Yesterday, plagued by boredom, I perused through the garage of my dad and stepmom’s house for a beach chair. I found two in a cubby– the first one had spiders nestled in the cups, so I quickly pushed it to the back and dusted my hands on my jeans. The second one had no spiders, but some questionable stains– I’ll take my chances. I set it up in the backyard, prepared to let myself bake beneath the Virginia sun. As I cracked it open, I took notice of a few pins on the left side of the sun-faded chair. Beach tags, all from Ocean City, New Jersey– my hometown. 

  When I was seventeen, I told anyone that would listen all I wanted in the world was to escape New Jersey. I detested it– the worst nightmares of my life took place there, aging me beyond my years until I was a hobbling corpse. I couldn’t stand the confines of small-town life, and I had my sights set on stardom. I packed up, moved to the Midwest, and claimed I’d never need the Garden State again. 

  Then, my dad and my step-mom moved. New Jersey was no longer my home, not in legal name. It’s funny how quickly you realize you love something when it is no longer available to you. You regret eating a piece of chocolate as soon as it melts on your tongue, the sweetness fading fast. You want to take your lover back in your arms as soon as you say it's over, terrified of loneliness. I reach out to New Jersey desperately, realizing too late how much I need my home.

  If you talk to me now, several years older and wiser, the first thing you’d know about me is how much I love New Jersey. I love its tangled forests and murky beaches, its tacky tourist towns and rusted trains that lead you to sprawling cities. I love its rambunctious residents who drive on residential roads like they are NASCAR tracks. I love our cryptid, the hodgepodge creation known as the Jersey Devil. I love our heroes– those who were born here, like Bruce Springsteen and Joe Pesci, and those who were raised here, like Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg. I especially love it when said heroes pay their respect to New Jersey in their art– particularly Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg in War of the Worlds. 

  For many, War of the Worlds is middle-ground Spielberg. A movie that mesmerizes them for the two hours it runs, but the minute it clicks off, it slips their minds. For me, however, it is a love-letter to New Jersey and its wonderfully imperfect people. My personal journey with the film as well as the tribulations of the characters make it my forever favorite Spielberg, as well as the inciting incident into my desire for a career in film. 

  It is impossible to view a film without the shadow of your life. You bring yourself to every film, your interaction with it evolving as you grow. When I first watched War of the Worlds, I was barely able to sit at the kitchen table without a high chair. My teeth were mangled and new, and I finally could perceive the wonders of the world. My family would watch movies together every week– there would be a PG film for me, and then an after-hours special for the rest of the house. I have always been a headstrong person– I start running before the announcer says go, and I am waiting for the next race before anyone else has crossed the finish line. I do not like to be held back by my age– I want to be an equal. That being said, I forced my way into most after-hour specials by acting immaturely– I threw tantrums. I am not proud of it, but desperate times call for desperate measures. When my family watched War of the Worlds, I sat directly in front of the tv, squishing my body into the alcove between the TV stand and the coffee table. From this angle, faces loomed and the sound encompassed my body. It was real to me– I had not yet developed the ability to separate movies from everyday life. These people were with me, and every tear that cascaded down their cheek or punch that knocked their breath away was felt upon my skin. For that reason– and I say this in the sake of being completely honest– War of the Worlds scared the shit out of me. 

  I was terrified– I couldn’t sleep that night. My mom cooed and brushed my knotted hair from my face, holding back from saying “I told you so”. I curled into a ball, the ghostly metallic tentacles of aliens creeping on my skin. I couldn’t sleep– I didn’t have a Tom Cruise to defend my honor, to hack at an alien until it crumpled to the ground. All I had was a gangly teenage brother who I shared my room with, and he would hand me over to the alien willingly. I lived in New Jersey– this was in my backyard. I knew exactly where these characters were traversing, what streets were desecrated by the invasion. How was I supposed to leave my house tomorrow? This happened down the road– couldn’t I be next? War of the Worlds was vivid to me– Spielberg convinced me I was witnessing a work of nonfiction. From this point on, every time my family would put on the movie, I’d peek from the cracks of my fingers, unready to re-experience my worst fears. 

