Not every film needs to be complex in order to impress; nor is “impressiveness” a virtue one must always necessarily achieve in order to create successful art. By “impressiveness” I suppose I mean something like “bigness” or “grandiosity” or some baroque plot convolution(s) that leave a viewer struggling to put the pieces of the story in their correct order. Certainly there are many great films that operate in an almost puzzle-like manner (think of the austerely cryptic quality of Last Year at Marienbad, or Memento’s dove-tailing plot structure) but one would be remiss to forget the undeniable pleasures—and merits—of a simple story, simply told, whose only bells and whistles are certain subtleties that can be so slight one is liable to miss them on first viewing.
I was struck by this dichotomy very recently after seeing two movies, one right after the other: Bi Gan’s Resurrection (2025) and Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy (2008). Resurrection, epic in most senses of the word, bowls one over with complex film-craft illusion and a narrative so bizarre (at least to this Westerner) it borders on alienating; and though its visual language intrigues—touching the sublime, at times—Resurrection‘s indulgence of unconventionality can veer into the downright silly, or is even sacrificed for the sake of some mawkish emotional beat. (A film that handles similar meta-themes and likewise explores the visual potentialities of cinema to the nth degree, but, in my view, does so far more efficiently, is Tarsem Singh’s The Fall.)
By contrast, narratively speaking, Wendy and Lucy is a cakewalk. It’s about a lone woman, Wendy, traveling up from Oregon into Alaska with her dog in search of a better life. Some complications of a realistic nature ensue and there are, eventually, resolutions for those complications, and an ending for the character that a viewer can discern and digest with no intellectual difficulty, nor any need to break out a tome on Buddhist philosophy or the history of early cinema.
Is Wendy and Lucy better than Resurrection because of this? No, and I certainly don’t intend to reinforce the erroneous notion that narrative simplicity is always preferable to more ambitious designs, as some stories are elevated by complexity, and others weakened by reduction. They occupy such different registers that to pit one against the other would be either obtuse or far more trouble than it’s worth; but comparing them at all does serve as a reminder of the risks incurred by a “go big or go home” mentality, and, alternatively, about how rewarding it can be to operate in a subdued, minimalistic mode—though doing so is also not without its own challenges.
Anyway, enough prolegomena. Wendy and Lucy is American filmmaker Kelly Reichardt’s third feature, and the second of hers I’ve seen. I caught her Certain Women back when it first came out in 2016, and I remember being bored to tears by it; but I was also nineteen-going-on-twenty and unmoved by most works that didn’t already carry the imprimatur of critics I admired, so it’s long overdue for a rewatch. In any case, and however unfairly, Reichardt fell off my radar for a long while, and then recently came to my attention for last year’s The Mastermind, starring one of the better young male actors on the rise today, Josh O’Connor. Curious about that one, I longed for a re-fresh of her filmography and opted to see an earlier feature rather than revisit Certain Women, just to see how Reichardt operated before the trappings of an increased renown had gotten to her.
To my delight, Wendy and Lucy was a better work than I’d assumed coming in, if a minor entry overall. The film, however, is strengthened by its focus, and by restricting itself to the plight of its protagonist, Wendy (an excellent Michelle Williams), and more often than not emphasizing realism over melodrama. Even when situations edge towards sentimentality—with the ending as a prime candidate—they are never dwelled upon longer than they need to be so that their inherent poignancy is not lost.
Reichardt is known for her minimalistic approach, which is effective here since the film runs at a mere eighty minutes, so there is no sense of the already barebones story being unnecessarily stretched. The atmosphere is subdued, with many of the static shots featuring Wendy and Lucy‘s on-the-road protagonist emphasizing her isolation; and additional shots of the small Oregonian town, its emptied lots and slowly-moving trains, reinforce the feeling of transience Reichardt wishes to impress upon the viewer.
