Nomadland and I Know the End: Vibing at the End of the World

 Nomadland was supposed to be the last of the small independent films Chloe Zhao made before being catapulted into stardom by Marvels upcoming Eternals film, instead it has wound up bringing her widespread attention earlier than anticipated, becoming an awards juggernaut and the favourite to take home best picture at next month’s Oscars. A film like this getting so much attention is unusual, unthinkable in a pre-Moonlight world, although a starring role for Frances McDormand was always going to draw some eyes.

McDormand stands alone at the centre of the film, playing a widow who has lost her house in the company town were her husband used to work, and finds herself taking a series of seasonal odd jobs to fund a perilous life in her RV. She eventually falls in with a group of Nomads who teach her the ways of unmoored living in modern America, both the practical daily work and the more difficult task of spiritually coming to terms with your situation. Most of these Nomads are real people playing themselves, with a lot of the films dialogue being unscripted.

Like the rest of Zhao’s work, Nomadland is a quiet, internal character piece set against a lavishly filmed backdrop of American vistas. The sun sets and rises over desserts, plains and badlands as Fern (McDormand) drifts from gig to gig slowly preparing to face the trauma in her past, something the film teases out right to the end. The intimacy of the drama contrasts poetically with the wide open cinematography; as a personal story Nomadland is as good as anything this year has to offer, but its lack of scope and overly gentle nature leave something to be desired. In order to explain what’s missing, let’s cross mediums for a minute, into music.

For my money the best song (maybe the best work of art overall) of last year was I Know the End by Phoebe Bridgers. The last track on an album of mostly quiet, introspective indie-folk/rock, I Know the End starts out as a lot of Bridgers’ work does; gentle, lyrical, soft, melancholy musings on a sad, unfulfilling state of affairs. The first half is quiet guitars and quieter vocals, filled with pathos, then the song finds a backbone, a driving rhythm as Bridgers begins to conjure a series of images of a rotten, decaying America, her voice becoming more and more forceful to match the music. She builds and builds until the final section of the song consists of her repeatedly screaming amongst a cacophony of electric guitars, horns, drums and a dozen other things in an ecstatic explosion of furious catharsis that is truly exhilarating to listen to. It’s a song that perfectly encapsulates what it feels like to be young right now, watching the environment and economy fall apart around you as progress on solutions grinds to an infuriating halt. The slight joke at the songs end is perfect too. Give it a listen if you haven’t already.

Nomadland feels a lot like the first half of I Know the End, introspective and sweetly sad, but it lacks any of the righteous anger of the songs climax. This is a film whose characters have been exploited and left to die by companies increasingly resembling a monopolistic oligarchy. They have lost homes, jobs, loved ones, a sense of purpose and community, and so, so much more. They are the face of a crisis of injustice affecting not just America but an increasingly large portion of the world. The film is barely interested in this, choosing to focus on only those nomads who are spiritually at peace with their circumstances, who are largely apolitical or un-opinionated.   

There is an unsettling sense in the film that the situation is not that bad as long as the homeless look on the bright side of life. Later in the story it is even suggested that Fern might be consciously choosing the nomad life because she “never could settle down” and “always was drawn to the horizon”. The harshness of the political reality is sanded away and ignored in order to preserve the films sad but gently uplifting tone, “you never have to feel too bad about any of this” the audience is told “if you look at these vistas long enough you’ll start to feel better.”                   

Nomadland doesn’t have to be didactic of course, or preachy, but in its quest for melancholy vibes it winds up with too little to say, too little to provoke with. You can only turn away from society for so long, eventually it must be engaged with.