   There is a gap between the last time I watched War of the Worlds as a child and as an adult. My mom passed away in 2017 and my siblings left home-- I couldn't bring myself to think about it. The movie collected dust in the attic of my mind, a vivid experience filed away for a later date. That time would be the summer of 2022, my first summer away from New Jersey. My brother and I reminisced on our childhoods in the quaint hours of the night, and the storage box with memories of War of the Worlds popped open. We decided to watch it– I was cautious. All I could remember from the film was terror that swallowed me whole. I saw flashes of scenes– Dakota Fanning surrounded by discombobulated corpses, Tom Cruise getting sucked up into a monstrous spaceship, and Justin Chatwin sprinting into a foreboding fire. This film was as powerful as ancient mythology for me– its spectacle was selected by the Greek Gods themselves to relay a lesson to mortals. As we watched it, however, I slowly removed my hand from my cowering eyes. It wasn’t as horrific as I remembered. I wasn’t plagued with fear, but a muddled mix of wonder and sadness. First, the fascination– it amazed me that Spielberg could create such a taut piece. He speaks (and depicts in his films) how the train crash from The Greatest Picture Show haunted him for his entire life. As a kid, he believed it was real. As an adult, he knew it was a trick, but now he wanted to do it better. I felt the same– I recognized that the malicious figures of War of the Worlds were nothing but shadow-puppets deployed by a masterful hand. My child-like naivety was gone, now replaced with admiration. Second, the melancholy– I missed my home. We all attach ourselves to pieces that represent our identity– we love characters that have similar backstories, music that digs into our soul like sand on the beach, and places that we could recognize with our eyes closed. Being back in New Jersey, even through the television screen, made me ache. I recognized the house the Ferrier’s lived in– the cramped backyard with a chain-link fence, the narrow street leading to the waterfront. I knew the accents, the expletives that came naturally every three words. Most of all, I knew the people– the scraggly yet charming fathers with toothy grins and a Yankees cap (or if you are from South Jersey like me, a Phillies cap). The sons yearning to be anywhere but New Jersey, and the daughters stuck in-between. The distant family in the more affluent suburbs who escape the quiet of the city. I knew them all, and I knew their stories. I had lived with them all my life, known them as friends and family and strangers that I waved at on the street. This movie is home– as far away as I am, I know it will always have its door unlocked, and I can bask in its company and be reminded of all that I am. 

   Furthermore, beyond my personal relationship with the film, the world of the film is developed with so much tenderness. Alongside the aliens, the greatest threat of this film is separation. Rachel and Robbie, the children of Ray Farrier, have one-foot out the door. They roll their eyes at him and tense when he pulls them into frigid hugs. His inability to provide for them is a constant, so much so that they have developed a routine at his house. They have sampled nearly all the restaurants in the local area, a collection of menus building in one of Ray’s messy drawers. Robbie and Rachel hold onto their mother a moment too long on her departure, desperate for her not to go. It would be unfair to say Ray doesn’t try– he performs fatherhood like it's an impromptu stand-up show, crashing and burning yet powering through. He plays catch with Robbie like all the picture-perfect duos before him, although his attempt at connection ends in a shattered window. He makes peanut-butter jelly sandwiches in the early stages of the attack, a staple of adolescent meals, only to be told that Rachel has an allergy. Right after, in a masterful physical acting moment from Cruise, he throws the bread at the glass and attempts to regain his composure. Ray doesn’t want to be the father that Rachel and Robbie detests– he loves them. That is what makes War of the Worlds so good– these are people with flesh and blood that can tear. Their hearts are in our hands, and we are seeing them at their most vulnerable. Ray, despite his butchered and biting statements, wants to do the best for his kids. During the entirety of the invasion, he puts their lives first– he ensures that they are not maimed by an alien or a human. He goes as far as to murder– when a man begins to encroach on Rachel’s personal space, Ray takes him into a murky room in the basement and kills him. Before he does, he closes the door, attempting to preserve the shreds of her innocence. A scene that will always be poignant for me is the reunion between Robbie and Ray in the very last act. Robbie, who earlier left Ray to go fight against the aliens, has made it back to Boston and reunited with his mom. When Ray and Rachel arrive at the house, Rachel immediately runs to her mother. A family is reunited– Rachel, Robbie, her mother, and their step-father. Ray stands in the middle of the street– he has lost the privilege to be part of that world. He stares, a hazy look in his eyes– it's almost like he can see another ending, the perfect Hollywood one where he is welcomed back with open arms. That’s long gone– there’s too much history. Then, Robbie steps forwards, calling Ray “dad”-- one of the rare times he does so. He falls into Ray’s arms, and the two of them break down. Some families cannot be perfectly mended back together, but they can get close enough. They can mend– survival is always a possibility. 

   War of the Worlds beckons us to heal, to overcome external and internal threats and find what matters to us. It also serves as a piece devoted to a state from two of its residents. Tom Cruise, who at eighteen took off from Glen Ridge and promised the next time anyone saw his face it would be on the silver screen. Steven Spielberg, who grew up in Haddonfield and there first saw the cracks begin to form in his parents' marriage. The two returned to the places that made them-- despite soaring beyond their limits-- and honored them. They made a piece that represents New Jersey and all its charm. For that reason, I am at peace– I know despite the fact that I am cooking alive with no sunscreen on in the yard of a Virginia house, that I can go back home any time. I just have to turn the DVD player on.