The western genre is no stranger to explorations of the male psyche and the destructive nature of masculinity, but rarely have these themes manifested so beautifully and viciously as they do in Jane Campion’s The Power of the Dog. What begins as a story of sibling jealousy in the vein of Steinbeck’s East of Eden seamlessly morphs to incorporate an extremely tense familial power struggle augmented by psychological abuse and shame-driven toxicity. This richly layered story unfolds with a meticulous eye toward the unspoken, relying instead on cleverly revealed clues and subtle shifts in facial expressions that may or may not betray motives. The Power of the Dog is a breathtaking piece of cinema, and is not only Campion’s best work since The Piano (1993), but also features the best performance of Benedict Cumberbatch’s career.
Set against a harsh backdrop of hyper-masculine frontier life on the verge of the Great Depression, The Power of the Dog is a masterclass in hiding explosive truths just below the surface of mean-spirited wordplay. It’s a film full of secrets, yet hides nothing if you’re paying enough attention to the indicative dialogue, the faces of the actors, and the way in which they interact with each other. To this end, Campion resists the urge to use flashbacks or Oscar-bait explainers meant to yank emotional responses from us, or to ensure her audience are all boarding the emotional and interpretative train at the same time. Instead, she calmly and coolly trusts us to put the pieces of her exposition-lite story together for ourselves and let the chips fall where they may. As a result, what each viewer takes away from the film may be different, allowing for unique interpretations dependent on personal experiences. This kind of filmmaking is a rare treat indeed.
In 1925, brothers Phil and George Burbank (Cumberbatch and Jesse Plemmons) run a successful cattle ranch in Montana. Their relationship is an ornery one, with combative Phil taking every opportunity to berate and insult his much more mild-mannered and soft-spoken brother. Phil is fond of lamenting the days and years he spent under the tutelage of “Bronco” Henry, a cowhand made legend in his own mind, and pointing out just how little George takes after the great man. On a routine cattle drive into a nearby town, Phil begins to lambaste Peter, the teenage son of restaurant owner Rose (Kodi Smit-McPhee and Kirsten Dunst), for the way he talks and for his “unmanly” gait. The barbs are heartless, but serve as the opening we need to discover the type of man Phil is, and why.
Thus begins an anxious and emotional battle between Phil and nearly everyone else in his life. His abuses are never physical, but take a physical toll on those he sees as a threat to the power structure he has so carefully built. But it isn’t about just power and who has it, as it’s clear Phil has deeper reasons for his torments. When he eventually takes on Peter as a protege of sorts, we begin to see a different side of both through their teacher/student relationship, but can still only guess at motives. As the climax approaches, it’s unclear just how much the power dynamic has shifted (if at all) until it all comes to a head in the most devious and sinister of ways. And even then, only the film’s Biblical title and an irresistibly subtle smile can offer any real certainty about what we’ve just witnessed (which in turn brings up questions about past events previously hinted at by certain players) and begs us to question if outward machismo has anything whatsoever to do with inner strength and resolve.
James is a writer, skateboarder, record collector, wrestling nerd, and tabletop gamer living with his family in Asheville, North Carolina. He is a member of the Southeastern Film Critics Association, the North Carolina Film Critics Association, and contributes to The Daily Orca, Razorcake Magazine, Mountain Xpress, and Asheville Movies.