Tag Archives | Steven Spielberg

Movie Analysis: E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial (1982)

Written by the late Melissa Mathison (The BFG, The Black Stallion) and directed by legendary Steven Spielberg (Schindler’s List, Jaws, Munich, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Sugarland Express, Lincoln), Universal Pictures’ E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial (available this week on a limited 35th anniversary edition Blu-Ray disc) remains sublime. Upon the recommendation of the greatest living philosopher, Leonard Peikoff, who names E.T. as his favorite movie, I saw it long after the original release. I was enchanted.

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After this afternoon’s viewing (my first seeing it on the silver screen) at the ArcLight Hollywood, I’m happy to say that I still am. E.T. is not flawless, though it is close. What Mathison’s screenplay creates, Mr. Spielberg’s mastery recreates in moving pictures with wonder, humanity and deft courage to depict what it means to be kind and loving. E.T. does this with slow, deliberate lighting, scoring and multiple loops that bring characters, action and themes full circle.

The movie begins with a strong sense of fear and dread — Steven Spielberg uses horror in all of his films — in extended scenes of darkness after an alien spaceship lands on earth, dispatching the extra-terrestrial and accidentally leaving him behind. The largely unseen alien finds his way into a suburban California household’s backyard shed, where a middle child of a broken home (Henry Thomas) notices the disturbance. As he’d done with toddler Barry in Close Encounters and Chief Brody in Jaws, Mr. Spielberg in this way acknowledges the legitimacy of being frightened by a strange alien.

But, as in his other films, he shows that it’s also easy to be alienated from familiar beings, too. With a mother (Dee Wallace) still adjusting to divorce and an older brother (Robert Macnaughton) who is cruel and reckless, freckle-faced Elliott has his reasons to be drawn to an alien in spite of the risks. The wide-eyed child has an ‘enter’ sign on his room’s door, a clue that he’s actively seeking friendship. Simply, in perfect scenes of two young males earning trust, trading and cashing in, which starts when ET witnesses Elliott’s decision to run from an authority figure, boy and ET bond.

The bond first seals when they begin to sleep, as if the pair can really, only and deeply find peace in having found one another. Of course, the alien’s suddenly a fugitive from the United States government, and the boy’s gone rogue from his family, which mocks and repels him. From there, E.T. takes the friendship to a higher level, as Elliott tutors his new friend, whom he selfishly conceals from his siblings, mother and everyone else, first explaining to ET that he’s human, then that he’s a boy and, finally, that he’s Elliott. Hidden in Elliott’s room with posters, comics and figures such as the Incredible Hulk, Buck Rogers and Lando from the Star Wars serials, ET adapts. He refuels, recharges and overcomes his fear through Elliott’s sense of life.

All of this joy and enlightenment coming from the boy’s bedroom finally makes the middle child the center of the family’s home, sort of bringing the broken home together as the newly confident Elliott, as recharged as his friend, asserts himself in life for the first time. The boy draws a picture of the extra-terrestrial at school. He takes his younger sibling (Drew Barrymore) and, later, the older brother into his confidence, though Mom’s still too caught up in her new single parenthood to appreciate her growing children, let alone revel in her intelligent son’s emerging individuality.

Against this domestic setting comes the government, E.T.‘s villain as much as E.T. has one. While it’s kept in the backdrop for most of the movie, the threat of the state against their friendship creeps out in earnest — interestingly, fittingly — in the first scenes at a school. Amid a bulletin board about extinction and a teacher who remains essentially unseen, Elliott experiences a kind of telepathic communion with his friend back in his room. This entails Elliott’s dog, a can of beer and a clip of John Wayne sweeping Maureen O’Hara off her feet in The Quiet Man. The mayhem that ensues leads to Elliott’s coming of age. So, in a certain sense, does the teacher’s instruction in basic biology with frog dissection, which includes a lesson to “locate the heart and notice that it’s still beating.”

Elliott, melded with ET, acts so that it keeps beating. And this is one of E.T.‘s emblems; that what makes a heart beat, love and affection, is what keeps you alive. In ET, this vitality emits light.

The character suggested chiefly by dangling keys (Peter Coyote) represents the U.S. government, which, for 1982 when E.T. was released (the year Leonard Peikoff’s first book was published, in a happy coincidence), features an early depiction of the American surveillance state. For the state’s use of technology to violate rights, however, revitalized ET is one step ahead, devising and constructing his own machine, carefully using his friend’s possessions and lessons for electrical engineering.

