There’s nothing more frightening than the sound of a camera shutter in the brand new film Civil War.
Distributed by A24, the production company behind releases like Everything Everywhere All at Once and Past Lives, the movie depicts the remnants of a United States government battling the Western Forces, an alliance between Texas and California. If you’re searching for reasons—Why these factions? Why now?—you won’t find any answers. The film is frustratingly opaque on logistics, though we’re in a position to hypothesize based on just a few offhand comments. (The unnamed president, played by Nick Offerman, is entering his third term and isn’t gun-shy about using air strikes against American residents.) Even so, a California that cooperates with Texas seems far-fetched.
For author/director Alex Garland, our incredulity is the purpose. “I find it interesting that folks would say, ‘These two states could never be together under any circumstances.’ Under any circumstances? Any? Are you sure?” he told The Atlantic. By asking us to simply accept his premise, Garland forces viewers to contemplate the ideological divisions we take as a right. Turns out, the why doesn’t matter all that much. Dystopia, irrespective of the way it comes about, remains to be dystopia.
What is clear, though, is that the war provides a chance for journalists, capitalized on by photojournalist Lee (Kirsten Dunst), her Reuters colleague Joel (Wagner Moura), and her mentor, New York Times reporter Sammy (Stephen McKinley Henderson). Their coverage of atrocities shapes our experience of this imagined future. Many of those chilling camera shutter sounds come from Lee, as she documents truly terrible scenes of domestic conflict with ruthless efficiency and pristine technique. It’s jarring to see pictures of military soldiers being executed or a civilian being set on fire with perfect ISO and aperture.
Ever in pursuit of a scoop, the three determine to embark on a road trip from New York to DC, where Lee hopes to photograph the president and Joel hopes to interview him. “We get there before anyone else does,” Lee says. Joel agrees: “Interviewing him is the one story left.” At the last minute, they’re joined by Jessie (Cailee Spaeny), a young photojournalist who idolizes Lee. Together they embark on a tour of the crumbling nation.
With every click, the photographers get more disconnected from the war they’re documenting. Cinematographer Rob Hardy and editor Jake Roberts use recurring shots of every photo’s aftermath to terrifying effect. When the camera falls from Lee’s or Jessie’s face, it’s like a mask coming off.
Whether she’s captured a candid of an abandoned mall or a soldier who’s bled out, Lee’s dispassionate poise is chilling. She’s seen one too many atrocities, and whether for self-preservation or by overexposure, she’s desensitized to the horrors round her.
Young Jessie, nonetheless, is different. Whenever she’s done taking a photograph, not less than at first, audiences see the toll the work takes on her. It’s a tragedy when her empathy gives technique to detachment. Each time her camera clicks, her face is less frightened, more stoic.
Civil War is an ode to the harrowing work of war journalists. But the film also pushes back against the notion that the best virtue a journalist can cultivate is the flexibility to stay unfazed. While objectivity is imperative, it needs to be no badge of honor once we’re in a position to cover the worst of the world and never be moved.
In one painful sequence, after the crew witnesses a wanton act of violence, Lee tells a visibly shaken Jessie, “We record so other people ask.” Lee’s investment in a story ends after the press; she leaves it as much as her audience to explore larger questions on pain and purpose. “You wish to be a journalist? That’s the job,” she scolds. One can’t deny the journalists’ commitment to capturing the reality of what they see. But it’s nonetheless disturbing after they accomplish that without emotion.
The psalms of David take the alternative approach to the one modeled in Civil War—all lament, rejoicing, and rage as they interpret the world around them.
In David in Distress: His Portrait Through the Historical Psalms, scholar Vivian L. Johnson identifies certain songs that directly correlate with what’s covered in texts like 1 and a couple of Samuel. One of those is Psalm 51, written within the aftermath of David’s rape of Bethsheba and his murder of her husband, Uriah, as recorded in 2 Samuel 11.
Whereas the history in Samuel provides the target account of what’s happened, the psalm offers a chance to flesh out David’s inner, emotional experience. As Johnson writes, “Seldom do the Samuel narratives reveal the private contemplation of David or report his gestures of contrition; in reality, the books of Samuel usually show little reservation of their disclosure of his most egregious deeds.” Psalm 51, she argues, where David details his remorse more fully than in 2 Samuel’s one-line confession “I even have sinned against the Lord,” “provid[es] for the reader an elaborate and pious version of what David could have said subsequent to recognizing the gravity of his actions when he murdered the husband of his mistress.”
The role of the psalmist is different from the role of the journalist. But what we see in Civil War reminds us, as does Scripture, of how vulnerable we may be within the face of the world’s hardships. For every record of an atrocity is a journalist who wrestles with bearing witness.
Take, as an illustration, a Rolling Stone gallery of images from photojournalists in Gaza. The photos are difficult to sift through and only more poignant now that the death toll there has exceeded 33,000 people. The presentation of those photos isn’t careless or salacious; as a substitute, each is accompanied by a contextualizing caption. Photojournalist Ahmed Zakot describes Gaza on October 9, 2023: “I took this picture from the nineteenth floor of a skyscraper in Gaza. In my 25-year profession as a photographer, I never felt such fear and distress. I felt that I used to be filming a cinematic movie scene, I needed to remind myself that it’s all too real.”
I may be like Lee. When I see archival photos from history and even images of today’s faraway atrocities, I’m moved to guard myself by keeping all of it at arm’s length. It’s no wonder—in our online, overexposed world, ghastly images and testimonies are only a timeline refresh away.
But while dissociation could be comprehensible, it’s not desirable. That’s true not only of pain but additionally of joy. There’s Job’s address to God: anger fully expressed somewhat than circumstances merely accepted. But there’s also the primary chapter of Luke, which makes room for Mary’s song.
Whereas other gospels are quick to narrate the events of Jesus’ birth, Luke pauses for a have a look at Mary’s heart. Her spirit “rejoices in God my Savior”; she will trust in the guarantees foretold by the angel Gabriel since God has shown his faithfulness “just as he promised our ancestors.” Even because it records the facts, Scripture makes room for lament, celebration, and praise, not stoicism.
Civil War offers an identical reminder. It’s not only what we witness that matters but how. Even as we remind ourselves that “it’s all too real,” we remember a loving God who’s present in that reality. May we look after our souls as we glance closely at suffering. May we also allow our hearts to interrupt.
Zachary Lee serves because the Managing Editor at The Center for Public Justice. He writes about media, faith, technology, and the environment.
