I detect the scent of a golden statuette wafting in the breeze. Redford's adaptation
of Nicholas Evans' bestselling novel is a countrified, monolithic thing of beauty
-- gorgeous to behold despite the fact that its overlong two-hour-and-45-minute running
time plays off Redford's weather-beaten golden boy good looks far too often for its
own good. It's an homage to all things Redfordian -- the Big Sky country of Montana;
the mercurial, saturnine beauty of the horses; and the redemptive power of love,
patience, and the great outdoors. The film opens with a masterful sequence that sets
the tone for the whole piece. On a snowy winter's morning in upstate New York, 14-year-old
Grace MacLean (Johansson) leaves her parents' house to ride horses with her young
friend Judith (Bosworth). The two girls discuss boys and ride through the back country
until they encounter gravity while climbing a slope overlooking a rural route road.
Judith's horse slips, throws her, and topples backwards down the slope into the path
of an oncoming tractor trailer while Grace, astride her beloved horse Pilgrim, struggles
to save Judith. Amidst the swirling snow, Judith is killed, Grace loses her right
leg below the knee, and Pilgrim is terribly injured, his face a gory mess and his
right front leg hideously torn. When Grace recovers, she's the shell of the girl
she once was: bitter, angry, and terrified of the future. Her mother Annie (Thomas),
a high-powered New York magazine editor (think Tina Brown of The New Yorker), refuses
to have Pilgrim put down, and instead takes her wounded daughter and the damaged
horse 2,000 miles cross country to visit Tom Booker (Redford), a "horse whisperer"
who may or may not be able so save the spirits and bodies of both Grace and Pilgrim,
while also teaching the city-bred Annie a thing or two about the meaning of life,
love, and other single syllable heavy-hitters. Left behind in the city are Grace's
father (Neill) and all pretenses of a normal life. Once the story moves to Montana,
Redford opens things up, literally, as the screen image widens to take in all those
shots of azure skies and sweeping vistas, and all the quiet, emotional avalanches
to come. Apart from being a subtle treatise on the redemptive power of the human
spirit, the film might as well also be a travelogue for God's country, so enamored
of the snow-capped peaks and scudding clouds is the director. Redford, a screen icon
if ever there was one, doesn't do too much here except squint and squat, though he
does both with panache. And Thomas, as the brittle Brit who finds the meaning of
true love beside the New Age horse doctor, is all pained expressions and tousled
hair. However, it's the remarkable, affecting performance of Johansson (Manny &
Lo) that propels The Horse Whisperer. She's a broken ray of sunlight cutting through
the icy pines, and when the film lags with endless shots of the wise Tom Booker birthing
a calf or some such, it's she who keeps things focused and alive in the midst of
the film's pageant of unspoken truths.
--Marc Savlov
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