Chloé Zhao's The Rider is a stark and challenging picture, a deliberately paced study of a small rodeo community in South Dakota that will likely prove to be difficult for many viewers. "Deliberately paced" is just a fancy critical way of saying slow, but if you really warm to what Zhao is doing, the slowness can be an asset, not a defect. This is a film that accomplishes plenty over the course of its runtime, so I don't want to diminish it by summing it up as one particular thing. But above all else, The Rider is a movie of sharp and remarkable contrasts. It is both unfathomably beautiful and incredibly bleak, a picturesque portrait of the American West that isn't afraid to depict just how lonely this life can be. It is both sensitive and violent, gentle and harsh. It never provides easy answers to its big questions.
Most of all, The Rider is a reminder of the power of observation. Many times throughout the course of the story, it's clear that Zhao is content to simply watch, to examine this world without a hint of artifice or flashiness. Her camera is an active participant in the action, but there's little editing or sonic magic to boost your involvement as a viewer. While sequences go on for considerable amounts of time with little of consequence happening, Zhao finds truth in this naturalism. Part of that comes from the basic setup of the story, which features real people basically playing cinematic versions of themselves, blurring the lines between the movie world and reality. Brady (played by Brady Jandreau, the star of every scene in the film) is a rodeo rider and horse trainer who suffered a brutal head injury, and as a result, he can't get back on a horse for a very long time. He wants nothing more than to get back on the saddle, but the doctors maintain that he will put his life in jeopardy if he does. So what can he do?
That's the central question at the heart of The Rider. When your passion is taken out of the equation, where do you go? Brady is determined not to end up like his father (Tim Jandreau), a drunk who constantly runs into money issues, but he needs a job to support his sister (Lilly Jandreau). The only problem is that he lacks any workplace skills, having never attended any form of high school or higher education. Everything he does drives him back closer to those horses, the place where he feels most at home. At the same time, what he loves has brought this community much pain and suffering, best exemplified by the injuries sustained by friend and fellow rodeo cowboy Lane Scott, who was paralyzed and left mute in a horrible accident. With all of this swirling around in his mind, Brady is left to contemplate his destiny- if that still even exists.
With the knowledge that Zhao's film exists on the thin line between fiction and reality, it becomes genuinely difficult to tell what is staged and what is just natural observation. The Rider isn't necessarily free of drama or conflict, but it never lets its story interrupt the ebb and flow of these characters' daily lives. Much of the film is concerned with the day-to-day routine of Brady and his fellow rodeo riders, but certain scenes stick out in their simplicity more than others. A lengthy sequence finds Brady training a horse, getting closer to the animal and slowly earning its trust. Zhao's camera remains at a distance, detached from what is happening but still keenly observing. The camera tracks and follows his every moment, capturing his progression throughout the course of a long day. In a way, Zhao's film feels like a kind of unique American neorealism, a soulful look at the modern state of our country that unflinchingly depicts aimlessness and poverty.
And yet, one thing is for certain- The Rider could not possibly be more gorgeous if it tried. The sweeping landscapes of South Dakota have perhaps never been more perfectly realized on the big screen than they are here, so immaculate that they feel almost otherworldly. Zhao and cinematographer Joshua James Richards linger on these moments of placid beauty, soaking in the vast terrain and reflecting on the blood red sunsets. There are images in The Rider that took my breath away, towering mountain ranges and elegant plains that seem nothing short of postcard perfect. This film is majestic in every sense of the word.
But just as you find yourself entranced by Zhao's mastery of visual splendor and knack for scenic composition, that central contrast emerges once again. If you look at those beautiful images for too long, you'll find something tragic: emptiness. The sights and sounds of the American West may be peaceful and awe-inspiring to the outside viewer, but to the cowboy who has to pick up the pieces of his life, that emptiness is just another reminder of how hopeless things can seem. Brady pops pills and smokes weed regularly, and while Zhao never fully leans into opioid crisis territory, I couldn't help but wonder where that road would lead him. Another striking scene finds Brady and his buddies drinking and sitting around the campfire, only for the brutal reminder of those not with them to dampen their good time. The Rider is heart-wrenching in its relentless bleakness, a film that presents an existential condition that cannot be solved.
At the core of it all is Brady Jandreau (Blackburn in the film), the young cowboy and the subject of Zhao's careful study. To ask a non-actor to step in front of the camera is a monumental request, even more so in a film essentially about his life. But it's an even taller order when the character serves as the focal point of the entire endeavor, armed with the power to sink or carry the movie through his presence in virtually every scene. Zhao's dialogue can feel forced and stiff, especially when serious conflict comes into play. But Jandreau is such a warm and gentle screen presence that any of those contrivances are washed away, overwhelmed by the sheer likability of his performance. Jandreau does nothing flashy or outrageous, but what he demonstrates throughout The Rider is a sense of common decency and determination. The film works because Brady seems like such a genuinely good human being- we sympathize with his struggle, even if his own frustrations threaten his calm tone. Through his interactions with his sister, the horses, and particularly young Lane Scott, Brady becomes a beacon of kindness. He is the glue that holds this film together.
