Notice to Readers: Greyhound (2020)

I don’t love war movies. I’m not a history buff, and World War II has never been my genre. That’s my husband’s thing, not mine. So I didn’t expect Greyhound to grip me the way it did. I certainly didn’t expect to watch it twice in a row. But here’s what surprised me: Greyhound is a war film that refuses to glorify war. Instead, it honors human dignity—quietly, reverently—and gives weight to every life, every decision, and every cost. There’s no “viscera on the visor” moment here. Death is present—it has to be—but it’s never sensationalized. The losses feel personal and significant, not played for shock value. And that restraint gives the film a moral weight I didn’t know I needed. Much of the story plays out in close quarters. Men shoulder to shoulder, voices clipped, faces drawn tight with fatigue. The camera doesn’t try to dazzle us with sweeping hero shots—it stays in close, letting us feel the intensity of their world. It’s not claustrophobic like Das Boot, but the proximity creates pressure. You see it in every decision, every moment of doubt, every unspoken prayer. And there are prayers—subtle, steady ones. The captain, played with quiet strength by Tom Hanks, says grace over uneaten meals. He gives thanks for the gift of another day. He leads with conviction and humility, carrying the weight of command not as a badge, but as a burden. The spiritual thread running through the film is never flashy, but it’s there—and it matters. Greyhound doesn’t scream. It doesn’t try to dazzle or manipulate. It just tells the story of a man trying to lead well in impossible circumstances—and of the lives he’s trying to protect. And somehow, that restraint makes it all the more powerful.

File Under: Quiet Leadership | Human Dignity | Hard Right Rudder