Into The Wild

Some movies are like churches – built like imposing stone edifices. From the moment you enter their presence, they demand a hushed reverence, and that your head be bowed with awe. Even to the non-religious, the sheer scale of the monument demands respect. While it’s almost impossible to stand on the steps of the great churches of the world and remain unimpressed, more often than not, a three hour film is a tedious affair.

Into The Wild aspires to that liturgical status but collapses under its own weight. First by its sheer length, and a second time by its overwhelming sense of self-importance. It’s the true story of Christopher McCandless, a rebellious college graduate who re-invents himself as a nomad. Inspired by Dostoevsky and Jack London, and fleeing from a dysfunctional family, McCandless spurns any conventional notion of society. The film tracks his two years of living off the grid as he prepares for a solo trek into the wilds of Alaska.

Just like granite architecture and exquisite stonework don’t make for a fulfilling spiritual experience, sheer length and sincerity of purpose don’t make for an enjoyable film. Into The Wild is about as long as the Kalamazoo phone book and every frame is packed with self-importance.

What it doesn’t have is a living, beating heart. Sean Penn wrote this adaptation and directed it with a heavy hand. He tears into the film with the same grim sense of resolve that he channels into his on-screen work. As an actor – in carefully selected roles – that unremitting intensity is generally a virtue. As a director, it’s off-putting. Where is Jeff Spiccoli when you need him?

The other major flaw with Into The Wild is that the sympathetic viewpoint is so narrow, it’s hard to approach it in a way that’s meaningful. Film is a medium that delights in anti-social behavior. In cinema, audiences have rooted for killers, psychos, and an asylum full of anti-social types. Modern filmmaking has romanced the tragic anti-hero for almost forty years.

The overpriviliged protagonist of Into The Wild generates a lot of charisma but zero sympathy, and that’s an ironic shame. The visceral, unbound freedom that McCandless lusts for is a heady, admirable goal. The desire to sever all ties with the world, to never pay a bill, and live in harmony with nature is easy to understand. It brings to mind the fictional protagonist of Trainspotting, who was an unrepentant heroin addict. As Ewan McGregor’s character muses over the opening scene,

“Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?”

In the context of the film, you understand what McGregor’s character means, and you can envy that blissful freedom. McCandless, by contrast, quotes Dostoevsky like an unyielding fanatic. There are no half-measures in his search for a re-birth. As with most zealots, he becomes consumed by his quest, spurning completely those who want to help him.

Emile Hirsch pours his heart and soul into his portrayal of Christopher McCandless, and at times, comes damningly close to making him succeed at being a charming rogue. Hirsch looks like a cross between a young Val Kilmer and Leonardo DiCaprio, and someday he could have the acting chops to stand alongside them.

The entire film is redolent with the heavy air of virtue. Subdividing McCandless’ journey into arbitrary chapters of birth, adolescence, adulthood is spoon-feeding the obvious to the oblivious. Sudden changes in style don’t help matters either. A poor use of flash frames and the tired, super-8 flashback look are artlessly deployed. Then all too often, as McCandless will approach a moment of transcendence, some god-awfully sincere Eddie Vedder music wells up underneath and directs you to an exact line of thinking. Director Penn leaves nothing to chance by subtracting all ambiguity from the screen, and with it, all the life and adventure onscreen gets crushed by his good intentions.

There’s more to a church than vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows. There needs to be a living heart at the center of it. And to find worship a meaningful experience, one has to be primed to join in. Somewhere is a subset of angry teenage boys who will be primed to find something meaningful in this pompous mess of silliness, but most of the audience will be bowing their heads from drowsiness, not awe.