The Power of the Dog is a country drama that reaches back to filmmaking basics with great success, thanks to the skill and patience of its director, Jane Campion. Invoking picturesque masterpieces like Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven (1978) while at the same time injecting contemporary rage and torment, Campion has given us a revision to frontier mythos: the big tough cowboy, it turns out, maybe wasn’t so tough after all. Considering American cinema’s continued lionization of the John Waynes and Clint Eastwoods who played such characters with one-dimensional charisma, that’s an original and useful artistic statement.
The actor charged with showing us the dark, damaging side of that Western stoicism is Benedict Cumberbatch, and he’s the right man for the job. When brother George (Jesse Plemons) presumes to ask Phil Burbank (Cumberbatch) to wash up before some distinguished guests arrive for dinner, it takes him several minutes to get the words out, so scared is he (and everyone) of Phil’s reaction to being even the slightest bit insulted. It occurred to me watching this scene that I’ve never actually seen Clint Eastwood live anywhere (not permanently, anyway), nor thought about, if he did, what his housemates would think of him.
The main target of Phil’s meanness is George’s new wife Rose (Kirsten Dunst), who succumbs to alcoholism and infirmity under Phil’s ferocious psychological warfare. But why is he doing this? Why can’t he stand to have her in the house? Early on he professes that he’s taking a stand against her supposed gold digging, but no one’s buying that.
The answer, rather, appears to lie in revelations about the nature of Phil’s relationship with his deceased mentor, Bronco Henry. Rose, it seems, is a reminder to Phil of what he had, what he lost, and what he can never have again. He’s Yale educated (it’s pointedly emphasized) and thus free to make a living elsewhere, but he wants to be alone with his thoughts on this ranch, and Rose has unwittingly invaded the isolation he’s crafted for himself. In this portrayal, then, the stoicism of the Western hero doesn’t lead to loneliness, as The Searchers (1956) or Unforgiven (1992) would have it; rather, stoicism is an intentional technique to preserve loneliness—for reasons likely dark and ugly.
Campion only falters in her final act, when Rose’s son Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee) becomes the focal point. This isn’t quite up to par with the rest of the film, partly because Peter, who is awkward and skinny—the cowboys yell “faggot,” in case the perception wasn’t clear—isn’t as compelling a character as Phil or Rose. Mostly, though, it’s because the hard logic of Peter’s plan departs from the unruly emotional torment that had dominated the earlier sections and provided the main interest of the film. Campion, I think, knows her material is weaker here, judging by the rushed pace of the last few minutes: she knows Phil was more interesting when he was running the show.
Overall, I’m a fan of this movie: what critic wouldn’t be? It delivers on the technical merits—acting, cinematography, structure of screenplay—, it has interesting symbolism (Bronco Henry taught Phil how to ride…and how to do other things), and it looks toward classic films for inspiration while providing interesting criticism of those same films.
I have my qualms: the weaker final act, why George disappeared for nearly the entire film, why Rose was able to access a seemingly unlimited supply of whiskey, why Phil didn’t take revenge for Peter discovering his hideout. But most of these are minor complaints. The Power of the Dog is old school, character-based filmmaking from a thoughtful and experienced director.
— Jim Andersen
For more movie reviews, check out my review of Belfast.