Wild

There have been only brief glimpses of the Walk The Line Witherspoon since 2005 (Rendition, Mud) but Wild is her real follow up to that Oscar-winning role. Finally.

Reeling from a divorce and in an attempt to clean her system of booze and drugs, Cheryl Strayed (Witherspoon) opts to make the trek along the grueling Pacific Crest Trail, an 1100-mile hike from the Mexican border to Canada. Woefully inexperienced and ill-prepared for the mammoth task ahead, Cheryl tugs her overweight rucksack through unforgiving terrain, all the while coming to terms with who she is and what she has done to the people in her life.

Adapted by Nick Hornby from Strayed’s memoirs, Wild is anything but. In a very safe story (the question of abortion is raised and then forgotten about), Witherspoon’s bulky rucksack a not-too-subtle metaphor for her emotional baggage that, wait for it, she sheds herself of the more she becomes comfortable with who she is. Wild is solid but sticks to a well-worn path.

The big issue is that Vallée fails to isolate Cheryl like Penn did with Emile Hirsch (Into The Wild) and how John Curran restricted interaction with Mia Wasikowska (Tracks), two films Wild draws from. Using numerous flashbacks to piece together the character for the audience’s benefit, and having Cheryl bump into various trekkers along the way, not a screen minute goes by when there isn't some sort of human contact. In a story that is supposed to be about finding one’s self in loneliness and seclusion, Wild is a busy party.

The perma-flashback narrative - revealing moments of mother Laura Dern dispensing life lessons, of drug dens, of arguments with then husband Thomas Sadoski, and coffee with friends - wouldn’t be so troubling if Vallée had given the memories some personality. Not that every flashback has to be of Malickian dreaminess but these visuals are a bit dreary compared to the majestic scenery of the contemporary scenes.

It can feel like all of Vallée’s efforts went into the music but here the Dallas Buyers Club director comes up trumps. Like in his (great) C.R.A.Z.Y and the (not so great) Café De Flore, Vallée knows how music can worm into one’s soul and how we remember a song we haven’t heard in a while; the soundtrack (Leonard Cohen, Simon & Garfunkel, Bruce, Portishead, The Shangri-Las) floats in and out, some songs are clear, some are distant and faded, some are stuck on repeat.

Witherspoon carries the film when Vallée seems more concerned with his playlist. It’s not a showy performance, more understated and reserved, even when she is confronted by a potential rapist (a creepy turn from Breaking Bad’s Charles Baker). She’s a million miles from the Four Christmases and the Legally Blonde 2s of this world here. Let’s hope she keeps it that way.