The War with Grandpa

Seeing Robert De Niro—the man who gave us Travis Bickle, Jake LaMotta, and Jimmy Conway—take a face-full of shaving cream from a middle-schooler is a specific kind of cognitive dissonance. It’s the cinematic equivalent of watching a Ferrari being used to deliver lukewarm pizzas. Yet, here we are with The War with Grandpa, a film that feels like a displaced artifact from the mid-90s that somehow survived a three-year stint in a studio vault and a global pandemic to land on our screens.

I watched this on a Tuesday evening while eating a bowl of cereal that was about 20% past its "best by" date, which turned out to be the perfect metabolic match for the movie’s own shelf-life. There’s a strange, low-stakes comfort in these kinds of family comedies, especially ones released during the chaotic theatrical landscape of 2020. It doesn't want to change your life; it just wants to show you an Oscar winner falling through a ceiling.

The Limbo of the Legend

The most fascinating thing about The War with Grandpa isn’t actually on the screen—it’s the fact that it exists at all. Filmed way back in 2017, the movie was a casualty of the Weinstein Company’s high-profile collapse. It sat on a shelf for years, gathering digital dust, before finally being rescued and dropped into theaters when most of us were still wiping down our groceries with bleach.

Because of that delay, the film feels strangely untethered from the "current" moment. It’s a contemporary movie that lacks the self-awareness or cynical edge of the streaming era. Instead, it leans heavily into the slapstick DNA of Home Alone or Dennis the Menace. Robert De Niro plays Ed, a widower who moves in with his daughter Sally (Uma Thurman) and her husband Arthur (Rob Riggle). When Ed is given his grandson Peter’s bedroom, Peter (Oakes Fegley) declares "war," leading to a series of escalating pranks that range from the harmless to the "how is that old man still alive?" level of physical trauma.

Slapstick and the "Grandpa Gang"

The comedy here is broad—it’s essentially a live-action Wile E. Coyote cartoon where the Roadrunner is a ten-year-old with a gaming PC. Does it work? Mostly, if you’re under the age of twelve or in the mood for some high-quality "corpsing" (that’s when actors break character and laugh, though here it’s mostly just the audience wondering how Uma Thurman ended up in a subplot involving a very frustrated police officer).

The real secret weapon, however, is the "Grandpa Gang." Seeing Robert De Niro trade barbs with Cheech Marin and Christopher Walken (who, surprisingly, isn't in the main credits list but steals every scene he's in) provides a warmth that the script doesn't quite earn on its own. There is a dodgeball scene featuring these legends that is the cinematic equivalent of a fever dream you’d have after eating too much cheese. It’s absurd, it’s slightly tragic, and it’s undeniably the highlight of the film.

Oakes Fegley does a fine job as the pint-sized antagonist, avoiding the "annoying kid" trope just enough to keep you from rooting for his immediate eviction. Meanwhile, Rob Riggle does exactly what Rob Riggle does best: plays a high-energy, slightly dim-witted dad who serves as the collateral damage for most of the household's structural destruction.

A Relic of the "Middle Movie"

In an era of $200 million franchise behemoths and $5 million indie darlings, The War with Grandpa is a rare specimen of the "middle movie"—the $18 million family comedy that used to be the bread and butter of the multiplex. Its visual style, courtesy of Greg Gardiner, is bright, flat, and functional. Director Tim Hill, who has a black belt in this genre after Alvin and the Chipmunks, keeps the pacing brisk enough that you don't have time to question the physics of the pranks or why a family with this much property damage hasn't called Child Protective Services.

It’s easy to be cynical about a movie like this. Critics often treat these late-career De Niro comedies like a betrayal of his legacy. But I don't see it that way. There’s something almost rebellious about a man who has conquered the mountaintop of high art deciding he’d rather spend his Tuesday getting hit in the groin with a drone. It’s not "peak cinema," but as a distraction during a time when the world felt like it was closing in, it served a purpose.

The movie’s "Old School vs. New Cool" tagline is a bit of a misnomer. The film is aggressively old school in its execution, relying on physical gags and family-friendly resolutions that feel safe and familiar. It’s a "comfort food" movie—not a gourmet meal, but the kind of grilled cheese sandwich that’s a little too oily but still hits the spot when you’re tired.

If you're looking for a profound exploration of aging or the complexities of the modern family unit, keep walking. But if you want to see a group of Hollywood icons behave like toddlers for 90 minutes, you could do a lot worse. It’s a harmless, occasionally charming relic of a production era that barely exists anymore. Take it for what it is: a silly, harmless skirmish that knows exactly who its audience is and doesn't try to be anything else.