*This piece is part of our Critics In Conversation series, where two writers offer different perspectives on the same film. Read Lucia Ruan’s review here.*
The Power of the Dog demands to be seen twice. It’s a slow-burning, subtle film that assumes a great deal of intelligence in its viewers, as writer-director Jane Campion communicates most of the important narrative developments via implication –– including the stunning ending, which completely recontextualizes the entire purpose of the film, and also left me dumbfounded in my seat for a couple minutes until all the pieces clicked together in my head. The entire project builds to its climax with precision and intentionality, so viewers more astute than me will undoubtedly feel it coming. It’s not as flashy or jaw-dropping as the twists on which The Sixth Sense and The Usual Suspects built their reputations, but the movie nonetheless pulls off a narrative magic trick that forces you to play back the entire story in your head as soon as the credits roll.
Like Campion’s debut Sweetie, the film is entirely built on familial relationships that are fraught with tension. Volatile Montana rancher Phil Burbank (Benedict Cumberbatch) torments his more subdued brother George (an underutilized Jesse Plemons), his new wife Rose (Kirsten Dunst), and her son Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee) as they attempt to build a new life together. George seems to resent Phil’s condescending demeanor, while Rose and Peter both despise him for his persistent, casual cruelty. It’s immediately clear that these four cannot happily live under the same roof unless a drastic change occurs. And the film does indeed end with a very drastic change, but not the one you might expect given Campion’s psychosexual sleight of hand. After seeing the director build fascinating films like In the Cut and Holy Smoke around taboo sexual desire (among many other things), you anticipate that the film’s core relationship will climax with the kind of tense consummation that appears throughout her other work, so it’s all the more shocking when it comes to a starkly different conclusion. Until you see it a second time, that is, and you suddenly see that the ending is meticulously foreshadowed to the point where it’s so inevitable that it feels like you’re watching a different movie.
Cumberbatch’s performance is a perplexing one, and probably the one that changes the most between first and second viewing. There’s an uneasy forcedness to everything from his American accent to his macho posturing. He’s the only English actor in the core quartet, and though his six-foot stature should imbue him with a naturally commanding presence, Campion dresses him in big hats, baggy shirts, and billowing pants that accentuate his slim frame instead of his height. He looks like a kid playing dress-up as a cowboy, and his rude ruminations on “real men” and “sissies” feel put-on and performative rather than genuine. It’s fascinating to watch Cumberbatch on second viewing because Phil’s tender, lonely interior is much more recognizable in the first half once you’ve already seen his tryhard masculinity get peeled back in the second. Campion uses his shaky performance to great effect, because even if it’s unintentional on Cumberbatch’s part, he reads as a guarded man who’s determined to fool the world into believing he’s someone that he’s not, which is perfect for Phil’s richly layered character. The director keeps him largely in shadows for many key scenes, and shoots him from every possible close-up angle that emphasizes his almost-reptilian nostrils –– both choices that render him even more mysterious and monstrous.
Smit-McPhee’s presence in the film goes through similar shifts on subsequent viewings, but in a more straightforward way. At first, Peter seems more delicate than his new step-uncle, but quickly reveals that he’s actually much more confident in his mannerisms, interests, and sexuality than anyone else in the film. There are no illusions of repression to his character, as he walks with a light, hip-swiveling swagger so full of self-assurance that you fear for his safety –– the hard-edged homophobes on the ranch don’t take kindly toward even subtle rejections of “traditional” masculinity. On first watch, Smit-McPhee’s character seems charmingly naive as he learns the ropes of the ranching lifestyle. With knowledge of the ending, his inquisitiveness suddenly takes on sinister undertones that seem painfully obvious in retrospect.
Campion frames Dunst with much more empathy. Rose is introduced as a quiet, sensitive widow, and stays more or less the same by the time the movie ends, although she does experience a period of alcoholism that not coincidentally overlaps with the peak of Phil’s cruelty. Dunst might have the fewest lines of the main cast, but Campion puts us in Rose’s corner by placing her in positions that highlight her pain and loneliness. She’s immediately constricted when she moves into the Burbank house, falling victim not only to Phil’s ego but also to her husband’s ignorance. In perhaps the film’s tensest scene, George subjects Rose to a painfully awkward dinner party and pressures her to play the piano in an attempt to impress their houseguests. Campion pays great attention to Dunst’s pained expressions as she tries to politely navigate the discomfort of the evening, holding on her muted reactions as other characters drone on in lifeless conversation, emphasizing her sense of helpless abandonment. The film also ensures that Rose seems out of place in both the dusty exteriors of the ranch and the dark brown interiors of the Burbank manor by costuming her in red and yellow outfits that contrast with the surrounding earth tones.
Campion studied painting before becoming a director, so it should come as no surprise that her compositions are as artful as any active filmmaker. Though her use of color here is decidedly less powerful than in The Piano, the film’s visuals remain essential in developing its mood and themes. Hard-focused close-ups and dramatic lighting heighten the texture of key objects: the stiff fragility of a paper flower, the softness of an old handkerchief, the smooth toughness of a leather rope. In wider angles, Campion employs classical compositions with precisely-placed background figures to direct our attention toward the main characters, effectively using dynamic blocking to make shots that look like paintings. The landscape photography, on the other hand, is quite pretty in isolation but has a glossy sheen to it that doesn’t quite gel with the rest of the film. Perhaps it’s because of the New Zealand location work –– others have insisted that Campion’s home country is a perfect stand-in for Montana, but to me feels more like we’ve traveled to another planet instead of a century back in time.
The Power of the Dog is a tightly-constructed piece of filmmaking that will leave many first-time audiences wondering where the hell it’s going the first time they see it, then will leave second-time viewers wondering how they didn’t see it coming. And it’s so full of rich details, confounding performances, and visual beauty that it’ll remain a powerful work of art long after its narrative magic trick has worn off.