Whose technology will triumph climaxes around Halloween in what’s probably Steven Spielberg’s most secular, individualistic movie — and, for this reason, his most American movie. Culminating as a contest of the byproduct of American culture, friendship and love and the state-sponsored result of government medicine, surveillance and coercion, ET explicitly embraces the former. “This is my home!” someone objects as the United States government violates property rights, as dishonestly and unjustly as in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, stressing another subsidiary theme and planting one of many bookends in this intimate fable about friendship. E.T. unfolds in its own time, not in rushed, fast-cutting jumps, graphics and effects.

The state’s total invasion of one’s private life versus the power of shared values yields the film’s most searing scenes in a makeshift medical trauma in which the Peter Coyote character — a kind of older, alternate version of what Elliott might become if he loses his idealism and innocence — refers to the “miracle” of the extra-terrestrial. It’s the closest ET comes to getting and giving religion. Followed with a question about how the government can help, which begs to be answered to get the hell out of the way, government’s role in the miracle is totally, utterly repudiated.

Yet the government’s not a realistic villain because they do not act in accordance with their power and conviction, one of the movie’s flaws. We know what the state does to an unwanted alien and it’s the opposite of what happens here (remember Elian). It’s a forgivable error on E.T.‘s terms, though, as Melissa Mathison and Steven Spielberg focus on the love and light between the two young males. Other flaws include too many insider references to movies and other contrivances.

Light and love charge E.T. like one of its big, Ray-O-Vac batteries in the picture that all but created product placement. In this way, E.T.‘s as fabulously commercial as Christmas. This doesn’t mean E.T. doesn’t integrate matters of the mind with the power of a beating heart. In gentle, soft and mercifully slow scenes such as a boy’s breath on glass as he holds vigil for the one he loves, taking a solemn oath to be hereE.T. is a perfect example that it’s possible to dramatize soulfulness in secular terms — and expressing love both in physical and spoken affection, E.T. sustains its “heartlight” theme.

As it does, each character within Elliott’s family is also touched, moved and, ultimately, exalted (even Harvey the dog). Here, its two-point circles illuminate like fireflies. Mother reads J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan to her daughter — activating the sense of belief that arcs into a mother-daughter wish affirming life in reality. An angry boy lays down with imaginary friends, curls into a fetal position and awakens as an enchanted hero. In the most obvious example of the two-point loop, two friends’ flight by moonlight comes back around as the sun (and friendship) sets as E.T. rolls with a boy’s bicycle — backed by a band of boys’ bicycles — into one final, pulsating glow capped by the colors of a rainbow. With cinema’s most symbolic use of the sunflower as a metaphor for love as a matter of life and death since David Lean’s Doctor Zhivago (1965), E.T. charms, brightens and radiates.

Movie Analysis: Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977)

This summer’s movies or their ads have left me unimpressed, so I was thrilled to see Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind return to movie theaters for the film’s 40th anniversary. I had seen it in theaters when I was a kid. And again in 1980 when it was re-released with new scenes. I eagerly bought tickets to see it this week at the Cinerama Dome, where it premiered in 1977. It turns out other Americans are more excited about old movies, too. Box office receipts were better for Close Encounters of the Third Kind than for at least one new major movie. I’ll do the same when Mr. Spielberg’s ET returns to movie theaters later this month and, given today’s glut of lousy and mediocre movies, I expect good returns for that, too.

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Written and directed by Steven Spielberg (Schindler’s List, Jaws, ET, Lincoln, Empire of the Sun), Close Encounters of the Third Kind packs a lot into its two hours plus running time. Mr. Spielberg is correct in his featured, pre-screening comments showing that the 1977 hit is not an example of science fiction, unless you regard life other than on earth as impossible. The broadest formulation of his theme is that we are not alone. Strictly speaking, this is also a theme of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods.

Like that play and movie, music is fundamental to Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The song “Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” suggests the first sight of alien spaceships. The classic “Chances Are” by Johnny Mathis and Budweiser’s cheery Seventies TV ad jingle, which follows a shot with a can of Bud, seed the subversion of the era’s dominant cultural ethos in favor of sweetness, benevolence and defiant, can-do Americanism. Listen for hints of composer John Williams’ distinctive 1975 Jaws theme. Of course, music is central to the movie’s plot about alien connection, communication and communion. And, if music foretells what’s to come in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and it does, the director’s trademark blend of drama, suspense and terror heightens the story’s darker theme of alienation.

