10 / 10
Official trailer
A Disaster That Happened
On 20 April 2010, a blowout on the Deepwater Horizon rig killed eleven men, and the rig burned until it sank two days later. The well kept spilling oil into the Gulf of Mexico for eighty-seven days. Few disaster films frighten me the way this one does, because none of it was invented.
Peter Berg directed the film in 2016, and he tells the story of that single day with the patience of a documentary and the tension of a thriller. The first hour shows the ordinary work of the rig and the series of decisions that led to disaster. The second shows the explosion and the fight to survive it. I rate it a 10. It’s a gripping, harrowing, respectful film, and it’s also an angry one.
The first hour of Deepwater Horizon keeps my jaw tight, because I know where it’s going and the crew doesn’t. By the time the mud comes up the pipe I’m furious at the managers who decided a test could wait, and the film wants me furious. I think that anger is the reason it hits harder than any disaster movie built on pure spectacle.
Berg made a series of films about real events, including Lone Survivor and Patriots Day, and this is the best of them. It’s the one where the story is least about heroism and most about how things go wrong. That makes it more unsettling and more valuable. It asks the audience to understand as well as to feel.
Mike Williams
Mark Wahlberg plays Mike Williams, the rig’s chief electronics technician, a real survivor whose account forms the backbone of the film. The film opens at his home in Louisiana, on the morning he leaves for a three-week shift on the rig. His daughter rehearses a school presentation about his work, using a can of soda and a straw to show how the pressure of oil deep underground has to be held back, and the can bursts, spraying everywhere.
The opening is simple and clever. It explains the physics of the disaster in a way any audience can understand, and it tells us exactly what’s coming. Wahlberg is good as an ordinary working man, competent, decent and devoted to his family, and his performance keeps the film grounded in real experience. He’s not an action hero here. He’s a man doing his job, noticing that things aren’t right and trying to get home.
Kate Hudson plays his wife, Felicia, and her scenes at home, waiting for news as reports of the explosion begin to spread, are some of the most painful in the film. The film cuts between the chaos on the rig and the quiet terror of families on shore, and it never lets us forget that the men on the rig had people waiting for them.
Those shore scenes are the ones I find hardest to sit through. Hudson doesn’t get much dialogue and doesn’t need it. Watching her wait for word while the reports spread affects me more than any fireball in the picture.
For Writers
The soda can in the opening scene explains the physics of the whole disaster in terms a child could follow, before a single piece of technical language appears.
When you write about a complex technical subject, a simple physical demonstration early on can let the reader follow everything that comes later.
Before your story reaches its technical crisis, find one everyday object or action that shows the principle behind it. Put that image in an early, ordinary scene.
The Rig
The Deepwater Horizon was a floating drilling rig, worked by the company Transocean and leased by BP, drilling an exploratory well called Macondo in very deep water. The film spends a long time showing the rig as a workplace: the crew, the machinery, the control rooms, the routines and the tensions between the drilling contractors and the BP managers who have come aboard.
This slow build is essential. By the time the explosion comes, we know the rig’s layout, the people who work there and what their jobs involve, and the disaster feels like it’s happening to real people in a real place. The filmmakers built an enormous replica of the rig in Louisiana, at a large fraction of its real size, and the scale is overwhelming.
The first hour also introduces a string of small warning signs: faulty equipment, alarms disabled to avoid nuisance, a helicopter bird strike on the way out, the crew’s jokes about the rig’s state of repair. None of them is dramatic on its own. Together, they build a steady unease that the audience feels long before the characters admit it.
The Shortcuts
The disaster wasn’t an accident in the usual sense. The film shows, in careful detail, the decisions that caused it. The well is over budget and behind schedule. BP’s managers are under pressure to finish quickly. A crew sent to test the strength of the cement sealing the well is sent home without performing the test, to save time and money. A key pressure test gives alarming results, and the managers explain the readings away and order the work to continue.
Kurt Russell plays Jimmy Harrell, Transocean’s offshore installation manager, who argues against the shortcuts and is overruled. John Malkovich plays Donald Vidrine, one of BP’s managers on the rig, as a smooth, persuasive man who insists everything is fine. The scenes of argument over the test results are among the most tense in the film, because we know exactly where they lead.
The film is careful not to turn anyone into a cartoon villain. It shows a system in which cost, schedule and corporate pressure outweighed caution, and in which people who should have stopped the work didn’t. The result is a quiet, damning portrait of how disasters are made.
The Malkovich scenes are where my blood pressure goes up. He plays Vidrine so smoothly that I half believe him, and that’s what makes me want to throw something at the screen. I think the film’s refusal to make him a monster is its bravest choice, because a monster would have let the whole chain of bad decisions off the hook.
For Writers
Deepwater Horizon shows small, reasonable-sounding decisions building the disaster: a skipped test, an explained-away reading, a manager’s reassurance. No single villain causes it.
If you write about a catastrophe, it’s tempting to find one person to blame. Often the more frightening truth is a chain of ordinary compromises.
List the five decisions that led to your story’s disaster, and give each one a character who had a sensible-sounding reason to make it.
Mr. Jimmy
Kurt Russell is the best thing in the film for me as Jimmy Harrell, known on the rig as Mr. Jimmy. He’s a grizzled, principled veteran who knows the rig inside out and is deeply suspicious of BP’s rush. Berg’s film introduces him being given a safety award, and that detail makes me wince once I know what’s coming.
His confrontations with Vidrine are the film’s moral heart. Harrell knows the tests are being skipped, and he fights them, and he loses because BP is paying for the well. When the rig explodes, he’s in the shower, and he’s badly injured, and the sight of this tough, experienced man staggering through the wreckage, blinded and bleeding, is one of the film’s most affecting images.
