‘The Hurt Locker’s’ Toxic War Rush & ‘Surveillance’s’ Macabre Paranoia

Cynic or savant, director Kathryn Bigelow understands what other filmmakers who have tackled the delicate subject matter of the Iraq war have not: action! By now, it’s apparent that American audiences have scant appetite for the heavy-handed approach to combat drama, as exemplified by Kimberly Peirce’s underperforming Stop-Loss. The Hurt Locker, Bigelow’s swift and jittery boots-on-the-ground thriller, bucks the sanctimonious trend for slow-motion explosions. It’s the least politicized film about the war yet.

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Jeremy Renner plays Staff Sergeant William James, the new commander of a bomb squad unit in Baghdad. Reckless to a fault, James’ loose style clashes with by-the-books Sergeant J.T. Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and milquetoast Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), who are both determined to complete their tour of duty intact. There are many disagreements and lots of bonding, all of the fox-hole bro-mance variety, but not much plot. It’s a rattling chain of events that runs: bomb, bigger bomb, fire-fight, more bombs. Based on journalist and producer Mark Boal’s actual bomb squad experience, the casual structuring will strike some as realistic, others as bad screenwriting, but it’s never boring.

This is owed in equal parts to Renner and Bigelow. Renner, a rugged type who’s been slogging it out for a while now in thankless films like Dahmer, emerges fully formed here. He understands Sergeant James as another childishly ruthless maniac, someone for whom—to quote the film’s epigraph—“war is a drug.” Bigelow is at her best nailing the quick-cut, pictorial dodge-and-weave that so many filmmakers fumble with in combat scenes. A ’90s cult favorite known for the neo-vampire film Near Dark and surf-and-guns fantasy Point Break, Bigelow seems rejuvenated by The Hurt Locker’s battle-rattle pace and details. The picture exudes a kind of macho authority, and in the end, is sufficiently slick and appealing to make you forget that you should probably feel guilty for enjoying a war film this much.

Another female director returning after significant time in the woods is Jennifer Lynch. Surveillance comes 15 years after her dismemberment-themed debut, Boxing Helena, and the interval hasn’t made the filmmaker any less dark. The daughter of director David Lynch (he’s the executive producer of this movie), she’s got some of her dad’s quirks (like casting Bill Pullman against type). But her sense of humor—epitomized by a fondness for ham acting and exploding blood squibs—makes her more spiritually akin to Rob Zombie. Surveillance may be billed as a thriller, but essentially it’s a horrific cartoon.

In an unnamed Midwestern hellhole, where the local motel advertises “cum and stay,” two federal agents (Pullman and Julia Ormond) are called in to sort out a messy killing spree. The only witnesses: a junkie (Pell James), a little girl (Ryan Simpkins) and an asshole cop (Kent Harper). In the piecemeal retelling of their story, they each give only semi-accurate accounts, but Surveillance is no Rashomon. It’s less about the slipperiness of truth and more about the bottomless iniquity of man. Everyone in Lynch’s universe is morally compromised, and most are outright vulgar—parents ignore their children, lovers are more interested in drugs than each other, and cops are just rednecks with guns.

It’s hard to think of an American director other than David Fincher who could handle this kind of material straight up. Lynch, capable but not nearly in Fincher’s category, goes miles over the top with it, even verging on camp with a third-act gosh-did-you-see-it-coming plot twist that’s likely to inspire cheers and walk-outs in equal measure. Nevertheless, it’s great fun watching Pullman chew up the scenery, and Pell James has one genuinely intense moment that, were it in a bigger film, might win her some much-deserved attention. Surveillance will probably only appeal to cult fans, but it’s a B-movie in the best sense of the term: cheap, messy and slightly out of control.