Spoilers to follow.
I’m going to assume that anyone still reading has seen Paul Dano’s magnificent film (co-written with his partner Zoe Kazan), so what I have to offer are a few of the things I’ve continued to think about after seeing the movie.
The logline for Wildlife lays out the premise: A teenage boy must deal with his mother’s complicated response after his father temporarily abandons them to take a menial and dangerous job.
One of the things I appreciate about this movie is how Jeannette Brinson’s (Carey Mulligan) admission that she has been “stepping out” on her husband Jerry (Jake Gyllenhaal) is accompanied by her statement that her need to leave him has nothing to do with the affair.
Most viewers who elect to see this particular film will get that–and why Jerry does not. Most of these viewers will also know that his lack of understanding is part of their problem, and her inability to articulate it more clearly–even to herself–is one marker of the times and of entrenched patriarchy.
This is one indelible moment in the film, and it sets up the ending.
Several hours after seeing the movie, a question formed more fully that had been dancing around inside my head. I asked the person who saw the movie with me about the ending, the family portrait scene, “Do you think the ending of the film suggests that these two people might be able to find their way back to one another, and they can be together in a way they could not have without all of the things that happened?”
We agreed that it is possible and only possible if that happens because of what Jeannette and Jerry have learned.
Maybe you think the answer is obvious and that possibility is always part of any narrative, lived or viewed. In a way, that is true, but I’m really talking about something a little different from all things being possible…about persuasive readings of how things might come together in a way that seems right.
Taken at face value, the ending of the film is completely open but in a way that satisfies.
Jeannette’s absence from their home has given her a sense of independence as well as the problems and promise that go along with that autonomy. Being able to be alone comfortably gives someone the ability to understand better what it means to form a deep connection with someone else and to engage with the possibility of two people being both independent and interdependent at the same time. I have thought about this a great deal over the years, and this way of forming connection is a central theme in the documentary I co-directed, Living in the Overlap.
Jerry’s journey is less obvious than Jeannette’s through most of the film, which begins with his challenges as an employee, a father, and a husband then ends with evidence that he has come to terms with his responsibilities. The final scenes of the film reveal that Jerry has begun to forge a more authentic connection with his son rooted in who this precious young man is instead of who his father prods him to become based on traditional ideas of what constitutes masculinity. The emotional tools (sorry if that sounds jargon-y) that Jerry gains in bonding with Joe will serve him well if he and Jeannette decide to renew their own bonds to one another.
And, I must talk about Joe. Ed Oxenbould’s performance and the way it is captured through Paul Dano’s perspective is what separates this film from the scores and scores of intimate dramas I have seen and loved over the years. Watching Joe’s growing awareness of his parents’ shortcomings parallels his personal growth, and viewers can see that he will become a deeply empathetic and wise man because of these experiences.
The difficult moments and the waiting moments and the growing moments–all of it–are what make this film perfect. I have to wonder if the beauty and balance of the film arise, at least partly, from the fact that the story was crafted by Dano and Kazan, personal and professional partners. That merging of perspectives might contribute to its uncommon emotional depth.