Ever since getting my heartstrings expertly plucked last week by the sappy "We Bought A Zoo," I've been giving serious thought to the notion of emotional manipulation via moving picture. It's arguably art's job to make us feel something, but when agenda trumps honesty and the seams start to show, that's where it gets problematic, because no one likes to feel used. Perhaps all that reflection was to ready myself for what I knew would be the melodramatic assault of Steven Spielberg's "War Horse," a surprisingly unengaging World War I epic by a typically shrewd storyteller whose past efforts ("E.T.," "Schindler's List," "Saving Private Ryan," etc.) hint at a secret controlling interest in Kleenex, Inc. Long story short, I spent the first two hours of "War Horse" bored to tears, and the last 30 minutes bathed in them.

Breathtaking flyover shots of the English countryside open "War Horse," which drops in on a stubborn Devon farmer (the peerless Peter Mullan) who pays too much money for a spirited horse that no one believes can pull a plow. But even though the man's equally headstrong son Albert (Jeremy Irvine, dewy and dull) patiently finds a way to coax the best out of the smart pony he calls Joey, the family is forced to sell the animal, and Joey winds up in the British cavalry, destined for service in the Great War. Thus begins Joey's odyssey across France as others attempt to lay claim to the horse, a charismatic animal who acts as the common thread among those trying to comprehend the bizarre practice of human beings killing each other to prove a point.

So it's that classic road-movie construction with the added (yet conspicuously bloodless) gravity of war, as well as the benefit of spectacular photography from master cinematographer Janusz Kaminski. Though without a truthful, well-developed character to guide us, it's difficult to care. Of course we encounter some compelling souls, like the sad-eyed British captain (Tom Hiddleston, Loki from "Thor"), the naïve German soldier Gunther (David Kross, "The Reader"), and the kindly French grand-père (leonine Gallic treasure Niels Arestrup, "A Prophet"). But because our time with them is too brief for any real dramatic investment, their ultimate fates barely register. And Albert, who resurfaces in the continental trenches in the hunt for his horse, may be the weakest character of all, his obsession with Joey a little too hardcore for empathy.

But just as I was ready to write off "War Horse" as tedious baby-boomer Oscar bait, trading on our dual love of both cute critters and Hollywood nostalgia, Spielberg shanked me with what I'll call the barbed-wire scene. From then on it was so-called enemies putting aside their differences, improbable reunions, and miracle recoveries, all as I perched on the edge of my seat to let my tears pelt the floor. How can you defend against that emotional onslaught? Should you? Or are you supposed to be cool with an artist pulling out every cheap, dubious stop in the name of a wistfully ever after? Recognizing that his "War Horse" is an adaptation of Michael Morpurgo's 1982 novel, my issue with Spielberg has long been his refusal to acknowledge anything but the black and the white, when it's the greys that shade the most vivid art.