NOMADLAND: Elegy for the Lost at Sea
Searchlight PicturesIn recent years the institution of the Best Picture Oscar has slowly evolved from acknowledging what The Academy voters viewed as the best achievement in filmmaking in the given year to additionally incorporating the notion of cultural importance into the basis of the award. Granted, this is not a new concept altogether. After all, William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives won Best Picture exactly because of the way it described the scars left on the American society after World War II. Similarly, the victory of In the Heat of the Night could be seen as a tacit acknowledgment of the Civil Rights Movement as a paradigm-shifting cultural event.
However, there is absolutely no debate that in the recent decade the traditionally-acclaimed sandal epics, love stories and wartime dramas have been successfully replaced with movies which one way or another describe or comment upon the milieu of their time. 12 Years a Slave, Spotlight, Moonlight and Parasite – all magnificent pictures in their own right – have all campaigned and emerged victorious helped in no small part due to their embedded thematic messaging that commented on or contextualized their years and the decade as a whole, or even the more general societal animus demanding recognition of specific themes. Thus, the Best Picture Oscar has slowly become synonymous with The Most Important Picture Oscar.
Therefore, it was not exactly surprising to see Chloé Zhao’s Nomadland take home the prize, especially following a tsunami of critical appreciation, most of which pertained to the film’s importance as a political document. The filmmakers and the cast, many of whom were non-actors as well, were praised for crafting a poignant story and a cutting critique of modern post-depression American capitalism, and a strong indictment of the class system as a whole. In fact, neither Zhao nor the authors of the source material have ever hidden their aspirations to make political statements, so it was completely expected for Nomadland to be analyzed first and foremost through the prism of its most accessible thematic baggage. The film clearly makes powerful comments on the untold tragedy of millions of people who lost their jobs overnight when the Wall Street carnage spilled onto the global economy, rendered thousands of businesses insolvent overnight and forced their workers to default on their mortgages. It also lets the viewer connect the dots and see how Amazon and other mega-employers have since filled that economic vacuum and grew exponentially to become more powerful than many nation states, but accountable to exactly nobody. Moreover, the film is littered with numerous jabs at the utterly dysfunctional American healthcare provision and an ever-widening gap between the haves and the have-nots.
However, Nomadland hides much more within its confines. It is not just a political document even though it clearly lends itself to such analysis. Underneath the ample social commentary perfectly summarizing how America has never been a uniform entity, but a collection of well-separated castes and classes, lies much more thematic depth that frequently ends up either completely ignored or folded into the broader political picture. Zhao’s film is a politically-charged social commentary spanning the fallout of The Great Depression all the way down to the depths of Trump presidency and even – coincidentally – the post-pandemic malaise; no doubt about it. But it is also a film about people – these modern-day nomads – who have seemingly chosen to abandon the settled lifestyle and searched for freedom on the road.
Granted, even this aspect of the film leans heavily – at least superficially – to bolster its main thematic message. In fact, it’s quite easy to see what these people do as a protest against playing the game that is fundamentally rigged against them. However, upon closer inspection it will become clear that what these modern nomads have in common with one another extends beyond their refusal to partake in the game of capitalism. Even though they are presented as a community, they do not resemble a political protest movement in any capacity and that’s because they are not brought together by a political cause. They find each other because they share the same pain – the pain of loneliness.
Zhao doesn’t introduce the viewer to Fern (Frances McDormand) after she loses her job at the US Gypsum plant in Empire, Nevada; at least not exactly. In fact, over the course of the film it becomes abundantly clear that the plant closure was not the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was her husband’s untimely death. Fern’s entire arc – as unfolded throughout the film – is one of coping and moving on, which puts the decision to rid herself of her earthly belongings and abandon the house she once shared with her partner in a completely new perspective. She isn’t necessarily an avatar for the impact of economic privation. And if she is, she’s completely unaware of it, because what she is really leaving behind is the deafening silence of an empty house, a constant reminder of her tragic loss.
