Into the Wild: a movie review and then some

Friday night I saw the film Into the Wild, based on the Jon Krakauer biography of Christopher McCandless and adapted for the screen by Sean Penn, who also directed it. I’d had a wearing week, for all kinds of reasons, and I badly needed to escape into that blessed world of the movie theater, where the big screen and loud speakers envelop you in other realities. And though the film ended sadly, I left elated, having found it to be elegant and accurate and enlightening in multiple ways. Some of my companions disagreed heartily, finding the main character selfish or unbelievable. But I found him extremely true to life in certain ways, and I think Penn did an impressive job of creating a film that fills your senses with Chris’s situation rather than just flashing images of it before your face.

An early scene reveals an aerial view of a snowfield; a pickup truck trundles down the side of the frame, emitting that crunching sound I associate with boots on frozen snow. Eventually the truck stops, and a boy gets out; as he trudges over the snow and toward a wooded beyond, the camera broadens our view a bit, revealing the jagged tops of distant mountains and only a sliver of sky above them. This type of tight-in cinematography immediately, if quietly, sets a tone for the film—a tone of enormity and enclosure all at once. The wild is massive and beautiful. And looming.

As Chris crosses his first river, a soundtrack begins; a familiar voice wavers into a song that is heartfelt, emotional, pained in a way that I associate with American Indian singing; it is not the jamming nor the acoustic rock for which Eddie Vedder is best known. Throughout the film, periodic bursts of Vedder’s singing quietly build toward a scene in which he almost wails a song as Chris peers over a vast landscape below him. Like the composition of each visual image, the timbre of each song works subtly to tell us that the character is not just adventuring, but questing.

The premise of the story is that 23-year-old Chris has been dreaming of getting to Alaska; he wants to survive there on his own, out in the elements. Leaving West Virginia, he begins to head westward, traveling for a total of two years without any money (he’s cutely given the bulk of it to charity and then burned the rest after getting drenched inside his car in a flash flood and deciding, perhaps, that it’s a sign he can survive anything). This feat alone is impressive, though he does supplement his barren savings by working odd jobs, underscoring that a world without money is a utopia, not a real place. Still, Chris wanders for two years by the end of the film, and during that time, we learn that his passion for getting “lost in the wild” has multiple layers.

First, the obvious: he wants new experiences. He wants to challenge himself. Where better to do so than out in the elements? It’s tried and true; many have turned to nature when looking for themselves. It offers challenges, and it offers solitude. It offers a peaceful quiet interrupted only by bird song or wind song, the rustling of leaves, the crackling of branches—by no voices other than one’s own. I understand turning to nature; I have always done it. I understand leaving society; I could do that. None of you will believe me because I seem so social, so people-oriented. But I can live without cities, even without human contact for a time; yet I could never give up the ocean, the mountains, the quiet places tucked in under tree branches, the quick-footed lizards of forests, the first flowers of spring. I could go on and on. I have shelves of books that do so. I have spent hours and days quietly seated by a seaside or on pine straw in the cool dark of some woods. These are private times—sometimes shared with others, but mostly enjoyed on my own. So I loved watching Chris yearn for these places; I knew what goodness he’d find.

But Chris also heads out to the wilds to get away from something. It’s not just the nature freak in me that enjoyed the movie; it’s also the kid inside, one who, like Chris, had parents who fought, who made life at home unpleasant sometimes. I know what drives one out of the house and into the wilderness; what drives even the most sociable to need a break from humanity. I think the film depicts flight from family fights with an accuracy that maybe only those who’ve been there can appreciate. Some may see his behavior as self-serving, but I see it as self-preservation. As knowing when you’ve got to do your own thing, make your own way, find out who you are entirely outside your upbringing and bring that self to life.

As part of that discovery, many of us come to the joyous realization that we can love whomever we want. We can make friends out of strangers, family out of a conversation gone right. To my delight, Chris wanders the country adopting parents. Whether they replace his true mother and father we will never know; but they certainly fill in some holes in his heart. They mean so much to him that the film takes a turn I would deem an authorial failure were it not based on what Chris truly wrote. While dying of starvation, he enters one last note in the margin between paragraphs in a favorite book. “Happines only real when shared.” My euphoria with the film broke in that moment; I wanted to shake Chris and remind him what he'd been learning, at least as I see it, which is that the minute you are able to smile and need no one else to know about it, to feel ecstacy or tranquility and enjoy it entirely by yourself—that's when you have found contentment. I wanted to shake him, but I reminded myself that he was dying, and that people are human, and humans are needy, and that craving the companionship of others is a beautiful thing as well, even if for myself it is imperative to know that my happiness does not depend on them. (I view the ability to share my joys with others as the greatest bonus of living; not a necessity but an invaluable, incredible plus.)

The end of the film is hard to watch; it’s tragic that in real life, a man died trying to follow his passion for life. But it is a reminder that how you live matters immensely. It is tragic that anyone dies so young; but I feel happier for the late Christopher McCandless than I do for many people who are still living, because I can see how much he got out of his life, and to me, that's what counts. I think I loved this movie most of all because of a message it underscores, which is one I hold dear. Don't just be part of the world around you; experience it. Don’t just live a little; live a lot.