Review: War of the Worlds (2025)

I made a huge mistake. I succumbed to peer pressure on social media and, in the process, became a victim of the dreaded Fear of Missing Out. Yes, friends, it’s true: I willingly subjected myself to the new adaptation of War of the Worlds currently streaming on Amazon Prime. Unfortunately, the comparisons to Tommy Wiseau and Neil Breen that I encountered on Twitter proved to be grossly exaggerated. This movie is not a valid example of the “So Bad, It’s Good” phenomenon—it’s just plain bad, period.

In theory, presenting H. G. Wells’ classic alien invasion story entirely through windows and browser tabs on the protagonist’s computer screen isn’t an inherently terrible idea; as many critics have already observed, the gimmick harkens back to Orson Welles’ notorious radio dramatization of the novel. In this case, however, the execution leaves much to be desired; rather than making the conflict feel more immediate, urgent, and intimate, the framing (utilized to greater effect in 2018’s Searching) suggests a sense of separation—as though the viewer is watching the characters react to YouTube video compilations depicting various pre-mission briefing cutscenes from the Call of Duty series.

It certainly doesn’t help matters that every performance is literally phoned in—the action, after all, unfolds exclusively via FaceTime and Zoom. Of the thoroughly embarrassed actors featured, only Clark Gregg escapes relatively unscathed; his natural charisma doesn’t quite elevate the material surrounding him, but it at least leaves his own dignity somewhat intact. Surprisingly, Devon Bostick (of Diary of a Wimpy Kid fame) also acquits himself remarkably well, albeit for a different reason: he seems keenly aware that he’s starring in an absolute stinker and actually embraces it, abandoning the shame and self-consciousness that would otherwise tarnish his work; in a sea of bland, anonymous talking heads, he remains almost likable. The worst offender of the bunch by far is Ice Cube, whose apathy is palpable. His lack of chemistry with the supporting cast makes it glaringly obvious that his role was shot in total isolation; he’s sitting alone in an empty room, interacting with nobody, staring at a blank monitor—and that solitude informs every wooden facial expression, every monotone line reading. This is essentially a one-man show, akin to Tom Hardy’s Locke or Philip Baker Hall’s Secret Honor; the whole project was resting on his shoulders—and he shrugged.

Ultimately, turkeys such as The Room and Plan 9 from Outer Space earned their cult classic credentials because their endearing sincerity alleviates their narrative incompetence and stylistic shortcomings. War of the Worlds, on the other hand, is the product of pure cynicism, utterly devoid of any apparent effort, integrity, craft, creative vision, or artistic ambition. Squandering the potential of its genuinely inspired premise, it’s an infuriatingly cheap cash grab that coasts by on its familiar title and offers nothing else of value in return. If you’re on the fence about checking it out, take my advice: avoid satisfying that nagging curiosity; a failure this spectacular doesn’t deserve to be rewarded with attention, even ironically—don’t spare it a second of your precious, finite time.