The Revenant: High Praise, Low Temperature
- Mason Segall
- Jan 20, 2019
- 3 min read
Updated: Jan 22, 2019
Originally written 2/8/2016.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one: a director with an established style and talent tries his hand at copying another director’s clichés and delivers what amounts to an amalgam of the two tastes in a visually stunning but a narrative-lacking film which is carried on the back of a stellar cast. What? Spielberg and Kubrick? Tarantino and Leone? Any indie film director and Anderson?
Yes, it would seem like a director such as Alejandro Iñárritu, the visionary behind such works as 'Babel' and 'Birdman,' would want to continue innovating and evolving his style which has won critical and public acclaim, but instead he attempts what amounts to a Tarantino-level exploitation film with 'The Revenant.' The story follows Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio), a real life frontiersman, who serves as a navigator for a fur trading expedition with his biracial son (Forrest Goodluck), a jaded war vet (Tom Hardy), a wide-eyed moralist (Will Poulter), and a determined bourgeoisie captain (Domhnall Gleeson). After suffering a gory and vicious attack from a bear so fake it might as well have been hand drawn, Glass becomes a liability to the expedition and is left for dead after seeing his son killed. From there, it’s a classic revenge journey where Glass has to overcome his injuries and traverse the winter-struck west while skirting vengeful Ree Native Americans, dastardly French traders, and Pawnee refuges. This results in enough gore to label this film a slasher flick, enough suspension of disbelief to call it a comedy, and enough creative and nonsensical dream sequences that I half-expected to see Sam Rami’s name in the end credits.
It sounds like a straightforward adventure film, but Iñárritu plays it surprisingly slow, with brief bursts of action breaking long, drawn-out development moments. This pacing feels out of place and disrupts the flow of the narrative too many times for it not to be distracting. The atmosphere as well is fascinatingly incorrect, it makes the villain’s motivation feel hollow and unnecessary. However, where the film fails in atmosphere and development, it excels in amazing actors. DiCaprio has maybe 30 lines to him in the whole movie, but each one drips with his pain and loss, making every grunt of effort feel earned. His bloody, ruined body reveals only a part of his story, his face tells the rest in a way no other actor could.
Hardy is dispassionate and nihilistic as John Fitzgerald, but because his villainy is seemingly arbitrary, he isn’t given room to really play with the role. Still, his presence is commanding and his intensity makes him a proper foil to DiCaprio. Poulter’s star has been steadily rising in recent years and this is a definitive big step on his ladder. He has a talent for finding extremes in his performance and then gauging the spectrum between them. This is also Goodluck’s big screen debut and he makes a powerful first impression that I hope to see in the future. Gleeson has shown distinct talent in the past, and he clearly exemplifies it here, but his role is too bland to make a fine meal out of. Nonetheless, he manages to make a minor role memorable, which is harder to do than it sounds.
The film’s true selling point is its cinematography. It was filmed using entirely natural lighting, a feat that would seem impossible, but gives the film an earthy, natural look that I can’t say I’ve ever seen before. It must have been insanely frustrating to film, but the results speak for itself as the wide tracking shots across the American mid-west are as realistic as they could possibly be. It looks fantastic and it complements Iñárritu’s slow pans and flowing shots perfectly. However, it’s not quite enough of a shine to distract from the clichéd plot and moments that demand a significant lapse in faith. The spectacular cast keeps us interested, but the lack of a believable plot, gratuitous gore, and the vague déjà-vu left over from 'Hateful Eight' makes it difficult to lose oneself in the experience. Sorry Iñárritu, but we’ll always have 'Birdman.' 3/5.
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