Little is known about Wendy, save for what the viewer gleans from snippets of conversations, private moments, and everything else Michelle Williams expertly imbues into the role. Despite her taciturn, stand-offish nature (unsurprising, given the fact that she is a woman traveling solo through a sparsely populated landscape, canine companion notwithstanding), Williams does a lot with the character, which a lesser actor might have rendered completely opaque due to its “smallness.” But Williams gifts Wendy a guarded watchfulness, and a clear interiority that compels a viewer towards even her silences.
This “built-in” complexity is key, since Wendy’s errors throughout potentially chafe against much of the goodwill a viewer might have stored for her. The first error, which starts the main narrative preoccupation, is when she leaves Lucy, her adorable mutt, tied to a bike rack in front of a grocery store; desperate and low on funds, Wendy steals dog food only to be caught by an obnoxious stickler of a clerk. She is arrested and taken to the station for prints and fines, and when she eventually returns to the store (even forced to take the bus due to the distance), Lucy is missing. The rest of the film is involved with Wendy’s attempt to both find Lucy and get her car fixed, since near the beginning it breaks down for reasons that may or may not be related to its malfunctioning S belt, thus stranding her far from her destination, a stranger in a strange land.
Again, though the film is small in scope, Wendy and Lucy succeeds as a kind of snapshot—of a life (or, specifically, one episode in that life), yes, but also of a milieu, an overall emotional atmosphere capturing a marginalized, and often overlooked, slice of society. Wendy remains somewhat of a cipher by film’s end, and the exact reasons for her solitary travel kept deliberately mysterious, but her plight is not uncommon. And by simply depicting the obstacles Wendy faces sans the pillars most people take for granted in daily life—no car, no phone, no adequate support system, etc.—with a gradual ratcheting-up of the stakes, Reichardt succeeds in involving the viewer without having to manipulatively tug on the heartstrings. A lost dog, after all, is plenty motivation to care.
But other moments help elevate Wendy and Lucy from what could have been a mere tract for the down-and-out. The opening, for instance, at night, with that slightly sinister contrast created by the raging bonfire, where Lucy first interacts with other figures who seem to be as rootless as her. No obvious atmosphere of camaraderie permeates; instead one is presented with isolated shots of each figure, withdrawn into their own private dispossession, and Lucy’s cautious stare. A too-smiley man played by Will Oldham provides a false sense of security that will be expounded upon as the film progresses; and an interaction with a mentally disturbed vagrant while Wendy is in a position of vulnerability brings this particular tension to a head.
There is also a subtle moment involving Wendy and the clerk who busts her: afterwards, when she’s searching for Lucy, she catches him leaving work. As she flames him for separating her from her beloved dog, he gives no response and even pointedly walks right by her towards his awaiting ride, not even bothering to give her some berth—pair this scene with the cross necklace Reichardt takes pains to exhibit the clerk sporting, and it’s a deft way of portraying both the self-righteousness and cowardly dismissal certain members of society hold for those they deem inferior.
It is also worth noting that the film is largely unscored, so even when the story does tip into more clichéd territories, no music attempts to sway the viewer towards their apposite reaction. A score would, in any case, come off as overkill, for Reichardt creates Wendy and Lucy‘s tone purely through setting, editing, mise-en-scène, etc., and by letting the screenplay (written by her and Jon Raymond based on a story of Raymond’s called “Train Choir”) help dictate the film’s emotional contours. Reichardt and cinematographer Sam Levy’s camera opts for a grainy, worn-down feel of this wayside PNW locale, appropriate for the story, and also is keen on natural light, so when darkness drops, the figures captured seem to be almost enveloped in shadow, though their faces retain enough visibility to not escape one’s attention.
And rightly so: for Wendy’s choices, troubling though they may be, are far from alien, and her naïveté is matched not only with genuine resilience in the face of difficulty but with the deep affection we hold for our companions (animal or otherwise) that ought not to be missed, or judged outright as imprudent. Wendy steals not for herself, but for Lucy, whose hunger takes precedence over hers. That alone is more impressive than any commonplace practicality one might advocate for, though circumstances divide, and dumb-luck blinkers…
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