Ken Daugherty

So much is askew about this film. If the film had been set on, say, an Australian or New Zealand sheep ranch in the 1960s or ‘70s, I might have bought into the characters, but I never believe Cumberbatch as a Montana rancher of the 1920s. There is a lot of talk about Phil’s “toxic masculinity,” but it is not masculinity— it’s petulant, pouty, bullying and animal mistreatment that would get anyone on a real working ranch hauled behind the bunkhouse for an attitude adjustment. I spent half the film assuming the story would revolve around Phil getting called out for pretending to be something he isn’t, but, no, we are supposed to accept Phil at face value, an apparent artistic love child of John Wayne and Twiggy. Phil’s accent wanders all over, the cigarette-rolling grows cliche, and never mind the props that didn’t even exist in the 1920s or the ranch hands who apparently prepared for their “western” roles by watching Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy. Now further weight down this stunning inauthenticity with an annoying music score, a plot that moves with a pace designed to frustrate a snail, and characters devoid of exposition, motivation, or development, and you have The Power of the Dog, which is really just an erotic thriller in cowboy Halloween costume.