As a cinematic population, we know better than to question Jane Campion or the decisions she makes when he endeavours to produce a film, even if this a surprisingly rare event (which only adds to the mythology surrounding the director, who is often regarded as one of the greatest filmmakers of her generation, her name being synonymous with prestige and impeccable artistic integrity, which she wholeheartedly earned over the years). She stands as one of the most ferociously talented and immensely dedicated artists, someone whose body of work may be relatively small in comparison to many of her contemporaries, but who compensates for it through every one of them being worth watching, even those that are often considered lesser works, such as In the Cut, which still enjoys a cult following. In her first feature film directorial outing in over a decade (with the 2010s only consisting of some fascinating work on two seasons of Top of the Lake, and a few smaller projects on which she served as a producer), Campion adapts The Power of the Dog, the novel by Thomas Savage, which tells the story of two wealthy ranchers in rural Montana, covering a few months in their lives, focusing on their interactions with a variety of characters that find their way in and out of the brothers’ lives, encountering their own challenges when learning of how radically different these two men are. It’s a fascinating character study that guides us through a disorienting version of the world, one that is recognizable when perceived broadly, but becomes increasingly uncanny the more we take note of the details – and the final product is a daring, complex character study that voyages deep into the human condition, and shows us a different side of existence, one that is profoundly disturbing, and entirely riveting.

Despite being written over half a century ago, The Power of the Dog is a novel of considerable esteem even by contemporary standards, since its peculiar and off-kilter view of the early 20th century has captivated readers for decades for a number of reasons. The majority of these are still very much present here in Campion’s adaptation, which makes her decision to helm this retelling of this fascinating story all the more appropriate, since not too many filmmakers can attest to having as wide a perspective as she does, especially when it comes to taking a journey into the past, which she does with the kind of artistic poise that we don’t often find from those who have worked mainly within stories that explore historical periods, moments from the past that may not be particularly noteworthy on a cultural or political scale, but carry merit in how they portray members of a specific society, and their mindsets to issues that are more contemporary than we initially realize. In the case of The Power of the Dog, Savage (and subsequently Campion) are looking at the early 20th century and its approach to sexuality and identity, filtering it through the eyes of two wildly different individuals who are united only by name, and separated by nearly everything else. The original novel is very clearly queer-coded, even if it isn’t all that explicit in its discussions of one of the characters’ sexual identity, and how he navigates a heteronormative world – and if there was ever going to be a filmmaker who could produce something that is the perfect collision of historical narrative and socio-cultural commentary, it would be Campion, whose work is always conscious of both the standards of the period in which the story takes place, and the time in which the film is being made. It’s difficult to imagine anyone other than Campion managing to make this film, especially in how it combines many different thematic components under one coherent, compelling story.

The Power of the Dog is a story that seems both aligned with Campion’s sensibilities, and wildly divergent – for one, it is the first time she made a film centred mainly on male characters, after several decades of stories focused on female protagonists. It is also her most American film, with the story of the rural, pre-Great Depression years not necessarily being something we’d expect from a filmmaker who shed a considerable light on many different cultures, particularly in her native Oceania. However, The Power of the Dog is also very much the kind of film that Campion would be fully invested in telling, as it is a complex character study taking place in a bygone era, set in a world that the director is extremely interested in exploring. It looks at different aspects of the social milieu, blending it with cultural commentary and brief shades of political discussion, all of which are very much present in Savage’s original work – and considering she has adapted literary works before (including Portrait of a Lady, one of the most cherished novels to ever be published), Campion certainly knew how to extract as much meaning from the source material as she could, while adding her own artistic flourishes. Throughout this film, the director is making it clear that she’s not aiming for complete faithfulness – the story remains relatively untouched in terms of specific narrative components and a general structure, but like any great filmmaker, Campion understands that a strong adaptation entails adding one’s own authorial voice – and very few directors have as strong an artistic vision as her. She takes the peculiar story of the Burbank brothers, and filters it through her distinct perspective, provoking and pulling apart the layers, easing us into this metaphysical oasis, and immersing us in a world that may be intentionally bleak, but within reason, where every decision made in this film has artistic merit.

Campion has done something that not too many filmmakers have been able to do – she’s taken the western genre, and somehow managed to find abstraction within, without deviating from the conventions that define it. Philosophically-charged westerns are not a new concept – we can find complex discussions in even the earliest entries into the genre. Campion is dealing in something vastly different here, a kind of existentialism on the dust-filled plains of Montana, where secrets are not only common, they’re almost entirely encouraged. The Power of the Dog is a western that is made for those with hesitations to the genre – it lacks all the cliche, but contains the same incredibly detailed historical conversation that has been found in most revisionist stories. Credit must be given to Savage for conceiving of the idea, but Campion is just as responsible for the execution, since her adaptation ventures deep into the heart of the story, plumbing for meaning and exploring the lives of these characters as they work their way through a series of challenges that threaten to dismantle their simple but seemingly satisfied existences. Yet, this is part of the impact of the film, since it subverts even its own sacrosanct standards – of the countless questions being asked in this film, Campion’s most notable query is to whether these characters are actually happy in the first place, or if they’re simply going through the motions set down by the standards of the time, blindly adhering to the status quo, for fear of rejection if they dare deviate. Society has always followed a particular way of life, set down by the standards found at the intersection between heteronormativity and the patriarchal governance of every aspect of life – and who better to tell this tale of the myth of the ideal American man than a foreign-born, female director?

