It’s nearly impossible to critique a film like Joel Souza’s western “Rust” because, in many respects, the film itself feels irrelevant. No matter how “Rust” turned out the inescapable truth is that on October 21, 2021 a tragedy occurred on set, ending the life of cinematographer Halyna Hutchins.
The film’s star, Alec Baldwin, was rehearsing a shot, brandishing a gun in front of the camera. It fired. It should not have. Regardless of who is to blame — which is a very important question, but not one I’m qualified to answer — Hutchins died from her wounds. The film was put on hold, then finally resumed production, and now… here we are.
Is it a good movie? That depends on your definition of “good,” I suppose. It’s hard to celebrate any production where such an unthinkable, avoidable event took place. And it’s nearly impossible to stop thinking about Hutchins while the film is playing, in part because the cinematography — which was completed by Bianca Cline (“Marcel the Shell with Shoes on”) — is extraordinary. Even though it’s not clear which scenes were photographed by Hutchins and which were by Cline, it’s clear that Cline had to match Hutchins’ pre-existing footage, so all of these breathtaking images stem directly or indirectly from the original, deceased cinematographer’s vision.
But also, “Rust” is a film about death, and men who escape the consequences of the dead bodies they leave in their wake, and the toll it takes on a person after they end a human life. It’s not an astoundingly poignant film about those topics, but it’s an indelible part of the production.
There are those who argue that we should be able separate art from the artist, and by extension art from the context of its creation, but that’s crap and I think we all know it. “Should” doesn’t enter into this. The simple fact is that while we watch many films blissfully unaware of how they were made, whether those backstories are beautiful or despicable, we also cannot un-know what we know. We cannot pretend that “Rust” is just another movie, and as such easily judge it by the simple act of watching it. Not if we know anything about it, that is.
The dilemma recalls Alex Proyas’ “The Crow,” his 1994 film about a dead man coming back to life that was immortalized by tragedy — the on-set death of star Brandon Lee. The loss of an undeniable talent taken too soon — under eerily similar circumstances — altered that film’s narrative, literally and figuratively, just as firmly as the loss of Hutchins affected “Rust.”
If we were able to watch “Rust” free of context, it would just be another western. A good one, granted; not a proper classic but involving and handsomely presented. Like many westerns it’s a saga of machismo, as larger-than-life men tear their way across the American frontier, laying waste to those who oppose them. If they’re heroes they feel bad about it at the time. If they’re antiheroes they feel bad about it afterwards. If they’re villains they feel nothing.
“Rust” stars Patrick Scott McDermott (“Goosebumps”) as Lucas, a teenager raising his younger brother after their parents died. He’s at the end of his rope, unable to take care of his kin, and accidentally starts a feud with another farmer. When Lucas tries to shoot a wolf and accidentally kills the farmer, the law declares it could be no accident, so despite his tender age Lucas is condemned to die by hanging.
Into Lucas’s life wanders Harland Rust (Alec Baldwin, who co-wrote the story), an aging gunslinger with a storied history of robbery, arson and murder. He breaks Lucas out of jail and escorts him to the Mexican border, all the way from Wyoming, because he’s Lucas’s estranged grandfather. They don’t get along because of course they don’t. You can’t have two protagonists crossing the country for two-thirds of a movie if they love each other’s company. That’s Screenwriting 101.
Lucas and Rust have a bounty on their heads, and it’s a big one, so they’re hunted by every bounty hunter in the country. There’s the soft-spoken, sinister Preacher (Travis Fimmel), the tortured lawman Wood (Josh Hopkins), and a gaggle of memorable, smaller characters who don’t last very long. Preacher and Wood represent a yin and yang of sorts, the vile opportunist and the downtrodden do-gooder, both of them beholden to their place in what can only be called a legalized murder economy.
The western genre typically takes place at the edge of known civilization, where rules are bent and broken, and people live by their wits and their mettle, if they live at all. It’s a genre that’s prone to larger-than-life caricatures, to the extent that even complicated figures in a film like “Rust” play into the film’s folkloric quality. Hutchins’ and Cline’s cinematography goes a long way towards justifying writer/director Joel Souza’s heavy-handed storytelling but it’s hard to ignore the film’s tendency to overplay every hand. The dialogue is earnest at its core, arch in its articulation, and it leaves the tale feeling less resonant that it probably should be.
Then again, the resonance of “Rust” doesn’t emanate entirely from its story. “Rust’s” sadness, guilt and grief are amplified by the unfortunate fact of the film’s own existence, the tragedy that took place mid-production. Let’s be clear: that cannot make it better. The very implication is ghoulish. But it does have an impact, and it leaves the film with an aura that’s inexorably grim. “Rust” is about death, it’s about grief, it’s about collateral damage.
That’s what the plot is about too.
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