War Horse

There is one sequence in particular that stands out to me in Steven Spielberg's cinematic adaptation of War Horse. It's a loud, raucous sequence that illustrates the gruelling horrors of WWI's trench warfare. The sequence is well shot and executed with real flair, filled with smooth tracking shots and expertly timed pyrotechnic effects. But there's something missing. Hmm... what could it be? Oh yes, horses! Of course! There's not a single equine creature in the whole sequence, an absence made peculiar by the betrayal of the title and then preposterous when one considers the very essence of the novel upon which this saccharine picture is based. Michael Morpurgo's bite-sized novel may be light on subtlety (and it's pretty saccharine itself), but it succeeds due to a unique identity courtesy of the titular character. The story is told from the perspective of a horse named Joey, which not only makes him the protagonist, but also limits the scope of the narrative to the horse's experiences.

It's an effective approach that cuts to the very heart of the novel. This is war as seen through the eyes of a horse, where war is hell on either side and the British and the Germans are viewed equally, because the horse holds no great allegiance to either army (well, he has a slight preference for the Brits thanks to his owner). Morpurgo also digs at the senselessness of war by allowing an animal to tell the story. The novel is simplistic, but sweet and refreshing. Watching this movie version, I was struck by how many interesting ways the novel could be adapted by someone willing to put us in the horse's iron shoes and guide us through the war. But Spielberg and screenwriters Lee Hall and Richard Curtis see only the easy way out, instead choosing to make this a story of humans (and irritating ones, at that) and the horse that touched a few lives.

So the horse is still involved and he even gets to contribute to the treacle, but the roles have been reversed. And it marks a massive shift in the story. Spielberg tells the tale of what Joey meant to people, when it should be the tale of what people meant to Joey. The change allows Spielberg to further diminish the story's emotional identity and employ a comfortably tedious approach that more closely fits a dramatic framework that he can lazily manipulate. Why work to uncover emotion when you can just let a bunch of clichés do it for you? And so while Joey's story should mean that we are only privy to information (exposition, character development, conflict construction) that we can glean from overheard conversations in fields and stables, Spielberg's approach allows us to sit in on multiple conversations in various locations where we can be assured that everything is following a predictable plan.

When the story begins, Joey is purchased at an auction and brought to his new home on a dilapidated farm that belongs to a well-meaning alcoholic (Peter Mullan). The farmer's son, Albert (Jeremy Irvine), immediately falls in love with the majestic, red-coated Joey and the two become close pals. But uh oh, trouble's brewing in the form of a grubby landlord (David Thewlis) who wants his money and is willing to take everything (the farm, Joey, and well, that's about it) if he doesn't get it by the next harvest. The money troubles should be enough to stoke the fire of conflict and give us a reason to fear the inevitable, but Spielberg shoves the landlord character repeatedly in our faces, constantly reminding us that this is a bad dude and so we should hate his guts. Or something like that. I don't think Spielberg really cares, as long as there's the regular personification of evil so we can always identify a receptacle for our disgust.

Then the war begins and Joey gets carted off to the front lines, where he experiences an episodic adventure that is routinely truncated by the tales of men. Or boys, as is the case with two German brothers, whose subplot is easily the most ridiculous bit of silliness in the whole picture, all culminating in a display of German-only brutality. So much for equality. Spielberg really wants us to know who the bad guys are. And so the story goes, with glimpses of Joey trudging through the mud and plenty more scenes of human beings hogging the screen and powering the sap machine. Joey feels like a supporting player much of the time and so his connection to the emotional fabric of the movie is tenuous throughout. This may as well be titled War People (co-starring horses!).

It's all the more frustrating because Joey's scenes are actually quite good. One furious sequence where the camera chases after Joey as he barrels through trenches and across muddied battlefields is both thrilling and moving, because the movie is temporarily given over to him, as it should be. It's just us and Joey and that is the heart of the story. But such elation is short-lived and it's soon back to the pesky humans, where forced sentimentality awaits. And more clichés. In order to really sell the hellish qualities of war, Spielberg employs the usual slow motion and muting of sound, as well as lots of close-ups of scared faces. None of it rings true and these sequences often feel like Spielberg's creative juices have run dry, so uninspired is his directing.

At nearly every point, little tweaks are made to the story that pull it away from the novel and exaggerate the experiences in hopes of fabricating emotion. War Horse is so stilted and obvious that it looks lazy, but it achieves this effect while simultaneously pushing to seek a weepy response from the audience. It's all designed to hit every dramatic note on cue, but it adds up to a rather violent yanking of our heartstrings, with Spielberg in the saddle, jerking at the reins with a kind of hollow fervour that seems sentimentally desperate even by his standards. Of all the sappy elements, John Williams at least provides a decent score that works well enough. It's overbearing to the point of being obnoxious, but it's also honestly old-fashioned and gently appropriate. I guess that's the tone Spielberg was striving for, but he ends up settling for dully traditional and painfully predictable.

Oh Joey, you deserve better. Your movie had great potential, but of course, this isn't really your movie. Not in Spielberg's hands. He kicks over the buckets of sap and lets it flow, coating nearly every moment so greedily that the emotional energy of the story is drained, the dramatic reach immobilized. Little of the blame for this flat-footed failure can be attributed to the cast, although most of the actors are merely passable. Irvine captures the wide-eyed, slack-jawed goofiness of Albert with enough innocence to feel authentic and Tom Hiddleston is a pleasant presence in a small role. Also doing more good than harm is Janusz Kaminski, whose photography is attractive and tender. The sunsets are a bit over-the-top, but War Horse is certainly pretty enough to make a minor impression. And so it's Spielberg who stumbles (his second time this year, somewhat surprisingly) in what is easily one of his weaker directorial efforts. Instead of trying something fun and new, he instead opts to play it safe and the result is a mess of intentions where all that apparently matters is that the audience members shed a few tears now and then. For a movie as hopeful as this one, Spielberg seems oddly cynical now. Not in the narrative, but rather in his own abilities as a storyteller. I'm not so sure his heart is in this picture, which makes sense because War Horse has the pulse of a robot. It's all so mechanical and superficial, so needlessly sickening in its celebration of syrup. But for all of my complaints, it's a rather simple stumble. Spielberg missed the point and I miss the horses.