Kelly Reichardt is a peculiar filmmaker, and I mean that with every iota of respect I can muster. She is a truly original storyteller, and someone who has made a profound impact on independent cinema, albeit in ways that are not actually strikingly clear on the surface. What makes her so fascinating is that her films have never adhered to the rules of the medium in traditional ways, and she has proven to be someone who marches to the beat of her own artistic drum, retaining her fierce independence in a way that has essentially defined her entire career. Wendy and Lucy are not spoken about as often as some of her other films, which is understandable, since in terms of both narrative and thematic content, it is one of her less-impactful films, at least in traditional terms. However, the story itself is quite compelling if the viewer can set aside a few preconceived notions and see the broader picture of what she was aiming to convey with this film. What we have right at the centre of this film is the story of a woman travelling from Indiana to Alaska, where she is hoping to start a new life, her only companion being her dog, with whom she shares a strong bond, one which is put to the test after an impulsive bout of shoplifting causes her to be briefly apprehended, but which ultimately separates the travelling mates. A poignant examination of individuality and socio-economic strife, told from the empathetic perspective that Reichardt brings to every one of her films, Wendy and Lucy is an achievement that proves her extraordinary prowess (not that anyone would dare call her reputation into question), and a memorable exploration of the human psychology, carefully curated by someone who has consistently conveyed precisely why she is one of our greatest living filmmakers.

Wendy and Lucy, much like all of Reichardt’s films, serves to be a firm and fervent reminder of her incredible ability to tell beautiful, poetic and vibrant stories that don’t need to pander to the expectations of the mainstream, and can simply exist as their own niche production, simple but evocative works that are as compelling as they are detailed, which is certainly in an abundance throughout this film. There is a lot of virtue in slow cinema, and as she has learned from her cinematic predecessors like Michelangelo Antonioni and Ken Loach (the latter in particular being a clear influence, specifically in how they share similar traits in how their stories centre on the working class), the ability to take one’s time in telling a story while still maintaining the viewer’s undivided attention and wholehearted investment in the narrative is a true art. Wendy and Lucy encapsulate many of the director’s most distinctive qualities, while also seeing her experimenting with different details, making it both a solid continuation of the themes that impelled her to initially make films, as well as a wealth of new ideas, whether notable or incidental, that adds nuance to her already exceptional body of work. It is important that the viewer is either acclimated to the director’s style, or at least knows what to expect, which is primarily just to undergo the process of surrendering to the hypnotic nature of her films. Once we can get a grasp on her artistic wavelength, we can start to understand the ideas that stimulate and fascinate her, artistically and socially, and we can appreciate her more intimate, handcrafted manner of storytelling, which is in itself quite an achievement in terms of how it has defined her entire career and made her one of the most intriguing voices in modern cinema, with Wendy and Lucy touching on a number of very profound themes that serve to be a consistent thread throughout her career.

We often find that a truly gifted filmmaker can work with nearly any actor and produce exceptional work, but there are many that tend to form lifelong partnerships with specific performers, who recur throughout their films and tend to bring out the best in one another. Reichardt has worked with several fantastic actors, but it is Michelle Williams that is most commonly cited as her greatest collaborator, with the director herself likely agreeing with this assessment herself, since she has regularly praised Williams for her unique style of acting and masterful approach to the characters she plays. Wendy and Lucy is perhaps Williams’ best performance, or certainly one of her personal peaks as an actor, especially since it is a role that requires her to challenge herself beyond the confines of a more conventional production. The entire film, which takes place over roughly 48 hours, focuses on Williams’ character interacting with various other characters (many of which aren’t even given discernible names, but still make an impact on the narrative), their social transactions adding nuance into the story, and emphasizing the qualities that make the narrative so compelling. It isn’t enough to have a strong actor in the leading role, but rather giving the part to someone who can command the screen when it is necessary, while also deferring to their co-stars when required, which is not a common trait to find, but which Williams is more than capable of conveying in every one of her collaborations with Reichardt. It’s a soulful, stirring performance from an actor who is often quite polarizing (although not without reason – she’s objectively talented, but often struggles to temper the tone and register of her performances in some circumstances), and one that feels like it is brimming with genuine heart and honesty, which is a rare commodity, but something that both Williams and Reichardt work laboriously to encapsulate throughout this film.

Some of her detractors usually claim that Reichardt’s work is either tepid in terms of how it is uneventful and slow, or that it fetishizes the working class in a way that feels exploitative and mean-spirited – and Wendy and Lucy have unfortunately borne the brunt of those allegations, as it is the one that addresses poverty and a number of other themes the most directly. Unfortunately, with any film of this nature, there is going to need to be a lot of careful work done to make sure that it means as much as it claims to, or if it is just playing on our inherent sentimentality without any hint of honesty. By this point, Reichardt has proven herself to be an ally of the working class, her films being firm manifestos on the merits of those who may not lead the most wealth-fueled, luxurious lives, but still survive by means of their resourcefulness and genuine efforts to move between days, which can sometimes be a challenge. There is a deeper meaning lingering beneath the surface of this film, and much like everything that Reichardt has made, it is all condensed into conversations around making meaningful human connections – even the more unlikable characters in Wendy and Lucy are shown to be ordinary people following their routine and doing what they need to do to survive. There aren’t any heroes or villains in such a story – there are human beings, existing for a brief moment in the same time and place, and whose interactions say a lot about them as individuals. There is something so compelling about filtering these themes through the very simple story of a woman searching for her lost dog (which in itself is a heartbreaking and tense narrative), since it emphasizes the importance of those meaningful connections. Every individual that Wendy encounters in this film makes a contribution to her life, whether tangible or abstract, and the film shows how the most meaningful encounters often come from unexpected sources, from which rare moments of authentic humanity can be portrayed. It’s a strikingly beautiful film that is adamant in its belief in the merits of the human condition, a common theme that we find throughout the director’s work.

Wendy and Lucy is a wonderful film, filled with moments of genuine empathy and relentless compassion, which are some of the director’s most admirable traits, and one of the many reasons she is such a strikingly brilliant filmmaker. Reichardt’s films have often been considered as acquired tastes, which is a strange but partially understandable assessment, since she does not tell stories that are easily accessible or all that invigorating in a traditional sense. However, her work is profound in how it captures a different side of humanity, showing life as it is without any sense of hyperbole or excess, choosing to take a more unfurnished approach under the assumption that such a simple depiction of everyday life will strike a chord, much more than any pandering, forcibly relatable tale of the trials and tribulations of the working class and those who are not as advantaged as others. There is an honesty to her work that is reflected in every frame of Wendy and Lucy, which is difficult to describe in mere words, since this is a film driven as much by the atmosphere as it is the plot. I genuinely believe that in hindsight, we will consider Reichardt as being the contemporary filmmaker who can closest to directing the cinematic equivalent of the great American novel, that elusive concept that has been debated for decades – she may not have made it yet, but her incredibly empathetic style, combined with her fascination with showing American life in as authentic a way as possible, makes us believe that she is capturing a very specific kind of image of the country and its people, one that is both honest and revealing, each detail being meaningful and honest in a way that feels deeply melancholy and undeniably powerful. Wendy and Lucy is one of her many excellent contributions to the contemporary cinematic landscape, and serves to be yet another social realist masterpiece by someone who has dedicated her artistic career to telling these simple, intimate stories that carry so much meaning and emotion.