The Rider is a slow film, and there are moments where that slowness feels downright glacial. Its lack of a true cinematic narrative challenged me at times, and I imagine it will prove to be even more frustrating for audiences expecting something completely different. Nonetheless, Zhao has made an understated, thoughtful film, one that paints a very pretty picture of very real misery. With the help of her star, Zhao transports you to a place that you might not want to go, and what she finds is heartbreaking and beautifully imperfect. It's the rare film that will likely leave you both awestruck and devastated, basking in the amazing landscapes and wishing there was a better fate ahead for Brady. In the end, it's the fundamental contrast that lingers, and it's one that stays with you long after the credits roll.
With the knowledge that Zhao's film exists on the thin line between fiction and reality, it becomes genuinely difficult to tell what is staged and what is just natural observation. The Rider isn't necessarily free of drama or conflict, but it never lets its story interrupt the ebb and flow of these characters' daily lives. Much of the film is concerned with the day-to-day routine of Brady and his fellow rodeo riders, but certain scenes stick out in their simplicity more than others. A lengthy sequence finds Brady training a horse, getting closer to the animal and slowly earning its trust. Zhao's camera remains at a distance, detached from what is happening but still keenly observing. The camera tracks and follows his every moment, capturing his progression throughout the course of a long day. In a way, Zhao's film feels like a kind of unique American neorealism, a soulful look at the modern state of our country that unflinchingly depicts aimlessness and poverty.
And yet, one thing is for certain- The Rider could not possibly be more gorgeous if it tried. The sweeping landscapes of South Dakota have perhaps never been more perfectly realized on the big screen than they are here, so immaculate that they feel almost otherworldly. Zhao and cinematographer Joshua James Richards linger on these moments of placid beauty, soaking in the vast terrain and reflecting on the blood red sunsets. There are images in The Rider that took my breath away, towering mountain ranges and elegant plains that seem nothing short of postcard perfect. This film is majestic in every sense of the word.
But just as you find yourself entranced by Zhao's mastery of visual splendor and knack for scenic composition, that central contrast emerges once again. If you look at those beautiful images for too long, you'll find something tragic: emptiness. The sights and sounds of the American West may be peaceful and awe-inspiring to the outside viewer, but to the cowboy who has to pick up the pieces of his life, that emptiness is just another reminder of how hopeless things can seem. Brady pops pills and smokes weed regularly, and while Zhao never fully leans into opioid crisis territory, I couldn't help but wonder where that road would lead him. Another striking scene finds Brady and his buddies drinking and sitting around the campfire, only for the brutal reminder of those not with them to dampen their good time. The Rider is heart-wrenching in its relentless bleakness, a film that presents an existential condition that cannot be solved.
At the core of it all is Brady Jandreau (Blackburn in the film), the young cowboy and the subject of Zhao's careful study. To ask a non-actor to step in front of the camera is a monumental request, even more so in a film essentially about his life. But it's an even taller order when the character serves as the focal point of the entire endeavor, armed with the power to sink or carry the movie through his presence in virtually every scene. Zhao's dialogue can feel forced and stiff, especially when serious conflict comes into play. But Jandreau is such a warm and gentle screen presence that any of those contrivances are washed away, overwhelmed by the sheer likability of his performance. Jandreau does nothing flashy or outrageous, but what he demonstrates throughout The Rider is a sense of common decency and determination. The film works because Brady seems like such a genuinely good human being- we sympathize with his struggle, even if his own frustrations threaten his calm tone. Through his interactions with his sister, the horses, and particularly young Lane Scott, Brady becomes a beacon of kindness. He is the glue that holds this film together.
The Rider is a slow film, and there are moments where that slowness feels downright glacial. Its lack of a true cinematic narrative challenged me at times, and I imagine it will prove to be even more frustrating for audiences expecting something completely different. Nonetheless, Zhao has made an understated, thoughtful film, one that paints a very pretty picture of very real misery. With the help of her star, Zhao transports you to a place that you might not want to go, and what she finds is heartbreaking and beautifully imperfect. It's the rare film that will likely leave you both awestruck and devastated, basking in the amazing landscapes and wishing there was a better fate ahead for Brady. In the end, it's the fundamental contrast that lingers, and it's one that stays with you long after the credits roll.
THE FINAL GRADE: B+ (7.8/10)
Images: Sony Classics/IMDb
Images: Sony Classics/IMDb
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