Revenant (n.) – One who has returned — as if from the dead.

Where 2014 Oscar darling Birdman dealt with the ideological struggle between a man and his art (and, by extension, himself), Alejandro González Iñárritu’s 2015 The Revenant explores the fundamentally physical struggle between the natural world and humanity — and, by extension, itself. Six decades after John Ford’s The Searchers established the archetype of the genre, Iñárritu has given us our modern Western masterpiece from which a familiar, rich diegetic world springs forth.

In a word, The Revenant is a film about struggle; In two, it is a film about reflexive struggle. Indeed, the symmetrical conflict between humanity and the natural world dominates the ideological consciousness of the film. In The Revenant, the physics of struggle dictate a universe that eats itself in order to survive — cruel and godless, yet interminably beautiful. This is the essential tension at the core of Iñárritu’s creation: the paradox of savage beauty.

Synopsis

The Revenant tells the based-on-true-events story of Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio), a 19th century fur trapper and legendary frontiersman who, while guiding his party through hostile Arikara Native American Indian territory, is mauled by a female Grizzly bear seeking to protect her cubs. Captain Andrew Henry (Domhnall Gleeson), the expedition’s commander, delegates stewardship over Glass, now clinging to life, to a few party members (including Glass’ half-Native son, Hawk [Forrest Goodluck]) for a significant monetary reward. Glass’ will to live sustains him too long for John Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), the film’s torch-bearer for cold-blooded human self-interest, who, convinced of Glass’ inevitable death, seeks to suffocate him so that the men might move forward more swiftly through the perilous Native lands; in the process, Fitzgerald slays an indignant Hawk as Glass looks on in wide-eyed, locked-in horror. After disposing of Hawk’s body, Fitzgerald deceives Jim Bridger (Will Poulter), the party’s final member (who had been out scavenging), by telling him that the Arikara are in pursuit and that the two must make the difficult choice to leave Glass behind. The tormented-yet-easily-manipulated Bridger assents, and the films narrative seed is planted; Glass, immobilized by his dance with death and hopelessly moribund, must summon the indomitable human spirit in order to survive and avenge the murder of his son.

Technique & Aesthetic

Camerawork

Continuity and duration simulate a world rich with meaning. With his signature patient and meaningful camerawork, Iñárritu extends an uncomfortable invitation to the viewer: Join Glass on his transcendent journey through death and rebirth; accompany him in his agony; experience his suffering. Indeed, if The Revenant accomplishes one thing, it’s the ability to make the audience feel. This is a film about grit, and, appropriately, it necessitates grit in its viewers.

Light

Great films aren’t always easy to watch because they faithfully simulate life, and life isn’t easy to live. But, also like life, they occasionally deliver — at once and without warning — such moments of profound beauty that they leave their perceiver spellbound. That Iñárritu constructed The Revenant‘s imagery using exclusively natural light only serves to literally reinforce the film’s vivacious core; true grit, true hope, true light, and true darkness illuminate this work.

Sound

Ryuichi Sakamoto’s subtle score breeds with a soundscape of natural suffering to compose an immersive — if grating — sonic texture. Breathe and wind rip through the film and permeate the viewer’s being. Oh my god, the breathe. DiCaprio’s visceral torment pervades the narrative with such a richness so as to become its dominant track. This is no accident; breathe, of course, is the rhythm of life, and Iñárritu deploys breathe as a tool with which to weave his story together. In The Revenant, Breathing serves as a storytelling device by which the viewer traces the turbid line between life and death.

Moments

The Bear Scene

It would be irresponsible to discuss the Revenant without any mention of the bear scene. Within the first 30 minutes of the 156-minute film, Iñárritu devotes 4 minutes and 20 seconds to the graphic depiction of Glass and a mother grizzly’s mutual mauling of one another. While the action visuals are spectacular and communicate the gory physicality of animal struggle, it is the lingering shot in the encounter’s aftermath that might stay with the perceptive viewer for some time. Glass, torn essentially to shreds, withstands the grizzly’s final charge by unleashing a barrage of jugular slashes. The pair’s momentum carries them down the ledge of a plateau where Glass lands and then, a moment later, the bear tumbles into place on top of him. Together, man and beast rest motionless, as if in embrace. In a stark denouement, violence gives way to intimacy. Good cinematic moments convey emotion (e.g. excitement, sadness, levity, etc.) to the viewer. Great cinematic moments a mirror to the viewer and force reflection on loftier ideas — in this case, the binaries of humanity/nature and harmony/dissonance, or perhaps the merging thereof. After all, Glass was a man hunting for the survival of his company (including his son), and the mother grizzly engaged him to protect her young. In nature, the binaries of good and evil disintegrate. There are no polarities; there is only struggle. Here, struggle is not only a battle, but a dance, a celebration of life and of death, a final embrace betweem two beings at once opposed and entwined.





