'The Dead Don't Hurt' review: charms with retro-western aplomb

Some actors seem made for westerns, although they rarely appear in them. Viggo Mortensen, stalwart leading man with worn good looks and attractive reserve, certainly qualifies. But now that he's written and directed “The Dead Do n't Hurt,” Mortensen's second feature behind and in front of the camera, he's generously shown us that the luminous Vicky Krieps belongs in that category, too. The highly watchable pairing of these magnetic actors is what helps elevate this lyrically crafted frontier love story above the usual efforts to restore the genre's appeal.

The gently blossoming union of a strong-willed woman of French-Canadian descent with a taciturn, self-sufficient Danish immigrant is the heart of this film, from its initial spark in San Francisco to its installation in a ramshackle cabin on the outskirts of a saloon. from a town in Nevada called Elk Flats. However, this being a Western, the specter of death and violence is never far away. Mortensen even begins with a couple of somber scenes that in other films might be endings: one a private loss, the other a public shooting. They trigger the film's temporally loose narrative tapestry, in which the flashbacks (which have flashbacks of their own) begin to feel as if the replay of the past is the true present of this story, the way it might feel for someone grieving.

For Vivienne (Krieps), a big-city flower seller who knows how to take care of herself and relishes memories of her childhood idolizing Joan of Arc, her attraction to the tough, kind-eyed carpenter Olsen (Mortensen) lies in the promise of adventure, passion and mutual friendship. respect for the independence of each one. We sense from the beginning, from Mortensen's delicate handling of her courtship, that this is not a musty repetition of the trope in which she civilizes him and he domesticates her. Rather, watching them interact as they get their home into shape shows them as adults, not so much in love but more in love. Clear-eyed about themselves and the realities of their adopted nation, they are ready to forge something together, confident that they will be there for each other in a time of increasing turbulence.

The Civil War is close, for one thing, but some of that unrest is also local. There's an air of menace in the town, fostered by a corrupt alliance between the mayor and a wealthy businessman (played, respectively, by horse opera characters Danny Huston and Garret Dillahunt), plus the gleefully sadistic presence of the insolent and the latter's insolent son (a banning Solly McLeod). We expect that danger to affect the lives of the central couple when Olsen, a military veteran, feels compelled to fight for the Union, leaving behind Vivienne, who begins working at the saloon bar. Before long, her strength is put to the harshest test, and eventually so is Olsen's, when he returns years later.

There's little the radiant Krieps (“Phantom Thread”) can't do with a headstrong, ahead-of-her-time character, and especially in the period stories, she retains a pointed modern sensibility: both the rose and its thorns. Meanwhile, the enduringly authentic Mortensen understands that his primarily reactive role is closer to a featured role than a leading man. Sometimes, in his scenes with Krieps, one would swear that her expressions of infatuation owe as much to the gratitude of a director as to the good fortune of a lonely merchant. (Mortensen, for whom this project is clearly personal, also wrote the mournful score for cello and violin, which mostly satisfies, though at times recalls a Ken Burns history lesson awaiting an ancient narrative.)

“The Dead Don't Hurt” is reassuringly picturesque and ticks the box that any western worth its salt needs an evocative, immersive look to bask in the glow of a campfire or the scorching glow of day. That task is carried out with aplomb by cinematographer Marcel Zyskind, blessed with sight-rich locations in Durango, Mexico and Canada. But he is also greatly helped by the actors whose faces, under any light, he photographs as his own rich landscapes, of happiness, strength, care and pain.