America, despite its relative youth, has inflicted a tremendous amount of suffering. Perhaps it’s a form of cosmic retribution that life in this country during the 19th and early 20th centuries, especially in the West, was incredibly harsh. Men engaged in perilous work often met untimely ends, while women succumbed during childbirth or, equally tragically, lost infants to mortality. Such sorrows might simply be inherent to the presumption of white settlers carving out lives in a vast, untamed land. Perhaps Americans should temper their reverence for these pioneering ancestors. And yet, when contemplating what defines the elusive “American character,” it is these very individuals who emerge: rugged men who constructed railroads and felled timber, equally adept at soothing a baby as they were at slaughtering and preparing a chicken. We tend to view our American predecessors as strong figures, conveniently overlooking the terrible acts they committed, such as the forced removal of populations deemed obstacles to their aspirations.

Clint Bentley’s Train Dreams, a visually stunning and serious film adapted from Denis Johnson’s 2011 novella and set largely in early 20th-century Idaho, refrains from romanticizing the resilient Americans who first strove to build this nation. Instead, it portrays them as authentic individuals who, whatever their shortcomings, were simply striving to establish lives for themselves and their families. Joel Edgerton portrays Robert Grainier, an orphan who grows into a steadfast working man. He is so reserved that it’s hard to imagine him finding a partner, yet he does—she approaches him after church one day—and eventually, around 1917, they marry and construct a modest home by the river. Gladys (Phoebe Tonkin) is one of those exceptionally capable women, skilled not only in crafting a peculiar conical basket fish trap that collects fish swimming with the current, but also in managing a household and caring for a child during Robert’s frequent absences. He finds employment building a railroad bridge; once that project concludes, he moves on to logging. These details are relayed through Will Patton’s calm voiceover.

Robert spends extended periods away from his home, undertaking dangerous labor. He finds solace in the company of his fellow workers, particularly Arn (Kalani Queypo, in a captivating, distinct performance), a gruff explosives expert. Despite his arduous work, Robert is acutely aware of his privileges as a white man; he watches, aghast, as some of his colleagues inflict brutal retribution upon a Chinese railroad worker. The man’s face haunts Robert’s dreams, as do the surrounding landscapes—a captivating yet disquieting panorama of trees with starlight filtering through their branches and endless stretches of railroad tracks. These visions are beautifully filmed (cinematographer Adolpho Veloso), but for Robert, they are far from tranquil. He senses that his world is on the verge of turning dark, and he cherishes the refuge of his home life. It is clear that upon returning to Gladys and their cherished daughter, Kate, a bonnet-wearing infant, he feels most himself. He and Gladys sit at the dinner table, marveling as baby Kate learns to fix her gaze on a candle flame. They enjoy their child with genuine affection and attentiveness, a stark contrast to the neurotic modern “helicopter parents.”

The calamity that befalls Robert profoundly shakes his faith. Yet, somehow, Train Dreams emerges as a redemptive work: Robert’s suffering isn’t an incidental part of his life; it is his life. And while the film delves into the raw realities of hardscrabble Americana, it also feels powerfully contemporary. Bentley—the director of the excellent 2021 film Jockey, featuring a superb Clifton Collins Jr., who also appears in this movie—is far from a director seeking self-aggrandizement. Train Dreams is visually breathtaking, the kind of film where every blade of grass, every jagged tree branch, and every tiny ripple in a rushing river seems to possess a unique presence. Nevertheless, none of these images appear overdone or overly stylized. What Bentley prioritizes above all else are his actors, especially Edgerton. Edgerton is consistently good, and sometimes simply exceptional. His performance here belongs to the latter category. His features evoke the quality of a living wood carving, as if he emerged from the very earth. His Robert Grainier is a man left behind by life yet unable to retreat—he must somehow persist in living it, and he does, animated by an almost reluctant resilience. Would it not be easier to simply give up? But he doesn’t. He continues forward through the century, and when he is gone, it moves on without him. This is not merely the way of America, this rugged, tender, brutal place; it is the way of the world. And to encapsulate all of that within a single movie is to achieve something truly extraordinary.