Scott Kraft | Through the Shattered Lens

“Truth is truth.” – Jeriba Shigan

One of those 1980s sci-fi movies that sneaks up on you with more heart than flash, Enemy Mine turns a pulpy premise into something genuinely moving under Wolfgang Petersen’s steady hand. What starts as a straightforward tale of enemies forced together ends up digging deep into survival, prejudice, and the unlikely bonds that form when everything else falls away.

The storyline kicks off in the middle of an interstellar war between humans and the Drac, a reptilian alien species. Human pilot Willis Davidge, played by Dennis Quaid, crash-lands on a harsh, storm-battered planet after a dogfight with Drac warrior Jeriba Shigan. At first, it’s pure hate: they clash, scheme, and barely survive the planet’s brutal environment—freezing winds, toxic air, and hungry scavengers. But necessity breeds uneasy teamwork, and from there, the film charts a slow thaw into mutual respect and friendship. The plot builds to bigger stakes when Jeriba faces a pregnancy unique to their species, leading to themes of parenthood, loss, and legacy that give the story real emotional weight.

Interestingly, Enemy Mine‘s basic premise echoes John Boorman’s 1968 war drama Hell in the Pacific, where an American airman (Lee Marvin) and a stranded Japanese soldier (Toshiro Mifune) wash up on the same deserted island and must cooperate to survive after initial violent antagonism. Both films hinge on that classic setup of mortal enemies isolated together, grappling with a language barrier that heightens the tension—grunts, gestures, and improvised signals become their only bridge. But where Boorman leans into raw cynicism, ending on an ambiguous and bleak note that questions if reconciliation is even possible, Enemy Mine flips the script toward optimism, letting understanding bloom into a full-fledged familial bond.

What elevates Enemy Mine beyond typical space opera is its focus on themes that feel timeless, even if the delivery is pure ’80s cheese. The human-Drac conflict is a clear stand-in for racism and xenophobia, showing how propaganda and fear turn “others” into monsters in our minds. Davidge starts spouting all the usual human supremacist lines, while Jeriba embodies alien pride, but isolation strips away those defenses. The movie argues that empathy isn’t innate—it’s forged through shared hardship, language lessons (Davidge memorably recites Drac poetry), and vulnerability. There’s a queer undercurrent too, in the intense, almost parental intimacy that develops, challenging binary ideas of enemy and ally.

Dennis Quaid nails Davidge as a cocky everyman with a hidden soft side. He brings brash energy to the early fights—grinning through gritted teeth, improvising weapons from junk—but lets cracks show as grief and responsibility hit. His arc from hothead to devoted guardian feels earned, especially in quieter moments like teaching the Drac child human songs. Louis Gossett Jr. is even more impressive under layers of prosthetics as Jeriba, giving the alien a dignified, wry voice that cuts through the makeup. He conveys wisdom and humor without preaching, making Jeriba’s final lessons about tolerance land with quiet power. Their chemistry carries the film; you buy the shift from foes to family because these two sell every beat.

Thematically, Enemy Mine shines brightest in its exploration of fatherhood across species lines. After tragedy strikes, Davidge steps up for Jeriba’s child, Zammis, turning the story into a tale of nurture over nature. It’s about breaking cycles—passing on culture, rituals, and values not to perpetuate war, but to build peace. The film critiques blind loyalty to one’s side, showing how the real enemy might be the systems that demand it. Petersen, fresh off Das Boot, keeps the tone earnest, balancing tense survival scenes with tender rituals like Jeriba’s egg-laying or Davidge’s makeshift cradle. Sure, the effects age unevenly—those Drac faces look rubbery now—but the emotional core holds up.

Revisiting it today, Enemy Mine feels like a forgotten gem in the era of Aliens and Star Wars sequels. It dares to be intimate amid the spectacle, prioritizing character over conquest. The climax, with its courtroom-like showdown back in human space, hammers home the anti-war message without feeling forced. Quaid and Gossett elevate the script’s earnestness, making the bromance-turned-familial bond resonate. It’s not flawless—the pacing drags in spots, and some twists feel convenient—but its sincerity wins out. In a genre often about blowing stuff up, this one’s about building something human (or Drac) from the wreckage.

Enemy Mine reminds us that enemies are just strangers we haven’t met yet. Through Davidge and Jeriba’s journey, it champions understanding over ideology, legacy over vengeance. Quaid’s charisma and Gossett’s gravitas make it stick, turning a B-movie setup into a heartfelt plea for connection. If you’re into thoughtful sci-fi with soul, it’s worth a rewatch—imperfect, but profoundly kind.

The 1988 film, Patty Hearst, is based on a fascinating true story.

