Spielberg's whack at War of the Worlds is drawing nigh, and I refuse to be drawn in. Partly because I dislike him as an extremely overrated director. Partly because the novel is magnificent, and easily filmable. Partly for the tradition of great or inspired adaptations of it, like the radio play, or the 1970s rock opera. Partly because the tidbits of info sound bad:
Cruise plays Ray Ferrier, a divorced, blue-collar guy more interested in fast cars than in his young daughter (Dakota Fanning) and teenage son (Justin Chatwin). But then huge alien tripods begin destroying everything in their path, and Ray finds himself on the run with his kids...
Which is not to say that Cruise never gets the chance to be a stud. When NEWSWEEK visited the set in February, a shirtless Cruise was strapped into a stunt harness for the film's climax. The harness suspended him, face down, high above the concrete floor....
I'm not a Harlan Ellison follower, but I do like this bit of snarling:
"What annoys me is that Spielberg is such an egomaniac these days that it has to be 'Steven Spielberg's War of the Worlds. No, you puss-bag. It's H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds, and it wouldn't kill you to put his f--king name on it."
I don't want to get into the book adaptation purist thing - I love some great adaptations that either complement or surpass the source material (start with Blade Runner). And I'm fully aware of the problems inherent in discussion a work one hasn't yet experienced. Yet we can bring to bear a textual tradition. And every indicator makes this sound like another trashing of a fine work, apparently for the purposes of blowing stuff up real good..
Instead, go read the novel. Listen to the radio play. Look at the terrifying, haunting Edward Gorey illustrations.
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