by Ryan Silberstein, Managing Editor, Red Herring

The western is alive and well in the 21st century, and not only because its trappings live within so many other genres. Filmmakers like Jane Campion, The Coen Brothers, Quentin Tarantino, and Alejandro González Iñárritu have all made westerns that have resonated with cinephiles and the Academy to varying degrees. Yellowstone is also one of the most watched scripted television shows of the last five years. But in some ways, the western is flourishing even more in the world of smaller budgets and independent filmmakers. Slow West, Old Henry, Concrete Cowboy, and God’s Country are all great examples of this. But my favorite director working in the genre right now is Kelly Reichardt. Three of Reichardt’s last four pictures have been westerns: Meek’s Cutoff, Certain Women, and First Cow. All are five star movies for me, but for this column I will be focusing on the two period westerns, both of which also have more of a focus on masculinity and are set in Oregon.

Meek’s Cutoff is set in 1845, in the high desert along the Oregon Trail–a setting very familiar to Xennials thanks to the classic PC game–with a group of settlers led by Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood) off the main trail due to rumors of attacks by Native Americans in the Blue Mountains. Much of that context is historical, and only alluded to in the movie. Told from the perspective of the women in this wagon train, Meek’s Cutoff prioritizes the observational perspective. Exposition is at an absolute minimum, and so much is conveyed through camera placement and composition, especially when it comes to point of view.

Without making a grand statement or building to a big moment, Reichardt places us in this experience and lets us find our own way through the sparse landscape. The High Desert is bleak and dry; there are no grand vistas. Landmarks on the horizon are impossible to judge in terms of distance. The water that is there is brackish and not even drinkable by the animals. Meek’s Cutoff is maybe the least romantic or nostalgic western I’ve ever seen, with only William A. Wellman’s Yellow Sky coming close. It’s a deliberate choice, and one that is incredibly effective. Reichardt uses the “Academy” aspect ratio to great effect, keeping our view limited in terms of width which emphasizes the sense of oppression around the wagon train even as the physical space is wide open.

The title character and central figure is Stephen Meek, and the way he is portrayed is fascinating. From the moment he is on screen, he appears to be what he is: a bullshit artist. We all know men like this, who maybe know slightly more about a particular topic than everyone else, yet their confidence still outpaces their knowledge. It’s a relatable feeling, and the men on the wagon train seem to have no choice but to trust him, at least until things start to seem really bleak. We often observe Meek and the other men from the women’s point of view. Sometimes at a distance, often feeling like their conversations are being overheard. 

One counterexample is when Meek speaks to Emily (Michelle Williams) about his views on gender: 

Women are created on the principle of chaos. The chaos of creation, disorder, bringing new things into the world. Men are created on the principle of destruction. It's like cleansing, ordering, destruction. 

It kind of tells you everything you need to know about his worldview. Men are not here to build something new. Oregon was one of the last places to be called a “new Eden” and all Meek and his kind see in it is a place to destroy what is there. To bring order to the chaos. The natural world is inherently feminine and out of control, and must be dominated by men who do not seek to understand its power but impose their own onto it. 

While life in First Cow’s Oregon doesn't seem as unforgiving as the westward journey seen in Meek’s Cutoff, or even the modern day Montana we see in Certain Women, the characters here are living on the frontier. King Lu (Orion Lee) states that “history isn’t here yet,” conflating the idea of history with that of civilization. And when you really dig into those ideas it means you have to adjust your idea of what constitutes history.

As a Chinese man, King has a different perspective than the other characters. His non-Western cultural point of view enables him to comment on these ideas from the outside, rather than already existing in the systems that are brought to Oregon by the American and British settlers. For example, in one scene, the declining beaver population–whose pelts bring everyone to the territory–is discussed. Like so many times in our history, what is presumed to be endless is not. Only a few years ago, beaver were “living like people in rowhouses in New York.” Now they are already more scarce. But local capitalist Chief Factor (Toby Jobes) is more concerned with the Chinese market demand for beaver, even as beaver hats fall out of fashion in Paris. Even in far off Oregon, somewhere “new” is subject to the whims of the market. Miranda Priestly would not be surprised.  

Cookie (John Magaro) is also an outsider. The other characters in the film–those who hire him and those who eat his oilycakes–see him not as an artisan or a rugged pioneer, but as weak and servile. The roles of those who make food have always been weirdly bifurcated in our society. Professional chef or baker is a fine career for a man, but cooking at home is women’s work. And while Cookie’s and King’s patrons are mostly men, his food is compared to home–a civilization, a kitchen, mother. Cookie is often completely overlooked, even though he provides a small dose of comfort and pleasure in an otherwise harsh environment. Neither of these men are invited to share in the fortunes of this “new” province. 

When King and Cookie decide to go into business together, they bemoan how hard it is to get started. Even in a “new” place, they need capital. Or a miracle. Or leverage. Or a crime. The old rules still remain. The back and forth between old and new is still present, no matter how virginal Oregon seems to be. The power structures follow history. And of course, the place isn’t new. Among First Cow’s characters are Native Americans, already sidelined in a place they have called home far longer than those hunting beaver in such mass quantities. 

Reichardt connects the story of King and Cookie to the present day in the film’s opening moments. A container ship–a gigantic organism of capitalism–slides slowly by a riverbank. There are no people visible as it goes by. A woman (Alia Shawkat), led by her dog, finds two skulls under the dead leaves and dirt nearby. History is all around us, and we are connected to it even if we can’t see it. Both of these movies feel like they are part of history, campfire stories that feel like they were forgotten, because we clearly didn’t learn anything from them. 

This brings the first year of Printing the Legend to a close, which was a chronological journey through the genre from the beginning through this decade. I am taking a different approach in year two, which will kick off at the end of the month with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Belle Starr Story. See you then, pilgrim.