The Power of the Dog review: Jane Campion’s breathtaking portrait of wounded masculinity

Benedict Cumberbatch is already in the Oscar conversation for his performance in Jane Campion’s first film in more than a decade.

Jane Campion’s first feature in more than a decade is a breathtaking piece of cinema that captures a world that’s expansive and intimate at the same time.

Starring Benedict Cumberbatch, Kirsten Dunst, Kodi Smith-McPhee and Jesse Plemons, The Power of the Dog is a story about cruelty, fear, regret and repression.

Set against the sweeping backdrop of rural Montana in 1925 (although actually filmed in Otago, New Zealand), The Power of the Dog cleverly plays with your empathy in its portrayal of a stoic cowboy.

Benedict Cumberbatch is already in the Oscar conversation for his performance as Phil. Picture: Netflix

In a superb performance, Cumberbatch plays against type as Phil Burbank, an uncompromising and brutish rancher who treats his softly spoken younger brother George (Plemons) with disdain, goading him for his physique or intellect.

Despite living in a large house, the two men still share single beds in their childhood bedroom. When George abruptly marries Rose (Dunst), a widow with a teenage son, Peter (Smit-McPhee), Phil exerts his dominance in his attempt to be as unwelcoming as possible.

He makes it clear he resents her presence, and George’s decision to marry her. He undermines her, privately and publicly humiliates her and treats her sensitive son with equal venom.

For Phil, strength is the only hallmark of masculinity, especially on a ranch. Campion surrounds Phil with strong-bodied young men who worship the Yale-educated cowboy whose penmanship is as impeccable as his riding and corralling skills.

Languid wide shots of this cabal of men in peak physicality provokes the question the film is engaged in – what is masculinity? What forms does it take, is it domineering or supportive, does it have to be binary?

Kirsten Dunst as Rose. Picture: Kirsty Griffin/Netflix

Cumberbatch fills every scene with Phil’s need to control the space around him, but his menacing presence is layered with what’s not expressed. It’s a complex character whose own pain drives his pathology, even if it’s not something he connects.

The way Phil lashes out at his brother, at Rose and at Peter hints at a side of himself he’s repressed, a toxic transference that threatens to destroy everyone.

That he’s not a one-dimensional character full of aggression, prejudice and little else is credit to how Campion and Cumberbatch have adapted and shaped this character from its source material, a 1967 Thomas Savage novel.

In their hands, Phil is a compelling character who stealthily earns empathy. It’s an empathy The Power of the Dog toys with, but to say more might verge on spoiler territory.

The performances all around are magnetic, including Dunst’s downtrodden widow and Smit-McPhee’s gawky, peculiar teen who eventually forms an unlikely bond with Phil.

Australian actor Kodi Smit-McPhee as Peter. Picture: Kirsty Griffin/Netflix

And then there’s The Power of the Dog’s majestic visuals, with cinematographer Ari Wegner capturing the full, overwhelming beauty of the natural landscapes. It’s an environment that should be freeing, which only contrasts with the emotional prisons the characters are caged in.

The aesthetics are wonderfully textured, the ever-present dust sticking to everything including the chaps Phil never seems to take off while Jonny Greenwood’s lush, uneasy score penetrates deeply.

Even though its characters all seem to be tortured in some way, The Power of the Dog isn’t a tragic story. There’s an elemental streak of survival that runs through it, even though it may not be obvious at first.

By the time you realise it’s there, The Power of the Dog has already nestled deep in your consciousness, a remarkable film that will never leave you.

Rating: 4.5/5

The Power of the Dog is in cinemas now and on Netflix from December 1

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Originally published as The Power of the Dog review: Jane Campion’s breathtaking portrait of wounded masculinity