TIFF Review: Chloé Zhao’s “Nomadland”
BY SCOTTIE KNOLLIN
”I’m not homeless. I’m just houseless,” says Frances McDormand’s Fern to an inquiring mind while she’s stocking up on necessities. Such is the heart of Chloé Zhao’s “Nomadland,” an opus to a sentiment so many of us are constantly measuring, balancing, and searching to find.
The first time I drove across the country, I was accompanied by a close friend. Together, we slept at rest stops, howled at the empty skies of New Mexico, and argued over trivial things. The second time I drove across the country, I went by myself. The very similar route welcomed me with open arms and a fresh perspective. The third time I drove across the country, again by myself, I counted the miles as I drove through new states, new lands. I’ve added nearly three other cross-country drives to my repertoire, each with a different purpose or meaning. A few years ago, I chased the sunset as I moved from one coast to the other. More recently, I chased a life in a place where everything, every interaction, every person, every bite of food would be absolutely brand new. Some mornings, I miss the chase. Maybe I’ve finally found home? Or, maybe home is a word whose definition is constantly changing and, for some of us, we grow content in no longer searching for its meaning and, for others, we never stop looking.
As “Nomadland” begins, the story of Empire, Nevada, a manufacturing town that falls to apocalyptic ruin the moment the town’s main employer closes, paints a picture of an America easy to overlook. McDormand’s Fern is a victim of the plant’s closure and, when we meet her, she’s beginning a new, necessary life on the road. Though she may not completely understand that she is a nomad, she soon finds a community that shows her the ropes, vulnerably revealing every aspect of such a life: shitting in buckets, sing-alongs at bonfires, a smorgasbord of life stories worth hearing.
The power of a film like “Nomadland” relies on the relatability in its true-to-life depictions of which Zhao has become a master. Similar to her approach in 2017’s “The Rider,” Zhao requires unfiltered performances by real-life people to add texture to the rich script with which she’s working. In “The Rider,” which was my favorite film of 2017, Brady Jandreau turns in a convincing performance playing a character based on his own life. In “Nomadland,” already one of the most emotionally-impacting films I’ve ever seen, we’re treated with several characters played by amateur actors inherently portraying themselves. Of the ensemble, the standouts is easily Swankie, whose personal story of hardship is especially endearing given her positive outlook and journey towards her end. “Nomadland” is a meditation on life that feels both urgent and necessary even in its grace and stillness. What are you doing to plan for the future while also allowing yourself to just settle in each second of every moment? For myself, I’m trying to remember to take in the colors of each petal I pass or the comfort in the vast, flat lands of eastern North Dakota. I know the leaves that are starting to turn yellow aren’t going to be around much longer. I know isolation during the winter is around the bend. I hope I can balance all of these feelings, however existential, with the same beauty found in each of Zhao’s characters.
Throughout the film, Fern navigates from seasonal work in different locations in the American West and Midwest, earning enough money to sustain a life empty of riches. Her former self is always at the ready to remind her how life used to be, but she’s careful to only let that shadow linger behind her. Sometimes, this means she can be somewhat cold. Just as any human, though, she find warmth in the empathy and care of others and in providing her own version of compassion on those she meets. We see her subtly come around to the idea of the nomad community during orientation as a new employee at an Amazon fulfillment center. It doesn’t take long before she leaves the nest as a new bird and becomes a mentor to others in her own right. After meeting a potential partner in her adventure, we see her embrace the slight glances and bits of laughter while working side-by-side at Wall Drug, an American tourism staple. Despite her rough edges, Fern is still a person looking to belong, looking for someone to recognize her potential, and a place to call her own.
Fern’s story, captured here in the span of just over a year, from New Year to New Year, is pieced together with Zhao’s masterful direction. There are elements of Terrence Malick written in the fibers of the lingering camera work and very real environments, as if this Hollywood production secretly settled into an encampment for a few weeks. Perhaps that’s how the magic in this film actually happened? We’re also treated with similar touches found in famed slice-of-life films by auteurs like Jonathan Demme, who’ve elevated the structure of film beyond the linear sets and costumes and words. Like Demme and Malick, Zhao isn’t afraid of the quiet of a scene, the sound of air sweeping through the openness of the land, and movie stars channeling very held, but powerful work.
I’d argue that McDormand has never been better. Her Oscar wins have been for flashier performances, even if still rugged. Here, she uses her handsome sensibilities and power to just exist in this world. Towards the end of the film, when her character takes a chance to revisit the home she shared with her family once upon a time, the camera is just lucky enough to share each room of the home as McDormand’s Fern relives happier times. There isn’t expository dialogue or flashbacks or anything extra. We don’t need to see her memories to understand the heartache in the emptiness of rooms that were once full of laughter and pain and every other emotions we allow the walls of our homes to hold.
In that year, Fern learns what home looks like for her at this point in her life. We’re never given the grace of a resolve as to whether this will always be her life, like many of the people she meets. I’d challenge anyone to watch this and not resonate with that constant fear of what all of this really means.
Like those days I’ve spent on the road, searching for something new to fill a bucket of expectation of life, “Nomadland” never settles on a one-size-fits-all mentality. Like Fern said, these people aren’t necessarily homeless, just houseless. Maybe, for others, they have the house part, but they are still searching for the other elements of the word home: the people, the community, the freedom to be themselves. For me, each chapter has tended to be something new. While I’m not sure I’d ever be content shitting in a bucket, I found myself jealous of Fern’s ongoing exploration of life and America. She’s gifted the freedom to time alone, watching a buffalo graze nearby or soaking naked in a stream. When she needs fellowship she finds it in people who’ve lived incredible lives, in all of their boring, normalness. We’re all searching for someone to tell us their story or to give us the chance to tell ours.
With a soundtrack crafted by legendary composer Ludovico Einaudi and cinematography by Joshua James Richards, “Nomadland” is a masterpiece at every level. Zhao has created something I’ve rarely, if ever, experienced in a film.