Hence, Fern becomes untethered and lost in the ocean of grief. She holds on to the only remaining vestiges of her past life – a wedding ring, a photograph, a keepsake – and drifts away into the vast expanses of the American interior, not to make a political statement with her refusal to hold onto a house she could no longer afford, but to avoid having to face the void left after her husband’s departure. She isn’t journeying, but fleeing. She is actively trying to disguise her loneliness as elective solitude.
And she isn’t the only character in the film to be doing so. In fact, many other nomads she meets on her way are also hiding deeply seated regrets, personal tragedies, grief and loss. Some lost their parents to cancer. Some buried their children. Some ran away from their homes. Some walked out on their families scared by parental responsibilities. They chose the nomad life to become their coping mechanism. They have become unpaired electrons travelling aimlessly... until they have found each other and found solace in knowing there are many other souls out there, who are just as lost and bleeding as they are. Undeniably, there is comfort found in learning that others face similar pain. After all, this is the very basis of any support groups – the idea of banding together and pooling resources to ensure nobody is left behind. In fact, it is known that community-based support is self-amplifying. People need other people.
This fundamental message is seen all throughout the film and perfectly epitomized in what could pass as a seemingly forgettable scene. In it, Fern takes part in a tour at the Badlands National Park. She leaves her group to explore on her own but quickly loses her bearings because all these rock formations look alike and she is unable to see the horizon without climbing. Fern is of course eventually saved by Dave (David Strathairn) whose silhouette emerges from the uniform landscape of rock formations and helps Fern reorient herself in space. He becomes her compass.
This seemingly inconsequential scene becomes an impromptu microcosm for the general themes of loneliness and coping woven into the narrative of Nomadland. In fact, it even extends towards the film’s social commentary as well, but it is more strongly tethered to Fern’s personal journey. Her departure from the group is a symbolic equivalent of her decision to become a nomad. She explores her surroundings on her own but finds herself lost. Everywhere she turns, the landscape looks the same until she sees another person. This is when she realizes that loneliness and solitude are two entirely different concepts. A solitary life can be a life of happiness. On the other hand, a lonely life cannot. Fern is still clearly tethered to the memory of her dead husband. She has not come to terms with the fact he’s gone forever.
Therefore, her journey as a character is best contextualized as an odyssey of grief garnished with potent social commentary, rather than the other way around. Such a realization will immediately help to re-evaluate at least two more scenes: one in which Fern admits to not being able to stay at her sister’s despite being offered ample room to live in, as well as when she turns down Dave’s offer to move in with him after he reconciled with his son. In the absence of character context, one could be inclined to read Fern’s decisions to persist with nomadic lifestyle as a political statement, a refusal to settle and play the vicious game of capitalism once more. But reality is much different. She can’t stay with her sister because seeing her and her husband would be a daily torturous reminder that her own partner is dead. Consequently, accepting Dave’s proposal would likely be tantamount to betrayal because in her own mind she is still married.
This puts Fern’s character in limbo. She is not just ‘houseless’ but suspended in time and only when surrounded with other lost souls like her she is able to suppress the crippling loneliness domineering over her own wellbeing. She is lost at sea. Wherever she turns, the horizon looks the same and her compass is broken. Therefore, what she must do in order to even have a chance on the open road is look up to the stars for help and hopefully go back to the last known port of call – the home to which she is emotionally tethered.
Hence, the magnificent ending to Nomadland is equally a powerful commentary on the ease with which people’s lives are thrown to the wolves when business hits a rough patch as it is a potent character climax for Fern and by extension for every other nomad trying to outrun the overwhelming loneliness descending upon their lives like an unstoppable dark cloud. Fern has to visit her old house, experience its utter emptiness and untether herself from her past completely. Only then will she be able to face the intimidating expanses of the American interior as a fully independent nomad. When she finally leaves through the back door of her old home and disappears into the distance, Fern is no longer lonely. She is free.
