The best American movie this critic has seen in the past year, Chloé Zhao’s “The Rider,” is the kind of rare work that seems to attain greatness through an almost alchemical fusion of nominal opposites. An account of a young bronco-buster named Brady Blackburn, struggling to reconcile his identity with a near-fatal riding accident that has left him with a precarious future, the film transcends the limitations of its seemingly straightforward premise. It's a documentary-style drama that feels deeply personal and intensely fictional simultaneously, a quiet meditation on masculinity, mortality, and the unbreakable bond between a man and his horse. Zhao doesn't merely observe; she creates a space for her subjects to inhabit, to reveal themselves, and in doing so, crafts a cinematic experience that is both profoundly moving and intellectually stimulating.
The film’s power lies not in grand gestures or dramatic plot twists, but in the subtle nuances of performance and the breathtaking beauty of the South Dakota landscape. The cinematography, often shot in natural light with handheld cameras, gives the film a raw, almost improvisational feel. This isn't a polished Hollywood production; it's a visceral experience, drawing the viewer into the dusty, sun-baked world of rodeo cowboys and their unwavering connection to their animals. This aesthetic choice perfectly complements the film's thematic concerns: the fragility of life, the acceptance of limitations, and the enduring strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
Brady, played by Brady Jandreau – a real-life rodeo rider who experienced a similar accident to the one depicted in the film – is the heart of “The Rider.” He’s not a traditional hero; he's flawed, vulnerable, and grappling with the possibility that his life's work, his identity, might be irrevocably lost. Jandreau's performance is breathtakingly authentic, a testament to Zhao's directorial skill in coaxing such raw emotion and vulnerability from her actors. He isn't acting; he's inhabiting a version of himself, and the line between reality and fiction blurs, adding another layer of complexity to the film's emotional impact. This blurring of lines extends to the other actors, many of whom are playing versions of themselves, creating a profound sense of intimacy and realism. This approach, along with the film's naturalistic dialogue, allows for a level of emotional honesty rarely seen in mainstream cinema.
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