The real Jimmy Harrell survived and testified at the investigations that followed. Russell plays him with complete conviction, and he gives the film its conscience: a man who did his best, was overruled, and lived to see exactly what he’d feared come true.
The Blowout
When the blowout comes, it comes from below: gas and mud surging up the well faster than anyone can react, blasting out of the drill floor, filling the rig with a flammable cloud. The first sign is mud spraying across the floor, and the film shows the crew realizing, in seconds, that something has gone catastrophically wrong.
Then the gas ignites. The explosion is overwhelming, as violent and terrifying as anything in modern film, and Berg films it through the eyes of the men caught in it: walls collapsing, doors blown off, men thrown across rooms, fire everywhere. The sound design is deafening. It’s chaos, and it’s supposed to be.
Nothing in the film affects me as much as those few seconds of mud on the drill floor before the fire. Everybody on that floor understands at once, and so do I. Berg keeps the camera with the men caught in it, and I’m grateful he never gives me a safe distance.
The blowout preventer, the massive safety device on the seabed that should have sealed the well, fails. The emergency systems fail. The rig becomes an inferno, and the crew have only minutes to escape. Power fails, communications fail and the ship’s systems that might have moved the rig away from the well do nothing, and the crew are left to find their own way through smoke and fire to the lifeboats.
Andrea’s Mayday
Gina Rodriguez plays Andrea Fleytas, a young bridge officer who sees the alarms flooding in and is told to wait for authorization before calling for help. She finally issues the mayday herself, against orders, and her quick action is one of the reasons anyone survived. The scene is a small, sharp picture of how hierarchy can kill: an officer waiting for permission while the rig burns around her.
Her story is one of several the film tells with real care.
Dylan O’Brien plays Caleb Holloway, a young floorhand who survives the blast, and the film follows several crew members as they try to reach the lifeboats through fire and wreckage. Each of them is based on a real person, and the film treats them with respect. None of them is turned into a simple action hero, and their fear is as real as their courage.
The Escape
The final act is the escape. The lifeboats are launched while the rig burns around them, and some crew are left behind. Mike Williams, badly injured, finds Andrea frozen with fear at the edge of the burning deck, far above the sea, and the two of them jump together into the water. It’s covered with burning oil.
The jump is real in the sense that the real Mike Williams and Andrea Fleytas made it. Deepwater Horizon shows it without exaggeration, and it’s terrifying. They’re pulled from the water by a rescue boat, and they watch from a distance as the rig burns against the night sky, a column of fire rising from the sea.
On the rescue boat, the survivors gather and count themselves, and they realize how many are missing. The crew recite the Lord’s Prayer together, and it’s a quiet, devastating scene after the noise of the explosion, the moment when the scale of the loss becomes real. The Lord’s Prayer on the rescue boat wrecks me. I’d put that quiet scene up against the explosion any day: the count comes up short, the men pray, and nobody says anything clever.
The Eleven
Eleven men died on the Deepwater Horizon, and their bodies were never recovered. Berg’s film ends with photographs and names of the real men who were killed, and with a short account of what happened next: the eighty-seven days of spill, the damage to the Gulf and its wildlife and communities, and the legal settlements that followed.
That’s a sober, moving ending that reminds the audience that the film’s characters were real people, some of whom didn’t come home. The film shows Mike Williams reuniting with his family and struggling to speak about what happened. Deepwater Horizon doesn’t give a heroic resolution. It gives a memorial.
For Writers
Berg’s film ends with the photographs and names of the eleven real men who died. The final image is a memorial.
With real events involving real deaths, the ending carries a special responsibility. A heroic resolution can feel false if the reality was loss.
If your story is based on a real tragedy, let the ending honor the people who were lost. Resist the urge to end on victory if that’s not what happened.
How It Was Made
Berg built a replica of the rig in Louisiana that was one of the largest sets ever constructed for a film, and much of the fire and destruction was created practically, with real flames and explosions, with some digital effects added. The result feels physically real as most disaster films don’t, and the heat, noise and danger come through the screen.
A New York Times investigation into the disaster partly inspired Deepwater Horizon, and the film follows the documented events closely. Some details are compressed or dramatized for clarity, but the core story, the skipped test, the dismissed warnings, the failure of the safety systems and the chaos of the escape, is accurate.
What Deepwater Horizon Gets Right
Because it does something most disaster films never attempt: it explains the disaster. It shows how ordinary decisions, made under pressure by people trying to save time and money, can lead to catastrophe, and it makes the audience understand the physics and the corporate politics well enough to feel every bad call. By the time the explosion comes, we know it didn’t have to happen. That makes it unbearable.
It’s also a tribute to the people who were there, the ones who died and the ones who survived, and it treats them with dignity and care. It’s tense, frightening, beautifully made and angry. It’s the best film about a real disaster I know.
Craft Note
Craft Note
For its first hour, Deepwater Horizon builds the ordinary world of the rig, so that when the explosion comes, the audience knows exactly who and what’s at stake. The slow start gives the disaster its force.
In a disaster or crisis story, the temptation is to get to the action quickly. But a catastrophe only matters if the reader already cares about what it destroys. Before your crisis arrives, spend real time in the world it will destroy. Show the routines, the people and the small tensions, so the reader feels the loss when it comes.
The Verdict on Deepwater Horizon
Yes. It’s a 10, and the only complaint I can drum up is that I’d have liked a little more time with the families on shore. Everything else works for me: Russell’s anger, Malkovich’s smooth reassurance, an explosion that feels like it’s happening in the room, and a finale that closes on eleven names instead of a victory lap. Watch it knowing those men really died. The shortcuts it shows were real too.
