Nomadland, 2020.
Co-written and directed by Chloé Zhao.
Starring Frances McDormand, David Strathairn, Linda May, Charlene Swankie, and Bob Wells.
SYNOPSIS:
Follows a woman in her sixties who, after losing everything in the Great Recession, embarks on a journey through the American West, living as a van-dwelling modern-day nomad.
Chloé Zhao’s third feature comfortably catapults her into the A-list of feeling-rich, empathetic filmmakers capable of rendering far-flung stories wholly intimate and relatable. Aided by the efforts of a rarely-better Frances McDormand, Nomadland – adapted from Jessica Bruder’s acclaimed 2017 novel – is a towering monument to the multi-faceted means by which people can forge their path through life.
McDormand’s protagonist is Fern, a widowed middle-aged woman who lost her home when the small Nevada town where she lived shut down its sheetrock plant in early 2011. And so, by existential necessity, Fern opts to live out of a van as she traverses the American Midwest, fleeting from settlement to settlement while picking up periodic work as needs must.
From minute one, Zhao’s film establishes itself as the furthest thing from a blinkered, romanticised examination of off-the-grid life, opting instead for an observational document of the highs and lows of the nomadic way. Though much is spoken throughout Zhao’s film, those early sections are generally dialogue-sparse, allowing us to soak in the moment-to-moment rigours of such an existence.
The spectre of the Great Recession nevertheless looms large throughout, with Zhao capturing the dusty remnants of semi-abandoned towns, and fleeting, fiery discussions about the absurdity of the modern housing market.
But beyond that, there’s a quietly angry, dignified criticism of a country which, no matter its self-appointment as the “Land of Opportunity,” lacks even basic aspects of a truly free society – namely sufficient social security for those of an age where work shouldn’t even be a consideration. It is a system built to encourage people to work themselves to death before they’ve been able to really enjoy life.
In a telling early scene, Fern – who is far from the movie’s oldest character pining for work – is told she’s better off registering for early retirement because she’s of the age where employers see her as an ineligible lost cause. With Hollywood itself being an industry so thoroughly chided for its lack of opportunities for 60-plus actresses, the commentary runs double whether intended or not.
Fern spends a decent chunk of the film working at an Amazon warehouse, its ominous, illuminated edifice serving as a perverse beacon for those seeking seasonal work. Though it’s natural to expect the company’s presence in the film to come from a deeply critical place, the fact that Amazon agreed to be featured obviously says otherwise; in a surprising moment, Fern even lauds the company for paying her well – though that may be a relative assessment. Any critique Zhao offers up of the soullessness of such employment is naturally more subdued.
Beyond the detritus of the recession, though, the wanderer’s life attracts other sorts; a man living with PTSD who craves peace away from the urban rat-race, and in the film’s most affecting subplot, a cancer-ridden 75-year-old woman, Swankie (Charlene Swankie), who wants to live out the rest of her life on her own terms.
Zhao’s film absolutely paints this life as anything but a picnic – the realities of exiting society mean that a blown tire presents a very real existential risk – yet also brings enormous humanity to a social position many will innately look down upon. In Fern’s interactions with her friends and family from back home, there’s not much acceptance of her way of life, but rather concern for her mental health and assertions that she’s homeless – though Fern’s quick to correct she’s in fact “houseless.”
These societal cast-offs find comfort in one another as they travel the Earth, even as there’s no mistaking the hole that they may leave when abandoning conventional society. Fern is a closed-off, walled-up figure when we first meet her, and frankly remains that way for much of the movie, though well-placed flaws in her armour nevertheless emerge as she warms to those around her, especially a grizzled fellow traveler, David (David Strathairn).
The bulk of Fern’s journey is focused on fleeting hellos and goodbyes, an agony which Fern mostly seems to weather pragmatically, and as one character states late in the film, this free-wheeling life means that there’s never a final goodbye, simply a “see you down the road.”
Moments like this speak to the easy, straight-forward poetry of Zhao’s script, which largely says what it feels and doesn’t overtly concern itself with convoluted, prosaic whimsy. Characters frequently exposit about their live’s lot, but it rarely feels implausible because, per the nature of such a life, Fern and co. are constantly encountering a conveyor-belt of new faces, and have few modern conveniences to distract them from basic human curiosity.
This is all complimented by Zhao’s superbly understated direction, which refuses to draw much attention to itself at all beyond the odd gorgeous, lingering take, and perhaps a third-act homage to John Ford’s The Searchers (you’ll know it when you see it). DP Joshua James Richards’ eye-watering lensing allows the scenery to wrap around Fern and her cohorts, delivering a tribute to America’s enormous geographical diversity as she drives between settlements.
In addition to an inevitable Best Director Oscar nomination, Zhao is also likely to receive a nomination for her own splendid work editing the film, her deeply motivated and precise cuts lending the story much of its snappy pace despite the potential for such a project to meander.
Needless to say, the 108 minutes fly by. Sadly not eligible for an Academy Award, however, is composer Ludovico Einaudi, whose gently goosebump-raising piano score wasn’t actually composed specifically for Nomadland, but is rather a collection of tracks pulled from his 2019 album compendium “Seven Days Walking.”
McDormand is, unsurprisingly, a fantastic, Oscar-worthy lead, wearing pronounced agony on her brow, but also much joy in the face of harsh conditions. She’s prickly and slow to accept help from those around her in the ways McDormand has made an art out of throughout her career, but it’s a simmering portrait of stubborn defiance while residing in a country which evidently doesn’t seem her much worthwhile.
Just as great, though, are the turns by a wholly down-to-Earth supporting cast, composed primarily of non-professional actors cast in roles from the book, and also real-life folk who Zhao stumbled across during production. The veil between reality and fiction is practically invisible for most of these characters – especially Swankie and an older man who shows up in the final stretch to discuss the tragic loss of his son.
Straithairn is also typically strong in his supporting role, depicting a man in the throes of his own pain while enjoying an easy, unforced rapport with McDormand. That Zhao doesn’t deign to romantic cliches with their pairing only makes it all the more rewarding to observe.
Hopeful and human yet bathed in unmistakable melancholy, Nomadland isn’t a film striving to be particularly profound, which is in many ways precisely why it is; it’s non-judgmental and compassionate yet never turns its head away from the bleak realities of a fitful, fidgety life.
It is a film of tender mercies and quiet, sharp observations, one stepped in pain but also a lot of deeply felt joy for the mere act of living, expertly melding fact and fabrication as it does. It is a film that makes you want to get back out there and drink in the world once the pandemic is over, and make the most of whatever time you have left.
Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★ ★
Shaun Munro – Follow me on Twitter for more film rambling.
