The concept of masculinity is always a challenging one for me. I grew up pretty scrawny, and still kind of am. Like most kids who were built a little differently, I was bullied, though I never got it as badly as some. There’s something about this strange, primal urge towards whatever we consider manliness that rockets us towards an unfortunate tribalism. This tribalism strikes those affected by it into abject fear, even leading to spaces driven by homophobia and transphobia. Jane Campion’s new film for Netflix, The Power of the Dog (adapted from the Thomas Savage novel), interrogates that ongoing power dichotomy.
Phil Burbank (an absolutely incandescent Benedict Cumberbatch) is a real son of a bitch. He and his brother George (Jesse Plemons, the two least likely brothers that I’ve ever seen) are wealthy cattle rustlers at the turn of the century. Phil is the domineering one, quick to anger, and taking out whatever his current frustrations are on the easiest target. George is as quiet, kind and as responsible as Phil is reckless. During their travels, they both stay at an inn run by widowed mother Rose Gordon (Kirsten Dunst) and her exceedingly shy son Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee). A brief overture of the entire dynamic of this soon to be formalized clan plays itself out, with Phil and his boorish ranch-hands treating Rose and Peter in the most god awful fashion, while George immediately picks up the pieces and forms a relationship with Rose. This leads to a unification of their families through marriage, and everyone’s fate becomes irrevocably sealed.
Once situated in one home, Campion’s domestic drama bears full fruit and paves the way for a number of dynamics, generally centering on the wreckage that Phil bears upon everyone in his wake. There are two central relationships that Phil, like a vampire, drains upon his intended victim. He treats Rose so poorly, to the point of making fun of her piano playing in the most passive aggressive fashion, that it drives her towards the bottle. While with Peter, the interactions between the two are a bit more nuanced. When he returns home for a school break, currently studying to become a surgeon, Phil refers to him as “Little Lord Fauntleroy” among his equally offensive staff, and bullies him to the point that Peter avoids him in daily interactions. Even when Phil makes an effort, the best support he’s able to offer is “Don’t let your mom turn you into a sissy!”
That last point is really the fulcrum of The Power of the Dog’s interest. The film makes no secret of Peter’s homosexuality, though he certainly does not share this with the outside world, perusing male figure model publications in a secret wooden location. It’s Phil’s internal strife that drives not only his burgeoning friendship and even mentorship of Peter, but also may provide some clue as to why he treats the world the way he does. Like a man attempting to light everyone else on fire that comes near him.
Through Cumberbatch, Campion has crafted one of this year’s most fascinating and pitiable figures. A villainous machine of rage, who also has had a life of deep sorrow and likely many years behind him of hiding who he truly is. Maybe. The filmmaker keeps it vague. But watching this all take shape is a big part of the pleasure of the film, along with Cumberbatch providing easily the best performance of his career to date. Long typecast as awkward genius figures, he’s finally allowed to chew into something that indicates a kind of range we’ve never seen from the bass-voiced actor before, the kind of meld of role and actor that completely turns your long-held thoughts on the performer on its head.
It’s also the lushest film in Netflix’s catalog to date, with cinematography provided by Ari Wegner that is so rich and textured, you feel like you can reach out and touch it (at least if you have the opportunity to see it on the big screen, but a pretty picture is a pretty picture regardless of the size). And Jonny Greenwood adds to the atmosphere imbuing those same visuals with the strongest of the three scores he’s composed this year. I haven’t felt this immersed by a western since The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.
All that and an ending that’s deliciously vague enough to leave you pondering character intentions adds up to one of this year’s more sterling efforts and a wonderful return to the limelight for Campion.
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