It’s an unhappy arrangement that has nonetheless worked well enough for years. Stuffily suited George is the ranch’s gentle pragmatist Phil, never not seen in oily, sweat-stained workwear, is its brawny labourer, despite a superior, well-read intelligence that he works hard to override - as if his intellect might give the lie to his brutishness. For 40 years, the men have shared a bedroom in the dark, unloved wooden house at the centre of the family ranch, maintaining a physical closeness in spite of personalities roaming ever farther apart. Phil has always had a beta counterpart to torment: usually, his mild-mannered brother George (Jesse Plemons) has taken the brunt of that need. There, too, the film defies our expectations, as Phil and Peter enter a fierce psychological standoff that highlights their very different senses of duty toward masculine identity - and ultimately reveals what they have in common. The ornate fake blossoms are brusquely destroyed by Phil, set on fire to light his cigarette, and for much of The Power of the Dog, it looks like Peter will likewise fall prey to the older man’s wilfully destructive impulses.
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Or a paper flower on an otherwise dingy barroom table setting - out-of-place decorations fashioned by out-of-place teenager Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a quiet, anxious boy who looks like he was once scared entirely out of his skin and never quite got it to fit again.
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And it was with this realisation that the not-so-secret agenda of Campion’s terse, hard-bitten and surprisingly, substantially queer film began to bloom, like a cactus flower in a very hostile desert.
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The tensely macho affectations aren’t so much Cumberbatch’s as Phil’s: the actor is channeling the character’s own uneasy but compelling performance of alpha masculinity, straining to keep a different sense of self under his shapeless leather cattleman hat. Whenever he plays American, Cumberbatch gives the appearance of acting more than usual, and such is the case here: cast very much against type as crude, caustic Montana rancher Phil Burbank, his growling drawl and wide-gaited cowboy swagger feel like put-ons, almost distractingly unnatural to him - even as his presence fixes your gaze with eerie insistence.Īt a certain point, the penny dropped. It’s aggressive and dissonant and off-kilter in ways the refined British actor rarely permits himself to be on screen, and I spent a good portion of the film’s running time figuring out if I liked it or not. Benedict Cumberbatch’s performance is the film is a reveal in itself.