Written and directed by Jane Campion
Starring Benedict Cumberbatch, Kirsten Dunst, Jesse Plemmons, and Kodi Smit-McPhee
Rated R for brief sexual content/full nudity
Runtime: 2 hours, 6 minutes
In theaters November 17, streaming on Netflix December 1

by Ryan Silberstein, Managing Editor, Red Herring

Desire is a core human emotion, yet it has been systematically repressed (at least in Western society) for almost as long as “society” has existed. Contemporary films that portray a longing love in a period setting (Sense and Sensibility, Brokeback Mountain, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, etc. etic.) are a weakness of mine, and one that Jane Campion has exploited before with her previous works The Piano and Bright Star. The Power of the Dog builds on that theme in a few interesting ways, before delivering an unexpected yet satisfying conclusion that reframes the entire picture.

Throughout The Power of the Dog, Campion demonstrates a mastery of story structure and careful reveals of information to her characters as well as the audience. The film opens with a cattle drive sequence led by Phil (Benedict Cumberbatch) and George (Jesse Plemmons) Burbank, and already something is amiss between the two brothers. Phil wants to talk and enjoy the ranch life (as taught to them by a family friend and mentor Bronco Henry). George seems pensive, and lags behind in arriving at their post-drive revelry. At the restaurant run by Rose (Kirsten Dunst), Phil calls out her son Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee) with homophobic language. George lingers behind to settle up and apologize. This sets in motion a courtship that eventually brings Rose to the ranch that the Burbank brothers run on behalf of their parents.

Each of the four main characters contain multiple layers, which add complexity to their relationships with other characters and the environment. Set in Montana (but clearly shot in New Zealand), and mostly on a remote ranch, an outpost with a restaurant and bar/brothel, and the largest nearby city, the film sets these characters in a somewhat isolated environment. Even though they live in open country, there is not much opportunity for escape or privacy. Adding to the complexity is that each of the characters has at least two natures to them. George wants to appear composed and educated, aiming to fit in with “society.” Rose wants to survive, be a good wife and mother, all while hiding a coping mechanism that she may be using to deal with the grief of losing her previous husband so young. Peter may seem the most straightforward, but his patient observation of the world around him sees his relationships to the other characters evolve the most. Phil, however, is maybe the most unexpected of all. His outward rugged nature is not merely a facade, since he seems to enjoy his chosen life, but it occludes multiple sides of him buried as far down as he can. We learn he is highly educated, and yet hides that to better fit into his chosen image, and his sexuality is highly repressed, only enjoyed in stolen private moments.

We never learn the origin of Phil’s choices, though the film’s 1920s setting alone offers enough suggestions. Relationships between all of these characters, however, are changed as they learn about each other, and Campion brings the audience along for the ride–so we also track who knows what about everyone else. At its core, The Power of the Dog frames desire and longing as humans wanting to learn about each other, but not always being able to reconcile new information with our existing impression of someone else. This can be positive or negative. Information can make someone more or less sympathetic, or can be used to gain leverage.

None of that scripting would hold together if it wasn’t for the mostly exceptional performances by the four leads. Benedict Cumberbatch gives his career best performance as Phil, imbuing him with a humanity that peeks out from behind his standoffish and superior demeanor. Where he has often been too icy, as more of Phil is shown to us, the more the fire inside him is visible behind his layers of self-protection. He is a man who maybe has only fully accepted two other people–his brother George, and his deceased mentor Bronco Henry–and at the beginning of The Power of the Dog we see him sense that his brother is pulling away from him in order to forge a new identity. With that loss, that fire is almost entirely fueled by self-hatred. Phil is someone constantly on guard, and projecting an air of relaxed confidence that only rarely tips in the direction of obvious misdirection away from his inner nature. He commands every room he is in, yet Cumberbatch’s eyes are constantly looking around the room, modulating this performance in every moment, ensuring he doesn’t slip. Rose presents a threat to his control, as well to that of the masculine energy of the ranch, while Peter may represent a temptation for him. Either way, the status quo is changing, and so Phil tests them until he understands how he can best render their effect on his world inert, never even considering the idea that they could accept parts of himself that he cannot.

The Power of the Dog turns on Phil, but Rose and Peter are also given enough of their own storylines where we see how their dynamics change with each other character in the story. Humans can try and change the world to suit their desires, or change their desires in reaction to the world around them. Phil chooses the former because his desires feel immutable and overwhelming when released. Rose is merely trying to survive and not lose herself, while Peter attempts to assert himself as an adult in an unfamiliar environment while not losing his goal of following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a doctor.

The most confusing aspect upon first viewing may be Jonny Greenwood’s score. The string arrangements build to a warning underscoring so much of the film’s early scenes with dread long before the story turns threatening. Many of these highlight Phil’s terse comments, as he is as efficient cutting with words as he is with a knife. But the wilds of Montana offer other threats as well, and the sometimes incongruous score suggests those dangers are just under the surface. But it also serves to keep us alert, searching the beautifully-composed frames for the slightest foreshadowing of where this story is headed.

Jane Campion trusts audiences with this tale’s secrets, and the ending forces all but the most attentive viewers to reconsider all of the moments that lead there. Upon reflection, Campion’s emphasis on small moments–a shared cigarette, the texture of a leather hide, the sound of a banjo or piano, the wind rushing over the hills–evokes the way memories work, allowing us to piece together a narrative from even the most disparate of events. When those things lock into place in our minds, it feels like a eureka moment, our desire for explanation is satisfied. But when we really think back to those small moments, we can also imagine how things could have gone slightly differently, creating a divergent timeline in our own past. The real secret is that those small, often wordless, moments contain so much possibility in their delicate existence–and how often does fear shape what happens next? Several times in The Power of the Dog, Phil stares toward the hills beyond the ranch. While many characters theorize and ask what he is looking at, that moment is truly only shared with one other character. Phil never outright shares that part of himself, and his own self-hatred keeps him locked inside a prison of his own making, even as he tells himself he is free.