That said, Close Encounters of the Third Kind begins with a moving picture of two bright lights in a swirl of confusion. This is the film’s essence, which is a new, joyful, hard-earned enlightenment.

The audience is gradually immersed in a North American desert during a murky sandstorm. This symbolizes both the mystery of aliens that envelops and draws the audience into a multi-colored, musical finale and the post-counterculture era’s deep, mass confusion in the mid-1970s. “Are we the first to arrive here?” is the first spoken line of dialogue. It is an urgent question delivered seriously, insistently and repeatedly. Appropriately, there’s a Land Rover. Then, there’s a critical sequence involving Air Traffic Control which establishes the cultural context of insidious conformity, echoing skepticism. Then, the picture moves to the main midsection setting: the American Midwest. Riffing on the film’s unique integration of humor, tension and fear, a flirtatious and dangerous scene between Angie Dickinson and Earl Holliman from NBC’s Police Woman airs in the background.

Enter a young boy named Barry (Cary Guffey) and his mother Jillian (Melinda Dillon) in a Muncie, Indiana, home filled with Mr. Spielberg’s pre-Poltergeist consumer goods — toy police cars, an American Airlines jet, a race car, trucks, that sort of thing, probably more toys than the typical middle class Midwestern toddler possessed, even 40 years ago, before toy shaming took hold. The scenes are an important marker. Barry’s self-starting toys represent the essence of what quality the aliens may seek in those they invite for communion: individual imagination and wonder at the world. Shifting to a government worker Roy Neary (Richard Dreyfuss before he played Pete in Mr. Spielberg’s Always; after he played Hooper in Mr. Spielberg’s Jaws) at home, another connection is made; here, too, the male is blissfully full of wonder and joy at the world — he plays with model trains, he finds good in Walt Disney’s Pinocchio — but Roy Neary’s domestic scene is more burdened than the boy’s home, where Jillian adopts a relaxed, more laissez-faire approach to parenting.

Roy represents the core conflict in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Contrary to the single-parent Indiana home, which tellingly is more conducive to the happy child, it must be noted, Roy’s nuclear family home is chaotic, filled with Mr. Spielberg’s post-Jaws family strife. Roy’s second-hander wife (Teri Garr), frankly, if you think about it, is not remotely interested in being intimate with her husband. She makes reference to their romantic past, sure. But it’s only in the context of an outing Roy intends as a moment of family unity to repeat the experience of his recent close encounter, this time sharing the wonder with his wife and kids. If Roy goes batty while obsessing after encountering an unidentified flying object (UFO), and he does in a sad subplot on the wreckage of mental illness, it’s not exactly Roy who vacates his marriage and family.

The adult’s intensely violent, invasive and invigorating encounter with an alien spaceship, again cued by twin lights, powers Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Thanks to Richard Dreyfuss (Lost in Yonkers, Whose Life is it, Anyway?, Mr. Holland’s Opus, Silent Fall, The Goodbye Girl), an outstanding actor who’s portrayed fraudulent businessman Madoff, Secretary of State Haig and Benjamin Netanyahu’s heroic brother in Israel’s 1976 ingenious raid on Arab terrorists, this insightful performance fully engages the audience in spite of its excess.

Steven Spielberg spins the tale of the detached, disaffected modern American idealist (an angry and downtrodden white male, incidentally) driven by forces beyond his control to madness, casting three Midwesterners into a generic world of Big Government conspiracy, complete with secretive helicopters, decoy trucks, faked national disasters and the United Nations. As he does, the lone individualist’s conflict gets a deeper dimension with hordes of Indians pointing to the sky, pop culture’s Marvin the Martian and Star Trek‘s USS Enterprise and an idealistic, intellectual Frenchman (perfectly cast writer, director and actor Francois Truffaut) who is the fountainhead of the impending ultimate close encounter. Truffaut’s Frenchman, Lacombe, represents the honest, diligent and scientific intellectual pursuit which accounts for the wonder and imagination of discovering the unknown. When Lacombe first faces the inconvenient, incontrovertible fact of Roy Neary’s intrusion on his plans, the philosopher-scholar asks the utility worker … if he is an artist. These two form an abiding bond for harmony.

Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind — a remarkably cinematic achievement with striking photography and deft screenwriting — balances wonder with terror, too. The scenes in which Barry is seized from his mother are terrifying. The scenes in which Barry’s mother and Roy Neary attempt to reunite in a herd of frenzied humans is horrifying. As the one, matching with another one, like Liberty and Equality in Ayn Rand’s novelette, Anthem, is swept away and lost in a mob of the many that are herded and fooled by the state, they’re rounded up for an uncertain outcome. That two freethinkers escape government control in that gas-guzzling, distinctly American symbol, the station wagon, breaking down not one, not two, but three government barriers, only to face barbed wire and press (not just carry) on to demand an encounter they know they have earned, goes to the undeniably affirmative, pro-American middle class sensibility of Steven Spielberg’s early movies.

“An answer!” Roy Neary calls out when captured, detained and interrogated by the government which asks what he seeks. Daring to ask a question of his own, he rises up and demands to know: “Who the hell are you people?!?” This is an expression of the film’s American ethos in a strong, powerful and emotional turning point which demonstrates that he who gains knowledge must seize the day, rise, speak up and defy the state. This is true down to three brave strangers who venture forth to disobey the government. “I must find out what’s going on,” one character asserts at a certain point. The movie’s iconic Western landmark reflects in a window as Lacombe’s childlike eyes brighten when the three make their escape, revealing his own secretly held rebelliousness, hinting at a deeper human, and, possibly, non-human connection to come; between Roy and Jillian, between Roy and Lacombe, between child and alien.

Whatever its flaws, from the Peanuts parents-like gibberish of the alien mothership, a bombastic soundtrack and an inexcusably incongruous inclusion of a priest which almost derails the movie’s innocence, Close Encounters of the Third Kind is as indelible now as it was when it played 40 years ago. This renders Mr. Spielberg’s intention — that the movie he first imagined with an early scipt in 1973 during the peak of press coverage of President Nixon‘s Watergate scandal would depict what happens “When You Wish Upon a Star”, in his words, borrowing Jiminy Cricket’s and Walt Disney’s theme song — a success.


Reviews of Steven Spielberg Movies

Movie Review: Lincoln

Movie Review: Schindler’s List

Movie Review: War Horse

Movie Review: Bridge of Spies

Movie Review: Munich

Movie Review: Empire of the Sun (1987)

Movie Analysis: Empire of the Sun (1987)

On its own terms, Steven Spielberg’s epic Empire of the Sun doesn’t make an everlasting impact. The 1987 movie is too stylized and self-conscious to successfully execute a coherent theme. It is an engaging movie nonetheless.

Made as a response by the director to critics claiming he makes movies about only innocent childhoods, Empire of the Sun is best understood as a transitional and reactive film in Mr. Spielberg’s career. Every frame of this movie about a British boy’s wartime separation from his parents in Shanghai—resulting in imprisonment in a Japanese internment camp—moves with a sense of purpose, unfolding the story of one child’s trauma, loss of innocence and damaged, stunted growth. From the opening scenes’ floating coffins, children’s choir and comic books to the elegiac final picture of a drifting collection of what’s been lost and dispensed with, Empire of the Sun is somber and severe.

Introducing Christian Bale (American Psycho, Terminator Salvation, Batman Begins, Swing Kids, The Dark Knight, The Dark Knight Rises) in his movie debut as a diplomat’s only child on the eve of Japan’s invasion of China, the film’s main character goes from being called James to Jamie to Jim. For two and a half hours, Bale’s boy makes a full circle with his angelic choirboy’s voice. Interestingly, this film is extremely focused on the choirboy’s view of the world and it’s interesting because the exposition leaves out what informs and contextualizes that viewpoint.

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For instance, his worship of the Japanese kamikaze, which entails a fascination with militarism which could be born of his lack of power over his own life in a foreign land where his parents are detached, is inexplicably persistent. Certainly, children become obsessed with certain things. But this kid goes out of his way at an elaborate costume party to go off on his own and play with his model airplane. The model is a Japanese zero—the kamikaze’s fighter plane used in the sneak attack that destroyed Pearl Harbor—but why this child is drawn (and encouraged) to worship it remains elusive.

In any case, the zero is what fuels Jim’s imagination, allowing Mr. Spielberg to juxtapose the horror of war with the beauty of life and love. He did this, too, in 2005’s atrocious Munich. There are echoes of several future Steven Spielberg motifs, notions and themes here: the scrap and random subsequence in war of 1998’s Saving Private Ryan, the smoke, ash and nonstop death of 1994’s Schindler’s List, the pacifism and equivocation of 2011’s War Horse and Munich.

