‘War of the Worlds’ truly the essence of Spielberg

In theaters

WAR OF THE WORLDS, directed by Steven Spielberg, written by Josh Friedman and David Koepp, based on H.G. Wells’ book, 116 minutes, rated PG-13.

The new Steven Spielberg movie, “War of the Worlds,” stars Tom Cruise as a disappointing hothead and divorced father of two whose life is changed by aliens.

If you know anything about Cruise’s personal life and religion, Scientology, which says that 75 million years ago planet Earth, then known as Teegeeack, was ruled by some soul-smoking alien dude named Xenu, then you know right away that he’s perfect for the part.

As New Jersey dockworker Ray Ferrier, Cruise begins this tense, sometimes genuinely scary movie just as we’ve seen him lately in the press, right on the edge, slightly askew, under fire thanks to a sharp tongue, his face twisted into the sort of ticked-off sneer that would curl your toes if he were physically intimidating.

When we first meet Ray, he isn’t at all likable. He’s selfish, self-centered, a deadbeat dad who behaves more like a child than his two kids. The movie opens with the children being dropped off at Ray’s Bayonne, N.J., home by their pregnant mother, Mary Ann (Miranda Otto), who has an upscale new husband, an upscale new life and a patient smile you sense she reserves only for Ray, a man she decided to stop raising years ago.

Between them, they share teenage son Robbie (Justin Chatwin), who seems determined to iPod himself into oblivion, and a precocious 10-year-old daughter Rachel (Dakota Fanning), who enjoys direct conversation and hummus.

In an early scene, Ray makes it clear that if Rachel were anything like him, she’d prefer junk food. But, of course, she is nothing like him. Neither is Robbie, who underscores his resentment of his father, a Yankees fan, by deliberately wearing a Red Sox cap when they play an aggressive game of catch in the backyard. Roiling high above that backyard are a gathering of clouds tunneling in on themselves.

It’s a fantastic sight that lures Ray and his neighbors to the streets, where they lift their faces to the heavens and find something oddly resembling hell. The first time lightning strikes, it’s all fun and games, the crowd whoops, Ray staggers back in a startled burst of laughter. But when lightning strikes and strikes and strikes the same spot with devastating force, the game is on, with Spielberg digging in to deliver a blistering homage to the postwar, apocalyptic, sci-fi B-movies of his youth.

As written by Josh Friedman and David Koepp from H.G. Wells’ 1898 book, “War of the Worlds” transforms the architecture of Wells’ work, taps into the hysteria Orson Welles generated in his infamous 1938 radio adaptation, and offers a broad nod to Byron Haskins’ classic 1953 movie version in the process. Until its final act, the film is lean and alive, a visceral thrill ride designed to move audiences to the edge of their seats and maybe, for those too young to handle the film’s surprisingly dark streak of violence, right into their parents’ laps.

It’s from the bolts of lightning that these aliens burrow into our world. What springs from the pavements they crack are huge, towering tripods, three-legged alien ships manned by gelatinous creatures that have come to exterminate the human race. They do so without mercy or hesitation, using heat rays to vaporize us.

The haze of human ash that hangs in the air like smoke collects on the people as they run for their lives, with Rachel herself asking the question nobody wants answered: Is it the terrorists? For some, evoking images of 9-11 will stink of opportunism, a cheap way to raise the emotional stakes. But if you’re going to make a contemporary remake of “War of the Worlds,” which is designed to make a comment on the here and now, how can you not acknowledge 9-11? There’s no getting around it; ignoring it would be ridiculous. And so Spielberg cuts through it, putting on a horror show of operatic proportions whose intent is to make audiences uncomfortable. Aiding him in that quest is a fine cast. Cruise, in particular, is very good here. In spite of his recent public bumbles, he redeems himself with a performance that presses against the film’s shortcomings, specifically, the human element, which isn’t nearly as compelling as the impressive action.

The relationships between Ray and his kids are contrived, the stuff of movies, but Cruise, Chatwin and Fanning nevertheless lift them out of the ordinary. And they never allow their characters to get lost amid the special effects. The last third of the movie goes off-track, with a cameo by Tim Robbins that initially grabs you in, but which eventually drops you in a shallow pool of madness and misunderstanding.

The final scene also is a disappointment, if only because the reality of war is let off the hook so the movie can enjoy a smooth ride into familial arms. It’s the very worst sort of ending possible, with Spielberg skirting a definitive statement on war for the sort of release that wants to be a comforting balm. It’s awful.

That said, “War of the Worlds” is recommended. Its first 90 minutes are terrific, a Steven Spielberg compendium that finds the director borrowing liberally from his best films to inform this film. Considering the modern-day classics Spielberg has to dip into, “Saving Private Ryan,” “Jaws,” “Jurassic Park,” “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” “Minority Report,” “Schindler’s List” and so on, it’s no wonder that so much of this movie is as good as it gets. Grade: B+

Christopher Smith is the Bangor Daily News film critic. His reviews appear Mondays and Fridays in Style, Weekends in Television, and are archived at RottenTomatoes.com. He may be reached at BDNFilm1@aol.com.