War Room

War Room:  The award for "Most Full of Shit Title" goes to...

I impulsively watched this shit under the impression that this movie was going to be some sort of military thriller where angry men would yell at each other while planning life-saving operations. Well, fuck you Cody. This shit is going to be about prayer and fixing marriages. Fuck that noise. Instead of fixing the title, we are going to fix this motherfucker by completely overhauling the plot.


Miss Clara killed more men than polio. There was no one better to run this operation.

The year is 1968. In the wake of the Tet Offensive, the U.S. struggles to come up with a plan to hit back at the Vietcong. Plan after plan falls apart. A string of failed operations happens without end. OSS/CIA veteran Miss Clara sits in a dark room in Da Nang sipping from a shallow glass of cheap scotch, a tapestry of maps and intelligence reports under dim lights as her only companions. Her determined eyes glare at something amongst the files and madness. She mouths a pull from the glass.

“It’s so goddamn crazy it just might work.”

She jerks a phone from the darkness and makes a call. “Get Captain Jordan at Firebase Tomahawk on the horn right now. Tell him to report to CROSS command at Da Nang. Don’t make me fucking repeat myself, Lieutenant. Priority Red.”

The phone hangs up with a clang that echoes through the room. There’s one more thing needed for this to work and it would be the toughest pill for Jordan to swallow. Looking at her empty glass, Clara grunted and again picked up the phone.

“ID 415337. Clearance Ultraviolet. Get me Station Chief Colby. Colby? It’s Clara. Listen. We need Liz.”

"Love ya girl. Daddy's got to kill some VC. I'll got in the world most riki tik."

Hours later, Clara surveyed the two people standing in front of her. Before she could speak, Captain Jordan jabbed his finger angrily towards a woman wearing a crumpled business suit, her arms folded and the light of her cigarette lighting a cold and scornful face.

“Clara, that bitch got my men killed! And for what?!” Liz held her gound and spat back, “If you hadn’t played cowboy, some of them might have made it back.”

The captain shot back a venomous “Fuck you” when Clara finally had enough.

“Cool it, both of you. What’s in the past is better left in the past, you fucking got that?” She glared at Jordan and Liz, and they fell silent.

“Jordan? Liz? You two are the fucking best, and I need the fucking best here.” Her calloused and wrinkled finger slammed onto a map in the worst possible place: the Cambodian border.

“We don’t leave until we hash this out and make this fucking work. You had better treat my war room like a church. I don’t care what fucking god you pray to but it better make this operation work. Are we crystal?” She waited impatiently for a response, and Jordan and Liz nodded. Clara lit a cigar. As she put out the match, her eyes met theirs. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”

"Liz, you better not get cold feet on this op. If you have to call in a fire mission, you better call in enough heat to turn that place into a glass garden. You picking up what I'm putting down?"

Liz and Jordan were quiet as the Huey barreled away from the pillar of fire they had just created. The ammo dump was in flames, and this mission had probably set back whatever operations the VC had planned by months. They looked at their work in silence until Liz, bloodied and bruised, spoke, “We did good, Captain. Clara was right.” Jordan, suddenly remembering the bullet wound in his leg, fumbled with the soiled dressing. He looked at her with tired eyes.

“Yeah. You did good. For a spook.” Whatever strength he had left allowed him to form a slight smile.

Clara smiled back, “I was about to say the same for a stupid grunt, but I might have to dumb it down for you.” They both chuckled slightly, and Jordan looked back as the pillar of smoke grew in the distance.

“We gave each other hell in that room to give them hell out here.” Liz followed his stare and nodded in agreement. When the chopper landed, they hobbled off the flight line.

Jordan motioned to the club. “Buy me a drink, Liz?” Liz laughed, “I was about to ask you the same thing.”