Some films so persuasively blur the line between fiction and reality, that the result feels less like fabricated drama, and more like a documentary.
 |
| Fern (Frances McDormand) and Dave (David Strathairn) enjoy a rare hearty meal while taking in the wonders of South Dakota's Badlands National Park. |
Zhao’s film is adapted from Jessica Bruder’s 2017 non-fiction book of the same title: itself a sly blend of character study and undercover journalism. Although this cinematic translation is anchored by Academy Award winner Frances McDormand — as a fictitious character — most of the supporting players are true nomads with no prior acting experience.
Which makes the performances that Zhao coaxes from them, all the more stunning. It’s damn near impossible to capture true authenticity on camera, because novices tend to be too self-conscious, too aware of “posing.” What Zhao and cinematographer Joshua James Richards have done here, is nothing short of remarkable.
The story opens on an actual event: the sad fate of Empire, Nevada, a tiny mining community run by U.S. Gypsum since 1948. In the wake of the recession, the company closed its gypsum plant in January 2011, eliminating all jobs for the local residents. By the end of that year, Empire had become a modern-day ghost town, having lost even its Zip Code (89405).
Fern (McDormand) is hit harder than most, her husband having died from a lingering disease. In a heartbeat, then, she has lost her entire world: her job, her soul mate, her neighbors, her very community.
Dismayed by how the “stuff” of a failed American dream has lost its significance, Fern limits her world to whatever can be stuffed into her white Ford Econoline van, which then becomes her home. She’s reasonably resourceful, fabricating and adding all manner of cupboards, compartments and folding counters that are both cleverly functional and somewhat cozy.
“I’m not homeless,” she insists tartly, during a chance encounter with a former neighbor. “I’m just house-less.”
It’s December; Fern has signed up for seasonal work at an Amazon fulfillment center, which comes with campground facilities that compensate for her van’s lack of running water and, well, anything approaching a bathroom. She befriends co-worker Linda May: Fern’s first encounter with a veteran “nomad.”
(Zhao’s obvious devotion to authenticity notwithstanding, it’s an eyebrow lift when Fern’s stint at the fulfillment center is depicted as pleasantly satisfying, with plenty of bonding, but not even a whiff of the exploitatively hard labor and exhaustingly long hours. Clearly, that wasn’t an element of the story Zhao wished to tell, so we must let it slide.)
The Amazon job concludes in January, with the freezing-cold winter now a tangible problem, and no other jobs to be had. After a few life-threatening days, Fern accepts Linda May’s offer to join a cluster of nomads who gather each winter at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous in warmer Quartzsite, Arizona. The congregation is run by veteran nomad Bob Wells (who in 2018 would co-found Home on Wheels, a nonprofit nomad support group).
Aside from gaining essential survival and self-sufficiency tips — such as the all-important “Five Gallon Bucket Lesson” — Fern makes a few more friends: notably Swankie and Dave (David Strathairn).
A pattern slowly develops, as Ferns slides through a series of seasonal jobs: host at a campsite in South Dakota’s Badlands National Park; kitchen staff at Wall Drug (in the town of Wall, S.D.), known for its donuts, photo ops and tourist tchotchkes; a beet harvest in Nebraska.
Fern, Linda May, Swankie and Dave drift in and out of each other’s orbits, during these stopovers. As Wells explains, during his spotlight moment in this saga, nomads never say goodbye; it’s always “See you down the road.” Because that’s often true.
I was suddenly reminded of director Terence Malick’s lovely 1978 film, Days of Heaven, with its depiction — set in 1916, in the Texas Panhandle — of the nomadic “gypsy” farm workers who hopped freight trains to travel from one seasonal harvesting job to the next.
Here we are, an entire century later, and some things haven’t changed: notably the fact that “progress” continues to elude major chunks of the American populace.
Zhao’s increasingly poignant film is built from dozens of achingly touching little moments. A stand-out is Swankie’s calm assertion that her life has been filled with wonder: none better than rafting down a river, and watching, awe-struck, as hundreds of swallows dart in and out of their cliffside nests, babies hatching and discarded egg shells drifting like snow onto the water.
It’s one of the most impressively touching monologues I’ve ever seen in a film, because Swankie is so matter-of-fact and sincere. We understand, in that moment, how people can be wholly satisfied by things that have nothing to do with “stuff.”
Equally moving: Fern’s brief visit with her sister Dolly (Melissa Smith) and her family, at their comfortable California home. Zhao has an equally accurate ear for the way siblings interact; a revealing conversation between Fern and Dolly is almost painfully intimate.
Sad stories shared around a campfire, one evening, also have the ring of authenticity.
Not every encounter is weighted, or “heavy.” Fern’s chance meeting with a young “traveler” named Derek — a slightly different lifestyle — is sweet, both for his untroubled ingenuousness, and for the way Zhao’s script manages a deft full-circle gesture, following earlier events.
The always enjoyable Strathairn adds mild levity and aw-shucks charm as Dave: quick to grin, eager to be a friend, but not quite able to handle his own mental baggage.
McDormand capably, instinctively anchors this saga. Fern blossoms from a resolute but initially naïve nomad, to a seasoned veteran who — ultimately — can’t imagine any other lifestyle. She quietly revels in the natural wonders she encounters, from the majesty of a redwood forest, to getting (temporarily) lost in the Badlands, to the pounding ocean surf along California’s coastline.
McDormand makes us believe. At first blush, we can’t help feeling that Fern is out of her mind; the loneliness seems overwhelming, as she celebrates the New Year by herself, wearing a silly tiara and waving a lone sparkler. But as the weeks and months pass, and Fern settles into this lifestyle, McDormand’s sideways glances and perky smiles denote peace.
That said, memories can’t be obliterated; and people who have very little, place extreme importance on what they do possess (as becomes clear, during a devastating moment with Dave).
This film’s often dour atmosphere aside — you’ll find no soggy sentimentality here — the underlying tension is equally unsettling; we keep waiting for things to go wrong. This isn’t a casual viewing experience.
Ludovico Einaudi’s piano-based score deftly complements this narrative, often heightening emotional impact with soft, single notes and simple chords.
Zhao’s talented touch notwithstanding, her film won’t be embraced by everybody. Some will find it slow, too “alien,” even too depressing.
The latter would be missing the point, because — more than anything else — Nomadland celebrates the triumph of the human spirit, and the satisfaction resulting from unashamedly embracing an alternate lifestyle.
No comments:
Post a Comment