Nomadland (2021)

 Score: 3 / 5

The problem for me is that it's so boring. I felt similarly about First Cow and Roma, though I only actively hated the latter of those. And I certainly found this movie more interesting, more engaging, and more satisfying than the former. "Slice of life" movies can be important, and Nomadland arguably fits the bill for that distinction. Quiet chamber pieces reflecting on lives on the edge of civilization can be nice, though I prefer horror movies to Wild or Land or similar Oscarbait, which is what this flick certainly is. While its star is digging deep into herself to carry this movie, the rest of it feels voyeuristic and transitory, largely inconsequential despite the growing movement it seeks to unveil and the increasing need for legal and political aid for people forced into this lifestyle.

What lifestyle? That of a nomad, of course. Frances McDormand plays Fern -- although I don't know why they didn't just call her Fran in accordance with the cinema verite style of this picture -- who loses everything. Actually, you could rightfully say everything has been taken from her, as the film's beginning describes how once the manufacturing plant in rural Nevada closed, the town quickly became a ghost town. In half a year, its zip code was eliminated. It was the company that employed Fern and her late husband for many years, so she sells everything and buys a van as her home. Quite alone, she hits the road in pursuit of seasonal work in the wide plans of the American West. Typical for movies starring McDormand -- is it her talent that shines through, or her choice of roles, or a result of rare, brilliant typecasting -- the film focuses tightly on an unusual kind of person for movie subjects. More importantly, given the increasing polarization of wage gaps in this country, this movie is at once fiercely political and hauntingly poetic.

During her travels across sometimes bleak, often deserted landscapes, Fern connects occasionally with a community of nomads. That is to say, with communities of nomads, sometimes finding familiar faces at seemingly random sites and often making new friends. And while the people seem to know they may never meet again, their interactions are not shallow. Sometimes they barely talk, if their business with each other is transactional: bartering for goods, networking for jobs, offering advice on living well out of your vehicle. But as they sit by a fire, share canisters of water and pots of food, conversation dives much deeper than casual small talk. These people know how to really connect with strangers in ways most of us living in towns and cities, attached to social media, with filled schedules and no room for adjustment will never understand.

This came across to me quite clearly as a result of the film's unflinching desire to understand Fern's adopted (or forced) lifestyle. She seems to drift at times, and at other times her drive is infectious. She's often alone but doesn't seem to deserve pity. Though she's of course sad, about many things, she rarely shows it, preferring to simply live the life she's determined to eke out. Director and writer Chloe Zhao has no interest in forcing this character into dramatic tumult or stretching an otherwise honest portrayal into sensationalism. It's an exercise in empathy, and so it is only fitting that McDormand -- even more nuanced than usual, which is extraordinary -- is her star. She always imbues her briefest of scenes with history and pain and curiosity and strength, but with the slightest of looks; it's calculated, make no mistake, but so are the many ways she counters any ingrained attempt to "act" or, heaven forfend, overact. People will call her performance raw and earthy, but that's not to say it isn't stunningly smart.

I do wonder, though, how much (if any) of the film was unscripted. So many of Fern's interactions with fellow nomads feel improvised. Not in a showy way, but truly unrehearsed and perhaps unwritten. Knowing that many people filmed are actual nomads, not actors, increases my suspicions. Apart from that, though, is the beautiful weight these people add to what must be the film's primary conceit: a simple reminder of how large and wide our country is, and how many people live and work in places we often forget make up a huge swath of our geography. Each of these people, like Fern, have a story to tell, probably many, and how few of them are heard any measurable distance from their little, moving communities. It's sad, I suppose, especially in our viewing of it, filtered as it is through Fern's grief and loss. But this is not a tragedy, and it's not an example of a "woman takes off to discover herself" film. It just exists. Which is why it is often so transcendentally beautiful and so frustratingly dull at the same time.