Rick Alverson truly embodies the idea of outsider art – his films have digressed so far from anything even remotely understandable or normal, and extend further from the very definitions of independent filmmaking, defying even the most transgressive of filmmakers. Yet, his work is always so astute and brilliant and demonstrates an individual with one of the most profoundly strange but noteworthy artistic voices, someone who has never faltered from his dedication to providing the contemporary cinematic landscape with a great deal of bewildering but fascinating character studies. His most recent film is The Mountain, a cold and bleak drama that foregoes any semblance of logic or narrative cohesion in its endeavour to be as polarizing a film as it can be. It is not an easy film at all – it has virtually no approachability, and is just about as pleasant as the most unsettling of nightmares. Yet, it is a beautiful and poetic film that conveys a certain message through a combination of gorgeous cinematography, a meditative story of loss and the process of grief, and a small ensemble of actors given fascinating characters and bringing them to life through the careful curation of Alverson’s directorial vision. The Mountain is an extremely uncomfortable, and often impenetrable film, but one that transports us to an uncanny version of our world, in an era that has never been presented with such disconcerting clarity, allowing us to see life in a stark and very different manner, and delving deeper into the human psyche than any film has ever dared to do.

Set in the 1950s, The Mountain follows the story of Andy (Tye Sheridan), who lost his mother after a nervous breakdown put her in a mental hospital, and recently was orphaned when his father (Udo Kier) unexpectedly dies. Without any direction in life, the young man is uncertain as to what the future holds. His salvation (or so he thinks) comes in the form of Dr Wallace Fiennes (Jeff Goldblum), a world-renowned psychiatrist who has developed a method of curing mental illness, which is apparently effective enough as it erases all traces of the various psychological and behavioural afflictions that persist throughout society, and can allow the most psychotic of individuals to lead ordinary and functional lives. However, we soon learn his method is that of lobotomizing patients, leaving them in near-childlike states, which does change their behaviour, but not for the better. Empathetic to the young man’s plight, Fiennes gives him the opportunity to accompany him on a tour of the Pacific Northwest as his personal photographer, as they meander through the various working-class towns, where he visits various hospitals and mental institutions, on a promotional tour of his method, which is rapidly falling out of favour through the advent of more humane and effective treatment options. Along the way, the two men strike up a very strange friendship – Andy finds an unconventional paternal figure in Fiennes, whose reserved and dour demeanour conceals an apparently caring and sympathetic soul who, despite everything, just wants to help those who need it. However, Andy soon learns that retreating from the past does not mean it can’t follow you on the same path, and there is no way to run away from your problems when they are too big to ignore.

The Mountain is a very difficult film to discuss – Alverson is not a film director particularly known for making the most straightforward films, and in his transition from neo-realism to metamodernism, he seemed to develop a tendency to dismantle all narrative conventions, opting for something far more unique, but also unquestionably difficult. The best way to describe The Mountain is as a film that wasn’t designed to be particularly easy to follow – it isn’t a series of vignettes, and there is a general progression of a story underlining the film, enough to give it some semblance of a plot. The difficulty comes in trying to discern exactly what the director was trying to say with this film – it isn’t that there is much happening throughout the film, with it taking the form of an almost repetitive series of events, with the only difference being the changing locations and the shifting mental state of the major characters. It flows with a dreamlike stream-of-consciousness through the arid Pacific Northwest, where we are immersed, just like the characters, in a world of tall trees, wooden cabins and quiet corridors, where something deeper seems to be lurking just out of frame, threatening to invade the uncomfortable illusion of disquieting peace that pulsates throughout the film. The Mountain is a film that makes sense, even if it doesn’t appear that way, but rather that Alverson’s approach is one that vehemently disregards traditions, and chooses to go on its own path of almost chaotic tranquillity, where the sedate and calming beauty of this film stands in stark contrast with the often horrifying implications of what is occurring before us.

This speaks directly to Alverson’s various merits as a filmmaker, as despite the fact that his films possess a certain demented discomfort, he never seeks to upset the audience, but still understands the provocative potential that can be found in films that challenge the viewer to reconsider something a lot deeper than what we normally experience. The Mountain, much like Alverson’s two previous films that fall within this framework of metamodern drama (The Comedy and Entertainment) is an exercise in restraint and implication – the director does not avoid the harsh reality of what he is depicting – the events of this film are certainly very uncomfortable due to how hyper-realistic they are, with the simple approach preventing any excess from being portrayed, keeping everything extremely simple and unquestionably authentic. There isn’t a single moment in The Mountain, even when it is visually stunning, that isn’t entirely genuine. This is a new form of realism – one that does not set out to depict the trials and tribulations of everyday folk, with the characters in The Mountain being extracted from the deepest recesses of nightmarish surrealism, but transplanted into a very recognizable world, one that is extraordinarily striking, not necessarily because of how well Alverson manages to represent the minutiae of everyday life, but also through how this film oscillates between the worlds of reality and invention.

