Alex Garland and Ray Mendoza’s Warfare has been described as one of the most viscerally realistic war films since Saving Private Ryan or Come and See. But as I watched, I couldn’t help but feel less admiration and more unease. For every technically impressive moment of chaos and carnage, there was something else just as forceful—an undercurrent of betrayal, sacrifice, and cold indifference masquerading as realism.
Let’s start with the most glaring moment: when the American soldiers exited the building after the first attack, they practically threw the Iraqi soldiers out as bait. It was obvious—calculated even. The way the Iraqis were sent out first, as if to test the waters, didn’t just feel cruel. It made me question the entire premise of America’s involvement in the Middle East. Were they ever really there to help, or just to protect their own skin?
And then there's that deeply uncomfortable scene of the medics treating the wounded U.S. soldier injured by an IED. Did they really tear his pants all the way up to his penis? I get it—war is raw, and Garland promised honesty. But there's a thin line between unflinching and exploitative, and for a second, this felt like it crossed that line.
Their priorities were another head-scratcher. Risking their lives to return to a bullet-riddled street to retrieve a rifle and a sledgehammer? It’s probably standard procedure, sure. But it struck me as an insane gamble in an already unwinnable situation. What is the value of a tool or a weapon when the mission—and the point—has already dissolved into chaos?
Then there’s the family whose home was completely destroyed during the operation. The woman screaming “Why?!” at the soldier who could offer nothing in return but silence might just be the emotional gut punch of the entire film. That moment, unflinching and honest, carries more weight than any battle scene. Because it doesn't give you closure. It doesn’t pretend that war is meaningful. It simply asks, and refuses to answer.
The cast does their job. D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai, Will Poulter, Joseph Quinn, and Charles Melton each bring grit and weight to their roles. Their chemistry is palpable, and their performances are intentionally subdued to match the film’s stripped-down format. But character development is sacrificed to make room for the relentless depiction of war, and that’s part of what makes Warfare so hard to love—even when it’s well made.
Unlike The Hurt Locker or American Sniper, which either flirted with heroism or dove head-first into emotional manipulation, Warfare avoids it all. And maybe that’s its boldest choice. There’s no flag-waving. No rallying speeches. No just cause. Just men trapped in a job they can’t escape and a country that never asked for them in the first place.
When the Navy Seals finally retreat from the shattered building, everything—every frame—reeks of futility. There’s no triumph. Just wreckage. And the haunting silence that follows is Garland’s answer: there is no answer. That’s the real horror of war.