Buck Brannaman, the film's subject and namesake, may be the greatest horse trainer alive today. Traveling from state to state for the better part of the year, he runs an open clinic to apply, test, and maybe even show off his skills. He is at once hyper-masculine and hyper-sensitive, well-built and soft, with a near-impossible rapport with horses. Upon being introduced to him by way of interview, he appears as the sort of figure so Americana that one must wonder if it is possible for him to exist at all. This near-mythical quality is not diminished throughout the course of the film, but rather amplified. This proves to be both its greatest strength and, ultimately, its undoing.
The first thing established is that Brannaman's skills are utterly peerless. He is far more than a "horse whisperer": his equine interactions are more like complete conversations, almost contracts with the animals. He is able to approach nearly any horse with ease and form one of these contracts in a matter of seconds. He looks at a horse and instantly understands its entire past. We see Brannaman's customers look on with awe, nodding along as he uncovers and unpacks horses' entire histories, like some sort of ultra-Americana Freudian. The onlookers' awe is captured with grace by the film, most likely because it is shared by the documentarians themselves. Problems only arise when the film tries to draw itself in closer than the star-eyed spectators.
The film is simply unable to keep up with Brannaman. The central voice of the film is Brannaman's, and the documentarians barely offer any interpretation at all. This is absurd: one cannot narrate a documentary about one's self without destroying the possibility of an external voice. The stark obedience is suffocating. As he describes his methods and his influences, the film barely budges from the generic, much-maligned "talking heads" style of documentary. We are occasionally treated to stray images and footage of Brannaman's past and influences, but these feel detached. The film is clearly not on Brannaman's level, and so it resorts to simply listening to Brannaman. This becomes particularly problematic when we learn that Brannaman was physically abused as a child. We are presented with interviews with the foster parents that rescued him from his broken home, footage of he and his brother, dead-eyed and on television beside their towering, quietly menacing father. The material is indeed terrifying when seriously considered, but it is presented in such a detached and almost random matter as to feel nearly weightless. We may sympathize with poor Buck and applaud his rise to equestrian greatness, but only in the same manner that we may sympathize with a fictional hero destined to victory. This superficiality is, when considered, both terrifying and immediately understandable, given the mythical manner in which Brannaman is presented. A better documentarian could have truly humanized Brannaman, going beyond simple talking heads and slides, but this crew is simply too in awe of Brannaman to show his grief as it is. Every time we come close to truly reaching a revelation about his character, it pulls back to his amazing talents, and he remains too far above us to be seen.
The film closes with a vignette about an oxygen-deprived stud horse who exhibits severe aggression, inciting rage from Brannaman directed at its owners. The horse is finally put down as Brannaman makes a speech about how it could have been more with proper care and attention. This sequence is both microcosmic of the film's issues, and an apt metaphor for the film itself. Once again, Brannaman's words reign supreme, destroying any hint of objectivity or any possibility of real analysis of his character. Pathos is almost induced, but constantly falls flat in the face of lack of direction. The horse being taken away to euthanasia is perhaps like the film itself: it could have been something far greater if the caretakers weren't so scared to get closer.
3/5
The first thing established is that Brannaman's skills are utterly peerless. He is far more than a "horse whisperer": his equine interactions are more like complete conversations, almost contracts with the animals. He is able to approach nearly any horse with ease and form one of these contracts in a matter of seconds. He looks at a horse and instantly understands its entire past. We see Brannaman's customers look on with awe, nodding along as he uncovers and unpacks horses' entire histories, like some sort of ultra-Americana Freudian. The onlookers' awe is captured with grace by the film, most likely because it is shared by the documentarians themselves. Problems only arise when the film tries to draw itself in closer than the star-eyed spectators.
The film is simply unable to keep up with Brannaman. The central voice of the film is Brannaman's, and the documentarians barely offer any interpretation at all. This is absurd: one cannot narrate a documentary about one's self without destroying the possibility of an external voice. The stark obedience is suffocating. As he describes his methods and his influences, the film barely budges from the generic, much-maligned "talking heads" style of documentary. We are occasionally treated to stray images and footage of Brannaman's past and influences, but these feel detached. The film is clearly not on Brannaman's level, and so it resorts to simply listening to Brannaman. This becomes particularly problematic when we learn that Brannaman was physically abused as a child. We are presented with interviews with the foster parents that rescued him from his broken home, footage of he and his brother, dead-eyed and on television beside their towering, quietly menacing father. The material is indeed terrifying when seriously considered, but it is presented in such a detached and almost random matter as to feel nearly weightless. We may sympathize with poor Buck and applaud his rise to equestrian greatness, but only in the same manner that we may sympathize with a fictional hero destined to victory. This superficiality is, when considered, both terrifying and immediately understandable, given the mythical manner in which Brannaman is presented. A better documentarian could have truly humanized Brannaman, going beyond simple talking heads and slides, but this crew is simply too in awe of Brannaman to show his grief as it is. Every time we come close to truly reaching a revelation about his character, it pulls back to his amazing talents, and he remains too far above us to be seen.
The film closes with a vignette about an oxygen-deprived stud horse who exhibits severe aggression, inciting rage from Brannaman directed at its owners. The horse is finally put down as Brannaman makes a speech about how it could have been more with proper care and attention. This sequence is both microcosmic of the film's issues, and an apt metaphor for the film itself. Once again, Brannaman's words reign supreme, destroying any hint of objectivity or any possibility of real analysis of his character. Pathos is almost induced, but constantly falls flat in the face of lack of direction. The horse being taken away to euthanasia is perhaps like the film itself: it could have been something far greater if the caretakers weren't so scared to get closer.
3/5