taken a toll personal enough to shatter her stony visage, and now that soul is trying to reestablish itself. In the middle of a firefight, no less.
But the journalistic instincts are too strong, and overpower Lee’s better judgement. She drifts, trancelike, towards the White House, where the president is preparing for his final press conference, the ultimate fireside chat with a broken nation. The shot is waiting for her, it might as well grow fingers of steam and beckon her in. There is no escaping fate, after all. It’s a bit predictable and telegraphed more than once, but there’s no other way for the story to end, if you really understand the story that’s being told. Jamie, now unconcerned, dangerously unconcerned, by the smoke and death, steps out into the hallway a little too long. Wait, says the soldier. This little girl is gonna get killed, thinks everyone. She does it again, and sure enough, here comes an MP-5 turning the corner, and Jamie is caught like a deer in headlights.
And finally, finally, Lee triumphs over her own inhumanity to do something, instead of just watching tragedy transpire through her viewfinder. Snap. Snap. Snap. Three photos, black-and-white. Lee is alive in the first one and, we suppose, dead in the last. Sigh, here come the waterworks, the heartfelt apology, come on, we’ve seen it a million times. But no, Jamie doesn’t blink. She stands up, her face blank and emotionless. We’ve seen that face before, haven’t we? Because something happened in that middle photo. The older woman becomes the younger. Her soul slips out onto the film and into the apprentice’s mouth. And what would Lee do? She doesn’t cry. She gets up and steps over the corpses. She gets the perfect shot.
And there is a perfect shot, in the end. It’s not the muzzle retort of the AR-15s, or the punch of dust that comes off the president’s suit as the bullet zips through his torso, or the death spasms of what was once the most powerful man in the world. No, the subjects of the image turn and acknowledge their observer. The soldiers are posing for the camera, looking back, not at the photographer, but at every person who will ever see the historic, career-defining, life-ending picture. They’re looking at the viewer. This is what you wanted, right?
Irony Poison 