In realizing his unconventional vision, Alverson employs an ensemble of eclectic performers to bring life to his strange and enigmatic characters. Tye Sheridan takes on the leading role of Andy, a young man whose psychological trauma eventually turns into physical catatonia. He is someone who suffers a tragic loss and is left without any direction in life, having to rely on the kindness of strangers to get by. We never learn much about Andy, yet we feel as if we know him intimately – his struggle is one that no one should ever have to endure, and his metaphysical journey is conveyed with such heartfelt brilliance by one of this generation’s finest young actors. It is a very reserved, internalized performance, but one that makes great use of Sheridan’s exceptional talents, and his ability to construct an empathetic character from very little. However, the effectiveness of this film relies on a set of supporting performances by two actors I had never thought would cross paths. Denis Lavant has a small but extremely memorable role as Jack, a seemingly ordinary working-class man whose daughter is suffering from an unnamed mental illness and who seeks help from any source. We soon learn that he himself is far from functional, and his own mental state is called into question. Lavant’s animalistic intensity plays a major part in developing this character, who goes from a warm and endearing presence, into a terrifying embodiment of working-class ennui. This physically-intense performance is contrasted by Jeff Goldblum, who once again proves himself to be the best part of a film, and giving one of his very best performances as a doctor struggling to stay relevant. Goldblum may have developed into an almost folkloric figure through his easygoing personality and his idiosyncratic charisma that has made him an almost universally adored presence – but its a film like The Mountain that proves that he is still an astoundingly great actor, and in his most serious role in over a decade, Goldblum finds the humanity in a character that would otherwise be nothing more than a deplorable villain, with this archetype being repurposed to play upon the actor’s natural strengths, and to make great use of his unique style, making it one of the year’s most extraordinary performances, and one that sees Goldblum taking on a character with an unexpected amount of depth and nuance. It may be a slightly smaller role than it could’ve been, but Goldblum is astonishing, making great use of his unique talents to portray this man who is from another time, and whose entire existence is a blend of empathy and selfishness, preventing the audience (as well as the other characters) from ever knowing if he is someone who wants to help others, or just exploit them for his own personal gain.

In The Mountain, Alverson presents us with a vision of the 1950s that is rarely ever displayed with such strange certainty. This is not the image we are used to – the exuberant music, bright colours and upbeat atmosphere of the post-war years are entirely absent from the film, and replaced with dull, muted colours and a sense of angst. The film is beautifully-composed, but instead of containing the artifice that other films set in this era thrive on, it has a far more laborious challenge, in its realization of the American Dream in a way that is authentic and real, without misleading the audience to believe there is some hope underpinning this film. Through combining the earnest Americana of the likes of Norman Rockwell and the stilted, nightmarish surrealism of David Lynch, Alverson presents us with a dark and deceptive view of an era that is portrayed as being far more positive than it is here. Undeniably stylish and beautifully filmed (the work of cinematographer Lorenzo Hagerman, whose previous films were equally as stark and distinctive), The Mountain is a film of contradictions – the audience is constantly conflicted as to what to feel, as every time we are pushed away by the cold and harrowing subject matter, we are drawn back in by the extraordinary beauty, with very few films ever having such an unconventionally hypnotic aesthetic, and embracing its offbeat nature with such resilient enthusiasm, never being anything less than a mesmerizing journey into the depths of the human spirit. It takes an artist with an enormous amount of confidence to make something so bewildering, but if anyone was going to dare to make a psychological drama about Jeff Goldblum conducting lobotomies to the working-class. set in post-World War II American, its Alverson, who proves himself as one of the most essential voices in contemporary independent film.

The Mountain is an experience like no other. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t need to, because its intention (whatever it may be), is far more potent than anything a more traditional director would make with the same material. In this film, Alverson takes a pensive glance at a panoply of themes – mental illness is the governing concept of the film, and the impetus from which the director is able to make this polarizing but poetic exploration of the human condition. It is a raw and uncomfortable character-driven drama that takes its story very seriously but is not afraid to openly defy the narrative conventions that prevent more films from possessing the reckless brilliance of this film. Executed with elegance and precision, it is a disconcerting investigation into a haunting moment in history. It is a film that leaves the viewer teetering dangerously close on our own psychological crises – in many ways, this is the closest we have to a cinematic representation of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, lacking the colour but retaining the existential dread and deeply unsettling angst, as well as the uncomfortably peaceful tranquillity with surrendering yourself to the nihilism of existence. It is a bold, daring film, and while it may be far from perfect, this is the kind of complex, meaningful work that makes cinema so worthwhile, and capable of saying everything many other artworks struggle to articulate with nearly as much resonance.