Other scenes are as warm, potent and majestic as only Steven Spielberg (Jaws, The BFG, The Sugarland Express, E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, Always, Bridge of Spies, Hook, Jurassic Park, Lincoln, Raiders of the Lost Ark) can produce. A thief’s slap of contemptuous envy, a promotional mural for David O. Selznick’s Gone With the Wind as Shanghai falls to the Japanese, learning the word ‘pragmatist’ while learning the cost of living by doing only what’s convenient in the moment, the imagined fancies of a traumatized child in captivity—all and more make Empire of the Sun immensely watchable.

But the film impresses for what’s left off the screen, too. How Jim survives imprisonment in terms of food, clothing and shelter are clear, as Jim trades on material possessions and cigarettes, however, how he relieves himself (apparently, he doesn’t) is left untold. There’s also—in retrospect, not surprisingly—very little of the Japanese in Empire of the Sun, which is based on the war memoir by J.G. Ballard, adapted by playwright Tom Stoppard and produced by Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall. In fact, the imperial Japanese were voraciously mystical and religious—like today’s Communist North Koreans, they worshipped a state dictator as a deity—brutal and barbaric. But Mr. Spielberg omits any serious and lasting references to such key facts, which are crucial to grasping Japan’s empire, invasion of China and lust for war with the West.

Yet his Empire of the Sun, unlike the tribalist Schindler’s List, focuses on the individual. “You’re an American now,” a gruff but decent scoundrel (John Malkovich) tells Jim during internment, and, for all the dodging and hustling Jim does, he means it as a compliment, signalling a turning of the tide in war. This is another Steven Spielberg imprint; jaunty Americanism matched by what’s regarded as a fundamental emptiness in what makes an American—specifically, that he’s self-made, especially through trade. Empire ties this theme into its final frames.

Seeing himself in a Japanese boy he tries to save, catching a Hershey’s bar and manmade goods that fall from the sky as hallelujahs play in song (on a score by John Williams), Jim the boy finally faces reconciling what he’s been through even as he’s forced to march or die. That Jim goes from worshipping self-sacrificing Japanese to cheering self-reliant Americans doesn’t mute that he also makes himself something of an easterner who discards his possessions and begins a postwar childhood devoid of idealism. The boy’s romanticized empire marches in, gets real, and dissolves. Jim’s cherished Empire of the Sun comes to an end.

Leaving gaps while immersing the audience in the color of bomb blasts and the rising sun, Steven Spielberg counters his early movies’ benevolent intimacies with a hollow if stunning epic about the wreckage of a boy’s sense of life.

Spielberg to Direct ‘Indiana Jones’ in 2019

Disney announced this morning that another sequel based on the action character Indiana Jones will return to movie theaters on July 19, 2019.

Disney studios logoThis marks the fifth picture in the popular series, which was introduced in 1981’s Raiders of the Lost Ark and continued with 1984’s Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, 1989’s Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and 2008’s Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, earning what Disney estimates as nearly $2 billion in worldwide box office receipts.

Disney announced that the legendary Steven Spielberg (War Horse, E.T., Bridge of Spies, Schindler’s List, Lincoln, Munich), who directed each movie in the series, will also direct the currently untitled project. Harrison Ford (Star Wars: The Force Awakens) will return to star as the archaeologist and explorer in the title role. Producers Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall are also back on board, so this new movie should deliver more of the same exciting, throwback adventurism, though Disney did not announce who will write the screenplay.

Movie Review: Bridge of Spies

BridgeofSpiesPosterSteven Spielberg’s Bridge of Spies starring Tom Hanks (Larry Crowne, Toy Story 3, Angels and Demons) is another carefully plotted exercise in moral equivalence and equivocation. The fact-based spy story is measurably better than Mr. Spielberg’s modern Arab terrorist apologia, Munich (2005).

The DreamWorks picture begins with meticulous details of espionage absent its intent and purpose. As with most Cold War-themed movies, such as X-Men: First Class, the nature of the conflict between the world’s only nation based on man’s rights and the bloodiest dictatorship to exist on earth is, to a large extent, ignored or evaded. Instead, as usual, America and Soviet Russia are generally depicted as morally similar or equivalent, with one crucial exception later in the movie. The exception is powerful, but it is incidental.

