Nomadland

In my freshman year of high school, I was in an introductory class for new students that would do all sorts of things and take us to all sorts of places. The day I remember clearest from that class is when we went on a field trip to see parts of my home state of Utah. Just like any trip, I sat in the back of the bus, bullshitting with the boys until we were filed out onto the street. One of our earliest stops was a small town in Southern Utah; it was an old mining town with barely anything or anyone left. The largest thing that remained were some massive mining train cars that were left stranded on the rails that ran through the town. What I remember most is that it was purely and utterly melancholy. The town was surrounded by rocky ridges that swallowed everything in a monochromatic beige and brown, casting sweeping shadows over everything that lied within. Still, its peace and quiet gave it a distinct sense of bliss, which was quickly interrupted by the invasion of high school students flooding the town for a few minutes. It was gravely interesting to me, thinking about a community founded on that labor, only for the remnants of the industry to become a monument to their ages past. Towns, factories, and mines like these are gravestones scattered across the cemetery of America. Now, our class was visiting it like it was a museum, a testament to the American worker that we don’t quite understand today. I shuffled between the train cars, creatures of metal that once stretched between countless towns just like this, yet have come to permanently rest in there of all places. A short distance further, the tracks and road continued, all surrounded by vast swathes of land that exist for as far as you can see, yet is untouched by the people that continue through it. Soon we left, moving on to new things, yet that town remains, existing as it has for years now, haunted by the world that created it. This is what Empire was and is, and it is what Nomadland gives and leaves you with. Thinking about Nomadland, I may classify it as a documentary-hybrid film. And of course, there is no doubt that the story, moments, and the characters of Fern and Dave are fictionalized, yet still, so much of the film remains fully real throughout. When I say real I don’t mean that it feels real or that I can suspend disbelief, so much of the film is simply real. That isn’t hard to see, the cast is mostly non-actors playing themselves, many of the film’s scenes take place on location, and improvisation is always a part of the process. Still, there is a conception that this is a film orchestrated as someone’s specific perception of life, rather than what it is truly doing, which is simply showing life as it is. As Fern sits alongside other nomads around a fire, they tell their stories about life in America. These aren’t just character anecdotes or written moments, they are their truths being expressed on the screen. If they are playing themselves and telling their own stories, who’s to say it isn’t reality. Fern and Dave, are vessels to witness the important and overlooked stories in the American present. It highlights these real individuals, of which without them the film would not exist, thus, how can it do anything less than capture and remember these lives as they are. So many people can read about the issues of Amazon and the stats that caused the influx of nomads, but to truly understand their lives is something else entirely. Chloe Zhao makes that an effortless duty for the audience. Whether it is daily routines, job processes, using the bathroom, or anything else, no moment is too small, and it helps build an endearing empathy with the lives of these people. This is extended to the settings as well, these towns and homes across Arizona, South Dakota, Nebraska, and others are all given their diligence and attention. Nomads may not live anywhere permanently, but Zhao still gives rightful focus to location, as the stunning, harsh, and charming settings are fully realized as parts of America we share as a nation. It is all masterfully done, and every moment is done in service of the people it is about. Nothing is self-serving about Nomadland, and that not only helps me see the subjects of this film, but it makes me feel seen as part of this world. Nomadland sees an inherent good in people and community, all trying our best in a world that is often rough and uncaring in return, but can nonetheless yield so much beauty and love at the same time. This is what Nomadland offers us, and hopefully, it can remain for years to come, because, “What’s remembered lives.”