Fury

When I first saw Fury, I wasn't expecting something completely out of the box, but I did want a little grit and realism. The film, directed by David Ayer, absolutely delivers on the down-and-dirty front. Set during the last days of World War II, it follows a ragtag crew of American soldiers crammed into a Sherman tank, rolling across war-torn Germany. Brad Pitt is their steely commander, nicknamed "Wardaddy," and honestly, his performance is intense, stubborn, and way dirtier than most leading-man roles.

From the very first scene, Fury makes it clear this isn’t your uncle’s war movie. The world is muddy, chaotic, and brutal, and the script doesn’t shy away from ugly truths about violence or the futility of war. The tank itself becomes a claustrophobic, almost hellish home to the crew, and Ayer's camera work makes sure we feel every shudder, every loud clang, and every single spray of mud or blood. There’s a craftsmanship here, especially with sound design, that’s hard not to appreciate—even when the movie meanders a little or leans into the melodrama.

The cast really does most of the heavy lifting. Logan Lerman plays the newbie, Norman, whose shell-shocked introduction to war gives the audience a kind of stand-in. His arc is clear, maybe a little too predictable, but it’s honest. Jon Bernthal is reliably rowdy as Grady, and Michael Peña’s steady presence really grounds the group. Shia LaBeouf’s performance stood out as Bible, the gunner, who is drawn with quiet sadness and a weird, offbeat sincerity. These guys manage to feel like they’ve been fighting and suffering together much longer than their screen time would suggest.

That being said, Fury sometimes tries a bit too hard to dig at your nerves. There’s one scene in particular set inside a German apartment that absolutely drags—Ayer sets up a temporary peace, but the tension never quite pays off in emotion. It feels manipulative instead of meaningful, and it’s one of the film’s low points for me. It's a moment that wants to say something profound about humanity, but it's just too on-the-nose and overlong.

Cinematography is a highlight, though. There’s a striking bleakness in every frame, with muted colors and brutal battlefields that make you feel the mud in your teeth. Some of the wider shots of the tank creeping through fog or fire look painted rather than filmed. But Ayer never lets the stylization overshadow the grime—this is a filthy, confined war, not some epic saga.

The action scenes are loud and punishing, which fits the overall tone. You can tell the film did its homework on tank warfare. There are moments where you feel genuinely trapped and panicked alongside the crew. The sound of ricocheting shells and the slow, grinding movement of the Sherman tank force you to reckon with just how miserable and terrifying armored warfare must have been.

Tonally, Fury doesn’t have much in the way of hope. It’s more about survival, about what these men are willing to do (or sacrifice) as the war grinds on. It’s honestly a little exhausting at times, and I think that’s the point. The pacing is solid enough for most of the film, but it does stall near the middle, with some character beats that feel less earned and more inserted for effect. Not every emotional note lands—sometimes it’s more yell than melody.

Does Fury reinvent the war movie? Not really. But it does offer a raw, dirty, and mostly un-romanticized look at combat. The film’s heart is in its performances and its commitment to misery, and when it leans into those strengths, it hits hard. If you're in the mood for something bleak, noisy, and full of dirt-under-the-nails realism, it’s a worthwhile watch. Just don’t expect to walk out whistling a happy tune.