Details are nevertheless engaging, especially if you know American history. In 1957 New York City period setting, costume and music, in lush film awash in dark blue, black and brown, Mr. Spielberg (Schindler’s List, Lincoln) shows a Communist spy fronting as a painter named Rudolf (Mark Rylance, perfect in the role) fussing with a double-edged razor blade, a coin and a book of matches. When detained by the FBI, as prone to incompetence here as they are today, he quickly establishes guilt to the audience.

The weaselly Soviet’s threat to the United States is neither framed that way nor made evident to his Bar Association-designated lawyer, James Donovan (Hanks), who chooses to defend him—every other attorney declines to represent him—on the grounds of giving the accused a proper defense in a republic based on the Constitution. This portrayal of insurance lawyer Donovan, a Democrat later picked by President Kennedy to negotiate with Communist Cuba who ran for and lost a seat in the U.S. Senate, makes him out to be a non-partisan Constitutionalist, which I’ll leave to historians to address. In Bridge of Spies, Donovan is a decent if agnostic American lawyer, partner, husband and father.

Doing what he regards as his duty, at great risk to his family and firm and over objections by his law partner (Alan Alda), Donovan argues to the Supreme Court on behalf of a man accused of aiding an enemy which may seek to wage a nuclear act of war on the U.S.

When asked if he is curious about the accused’s guilt, Donovan replies: “No, not really.”

This is the main flaw in Bridge of Spies; the leading character, whom the audience is to believe capable of real bravery and integrity, is daft, cavalier or knowingly ignorant about the impact of intelligence gathering for acts of war. Contrary to his lack of curiosity about whether the accused aims to aid the enemy in gaining a capacity to destroy New York City, Donovan later shows curiosity about whether the accused is in danger. Donovan’s higher regard for the life of a suspected KGB agent than for potential harm to his own family, firm and country poses a serious character credibility problem.

When a single vote determines the Soviet’s appeal, Bridge of Spies takes a turn. It starts to feel like Mr. Spielberg’s answer to Munich critics. Co-written by Joel and Ethan Coen (True Grit) and Matt Charmin, with strong, even performances by Hanks and Rylance, and Amy Ryan as his wife with Dakin Matthews as a judge, everything dovetails to international intrigue culminating in an attempt to deal with Communists in Berlin, the post-World War 2 city decimated thanks to National Socialists and divided into east and west. It’s a Cold War climax in director Spielberg’s masterful hands. Berlin serves as a staging ground for Donovan’s possible redemption, though Bridge of Spies is murky about this, too.

With a jazzy score, fading, serpentine transitions include one from the sound of a CIA spook’s creaking footsteps to the sound of a federal judge’s zipper. Another goes from schoolchildren taking the Pledge of Allegiance to a mushroom cloud from an atomic bomb detonation. Bridge of Spies shifts to Pakistan, where U.S. pilot Francis Gary Powers prepares for a mission on a secret airplane with new reconnaissance technology. The destination: Soviet Russia. The film’s title tips its reconciliation theme, which is to be ignited by Donovan. Indeed, it’s Donovan who uniformly adopts a “humane attitude” about the Communist, the downed U.S. Air Force pilot and the young American in love with a girl in East Berlin. One of them, and it’s easy to guess which one, pegs Donovan as a man of principle. A shot of the man who stands alone on the bridge of spies is a signature on this selective Cold War portrait. The question of what principle he stands for is the real enigma in Steven Spielberg’s Bridge of Spies.

Bridge of Spies is gently made, shot, framed, scored and arranged. It is also frosted with Cold War facets that sneak up like a deadly ghost. The expression on Donovan’s face when he witnesses an act of Communism in practice—matched by a contrasting expression of his awakening to an act of liberty in practice—makes Bridge of Spies an interesting and thought-provoking, if mixed, movie about a man’s moral character and dilemma.

But it is important to note that Bridge of Spies trivializes an undeniable low point in U.S. history. The actual events depicted in the film’s climax foreshadowed in history deepening American loss and appeasement to Communism. The U.S. caved to Communists over the Berlin Wall, South Vietnam, the USS Pueblo, USS Mayaguez, a Soviet shootdown of a jumbo passenger jet with innocent passengers and a U.S. congressman on board in 1983 and President Bush, in his first foreign policy test in 2001, yielded to Communist China’s seizure of a U.S. spy plane that collided with a Chinese fighter jet that killed the American pilot. As with Munich, it is impossible to detach from Steven Spielberg’s elegant and romanticized Bridge of Spies the facts of history.