The Messenger—a commendably understated Iraq war
picture about a two-man “casualty notification team” tasked with
delivering bad news to unsuspecting families—is the kind of movie
about which, as we speak, some overenthusiastic but underattentive PR
person is probably writing some cheesy shit like, “They’re back from
war, only to discover that life on the home front is its own kind
of battle.” I mean, not that that [straw man I just invented]
isn’t true to some extent—The Messenger contains a fair measure of bewildered, alienated girlfriends and
clueless, bearded liberals and PTSD-inspired wall punching—but
the film is bigger and more human than that cliché, and also
smaller, less obvious.
Will Montgomery (a bulked-up Ben Foster, whose naturally tinny nerd
inflection slips through to heart-squeezing effect) is a freshly
returned vet, injured in the eyeball, who leads a stark, bare
life—unadorned by knickknacks, hobbies, relationships, or
purpose. He’s assigned to casualty-notification service with Tony Stone
(Woody Harrelson and his greatness and his very weird head) and is put
on call, ready to ruin lives at a moment’s notice. Stone trains him
with black humor and brutal military efficiency (“You do not touch the NOK”—that stands for next of kin), and the pair trudge
around town, glimpsing lives in their most vulnerable moments, then
slinking out with impassive stealth. “There’s no such thing as a
satisfied customer,” says Stone.
The film can’t avoid a few moments of mawkishness (a father weeps
while his now-orphaned grandchild plays in the soft-focus background),
but largely The Messenger a subtle, honest affair, with funny
moments matching painful ones pound for pound. The gap between soldier
and civilian is bleak and vast, but not insurmountable. When Montgomery
falls for one of his assignments, a widow played by Samantha Morton,
his yearning is so real and physical you want to puke. War is shit. 
I really like this review.