Inarguably, The Power of the Dog is a tragedy, since the villain of the film is the only person who is undergoing an identity crisis. Yet, the film doesn’t antagonize Phil for being a closeted homosexual – it judges him for his actions that come about as a result of his internal struggle for acceptance. He fails to come to terms with his own identity, and as a result lashes out at those who dare question his masculinity, basing his behaviour around the fact that machismo and sexuality are mutually exclusive – one simply cannot be queer and be considered a man, as far as he (and the rest of society is concerned). The Power of the Dog explores his actions, filtering them through the eyes of a few people close to him – his brother, sister-in-law and newfound nephew, all of whom struggle in vain to help him emerge from whatever self-imposed psychological exile he has placed himself in. Interestingly, the structure of this film doesn’t lend itself to prioritizing one perspective over the other – Phil may be the central focus, but each one of the supporting characters plays a pivotal role in the narrative, each one of them discovering information about this conflicted anti-hero that helps paint a portrait of his inner state, whether it be the gradual discovery of his deviant identity, or being the victim of his apoplectic rage, which he claims comes from a place of scorn for the malicious actions of those around him, but in reality are the product of his own self-loathing. There is so much to dissect when it comes to The Power of the Dog, it may take multiple viewings (perhaps even consecutively) to grasp the full extent of this narrative, where each detail adds something new to the psychological landscape of the film, while still remaining a consistent and cohesive piece that is never nearly as convoluted as its very deep and philosophical ramblings would lead you to believe.

Naturally, all of this converges in a discussion around the performances of the film, which are perhaps the most impactful aspect of The Power of the Dog, besides the fascinating directorial decisions made by Campion. Benedict Cumberbatch is often criticized for playing detached, disturbed young men who are unable to understand the world into which they have been thrown. It is almost parodic the extent to which the actor has been typecast – but he is undeniably gifted, and there are certain films he has appeared in that have given him the opportunity to extend his skills and try different character traits. The Power of the Dog is undeniably one of them, with his performance as Phil Burbank being a peak for the actor – he consistently pushes the character forward, never questioning his motivations, and instead just surrendering to what was required of him in playing the character. In a career that has seen him master the art of playing villains, Phil is certainly his most terrifying and despicable character – his actions may not be traditionally maniacal, and one can question if he is actually a bad person, or just the product of a hostile environment. What makes him such an unsettling presence is how he carries hatred in his heart, not only to those who are around him and become the victim of his cruelty, but towards himself, his challenges in accepting his identity manifesting in his malicious actions. Cumberbatch is extremely impressive, but the emotional anchor of this film are the performances provided by the supporting cast, all of whom are turning in work of an equally high calibre. Jesse Plemons continues to ascend to the status as one of the most reliable actors of his generation, and Kirsten Dunst is as brilliant as ever, combining ethereal grace with a salt-of-the-earth grit that makes her performance as Rose, a widow who slowly sinks into addiction, all the more powerful. Kodi Smit-McPhee is the closest one of these actors come to matching the performance given by Cumberbatch, with the young actor’s spirited work as a curious, introverted student being just as powerful as the former’s broadly villainous turn. It’s a magnificent cast that captures the spirit of the film perfectly, allowing us unique insights into the minds of these characters, which is paramount to the success of the film, since so much of it relies on the characterization.

It is very difficult to find fault in this film, which often works more effectively as a statement on the brutal realities faced by men who struggled under a social system that forced them into one of two categories – either they were the embodiment of the idealistic American male, or they were the subject of scorn, pariahs rejected from society based solely on their identity rather than their actions. The Power of the Dog challenges the same conventions that it celebrates – Campion is never too invested in tradition to allow it to distract from her intention of capturing the more elusive internal qualities of these characters and their individual journeys. It’s often quite a harrowing film, especially when it becomes clear that the director is consistently against giving the audience too much information from the outset, preferring to prioritize the atmosphere over the specific narrative details, since she knows that any rational viewer will be able to draw appropriate conclusions from the scant details present at any particular point. Ultimately, it’s a challenge to describe the exact quality that makes The Power of the Dog such a unique and powerful film – the logical conclusion would be the characterization of the people at the heart of the story, who are constructed as achingly realistic individuals, filled to the brim with fault and broken ambitions, and portrayed with the most earnest sincerity imaginable. It could be the impeccable writing, with Campion translating Savages words into one of the year’s best screenplays. Yet, what makes this film such a resounding success comes in the realization that there isn’t just one part that works, but rather an endless array of beautifully-composed elements that work together in tandem to tell a riveting and beautifully simple story that touches on some very deep issues, all the while being a heartfelt ode to a bygone era, commenting on its flaws as much as it remarks on the beautiful simplicity of the past. Campion has made yet another brilliant film, and one that can proudly stand amongst her very best work, defining what is undeniably one of the greatest careers in contemporary cinema, all of which is due to her persistent urge to push boundaries and tell stories in a way that no one else possibly would dare, leading to a stunning, complex western drama that says as much about the era in which it takes place as it does the contemporary age, drawing poignant and frightening parallels between the past and the present.