But I didn’t realize what a frightening character he was going to be until Phil retired to his bed, pulled out a banjo, and started angrily plucking at it; that humble string instrument hasn’t been played so malevolently on-screen since the notorious “dueling banjos” of Deliverance.
Campion’s first feature film in 12 years, based on the novel of the same name by Thomas Savage, is set on a 1925 Montana ranch that’s surrounded by spiky mountains and acres of barren landscape filled with both promise and hostility.
Westerns almost always wrestle with masculinity in some way, whether through a simple yarn about heroes and villains in the open country, or through a darker reckoning with Americans’ desire to conquer land that is not their own.
George may not be spoiling for a fight in the same way that Phil is, but the symbolic fracture between the brothers is undeniable: George desires domesticity, moving grand pianos into the house and hosting dinner parties with politicians, while Phil craves eternal wilderness—the kind of world he can prove his own toughness in.
But Campion is an empathetic director, and she’s long been drawn to characters whose emotions are buried deep, such as the electively mute Ada of The Piano, the squirrelly older sister Kay of Sweetie, or the introverted academic Frannie of In the Cut.
Dunst’s performance is achingly nervy, some of the best work she’s done in years; Plemons registers his adoration and his apprehensions quietly, keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of Phil’s abuse and Rose’s inner demons.
Campion never takes a side in the ongoing conflict between George and Phil, instead brilliantly capturing the purpose, and the futility, in each brother’s approach, making The Power of the Dog an inimitable viewing experience.