Murder and Treetops

Continuity and duration are Iñárritu’s main tools of choice in this work, and he uses them to construct visual meaning within the narrative. In one pregnant scene, Iñárritu explores the relationship between human suffering and the natural world. After Fitzgerald stabs Hawk to death before an immobilized Glass’ prostrate eyes, the camera considers Glass up-close — squealing with mute, guttural rage, foaming at the mouth, with red eyes about to burst. The camera lingers and twists before panning upward to the languid pine treetops above. The viewer now occupies Glass’ body as the frame spins in hypnotic sync with his delirium. By now the roar of an ancient wind has engulfed everything; at once, it merges with and disregards human concerns, however tragic. Next, an Exhalation — the viewer beholds the silent, aching beauty of dark blue clouds moving across a snow-capped mountain vista. In 30 seconds, Iñárritu has presented a visual poem on the rhythms of the human mind, the human body, and the natural world, and where those things stand in relation to one another.

Themes

Compassion

As mentioned, The Revenant examines the tenuous line between humanity and animality. Despite the mutual struggle that underscores both, moments of compassion scattered throughout the film redeem the possibility of life beyond struggle. Glass himself is ahead of his time in his respect for native people, marrying a native woman and faithfully fathering their son. With Glass on the verge of death by starvation, a native man shares fresh buffalo meat with him, takes him upon his horse and nurses him to health. When Glass stumbles upon the camp of a band of Frenchmen holding the daughter of the Pawnee chief in sex slavery, he frees her at the risk of his own life; later, Glass’ altruism is repaid by the Pawnee people. Captain Andrew Henry, the head of the pioneers’ company, is a man of even temperament and dignity. Love itself binds Glass to the memory of his deceased wife and fuels his will to avenge the murder of his son. Still, harsh realities rise to the surface in Iñárritu’s epic. This is a film that knows an uncomfortable truth about human existence and isn’t afraid to remind a mass audience: to live is to suffer.

Life and Death

Pushed to the liminal bounds between life and death, Glass scrapes across the frozen American wilderness ever on the brink of expiration. He is dwarfed by the terrifying, stoic beauty of a natural world that constantly threatens to exact his last breath. Transcending the limits of physical reality, Glass’ singular focus attests to the indomitable human spirit. But in Glass, whose love and only child have been murdered, the viewer now beholds a man fueled by revenge; neither fully alive nor dead, he becomes the half-breathing specter of the tormented human soul — in him, at once, burns love and hate. As the viewer learns from Glass in the film’s climactic scene, “I’m not afraid to die anymore. I’ve done it already.”

Closing Thoughts

The Revenant is a film about a man who survives a near-fatal bear attack and crawls 300 miles across the American frontier to avenge his son’s murder. It’s also a film about life, death, the fundamental truth of the natural world, and what it means to be human. That it is both of those things is a testament to Iñárritu’s directorial vision. As great films do, The Revenant holds a mirror up to its viewer and urges contemplation on ideas beyond mere narrative. In The Revenant, Iñárritu has written the authoritative guide on bestowing depth and nuance to fictional narratives in film.

And now, the official grade according to the Tony Andrews Scale:

Each criterion is worth a possible maximum of 10 points. A “perfect” film, therefore, earns 40 points.

It must force the audience care about its characters on a deep level. (8/10) It must have an airtight, logically constructed plot. (7/10) It must encourage the audience to contemplate challenging, human questions. (9/10) It must be visually beautiful; in other words, it must take full advantage of the cinematic medium as its storytelling mechanism. (10/10)

Total: 34/40