Into the Wild

Directed by Sean Penn
***1/2

See here: the story of super student Christopher McCandless (Emile Hirsch) and his journey through America for two years, abandoning his identity in pursuit of capturing a dusty old handful of Manifest Destiny, willed by unmovable passion to reach Alaska and live off the land. Krakauer’s 1997 Into the Wild delivers an apt, journalistic approach to McCandless’ story. Sean Penn’s Into the Wild suffers from a bad case of telephone: by the time the story got told to him, and by the time he reprocessed it and was getting ready to regurgitate it cinematically, out came a lot of his idealistic self alongside the unique college grad-turned-hitchhiker. It’s an amazing true story, and the decision to fictionalize seems appropriate, a documentary would be a filmic reading of Into the Wild (What Rescue Dawn is to Little Dieter Needs to Fly comes to mind), complete with talking heads (read: bore). But before getting to the meat of what I found wrong with this ultimately beautiful film, a few miscues from Penn as director. First, an abundance of slow-mo makes initially breathtaking moments of an America forgotten and Chris’ wonder and rediscovery become less poignant to the brink of being dull and cliché, two words that completely capture my idea of the 360 shot. The enormity and awesomeness of the landscape certainly deserves a good looking over (which we get thanks to terrific cinematography) but the recurrence of this all-encompassing technique brought back nightmares of the dizzying camera work of Dreamgirls. Beyond these two visual nuisances, Penn shows a lot of patience behind the camera, as any proper actor turned director displays out of empathy for whoever happens to be in front of it.

Thematically, I’m still trying to parse the McCandless and the Penn. I’m not often inspired by movies (but to amateurishly attempt my own time to time), but walking out of Into the Wild I had an urge to conquer a fucking mountain, and quick. After cooling down, I decided I could put that adventure aside until at least the weekend, but I did pick up the book to help me decipher Penn’s retelling. Throughout the film, I had the distinct feeling that Penn was turning McCandless into something bigger than he was, cleverly omitting some of his weaker characteristics, opting to instead made a Christ like figure, full of wisdom, love, and (presumed, if not only from the extreme awkwardness with which his filmic depiction encounters sexuality) chastity. One of the more particularly interesting liberties taken with Krakauer’s book is his relationship with trailer town vixen Tracy, (Kristen Stewart) a heavy piece of the second act stretched out from a mere two paragraphs including a rousing, albeit exclusively cinematic, musical collaboration in place of offering herself to the young buck. We’re offered some rather blatant religious imagery too, including a ‘Jesus is Love’ monument atop an American Sinai and characters inquiring as to if he might happen to be Jesus. In fact the most subtle instance I noticed was a quick flash of his naked body floating down a river, arms spread in the usual Crucifixion mold, a necessary rebirth and cleansing after the killing of a Moose whose meat he fails to preserve properly, the felled game perished in futility. The way religion as a whole was addressed was a welcome turn, a unique glimpse into the idea of God without ever once mulling over the institution of religion, how very Martin Luther of Mr. Penn.

It’s easy to see why Penn was so captivated by McCandless’ story. Same goes for Krakauer. In fact, it would be surprising to not find a socially discontented male fed up with consumerist America who would fall in love with the superficial escapism of Into the Wild. What’s missing from the film is any commentary on what lies beyond that superficiality, the nihilism of his isolation and abandonment of society. We’re told he hates how people mistreat each other, but the solution offered is to abandon people, not treat people better. Penn comes across insecure as a screenwriter (although I wouldn’t be surprised if an offering for best adapted came his way). The only voice proclaiming McCandless’ head far too filled with Jack London and Tolstoy comes from Wayne Westerberg, (the quick-witted Vince Vaughn, hardly a figure to milk prudence from) the closest friend he made on his nomadic escapades. Ultimately, our writer-director decides to glorify the escapist aspect so as to indulge his political dissatisfaction of late, instead of thoroughly analyzing the motives and approach clairvoyant judgment upon McCandless as, perhaps, a merely misguided youth who finally works up the courage to run away from home after being away at college for four years. I don’t mean to suggest that’s who he was, even if I myself am trying to ride the youthful male tide of finding beauty in America and isolation, but Penn, however talented, is no Malick, and therefore can’t get away with merely a lyrical depiction of youth set to Eddie Vedder tunes.

The acting, from magnificent lead all the way to minor supporters (is that Zach Galifianakis as big game tipster Kevin? Yes, yes it is!) turn in lovely performances: the genius, stone-faced father (William Hurt), crushed mother (Marcia Gay Harden), knowledgeable, narrating sister (Jena Malone) aged hippy Rainey (Brian Dierker), his groovy lady/matriarch figure Jan Burres (Catherine Keener) and especially old-timer polar opposite fellow (Hal Holbrook) from which lessons are learned from and taught to in an amazingly non-cliché way, especially considering how that sentence came out.

I almost feel ashamed to say it, but this is, beyond extremely beautiful and well told, an inspirational movie. It won’t be one I forget any time soon, having stricken me on such a personal level, but no worries about my going feral, it just wouldn’t be hip to engage in such emulation.