In 1974, newspaper heiress Patty Hearst was a 19 year-old student at Berkeley who was kidnapped from her apartment by a group of self-styled leftist revolutionaries known as the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA). The SLA was led by a charismatic escaped prisoner who called himself Field Marshal Cinque and who announced — via messages that Hearst read into a tape recorder — that Hearst was being held hostage in the name of social justice. The police and FBI spent several months unsuccessfully searching for Hearst until one day, the SLA released an audio tape in which Hearst announced that she had now joined the SLA and would now be known as Tania. Hearst was soon robbing banks and went from being a hostage to a wanted criminal. When she was arrested in 1975, Hearst claimed to have been brainwashed by the SLA and people still debate whether she was a sincere revolutionary, a calculating criminal, or a victim.

(From what I’ve read about the Hearst kidnapping, I guess the modern day equivalent would be if Kendall Jenner disappeared and then resurfaced in Portland, setting cars on fire with Antifa.)

What can said for sure is that, after being arrested and convicted of bank robbery, Patty Hearst was sentenced to 7 years in prison. Hearst served less than three years before her sentence was commuted by President Jimmy Carter. Twenty years later, another President — Bill Clinton — gave her a full pardon. Needless to say, the rest of the SLA did not receive a pardon or, for that matter, even a commutation. The majority of them, including Field Marshal Cinque, died in a fiery explosion that came at the climax of a gun battle with police. The rest were arrested, convicted, and ended up serving their full sentences. Of course, while the majority of the SLA came from middle and upper middle class backgrounds, only one of them was the heir to a fortune. When she was arrested, Patty may have given her career as being an “urban guerilla,” but ultimately, she was the granddaughter of William Randolph Hearst.

(Regardless of whether you believe Patty Hearst was brainwashed or not, it’s an undeniable fact that it’s easier to be a revolutionary when you know you won’t face any serious consequences if the revolution eventually fails. If the members of the SLA were around today, they could just spend their time on twitter, retweeting John Fugelsang’s thoughts on Jesus. But, in 1974, there was no twitter…)

Based on Every Secret Thing, Hearst’s own account of her kidnapping and subsequent life as a fugitive, Patty Hearst opens with the heiress (played by Natasha Richardson) being kidnapped and held prisoner by the SLA. For the first fourth of the film, we see everything exclusively through Patty’s eyes. She spends her days locked in a dark closet that’s so tiny that she can barely stand. Whenever the door is opened, shafts a bright light flood both the closet and the screen, blinding not only Patty but the audience as well. At first, Patty cannot even see the faces of the people who have kidnapped her. All she knows are their voices. Whenever that door opens, neither Patty nor the viewer knows whether she’s going to fed, berated, comforted, or raped. All four of them happen to her, several times over the course of her time in that closet. It’s harrowing to watch, all the more so because Natasha Richardson gives such an empathetic and bravely vulnerable performance as Patty. When Patty is finally allowed to leave that closet, the audience is almost thankful as she is. And, when Patty gets out of the closet, the look of the film changes as well. It goes from being darkly lit to almost garishly colorful. Patty’s entire world has changed.

The first part of the film is so powerful that it’s not surprising that the rest of Patty Hearst suffers by comparison. Once Patty gets out of the closet and declares her allegiance to the revolution, she becomes a bit of a dead-eyed zombie and the focus naturally shifts to the rest of the SLA. Ving Rhames gives a powerful performance as Cinque, the head of the SLA. Cinque may be a passionate revolutionary but he also has a dangerous messianic streak. Even worse, the film suggests, is Cinque’s lieutenant, Teko (William Forsythe). Teko claims to be a revolutionary but ultimately reveals himself to be as much of a misogynist as those who he claims to oppose. (Today, Teko would probably be one of those guys arguing that it’s okay for him to use the C word because he’s an “ally.”) Whereas Cinque has no doubt about his revolutionary commitment, Teko always seem to be trying to prove something to everyone, especially himself.

Ultimately, Patty becomes almost a bystander to her own story. For a time, she is the most famous bystander in the country. Though the film is sympathetic to Patty, Natasha Richardson plays her with just a hint of ambiguity. Ultimately, Patty comes across as someone desperately searching for an identity. Since she is not sure who she ultimately is, it’s easy for Patty to become an “urban guerilla” and it’s just as easy for to her go back to being an heiress. By the end of the film, it’s obvious that Patty is just as confused by her life as everyone else.

Patty Hearst was directed by Paul Schrader, who is best known for writing the scripts for such films as Taxi Driver and Rolling Thunder. (Among Schrader’s other directorial credits: Blue Collar, Hardcore, American Gigolo, Cat People, and The Canyons. Needless to say, he’s had an interesting career.) In many ways, Patty Hearst is probably more relevant today than it was first released. Considering that our culture is currently dominated by people pretending to be revolutionaries and celebrities famous solely for being famous, Patty Hearst feels rather prophetic.

Watching this film and experiencing Patty’s transformation from vapid heiress to brainwashed political activist to briefly notorious celebrity, I realized that we now live in a world of Patty Hearsts.